Bolan noticed, didn’t spend very much time looking at the guns, but instead seemed to be focused on the people. One would expect no less from a recruiter. He also tended to spend a lot of time staring at the few women who were attending. Some of the shops even had so-called “booth babes,” scantily clad models hired to attract men to their merchandise. Galloway even tried chatting a couple of them up. But they all went to the default sales pitch and deflected any and all attempts at personal conversation with the ease of long practice.
Eventually, Galloway worked his way to the food court, at which point Bolan walked up to an ammunition dealer and pointed at a rifle bullet. Putting on a Southern accent, he asked, “That there a .50 caliber round? Looks a mite too small.”
The dealer, a tall, wiry man with large brown eyes and whose hands never seemed to stop moving, said, “This, sir, is a .416 Barrett rifle round. This is the newest in rifle armament, know what I’m sayin’? This is infinitely superior to those crappy old .50 cals. That’s old school, and with all due respect to old school, this is new school, know what I’m sayin’?”
“How’s it better, exactly?” Bolan asked, already knowing the answer.
“This puppy shoots flatter and faster than the .50s, and also hits way harder, know what I’m sayin’?” The man flailed his arms a bit and then picked up a .50-caliber shell and held it next to the .416. “Now I know what you’re thinking right now.”
Bolan was fairly sure he didn’t, but let him go on.
“You’re thinking to yourself, ‘How can a bullet that’s of a lesser caliber be better than a bullet of a greater caliber?’ That there’s the beauty of this here round, is that the shorter height allows for much greater speed and durability.”
Having satisfied himself that enough time had passed, the Executioner said, “Good to know. Thankee kindly, mister. I’ll definitely be considerin’ this next time I’m buyin’ me some huntin’ rounds.”
“Good man.” The dealer put down the shells and flailed a few more times. “You sure I can’t convince you to purchase a few now?”
“Nah, I’m just grazin’.” With that, the Executioner headed off to the food court in the hopes of finding precisely what he was looking for.
The food court was the typical sort for a convention center. An entire section of wall was taken up with a metal counter, behind which were limp-looking hot dogs, stale popcorn, limp, packaged salads, uninspiring packaged sandwiches, soggy pizza and fountain soda, all priced in excess of market value.
Because of that, the large round tables in front of the counter were sparsely occupied. Each table sat up to eight people comfortably, but none was fully occupied. One had a couple seated at it, enjoying each other’s company more than the food. Another had three men, all wearing flannel shirts and ballcaps, discoursing loudly on the subject of the best hunting grounds in central Pennsylvania. Another was occupied by two couples who were discussing whether the Philadelphia Phillies had another shot at winning the division that year.
Galloway sat alone at another table, hungrily biting into a slice of pepperoni pizza and washing it down with a large soda.
Not really trusting the food to do good things to his gastrointestinal tract, the Executioner limited himself to a diet cola from the fountain. Once he paid for it, Bolan walked casually to the table where Galloway sat chewing on his pizza, the grease from the pepperoni dripping into his beard and onto his T-shirt.
Still affecting the Southern accent, Bolan said, “Mind if I sit a spell, mister?”
Galloway shrugged. “It’s a free country.” He spoke in a raspy voice.
“Yeah, that’s what they tell me, anyhow. You here buyin’?”
Mouth full of pizza, Galloway said, “Window-shopping.”
“Right there with you, mister. See, I can’t afford most of the firearms hereabouts. Hell, I can’t even afford none of the food beyond this here pop. Good thing it’s only nine bucks to get in.”
“Things are tough all over,” Galloway said, swallowing his pizza and grabbing his own soda.
“Don’t I know it. Man with my skills I ought to be able to be drownin’ in work, but the damn Marines had other notions.”
“You served?”
“You betcha. Rifle company Baker two-niner. Was a gunnery sergeant, till they kicked me out, anyhow. Served in the Gulf the first time.”
“Discharged?”
“Yup. And not the honorable kind, neither. Thought the notion was to kill the enemy, not coddle ’em.” Bolan sipped his soda, then set it down and held out a hand. “Sorry, my momma raised me better than this. Name’s Michael Burns.”
Galloway accepted the handshake but did not return the introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Burns.”
Bolan noticed that Galloway’s handshake was clammy and greasy, the latter no doubt from the pizza. “Been almost fifteen years since anybody called me that, mister. Just call me Michael.”
Breaking the handshake, Galloway said, “You can call me Galloway. You looking for work, Michael?”
“Well, I’m gainfully employed, if that’s whatcha mean, but it ain’t nothin’ that makes use of my skills, if you follow me. Still in uniform, but it’s the type where they issue you a mop and bucket ’stead of a sidearm and holster. Been a few years since I got me that kinda work—man’s work—man’s work.” He shook his head. “Goddamn Marines.”
“Well, Michael, I might be able to help you out. You have a card?”
Bolan snorted. “You’re kiddin’, right? Kinda business I’m in—”
Galloway held up a hand. “Of course. How long are you in town?”
“Due back at my job tomorrow—’less, of course, I got me a reason to call in sick?”
“I’d say you do.” Galloway reached into his denim jacket pocket and pulled out a small spiral notepad and a pen. He wrote something down and ripped the page out of the notepad. Handing it across the table, Galloway said, “Come to this address tomorrow at noon. Consider it a job interview.”
Bolan hesitated, staying in character. “Job interview? Hang on a sec, mister, we’re just talkin’ here. I mean, I was just lookin’ for some conversation, if you follow me. I ain’t trollin’ for—”
“Maybe not, but if you’re what you say you are, the people I represent might be interested in you—especially since we had a couple of job openings recently.”
Drawing himself up, and still not taking the paper, Bolan said, “The hell you mean, what I say I am? You callin’ me a liar, Galloway?” He also noted the line about job openings. If he really did represent Black Cross—or whoever killed those retired operatives—then it was likely that the bloodstains at Mohonk Mountain represented dead bodies, not just wounded ones. If so, the Executioner was impressed that Bethke had been able to take down one or two of his killers—though it was small comfort.
Holding up his hands, the paper flapping
