He smiled grimly as he considered the apt metaphor of the horizon, always retreating, endlessly out of reach. A lesser man would consider his personal crusade against the enemies of freedom in much the same way—always struggling to reach an ever-elusive goal. Bolan took a more pragmatic view of his ultimate objective. As he’d once said, “Every terrorist I kill, every madman I eliminate, every criminal I put in the ground, that’s one less psychotic thug in the world menacing innocent people. If the job takes the rest of my life, then that’s what it will take.”
His commitment to his crusade against the enemies of freedom and liberty notwithstanding, after his last mission on the West Coast, Bolan, aka the Executioner, decided to take a few days of downtime and drive back to his base of operations, Stony Man Farm in Virginia. Although he was aware of several hot spots that could use his special kind of attention, he also knew constant combat took its toll on any warrior. The trip east had seemed to be a perfect solution at first. He’d planned to relax by driving the entire way, but after a half day of the endless Midwest grasslands, he was beginning to regret his decision. That was the problem with the prairie—absolutely nothing happened or changed out here. Maybe he’d drop the car off in Kansas City or Chicago and hop an airplane.
At least his rental car was comfortable. The slate-gray Cadillac SRX crossover rode across the asphalt as if he were driving a cloud. Bolan was half worried he might fall asleep if something didn’t change soon.
Then something did happen—the low gas light turned on with a polite chime, almost as if the car were too polite to draw his attention to its condition. Bolan eyed the dashboard, then hit the GPS for the next gas station, locating one just a few miles away. Pulling in a few minutes later, he glanced around the barren refueling station, which had one other car in the parking lot. He filled the tank, and saw the sign as he was walking to the cinder-block building to pay.
Visit Quincyville
The Best Little Town in the Midwest!
Unlike most of the road signs out here, the red, white and blue board was as fresh and new as if it had been put up yesterday. Bolan stared at it for a moment, then headed inside.
Even though it was early spring, the air-conditioning was on full blast inside the store. Bolan paid his bill in cash, then nodded at the sign, still visible through the window. “Where’s Quincyville?”
The clerk, a clean-cut teenager, pointed east along the high way. “Just head down another mile, take exit 27, turn left and go about five miles up.”
“A little slice of Midwest America, huh?”
The kid frowned. “If you say so. They wouldn’t even be there if it wasn’t for that bug pharmaceutical company on the outskirts. Saved the whole place from dryin’ up and blowin’ away.”
“Is that so? Any place good to eat there?”
“Rollins’s Restaurant on Main Street has the best chicken-fried steak in the county. Hobo stew’s good, too.”
Bolan considered it, his stomach chiming in to add its emptiness to the internal discussion. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You’re welcome, and have a good day.”
Bolan nodded as he headed out into the warm afternoon. Getting back in his car, he got on the highway and followed the kid’s directions. Less than ten minutes later, he saw a picture-perfect small town on the horizon. As he approached, Bolan noticed a cluster of several large, white buildings on his right. The complex was at the end of a double lane paved road with a manned guard shack at the end. The perimeter around the buildings was ringed with an eight-foot cyclone fence topped with double rows of razor wire. Between the road and the fence was a sign that read Cristobal Pharmaceutical Company.
Bolan’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight. Typically, U.S. drug companies outsourced their labs overseas, not the other way around. Still, if they were making it work…
Cresting a hill, he saw a lone mansion in the distance on his left, with two police cars out front and yellow crime scene tape around the house. Bolan slowed the Cadillac and casually studied the scene as he passed, then shook his head as he headed into town. Seemed nowhere was picture-perfect anymore.
Passing a Walmart with a packed parking lot, he drove up Main Street, which was neat and clean in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Pickups and midsize sedans filled the parking spaces, along with a scattering of luxury cars here and there. People were out and about, but they were few and far between, all intent on their business. Bolan passed the usual buildings—drug store, local grocery store, freestanding department store, more gas stations, various fast-food restaurants.
He found the Rollins place at the north end of town, an unassuming clapboard building that looked like it had been built in the 1950s. The parking lot was also filled, which Bolan took as a good sign. He found a spot on the end, almost in the weeds, and got out, glancing at the back seat to make sure his black duffel bag hadn’t shifted during the trip. Satisfied that it was secure, he locked up the Caddy and headed toward the front doors.
The interior might have come right out of the 1950s as well. Near the door, the cash register sat at one end of the long Formica counter, with a row of stools, each covered with a patron. Booths with red vinyl seats ran along the wall nearest the parking lot, ending in a large corner booth filled with a boisterous group of teenagers laughing and talking to and over one another. The booths continued along the back wall, and in the middle of it all was a row of tables, also filled to capacity. Unlike many of the retro places that only appeared authentic, this restaurant was the real deal. The chrome edging the counter and booths looked well-used, but also well cared for, and the linoleum on the floor was faded and scuffed with the passage of thousands of shoes and boots.
Bolan entered into a bustle of activity: waitresses carrying trays piled-high with food, diners entering and leaving, and above all, that welcome smell of delicious, home-cooked food. The soldier caught the traditional aromas of cooking oil, bread and spices, but also sniffed what smelled like burning mesquite wood, which made his mouth water. He dutifully took his place at the end of the line and waited his turn.
The conversation level in the place was muted, and Bolan noticed that many men and women kept their heads down, and at least once he thought he saw a woman come out of the washroom with red, mascara-streaked eyes. Although there seemed to be a lot of regulars, with headgear on the men split evenly between Stetsons and gimme caps, there were also plenty of people who had just come to eat, and the stools turned over quickly. Bolan was able to take a seat after just a few minutes.
“Coffee?”
“That’d be fine.” Bolan scanned the menu, which had a decided Tex-Mex flair that caught him by surprise. Although the carne asada tacos looked good, he decided to stick with the kid’s recommendation. “Chicken-fried steak, please.”
“Gravy on your potatoes, too?” the middle-aged waitress asked.
Bolan glanced down at his taut midsection and decided to double-down on his arteries. “Sure.”
“Green beans, salad, or a cup of soup?”
“Beans will be fine.”
“That’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Bolan sipped his coffee, served in a thick-walled ceramic mug he hadn’t seen in years, and found it very good. For a few seconds, he relaxed in the anonymity of the moment—just another casual traveler grabbing lunch on his way to wherever. His reality couldn’t have been more different.
He was giving the rotating dessert carousel a twice over, debating whether to have the cherry pie or the apple tart afterward, when the low conversations throughout the restaurant suddenly died. Bolan looked over to see what was causing the disturbance and saw a group of four well-dressed Hispanics,