They never succeeded. Neither did the British, the Israelis nor any other government agency. All they ever got for their troubles was a long list of murdered field agents. Many anti-Soviet leaders in Africa, South America and Europe had fallen under Zavlin's hand.
What was unusual about this case was Zavlin's current target: Dodge Reed. Brognola had run every kind of check on Reed that was possible and the profile always came out the same.
Dodge Reed was just what he appeared to be, a twenty-three-year-old record store employee who attended Atlanta Community College at night, lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment and drove a seven-year-old Pinto. Three weeks before he'd been arrested for embezzling from the record store he worked at. He was awaiting trial.
What would the KGB's best international hit man want with a guy like that? 'Nothing more on Reed?' Bolan asked. 'No access to top-secret information?'
Brognola shook his head. 'Nothing.'
'Anything from your overseas agents?'
'Nope. Just that Reed is a top-priority kill. They want him dead within ninety-six hours.'
'They know he's in jail?'
'They know.'
Bolan frowned. 'Damn! What does this kid know that scares them?'
'That's what you're here to find out.' Brognola looked his old friend in the eye. 'You know I wouldn't have come to you with this if there was any other way. Hell, you've got enough troubles of your own right now. It's just that we've finally got a chance to catch this monster and the usual agencies have failed too often. I don't want that to happen this time.'
Bolan smiled. The words hadn't been necnot between them. 'We'll get him,' he said.
But even as he said the words, he wondered who'd get whom first.
4
The Executioner sat in the back of the squad car and stared through the wire-mesh screen at the nearby Blue Ridge Mountains. The sun was barely tinting Atlanta's skyline with pink. A slight breeze whipped through Atlanta today, but it was still hot. His prison garb was stiff and scratchy. The handcuffs, clamped on too tight by an overzealous guard, chafed at his wrists.
'Be on our way soon,' the driver said, scratching at his uniform as if it was as starchy and hot as Bolan's.
They were idling inside the jail entrance while the driver's partner chatted with one of the gate guards.
On the other side of the thick metal barrier, cars drifted slowly to work, to friends, to family, the occupants listening to their favorite deejay, planning their Sunday fun. Traffic was sparse, the city still sleepy.
They'd kept Bolan overnight at the precinct while the paperwork was shuffled from file folder to file cabinet. The fingerprints had finally been attached to a name and case history — Damon Blue. Their curiosity satisfied, the cops were anxious to kick him on to Fulton County Jail, where prisoners awaiting trial were held. Bolan knew that.
Counted on it. Because that's where Dodge Reed was.
And that's where Zavlin would have to kill him. But why?
The reasons still baffled Bolan. The KGB's top eliminator coming halfway around the world to kill a nobody who was already locked up in prison. It didn't make sense. Yet.
It didn't matter. Whatever Bolan could do to sabotage the KGB was enough of an excuse. Taking out Zavlin in the process would just be icing on the cake.
'Can't figure you, son,' the driver continued.
'What do you mean?' Bolan asked.
'I been a cop for close to twenty-eight years now. Pretty much tell the bad ones with just a glance. Don't matter what kind of clothes they wear or how much money they make or who their friends are. I just look 'em in the eye and I can tell the bad ones.'
Bolan stared at the sunburned skin at the back of the driver's neck. A thin white scar curved up from under the collar, climbed his neck like a vine and disappeared into the thick mat of gray hair. Looked like a knife cut.
'So, like I'm looking at you and thinking, 'He looks tough enough, all right. Real tough. But tough ain't exactly mean. Not the same thing at all. And most these bums got that mean look. Know what I'm sayin', son?'
'Uh-huh,' Bolan said. 'You think I'm pretty.'
The driver sighed, shook his head sadly.
'Then again, I'll knew anything I wouldn't be driving this damn car spending all my morning with criminals, would...'
'Guess not,' Bolan said. He hated to come on so rough with the old cop, but he didn't want anybody getting the idea he was anything other than what he was pretending to be: a hardened career criminal. But, yeah, he knew what the driver meant because Bolan had seen the same look himself in the scum he'd been dealing with these past years. That arrogance in the expression, as if nothing else in the world mattered but what they wanted. As if there was no greater good than satisfying their enormous appetites.
Yeah, he'd seen that look, even managed to blow it off a few choice faces. Now he had to wear it himself. The sneer, the swagger, the cruel talk.
The driver's overweight partner opened the car door and climbed in, a clipboard in one hand, two doughnuts in the other. 'Here, Gus,' he said, handing one to the driver. 'Jelly, just the way you like.'
'Thanks, Deke,' Gus said, nodding, taking a big bite, licking the jelly from his lips. He gestured over his shoulder at Bolan. 'What about him?'
'Hell, it was tough enough wrangling these two. Those guys are more interested in guarding their doughnuts than this gate.' He fastened his seat belt. 'Besides, Gus, you'd think that damn scar on your neck woulda taught you what happens when you care too much about these cons.'
Gus shrugged, accelerated the squad car through the open gate.
Despite himself, Bolan felt a sense of relief as they passed through the gate. As if tight metal bands had been snipped from his chest. He took a deep breath. Better not get too used to that feeling, he warned himself. In case things go wrong.
'They did it again,' Deke said, chuckling.
'Did what?' Gus asked.
'Last night, they hit Clip Demoines's bookie joint down in Augusta. Those guys at the gate were telling me about it. Broke in and trashed the place.'
'Cops?'
'No, them night riders. The ones the papers are calling Savannah Swingsaw.'
'Jeez.'
'Yup. They chewed that place up with chain saws and axes, took the money and closed the joint down for good.'
'Demoines,' Bolan interrupted. 'Isn't he the local Mafia kingpin?'
'As if you didn't know,' Deke sneered, munching on his doughnut, crumbs powdering his chin.
'Maybe this guy's not local,' Gus said, referring to Bolan. 'Don't sound local, anyway.' Gus caught a yellow light and gunned the car through it. 'Yeah, Demoines is connected. Runs most of Georgia, from Atlanta to Savannah. But not for long, not if this Savannah Swingsaw keeps up the pressure.'
'Just some other thugs muscling in,' Deke said.
'Not likely,' Gus said. 'Don't act like no Mob I've ever seen. All dressed in black with hoods, like them Oriental ninjas.'
'Kept these guys carry guns and axes and chain saws.'
'Guns or not,' his partner said, 'I'd hate to be in their hoods when Demoines's hoods catch up with 'em.
