135 Devil Force by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

MITCHELL HENDERSON'S house was a gray rectangular structure comprised of small rooms just off the town's main street. The houses around it were close, making for narrow yards, but the backyard extended for more than a hundred fifty feet, marked by chain link fence. Johnson grass and flowering weeds grew in profusion on the other side of the fence, right up to the railroad tracks that cut diagonally through the heart of the town.

Town seemed too elaborate a name for Francis, Oklahoma. A handful of buildings covered a block and a half of Main Street, ending at the side street Barnowski had turned onto to get to Henderson's house.

They left the deputy's tan-and-white pickup parked in the graveled circle driveway in front of the house. Red mud had all but obliterated the Sheriff's Department decal on the side of the vehicle, but Bolan was sure the neighbors wouldn't fail to understand the significance of the light bar bolted across the top of the truck. One elderly man came out of his house as Bolan stood on Henderson's porch, waiting for Barnowski to unlock the door. The neighbor took a seat in a weathered rocking chair and tamped a fresh load into his pipe.

"The investigative teams have already been through Henderson's stuff," Barnowski said as he closed the door behind them and pocketed the key.

"Those people were looking for a murderer," Bolan said as he studied the twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot living room. "I'm looking for a trail and a connection that will take me beyond Mitchell." The sofa cushions hadn't been placed back neatly and lay askew on the sagging frame. Throw rugs covered the hardwood floor.

Bolan was examining the generous selection of books filling the shelves of a wall unit that separated the living room from the kitchen when he heard a scuffing noise from the upper floor. Raising an eyebrow at the deputy, the Executioner drew the Beretta. Barnowski cleared leather with his own .357.

Motioning for the deputy to remain on the first floor, Bolan took the stairs, carefully placing his weight on the outer edges of the steps so that he could cut his chances of making noise with a loose board.

His combat senses told him they weren't alone in the house. He let the 9 mm pistol lead the way, set on 3-round burst. His back and shoulders brushed against the plaster wall behind him, curiously devoid of any pictures. The Spartanism of the whole house reflected a transitory life that Bolan found disturbingly familiar.

The Warrior paused at the landing and listened. Turning, he saw that the big deputy had placed himself by the doorway with both hands on the grip of his Magnum. Barnowski was watching him intently.

Bolan followed the Beretta up the second flight of stairs, waiting for a repeat of the sound that would indicate a direction to him. A hallway at the top of the stairs led in both directions. The floor creaked somewhere to Bolan's left, followed by a sharp, involuntary inhalation.

He crept down the hallway without making a sound, then paused at a doorway and peered around the corner.

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