Late that night, a man’s front door was kicked in and the man dragged from his bed. Later, the man faced Sam Hartline in an old office building. Somewhere in the dark building, a woman was screaming in pain.
“Mr. Samuelson,” Hartline said, “you have certain information I wish you to share with me.”
Samuelson shook his head.
“Don’t be too hasty with your reply, sir,” Hartline said. “Before you make any rash statements, perhaps you should visit your daughter. She’s just down the hall, entertaining some of my men.” He listened as the woman wailed in pain. “She is, ah, obviously not getting into the spirit of things, is she?”
“I don’t believe you,” Samuelson said.
He was taken down the hall. The screaming grew louder. He was halted in front of a closed door.
“Believe, Mr. Samuelson,” Hartline said with a smile. He pushed open the door, exposing the hideous torture of the man’s daughter. “Believe.”
Peggy pushed those stories from her, but fear kept
them faintly in her mind. Slowly, reluctantly, she began removing her clothing. “Ben Raines will stop you,” she suddenly blurted.
Surprisingly, Hartline did not lose his temper or hit her. “Could be,” he said. “He’s a tough bastard. And those people with him are fanatics. But Raines can’t do it alone. Hell, sweetmeat, everybody knows niggers can’t fight worth a shit, and greasers can’t fight any better. Only chance Raines has is to beef up his own forces with white folks. And he doesn’t have the time or the people to do that.”
Hartline cupped a breast, smiling as he squeezed. He pinched the nipple between thumb and forefinger, enjoying the look of pain that registered on the woman’s face.
“General Raines has a lot of nationalities under his command. Lots of minorities in Tri-States-so I’m told,” she reminded him, relief on her face as he removed his hand from her breast.
“Yeah,” Hartline once more agreed, “that’s true. I think what he did, though, was gather up the cream of the crop.”
Hartline slid his hand downward, caressing her satin belly, his fingers dipping into the crispness of pubic hair. “Get down on your knees, yellow gal. Start working that mouth and tongue of yours. Get me wet.”
She knelt down, afraid to do otherwise.
“Get me ready for the back door,” he concluded with a smile.
She looked up from her naked, kneeling position on the floor. Cold fear touched her with a chilling hand., “Hartline-don’t, please. I can’t take you there. You’ll kill me.”
“I never heard of anybody dying from it,” Hartline told her with a grin. “But I sure have made more than my share holler, though. You got to be taught a lesson, honey, for your lies. And both of us might as well get some pleasure for it.”
Pleasure? she thought. No way. She unzippered his trousers and removed his thickening penis, already massive. It was at that moment she made up her mind. She opened her mouth, worked her lips over the head, took it as deeply as possible, and bit down hard.
Hartline screamed from the white-hot pain and tried to jerk away, but Peggy held on with the determination of a bulldog, with Hartline literally dragging her across the carpet.
He slammed a hard fist against her head and she saw bright lights and shooting stars. Releasing him from her strong teeth, she grabbed his ankles and jerked. His feet flew out from under him and his head banged against the floor. He groaned once and then was still.
She searched him for the key to the dead-bolt locks on the house, locks that had kept her a prisoner, and located the keys. She dressed hurriedly and then kicked Hartline on the side of the head, insuring he would stay out for a few moments longer. She prowled the house, in hopes he had brought some sort of gun with him, but she could find no weapon. She peeked out the drapes and saw the street was dark and deserted.
Peggy Jones slipped out the back door and melted into the night.
“How many personnel can we field?” Ben asked.
“I’ve got two thousand,” Al Maiden said. “And that isn’t leaving many at home.”
“Don’t spread yourself too thin,” Ike cautioned. “The Russian might try to flank us and then come up from behind.”
“Yes,” Al said. “There is that danger.”
Al Maiden seemed a bit more human each time Ben met the man-more likable. And Ben found that he did indeed like the man. He had found a sense of humor that heretofore had been kept hidden.
Al sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. “If we don’t stop this … this madness, this horror, and stop it right now, there won’t be much point of having a home to return to.”
All agreed on that.
“I can field about twenty-five hundred,” Juan said.
Ben nodded. “By stretching it, I can put three thousand in the field. But I’m wondering if all that force at once is the way to go.”
Ike perked up. “You thinkin” guerrilla action, Ben?” That was getting to Ike’s liking.
“Yes. Hit and run. Neutralize one town, then move on quickly. But we’re going to have to arm the people. And then have the worry of wondering if they’ll fight after we do arm them.”
“There is a hitch to that, Ben,” Juan said. “How about the people who like what General Striganov is doing? Those that actually support his policies? What about them?”
“That is one fly in the ointment,” Ben said. “There are partisans working up there, right?”
“Yes.” Mark Terry spoke up. “A mixture of black and white and Hispanic. But they are poorly organized and even worse off when it comes to arms. Radio contact with them is spotty, at best.”
Ben could understand that. “And I’d bet they are infiltrated.”
“Yes,” Al replied. “We’re sure of that.”
“Name one you can trust.”
“Lois Peters,” Mark said. “She’s put herself on the line dozens of times. She runs an underground railway out of that area. Lot of the people who came to us got there with her help.”
“Has she secure communications?”
Both Mark and Al shrugged. “Doubt it,” Mark said.
Ben glanced at Ike. “Get a few people infiltrated up there. Tell them to get in, get to Lois-if possible-plant the radio, and then stay low until they hear from us. I don’t want any heroics, Ike. It’s too early in the game for that.”
“Got it.” Ike left the room.
Ben looked at each man. “How many of your people have training in a regular military unit?”
“Quite a few, Ben,” Juan said.
“I have several hundred,” Mark said.
“All right. Start forming them into teams of ten. Juan, on my signal, you’ll send your people in from the west.” The Mexican nodded. “Mark and Al, your people will go in from the east. My people will go straight up. I’ll contact those people we met up in Iowa and tell them to hunt a hole if they’re staying, or pull out now.”
Ben rose from the table to pace the floor. “People, you are not going to like what I’m about to say, but it
has to be this way, or not at all. This is the way the operation is going to be run: no prisoners.”
Juan, Al and Mark stirred in silence.
“I’ll return to a 1950’s slogan that was pretty popular until our government lost its guts: If you’re Red, you’re dead.”
“Ben …” Juan began.
“No! Any person willing to switch sides that easily is not to be trusted again. That is something that has been proven time and time over. Those of us who were in actual combat-most of us-whether it was World War II, Korea, or especially Southeast Asia could never understand why those people who attempted to destroy or undermine the war effort were not branded traitors and shot. A person cannot have it both ways; one is either against communism or for it. Against liberty, or one hundred percent for it. You can’t be wishy-washy on the subject.”
Ben’s smile was grim as he looked at Al Maiden. “Al, you want all the bigots that support Striganov over in New Africa?” “Hell, no!”
“Well, I don’t want them either. Juan, how about you?”
“You have got to be kidding, Ben. A macabre joke, but I get your point.” He met Ben’s eyes. “My people have
