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Patriot Play

MackBolan_®

Don Pendleton’s

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For those who fight the good fight

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

The Federal Reserve banks in Boston, Cleveland and Atlanta were the first to be hit, and the method for each assault was the same. Plain panel trucks were driven as close as possible to the buildings, then the drivers left the vehicles and walked to waiting cars. These vehicles drove away and, once clear, the large explosive bombs inside the panel trucks were detonated by remote control. The totally unexpected attacks on Federal Reserve buildings caught everyone by surprise. There was no kind of warning. No time to evacuate. The explosions were large and created serious damage to the exteriors of the buildings, despite the protective concrete barriers that had become part of city architecture. With each explosion the barriers were severely damaged, and the powerful blasts hurled deadly chunks and smaller fragments toward the buildings. Unknowing members of the public were caught in the horrific blasts and so were security personnel within the blast radius.

Boston had twelve dead, and twice that suffered serious wounding.

In the aftermath of the Cleveland attack the toll was higher. Fourteen dead and close to thirty suffered wounds that ranged from minor to critical.

Atlanta sustained twenty dead. The number of wounded totaled eighteen. The Atlanta dead included eight schoolchildren on a field trip.

All three blast sites were quickly cordoned off so that police and emergency services could gather evidence. The FBI and Homeland Security became initially embroiled in a territorial standoff in Boston. In the meantime the Atlanta Homeland Security team established a swift command center, and their preliminary examination of the epicenter of the blast revealed very little as to who might have been responsible. Twelve hours after the explosions there was little evidence coming from the three sites to enable any of the agencies to issue anything of value.

The remains of the panel trucks had been meticulously gone over by everyone involved—FBI, Homeland Security and the CSI teams from each of the three cities. The CIA ran checks to see if there were any similar scenarios. Nothing was found to link the vehicles to any organization or group. It was found that the license plates were phony, created for the job, as were the plates on the cars that picked up the truck drivers. Locating the escape cars proved to be futile. Again it was surmised that false plates were changed soon after the vehicles had fled the scene.

The panel trucks had been stripped down to the bare bones before setting out for the banks. The engines had been made so anonymous it was difficult to establish where they had come from in the first instance. They had been built from various spare parts and were not even the standard engines for the model of truck used. Someone had spent a great deal of time and effort to custom rig every part so there was little chance of identifying them. The effort expended on disguising the vehicles indicated intelligent thinking and a group with a sound financial base.

The explosives used to create the bombs carried by the trucks were identified as ammonium nitrate, an agricultural fertilizer that was available at hundreds of retailers across the country, and nitromethane, a highly volatile motor-racing fuel. The motor fuel, though not as common as a retail commodity, was available in large quantities. The mixture of the two elements was a familiar one to the FBI. Designated ANFO, it had been used before in the manufacture of explosives. The fragmented detonators, located after diligent searches and painstaking reconstruction, were also found to have been built by hand from raw materials. From the blast radius it was estimated that the bombs would have been in the region of three thousand pounds in weight.

Three days following the attacks on the FRB buildings, similar attacks took place in three more cities. This time, though the locations differed, the destruction was just as horrific. In Detroit, Newark and Norfolk, panel trucks in the parking lots of large department stores were detonated. The blasts tore up through the underground garages and caused the collapse of crowded shopping floors. There were more deaths and severe injuries. The subsequent investigations revealed identical vehicle and bomb specifications. As with the three original bombings, very little steady evidence emerged.

TEN DAYS LATER in Washington, The President of the United States dropped the last of the reports on the bombing incidents on his Oval Office desk and sighed wearily. His mood was a mix of anger and revulsion, and a growing frustration. Nothing he had read in the many documents even hinted at forward progress in the ongoing investigations. The only consistent theme running through the reports was the clashes between agencies: the disagreement when it came to sharing information, each agency jealousy guarding its own turf, reluctant to divulge sources and, maintaining policy, not trusting the others in case there were security leaks. The President made a mental note to once again instruct the groups to cooperate with one another, knowing even as he did that the complexity of the matter would only increase once the heads of the agencies dug in their heels. CIA, FBI, Homeland Security would all claim that sharing information was not a wise move because it jeopardized their sources and protocol demanded these remained within the particular departments of each agency. The same would be pleaded by other agencies and they would all climb on the same old carousel. They would quote precedents and legalities, the intrusion into human rights, losing sight of the big picture. Coupled to that was the increasing public clamor for the government to do something to stop the terrible events taking place. The media, the President’s detractors, even his staunchest political allies, were asking the same questions: what was the administration doing? Why hadn’t the people behind the attacks been tracked down?

Alone in his office the President was asking himself the same questions. In truth, he had no answer. If the combined agencies were unable to track down the callous murderers of U.S. citizens, where did he go? And if they came up with suspects? He knew the lengthy processes that would have to be gone through before anyone dared move on the evidence.

The President was left with his final card. It was one he had played on other occasions, when the lawful and traditional agencies found themselves facing a blank wall, and it had always returned him with a winning hand. America’s commander in chief saw his way clear. The people behind the attacks had showed they held themselves above both the law and had no conscience when it came to killing Americans on their own soil. They played by their rules, ignoring the suffering they caused and as yet had made no kind of statement as to why they were committing their evil acts. The President needed to counter the threat with his own force. A force that would play by their rules. He had no concerns about playing down and dirty. The people behind the attacks had set the agenda. Now they could reap what they had sown. The President’s duty was clear. He had to protect American lives, and at the moment he was failing to do that. It troubled him greatly. He grieved for the dead and their families and for the country he had sworn to defend. The time had come for decisive, no-wavering solutions.

The President picked up one of his telephones and punched in a number. He heard it ring out. It was answered immediately.

“Good morning, Hal,” the President said. “I need to speak with you urgently.”

CHAPTER ONE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Mack Bolan leaned back from examining the spread of photographs on the conference table. He had no words to express what he was feeling at that precise moment. At the head of the table Hal Brognola remained silent. There was no need for words. The stark reality of the images said it all. Men, women, and especially the children, spelled out the sheer horror that had been visited on them. Bolan forced his gaze from the photographs to look at the wall screens where video footage of the first three attacks was playing. Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man’s chief of cybernetics, had obtained official footage taken by the FBI, CIA and HS. It was distressing video, not sanitized for TV news channels. The silent viewers in the War Room steeled themselves as the presentations rolled across the screens. This was not the first time Bolan and Brognola had watched this kind of graphic horror. They were both experienced in seeing the results of human atrocities, yet each new experience hit hard. Professionals they might have been, but foremost they were caring human beings, and the suffering inflicted on the dead and the injured would not be dismissed lightly, if at all.

“Aaron is still collating intel he’s gathered from various agency databases,” Brognola said. He was forced to clear his throat and repeat the latter part of his sentence as he was still affected by what he had been watching. “Jesus, Mack, who are these bastards?”

“We’ll find out, Hal.” Bolan was scanning the spread of images on the table.

“I can tell the Man you’re on board.”

Bolan nodded. “You can tell him that whoever these people are they’re the walking dead men. No compromises on this, Hal.”

“Amen to that,” Brognola said. “I got the distinct feeling that under all the protocol the President is well and truly pissed off.”

“TELL ME you’ve got something for me, Aaron.”

Kurtzman swung his wheelchair away from his workstation and rolled it across the Computer Room to his steaming coffeepot. He topped up his mug, taking a swallow of the rich brew before he spoke.

“You do realize just how much data I’ve had to go through to get your break? CIA. FBI. HS. Local PDs. Every damned security and law department offer different views. There’s more speculation than Imelda Marcus had shoes. And all I have to do is pick you somewhere to start.”

Bolan absorbed the minor rant with good grace. Aaron Kurtzman’s sardonic nature was ingrained. It was as much a part of the man as the coffee he imbibed in vast quantities. Grouchy he might be, but Kurtzman was the most skilled and professional cybertech Mack Bolan had ever known. He ran his department and his cyberteam 24/7 with consummate ease, though he liked to make out he was understaffed and denied access to quality equipment. The truth was, he had the best electronic data gathering and analytical setup in existence. On top of that he was the most accomplished computer expert around. He proved it each time he went to work, employing his own programs to take sneak-and-peek looks into data systems operated by the CIA, FBI, NSA and just about any agency that employed electronic systems. Kurtzman’s backdoor incursions were strictly illegal in the lawful world. That did not deter him in the slightest. Missions often depended on having up-to-the-minute data. Lives depended on Kurtzman accessing certain information, so his systems-breaking programs were vital.

“I couldn’t find much on the MO of the attackers. They did as much as they could to stay anonymous. No released statements claiming responsibility, which is highly unusual. One of the things these dirtbags love is saying who they are and why they did the deed. This is new. Publicity-shy terrorists.”

“There has to be a reason for that.”

“I wish I knew what.”

“Aaron, anything?”

Kurtzman grunted. He spun his chair to face his workstation, placed his coffee mug on its spot and ran his fingers over his keyboard.

“This,” he said.

On one of the larger monitors Bolan saw a blowup of a photograph that had been taken at some gathering in a large hall. On a raised platform a group of men were semi-posed as the picture was taken.

“We are looking at Jerome Gantz. Officially he’s a suspected bomb maker. Four or five years ago he was mixed up with various radical groups. The FBI tried to tie him in with a couple of bombings, but there was no real evidence and then someone handling the case screwed up and Gantz walked. Then he fell off the map. Most likely he hired out his skills but stayed out of sight. I was running some checks on current homegrown antiestablishment groups. I came across some press photographs, and there was Gantz. That’s him. The one losing his hair and talking to the tall guy in the business suit with the eye patch and limp arm.”

“Who is he?”

“The one who could make this our clincher,” Kurtzman said. “Liam Seeger.” He waited for Bolan to make a connection.

“Should I know Seeger?”

“If you’re into militia groups. Seeger is head honcho of…”

“The Brethren.”

“Give the man a prize.”

“How old is the photo?”

“Two months,” Kurtzman said. “Taken at a Brethren rally in Jersey City. Seeger made one hell of a speech tearing into the administration. He accused the government of being more concerned about interfering with foreign regimes than problems at home. He threatened a wakeup call that would show how ineffective the administration is. Something that would show Americans they needed to rethink who should be governing the country.”

“Gantz at Seeger’s rally. You tie that in to the recent attacks?”

“It was Gantz’s early bomb construction detail I remembered. Same mix as now. It was stated in FBI files that Gantz liked to make his own explosives. Ammonium nitrate and nitromethane. Designated ANFO. And background detail said he preferred to construct his own detonators. The FBI believed it was his signature.”

Bolan studied the images.

Jerome Gantz.

Liam Seeger.

The Brethren.

It read like an unholy Trinity.

Or was it a coincidence?

Bolan was not a great believer in chance favoring such a coming together. He did believe that the combination needed to be checked out, if only to eliminate them or to prove they were tied together.

“I’ll need everything you can get me on them,” Bolan said. “This is too much to ignore, Aaron. Have any of the other agencies flagged this yet?”

Kurtzman shook his head. “I pulled this together from different sources. Nobody picked it up because the agency types are playing true to form and not sharing information.”

“Keep it in-house for now. Give me a chance to go in without having to look over my shoulder. And in the meantime keep looking.”

“You’ve got it, Mack. Give me an hour to pin down locations and numbers. I’ll give you names to go with the faces in the picture, as well.”

IN HIS QUARTERS Bolan geared up, packing clothing in one bag and his weapons in a larger, leather holdall. He phoned Barbara Price and she set in motion orders for paperwork and credentials that would identify Matt Cooper as a Justice Department special agent. With Bolan’s alter ego already in the system it took only a short time for his package to be produced. He was on his way back from the armory, with extra clips of ammunition for his weapons, when Price intercepted him. She held a manila envelope out to him.

“Your secret agent kit, Mr. Cooper,” she said, falling in step beside him. “Tell me something—do you live up to your cover qualifications?”

Bolan smiled. “Miss Price, what do you think?”

“Me? Oh, above and beyond the call of duty from what I can recall.”

“Personal recommendations always welcome.”

Brognola was approaching from the other end of the corridor. “You two better come with me,” he said without a trace of humor.

Bolan fell in beside the big fed, Price close behind.

Brognola was fumbling in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a pack of antacid tablets. He eased one from the pack and put it in his mouth, which meant he was fretting. He led them to Kurtzman’s Computer Room where the cyberteam was gathered at their boss’s workstation. There was someone else Bolan recognized—Carl Lyons, commander of Able Team.

As Bolan stepped up to the workstation Lyons glanced up.

“Carl.”

“Looks like I called in on a bad day,” Lyons said.

“This came in a short time ago,” Kurtzman told them.

On the wall monitor was a replay of an earlier TV report. The picture was of a fenced compound, identified by the rolling text at the bottom of the picture. It was a National Guard depot in southwest Arizona. The metal mesh gates had been breached and when the camera panned around it showed smoking buildings and bodies lying on the ground.

“Two of our anonymous panel trucks,” Brognola said, “drove in through the gates and up to the buildings. Only a four-man squad of National Guardsmen manned the site. When they confronted the trucks they were cut down by autofire. The panel trucks must have been left outside each of the storage buildings and set off remotely. Vehicles were stored inside one building. The second was the armory. Both were razed to the ground by the truck bombs. It’s already been established that the explosive used was the same as the previous attacks.”

“Makes you wonder where they’ll hit next,” Huntington Wethers said.

“Hard to figure,” Carmen Delahunt replied.

“Is there a deliberate plan to show they can go for anything they choose,” Brognola asked, “or are these just random hits?”

“Hey, look at this.”

They all turned at Akira Tokaido’s call. He indicated a TV news flash. Two more attacks had taken place at National Guard bases. One in Oregon, the next in Nevada. The strikes had the same MOs as the Arizona site.

“The only difference here is the fact they gunned down their victims rather than letting the bombs kill them,” Bolan said.

He turned to Price. “Is transport ready?”

“Mack,” Lyons said, “you got room for a partner?”

“Barbara, can you organize some more cover documents?” Bolan queried. “For both of us in case we need to stop anyone being nosy.”

“Go to it,” Brognola said. “Carl, you up for this?”

“Able’s on stand-down. I’ve nothing that can’t wait.”

“This could be a hot one.”

Lyons smiled. “You know how I hate the cold, Hal.”

CHAPTER TWO

Bolan was behind the wheel of the black Crown Victoria from the Farm’s motor pool. Lyons had the Stony Man file on his lap, going through the mass of documentation Kurtzman had prepared. He had been reading for the first hour of their drive, saying very little and falling silent as he went through the photographs of the bombing victims. Bolan left him to absorb the data until Lyons was ready to talk.

“The Brethren looks to be more organized than most groups. Upmarket compared to your usual militia-survivalist gathering.”

“Yeah. They have a lot to say. Their rallies pull in big crowds. Seeger is known as something of a recluse. He only shows his face in public at meetings, but he has his finger on the public’s pulse. He knows exactly what to say to get a positive reaction. From what Aaron dug up, the Brethren always come away with sizable cash donations.”

“I guess it has to be said there are a lot of unhappy people out there,” Lyons commented.

“We have dead and injured people now,” Bolan said, and left it at that.

Kurtzman’s data had provided them with a location for Jerome Gantz. The man hadn’t been active in the past few years. He’d either quit the anarchy business or he had simply been keeping his profile under the radar.

If Gantz hadn’t been building bombs, where did he get his money from? Kurtzman posed. According to his financial records, Gantz had been living on welfare and handouts—which wouldn’t enable the man to afford his current home. The cyber warrior vowed to dig deeper.

Gantz had rented a house on the Atlantic shore of Massachusetts just outside a small hamlet called Tyler Bay. The area was well off the main highway, a slumbering spot that once had a thriving fishing industry. Large fishing fleets now dominated the business. Over the more recent years Tyler Bay’s family-owned boats had failed to stand up to the competition. There were no more than half a dozen boats left. The town lived off the catches from the small fleet, tourism and associated businesses.

Bolan and Lyons arrived in midafternoon. The narrow road leading into the town brought them to a point overlooking Tyler Bay, which had an Old World charm to it. The road led through the town with a few cross streets intersecting.

“Nice enough spot if you want to stay hidden,” Lyons said.

Bolan didn’t respond. He drove the car down the slope that brought them into Tyler Bay along the main street. Beyond the town the Atlantic stirred restlessly. A steady breeze pushed the gray water toward shore, frothing whitecaps on the waves. Rooms had been booked for them at the Tyler Grand Hotel. It was set in the middle of town, on a cross street, and Bolan drove off the street and eased the vehicle into a slot on the hotel parking lot.

Misty rain was starting to drift in from the curving bay. When Bolan opened his door he felt the chill in the air. Lyons turned up the collar of his jacket and grimaced at his companion.

“I’ll take Malibu anytime,” he rumbled.

Bolan popped the trunk and removed his bag, slinging the one with their weapons over his shoulder. There was a second, smaller bag alongside Lyons’s, which held a big-screen laptop. They made their way to the front entrance and up the wooden steps leading inside. The lobby was spacious, and looked as if it came from an earlier era, but the bright-eyed young woman behind the desk was definitely from the twenty-first century.

“Welcome to the Tyler Grand, gentlemen. Would you be Mr. Cooper and Mr. Benning?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lyons said, his mood lightening for the first time since leaving Stony Man.

The woman smiled. “Miss, actually.”

“Don’t mind him,” Bolan said. “He’s really just an old-fashioned boy.”

“Straight off the farm?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The woman pushed the register across the desk for them to sign in. She watched Bolan sign and write Washington in the home column. Lyons did the same.

“Vacation?” she asked.

“We just needed to get out of the city,” Lyons said. He patted his bag. “And take some pictures and write an article on Massachusetts for our magazine.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“You’d be surprised how city dwellers enjoy reading about places like Tyler Bay.”

The woman handed them keys. “Really? Oh, nothing happens here. Now you go up the stairs to the first landing, turn left along the corridor. Is there anything you need?”

“Pot of fresh coffee for two would be nice,” Bolan said.

“I’ll have it sent up to your room, Mr. Cooper.” The woman found herself staring into Bolan’s blue eyes. A faint flush colored her cheeks for some reason. “About ten minutes? Will that be satisfactory?”

“Fine,” Bolan said, smiling gently.

BOLAN LEFT HIS DOOR open while Lyons took his main bag to his room, then returned with the laptop.

“That was a fast move, Mack.”

“Sorry?”

“That girl at the desk was hooked.”

Bolan shook his head. “Carl, are you developing a wild imagination?”

Lyons grunted and crossed to the oak desk near the room’s window, which overlooked the street. He unzipped the bag and took out the laptop and a compact color printer. When Stony Man personnel had booked the rooms, they had asked for ones equipped with Internet access. Surprisingly the Tyler Grand had them in all rooms. Lyons connected the laptop and printer and opened the e-mail.

“I’ll check with Aaron,” Lyons said. “See if he has a data update.”

Bolan stowed the bag holding their weapons in the wardrobe, then opened his clothing bag and took out the slim leather folder that rested on top. Inside were sheets of paper with the Stony Man-created American Routes logo on the top, the magazine he and Lyons supposedly wrote for. He placed them on the writing table, along with a few pens and a compact digital camera.

Lyons watched him. “Very professional.”

“In case anyone gets curious.”

“Uh-huh. You mean like Little Miss on the desk.”

“Like covering our backs. Small town, Carl. Visitors are fair game. Something to talk about and talk can get overheard.”

“CHIEF HARPER? IT’S ME. Those two guests just booked in. They’re in rooms 8 and 12. Cooper and Benning. What do I think? Something about them doesn’t gel. I mean, they’re supposed to be writers for some travel magazine but I don’t know. Very assured. Confident. To be honest I think you should keep an eye on them. They’re in a black late-model Crown Victoria. It’s parked in the hotel lot. Yes, I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.”

The young woman replaced the handset. As she did a teenage girl walked by the desk, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and cups.

“Room 8?” the girl asked.

“That’s right, Lana.”

LYONS SCANNED THE TEXT from Kurtzman. He was about to call Bolan over when there was a knock on the room door. The coffee had arrived.

“You ordered coffee, sir?” Lana asked as Bolan opened the door.

The soldier reached for the tray. “Thanks. Carl, you got any cash?”

“No need, sir, it’s my pleasure. Enjoy your coffee.” Lana reached out to pull the door closed as she moved away.

Bolan placed the tray on a side table and poured two cups. He took one to Lyons, who pointed at the message on the laptop:

Been running satellite sweeps. Checked Gantz’s place. The house overlooks the beach. A motor cruiser has been anchored in the bay near the house for the last few hours. Managed to get visuals of the cruiser’s name. Running a check on who owns it as a precaution. Still pulling in any intel I can find to do with the Brethren and any names that come up, especially Gantz. Feed you whatever looks interesting.

Lyons erased the message, then pulled up a two-page document that featured Tyler Bay. The article was in unedited text and ended halfway along a sentence. He left it on the screen.

“So what do we do now?”

“Wait until dark then check out the Gantz place,” Bolan said. “Hey, this coffee is okay.”

Lyons had wandered over to the window, cup in hand. He leaned forward as something caught his attention. “Mack, take a look at this.”

Bolan joined him and they watched a blue-and-white police cruiser roll into the hotel parking lot and stop next to the Crown Vic. Bolan saw the uniformed driver lean across and tap into his onboard computer.

“He’s checking us out,” Lyons said. “Either Tyler Bay has a superefficient force, or we are being checked for other reasons.”

“I’m guessing Little Miss has been reporting in.”

Lyons grinned. “Sorry, Mack, looks like she isn’t lusting for your body after all.”

“Another disappointment I’ll have to live with,” Bolan said.

Lyons stayed at the window and watched until the Tyler Bay Police Department cruiser backed up, swung onto the street and drove off. He remained where he was, and his patience was rewarded when the cruiser did a U-turn and parked farther along the quiet street.

“He’s staking us out.”

“Let’s give him a long wait,” Bolan said. “Won’t be dark for a few hours and we aren’t going to leave until it is.”

“IT’S JOHNSON on the radio for you, Chief.”

Jason Harper, the town’s chief of police, pushed aside the report he was reading. “Patch him through, Edgar.”

He pressed the button on his desk set. “Go ahead, Scotty.”

“I’ve been sitting here for nearly five hours, Chief, and those guys haven’t moved. Can hardly see the damn hotel anymore. It’s dark and the fog’s rolling in real fast from the bay. You want me to stay on?”

Harper checked his watch. “Give it another half hour, Scotty, then you can go home.”

“Okay, Chief. See you in the morning.”

Harper figured he’d done his duty where the newcomers were concerned. It looked as if they were what they claimed to be. The check on their vehicle had linked them to the American Routes magazine based in Washington. Maybe their article would stir enough interest in the town to pull in a few more tourists. Lord knew Tyler Bay could do with them. There wasn’t much else to the place now. The few boats that still fished the local waters didn’t bring in much money and once they quit…Harper didn’t like to think about that day.

He leaned back in his seat, hearing the creak of the frame. He locked his fingers behind his head and stared across his cluttered office. The office and its contents, including himself, needed a damn good overhaul, Harper thought. Hell, the whole building needed an overhaul. The place had been around since the 1950s and that was a long time. Not that much ever happened in Tyler Bay. A tired little town, slowly fading away. Harper had been in charge of law and order for twenty years, and the department remained the same as it always had. He and his small force went through their routine day after day, though Harper sometimes wished something might happen just to break the monotony. He knew that was nothing more than wishful thinking. The folk who inhabited the town were decent and law-abiding, and he didn’t want anything to happen that might bring harm to them. There hadn’t been a major, or—come to think of it—a minor criminal incident since Homer Sprule had taken his shotgun and threatened a guy from the IRS when there had been a mix-up about tax assessment. It turned out there were two Homer Sprules in the county, and the IRS had sent the inspector to the wrong address. Harper chuckled when he recalled that incident. It came to him that had been more than eight years ago. He sighed. Some hot town, Tyler Bay.

He pushed to his feet and reached for his hat. Passing through the main office he called out to the night deputy that he was going home and if anything came up needing his attention that’s where he would be. Outside he zipped his uniform leather jacket, turning up the collar. He could feel the damp fog against his face as he crossed to his parked department SUV. Once inside he fired up the powerful engine and turned out of the parking area. He flicked on his lights and turned up the radio so he could keep a check on anything coming in. With only four cruisers to patrol the town and surrounding county, Harper wasn’t expecting even a trickle, let alone a flood. He expected just another Tyler Bay Thursday night.

HARPER DECIDED TO STOP and have something to eat. If he didn’t it would mean he’d have to get himself something after he got home. The thought did not appeal to him. Harper had fended for himself since his wife had died seven years earlier. He’d managed okay, but when he worked late he couldn’t face cooking a meal, so it was easier to head to the diner on Main Street.

The diner had only a couple of customers in one of the booths. Harper acknowledged them as he made his way to the counter. He preferred sitting there because it gave him the chance to see Callie Rinehart. She was a special lady in Harper’s opinion. Very special. Red-haired, with striking green eyes and a laugh that hit the spot every time he heard it. Her husband had skipped out on her three years back, and the only time she’d heard from him again was in the form of divorce papers from somewhere in Nevada. She and Harper had first got together at the Tyler Bay Founders’ Day celebration twelve months ago. Since then they had formed a cozy relationship. Neither had made any definite commitment. They went out, spent time either at his or her place, and took things on a day-to-day basis. It suited them both. Work time was erratic for him and Callie, so they used what time they had available. Like tonight.

Harper climbed on the stool he always used and waited for Callie. He smiled when she appeared, carrying the large china mug she kept for him. He watched her fill the mug with steaming black coffee and place it in front of him.

“Chief.”

“Callie.”

She smiled. At thirty-six she was an attractive woman. Harper was fascinated by her facial structure. High cheekbones, a wide, generous mouth and the most even white teeth he had ever seen. There were times he questioned why she could be attracted to a forty-two-year-old man, admittedly not at his physical best. He didn’t question it too deeply. He considered himself a lucky man to have been blessed by knowing two exceptional women in his life.

“And they say the art of conversation died the day television was invented.”

“Not true, ma’am.”

She touched his hand where it lay on the counter. Even that quiet gesture made him feel better. “You want me to stop by later?” she asked. “I’ll bring apple pie.”

“Shame on you, girl, tempting an officer of the law.”

“Whipped cream to go with it.”

“Damn, there goes a twenty-year unblemished record.”

“I didn’t realize you could be bought so easily.”

“We all have our price.”

Callie turned and called through his order. He always had the same when he came in at night. Steak and eggs, with fried potatoes and beans. It was his first meal since coming on duty. He seldom ate during the day, not having the patience to leave the office or to break off a patrol.

A few more customers came in while Harper ate, so he didn’t get much more time to spend with her. He heard someone mention the fog was getting thicker. He finished his meal and had another coffee. Callie took his money and brought his change.

“See you later, Chief.”

“You watch that fog when you leave,” he said.

“Going straight home?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I need to tidy up before you call.”

“No need to do anything special just for me.”

“I just need to clear out all the beer cans and fast-food cartons.”

Harper gave her a wave and left the diner. The fog was getting thicker. The illumination from the street lighting made his SUV glisten where the moisture from the fog had layered the bodywork. As he unlocked the vehicle, Harper heard the mournful sound of a foghorn. Glancing to the east side of town, he caught a glimpse of the hazy lighthouse beam coming from the point.

He had just reversed from the curb, turning the SUV around, when his radio burst into life.

“Chief? Chief, this is Edgar.”

Harper picked the mike off the hook. “Go ahead.”

“I just had a call from out the point. Someone swears they heard gunshots coming from where that fellar Gantz lives.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Cruiser’s gone,” Lyons said.

He had watched the police vehicle move off and head through the intersection. Lyons had remained at the window for a few more minutes just to be certain. Both he and Bolan were dressed in dark clothing, carrying their handguns under zipped jackets, while Bolan carried a small carryall that held his night-vision monocular. Slung from Lyons’s shoulder was a compact case that resembled a digital camera. Inside was a GPS unit that held the coordinates they would need to pinpoint Gantz’s home.

They left Bolan’s room and made their way down to the lobby. Little Miss was no longer behind the desk. A male receptionist glanced up as they walked by, then returned to his copy of Soldier of Fortune.

Bolan carried the bag with additional weapons, which he deposited in the trunk. Lyons got behind the wheel of the Crown Vic and drove them out of the hotel lot. He passed the GPS unit to Bolan. Kurtzman had provided them with a map that would guide them to the area where Gantz lived. The map became even more helpful as they encountered the fog rolling in from the Atlantic. They had about eight miles to cover once they were clear of the town, as Gantz’s house was located on the coast in an area known as Tyler Point.

“Think Gantz will spill what he knows?” Lyons asked.

“He’ll spill,” was Bolan’s reply. He recalled the images in the photographs he’d viewed back at Stony Man. The callous disregard that had been displayed by the group behind the bombings was deeply imprinted in the soldier’s mind, and he refused to even attempt to blur them. He wanted them to remain sharp because they were the driving force behind his mission: to locate the bombers and bring them down.

Executioner style.

Bolan used his cell phone to check in with Kurtzman at Stony Man.

“Nothing new for you, Striker. That fog you have down there is delaying any new intel on Gantz’s place. Satellites are blocked out.”

“Just keep an eye out,” Bolan said.

“I’ve got a trace running now on Gantz’s telephone. Nothing yet, but we might pick something up. He might have used his landline to call an associate. If you get close to him, see if he has a cell. More likely to have used that to make an indiscreet call.”

“Call you later.”

LYONS ROLLED the vehicle off the narrow tarmac road that passed by the Gantz house. He cut the engine and they went EVA. Once they were out of the car, Bolan checked the GPS unit and read the digital display.

“That way.”

They followed the directions of the unit, taking care to check the ground. The terrain at this proximity to the coastline could prove to be difficult and more so in the enveloping fog. According to the information received from Kurtzman earlier, the house was set on the edge of the beach and the water. From the tarmac a side road led directly to the house. From the location on the GPS unit they were left of that side road and within a couple hundred feet of the property. He switched off the unit and returned it to Lyons. They moved in the direction of the house.

Bolan, slightly ahead of Lyons, held up a hand to halt them. He dropped to a crouch and used the night-vision monocular to check the area. The green-toned image, surprisingly clear and bright, showed Bolan a large 4x4 vehicle parked at the side of the road. He also pinpointed a man in a long leather coat, cradling a stubby submachine gun in his arms, leaning against the side of the 4x4. Bolan passed the monocular to Lyons. The big ex-cop took a look, then tapped his partner on the shoulder and passed the device back.

“Looks like he’s on his own,” Bolan said. “But don’t take that as gospel.”

Though he couldn’t see Lyons’s face when he spoke, Bolan was sure he was smiling when he said, “Think he’d like some company?”

“Nobody enjoys being out in the cold.”

Lyons slipped away.

BOLAN STOWED the monocular in the shoulder case, slung it across his back, then moved in closer to the beach house. He made his move as fast as he could without creating any giveaway sound. He reached the wooden front porch and crossed it to flatten against the wall to the right of the door. He slipped the 93-R from its shoulder holster. Just to his right was a window. Bolan turned toward it. What he saw decided his course of action.

And then the rattle of autofire came from the direction of the 4x4 and Lyons.

From inside the house raised voices reached Bolan. There was muttered conversation; the sound of boots on a wood floor, coming in the direction of the door next to Bolan.

The door was yanked open and an armed figure came into view, a raised MP-5 in his hands.

The gunner came through the door without checking his perimeter. Bolan hit him full in the face with the Beretta. Flesh split and blood welled up immediately. The guy slumped against the door frame, his weapon forgotten in the world of pain that engulfed him. Bolan hit again, harder this time, and the groaning man went to his knees, then flat to the porch as the Executioner caught him around the neck, applied pressure and a hard twist that snapped his spine. Bending over the prone form, Bolan snatched up the MP-5, pushed his Beretta back into its holster, then checked the load for the weapon he had acquired.

Turning, he kicked open the door and stormed into the house, his weapon tracking in on the men standing over the battered and bloodied form of Jerome Gantz. They swung around at his noisy entrance, realizing he wasn’t one of their own, and went for their holstered weapons. One of them also raised a handset he was holding and began to yell into it. His commands were drowned by the harsh crackle of the SMG in Bolan’s hands. He drove hard bursts into the guy with the handset, then swept the muzzle around and took down another hardman. That left one standing, and he had his handgun clear and opened fire the moment he spotted Bolan. The Executioner, ducking low and breaking to the left, had already moved, forcing the guy to track in again. Down on one knee, Bolan swept the guy aside with a sustained burst that blew the life from his body and slammed him to the floor in a mist of blood.

From outside the house Bolan heard the stutter of an autoweapon. Then a brief pause was followed by the unmistakable boom of Carl Lyons’s Colt Python. Two shots rang out before silence fell.

“On the boat. There are more on that boat,” someone whispered, the words slurred and spoken by a person in terrible pain. Bolan turned and met the pain-filled eyes of Jerome Gantz. His captors had stripped him to his shorts and tethered him to a wooden kitchen chair using fine wire around his wrists and ankles. Blood was seeping from where the wire had cut deep into his flesh, and the wooden floor around the chair was spattered with blood. Gantz’s face and body had been beaten to a bloody wreck. Blood dripped from a baseball bat on the floor close by. The white bone from his shattered left cheek gleamed through the split flesh. His lips were pulped, and bloody teeth hung by shreds from his gums. A bleeding gash lay open on his exposed skull. Livid red marks showed over his ribs and around his knees the flesh looked swollen and pulpy.

“The Brethren?”

All Bolan got was a tired nod from Gantz before the man’s head lolled forward against his bloody chest.

A sweep of the open-concept room, which extended from living area to the kitchen, showed that someone had thoroughly trashed the place. Broken items littered the floor; every drawer and cupboard hung open; the furniture in the living area had been overturned. The TV had been tipped to the floor and smashed, and so had a CD player.

Lyons appeared in the doorway, taking a look around the interior before stepping inside. His Colt Python was back in its holster, and he carried an MP-5 he had taken from the outside guard.

“Somebody is really pissed at him,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact and holding no trace of pity for Jerome Gantz’s condition.

“The Brethren,” Bolan said.

“Coop, tell me why we’re bothering to save this dirtbag’s life.”

Bolan was about to reply when he heard a distant raised voice. It came from the beach side of the house.

Gantz’s warning: On the boat. There are more on that boat.

Bolan jabbed a finger in the general direction of the rear entrance. “We need to clean house first.”

It was enough for Lyons. He followed Bolan toward the door that exited onto the rear porch. The soldier paused for a heartbeat, reached for the handle and jerked the door open. He ducked low, went through and to the right. Lyons was on his heels, moving left away from the lighted rectangle of the open door.

Their exit was accompanied by wild bursts of autofire. The rear porch was hit by heavy fire, wood splintering and shredding under the salvos. A window shattered, glass blowing into the house.

The sea breeze that had pushed the fog inland had dispersed a greater part of it on the beach. Both Bolan and Lyons were able to pick out the moving silhouettes of the men behind the guns from where they now lay prone on the sandy beach. Bolan raised himself to a semicrouch and turned his MP-5 on the shooters, his calmly delivered volley cutting a bloody swathe through them, while Lyons’s SMG added its own deadly noise. Men went down yelling and screaming until there was none left standing except the single guy tending the inflatable raft that had brought the killing crew to shore. He witnessed the deaths of his partners and decided enough was enough. Turning, he shoved the inflatable through the incoming surf and threw himself on board, struggling to use the single oar. He might have made it if he hadn’t pulled the pistol holstered on his hip and fired warning shots in the direction of the beach.

Lyons snapped in a fresh magazine from his confiscated weapon and returned fire. The MP-5’s 9 mm slugs shredded the rubber of the inflatable and cored into the shooter’s body. He fell back into the deflating folds of the boat and went down with it.

Bolan made his way across the beach. He could just make out the dark bulk of the waiting boat riding the soft Atlantic swell. It showed running lights at bow and stern. He reached for the night-vision monocular and took it from the pouch slung across his back. When he peered into the lens he could see a clearer picture of the cruiser. The dark shape of men moved back and forth.

And the dull gleam of misty light running the length of a gun barrel—a .50-caliber machine gun, was aimed in their direction. Bolan didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran in Lyons’s direction, hit him side-on and they thumped to the sand an instant before the boat-mounted machine gun opened up. The solid sound of the autofire, slightly dulled by the enveloping fog, hammered at the air. The intermittent flash of tracers told Bolan they were being fired at by professionals. The slugs pounded the sand, showering the men as they crawled away from the line of fire. Then the trajectory rose and the fire was hitting the house, pounding its way through the wooden structure, a long and incessant blast of fire that had no other intention than that of rendering the house into a wreck. The bloodied image of Jerome Gantz flashed through Bolan’s mind. Whatever had happened to the man before Bolan arrived would now be completed. He had no illusions—the directed gunfire was intended to make sure Gantz was dead.

Someone was determined to kill the man.

The question was, why?

With everything that had happened it appeared more than likely that Jerome Gantz had been the man behind the design and construction of the massive bombs used in the devastating public attacks.

For some currently inexplicable reason Gantz had been singled out for some kind of reprisal action. Torture? A savage beating? For something the Brethren wanted and now that they had failed, the death of Gantz was the final act. The seemingly overt act of destroying his home knowing Gantz was inside and helpless proved that thought.

The hellish beat of the .50-caliber machine gun ceased abruptly. As Bolan raised his head, he heard the rumble of a powerful engine, the throbbing pulse of the screws as they pushed the cruiser away from the shore. He shoved to his feet and grabbed for the monocular, taking a hurried scan of the departing boat. He saw its stern as it disappeared into the fog, and picked out the shape of a man leaning against the stern rail. He was tall, the pale oval of his face indistinct. Bolan did see the cap of white-blond hair above the face. Short cut, almost spiky. It was an image he wasn’t about to forget.

The image was lost in the fog, as was the beat of the engine.

Damn. Bolan lowered the monocular and turned to see Lyons impatiently brushing damp sand from his clothing.

The twin beams of powerful spotlights penetrated the shadows, pinpointing the two men. A hard voice broke through the gloom.

“Put down the weapons and raise your hands. I’ve got a 12-gauge Winchester. Don’t do anything that will cause it to go off.”

Bolan caught Lyons’s stare. His Able Team partner had a look on his face that said it all.

CHIEF HARPER MOVED across the beach, staying to one side of the light coming from his cruiser. He could clearly see the two men facing him. They fit the description of the guests from the hotel he’d received earlier in the afternoon. He kept the shotgun on them as he closed in. It was with some relief he saw them drop their weapons to the sand, keeping their hands in clear sight.

“There more weapons under those jackets? Just in case, open them.”

Bolan exposed his Beretta. “We’re not going to make any trouble here. Check our IDs and you’ll understand.”

“IDs for what?”

“Let me pass mine across,” Bolan said. “No tricks, Officer.”

“It’s chief of police. Now what about the ID?”

Bolan used his left hand to unzip the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He fished out the small ID wallet and held it for Harper to see.

“Toss it over.”

Bolan did as he was instructed and Harper crouched to pick it up, his eyes never moving from his suspects. He scanned the plastic-coated ID inside. He checked the photo against Bolan. Then he glanced at Lyons. “You got the same?”

“Yes, Chief. I’m Benning. My partner is Cooper.”

“Justice Department? Special agents?”

Bolan nodded. “We’re working undercover and came here to talk with Jerome Gantz, but it looks like we were a little late.”

“Where is Gantz?”

“Inside the house and in a bad way. We interrupted his visitors, who were beating him. Soon as they saw us all hell broke loose.”

“That’s what I heard?”

“There were more on a boat anchored off the beach,” Lyons said. “They hit the house with a .50-caliber machine gun.”

“Thought I recognized the sound. It’s something you don’t forget.”

“Chief, we should check to see if Gantz is still alive,” Bolan said.

Harper hesitated for a few seconds, then lowered the shotgun. “Go ahead. I need to call for assistance.” He held out the wallet for Bolan to take. “I think we need to talk, Special Agent Cooper.”

Bolan retrieved the guns he and Lyons had dropped on the beach. He nodded to Harper as he walked by and headed for the bullet-riddled house, Lyons alongside.

“Hell of a start,” Lyons muttered.

As soon as they were inside, stepping across the littered floor, they saw Gantz. The man and the chair he was bound to had toppled over. Bolan crouched beside Gantz and checked him out. He had caught a couple of the .50-caliber shells. The large projectiles had ripped his left side open, leaving large and bloody wounds. Blood had already formed a large pool across the wood floor.

“Is he dead?” Lyons asked.

Bolan, checking for vital signs, shook his head. “Still breathing.”

“I’ll get Harper to call for medical help.”

Bolan nodded. He stayed beside the unconscious Gantz for a while, aware that there was little he could do for the man. The bullet wounds had caused severe damage. Even if he was admitted to hospital it was going to take a miracle to keep him alive.

He wandered around the rooms, not even certain what he was looking for. His search failed to turn up a cell phone. Also Gantz wasn’t going to leave quantities of his bomb-making ingredients lying around the house. Or even manufacture them on the premises. Vehicles arriving and departing from the area would have been noticed in a quiet town like Tyler Bay, which would explain the hit team coming in from the water.

Gantz would have built his bombs somewhere else, at a spot where regular traffic would be expected. Maybe some kind of industrial site. A place where there would have to be the kind of equipment the panel trucks could be adapted for their intended use. It wouldn’t be an easy place to find, considering the number of such sites there were across the country.

Bolan took out his cell phone and contacted the Farm, asking for Kurtzman.

“What’s the miracle I’m expected to perform tonight?”

“We’re at Gantz’s house outside Tyler Bay. He already had visitors, but not the kind who bring a bottle of wine to accompany a meal.”

“Understood. Gantz?”

“He’d been tortured when we arrived. We mixed it with the visitors. The upshot is they hit the house with a .50-caliber mounted on that boat you spotted in the bay. They used it to get to Gantz’s house. Must have been waiting for dark and the fog to cover their approach. Gantz took a couple of shells. He’s still alive but critical.”

“Where do I come in?”

“Gantz couldn’t have made his bombs here. There has to be a manufacturing site somewhere.”

Bolan heard the big man’s deep sigh.

“Haystacks and needles just registered,” Kurtzman said. “That’s a hell of a request.”

“I realize that. I’ll go through the place here to see if I can turn anything up that might help.”

“How about a confession written down and personally signed by Gantz?”

“If I find it, you’ll be the first to know. Aaron, patch me through to Hal. And thanks.”

“For what? I haven’t done anything yet.”

“I have faith in you, buddy.”

Brognola came on the line. “Is Massachusetts in flames yet?”

“A small part of it is smoking.”

“I knew it. Tell me the worst.”

Bolan gave a detailed report of the Tyler Bay episode. He made it clear to Brognola that they were attempting to gain further information so he and Lyons could make their next move against the Brethren.

“Gantz name them?”

“He named them. I got the feeling the affair between them is over.”

“A .50-caliber round or two is a hell of a way to end a romance.”

“Hal, these people weren’t about to do it easy.”

“So why were they working the guy over if he was with them?” Brognola’s tone became irritable.

“A fallout? Maybe he had a change of heart after the bombings. The number of dead and injured might have hit home. He could have been attempting a shakedown. Asking for more money. Threatening the Brethren with exposure if they didn’t pay up. We need to ID these people. Hal, we’re all making guesses right now.”

“Yeah, I know. I wish we could make the right one.”

“Early in the game. I understand why you’re touchy. We all know the Brethren could stage more bombings before we get to them.”

“Yeah, sorry, Striker.”

“No apologies needed. I’ll touch base later. Right now we have the local law to keep on our team.”

“You need any backup just yell.”

“Will do.”

LYONS CAME FROM OUTSIDE, with a pair of hand cutters Harper had supplied from his vehicle’s tool kit. He handed them to Bolan, who severed the wire around Gantz’s limbs, freeing him from the chair. He covered the unconscious man with a blanket. Lyons went back outside as a precaution, prowling the area with the restless energy that never seemed to leave him.

Chief Harper joined Bolan inside the house. “I have my people on the way. They’ll seal off the area. And I radioed for an ambulance. It has to come some distance. I called the Coast Guard to check the area. The trouble is, by the time they reach the bay that boat will be long gone. Coast Guard is busy tonight with all this fog.”

“Best guess is they’ll find that boat empty and drifting.”

“My thoughts, too.”

“Best we can do is try, Chief.”

“How’s Gantz doing?”

“Touch and go. Those .50-calibers didn’t do him any favors.”

Harper eyed the big man, sensing there was a reason he wasn’t showing much feeling over Gantz’s condition. “Something I should know, Agent Cooper?”

“Tell me about Gantz.”

“Not much to tell. He turned up a few months back. This place had been rented out to him for twelve months. He only showed his face in town a few times. All we got from him was he was here to rest after an illness. The man wasn’t what you’d call talkative.”

“He have any visitors? Did he make trips away from the area?”

“Only a few visitors, but he did make a fair number of trips away from town in that SUV parked out front. You ask a lot of questions, Agent Cooper.”

Bolan smiled. “I suppose I do. It’s necessary, Chief. We need to get a line on the people Gantz was involved with.”

“And who are these people? Not the friendly kind, from what’s happened here tonight. Or is this a need-to-know operation?”

“We believe Gantz may have been involved in the recent mass bombings.”

“The Federal Reserve banks and the department stores? And those National Guard units?”

“The intel we have is moving more and more toward Gantz being involved.”

Harper took a slow look around the room. “Son of a bitch wasn’t making the bombs here?”

“Most likely he worked out his details here, then took trips to wherever they actually constructed the packages.”

“How did you tie him in?”

“Gantz was involved in making similar kinds of bombs some years ago. Back then he was never convicted, and appears to have been keeping low ever since, but recently he was seen in the company of a radical militia group.”

Harper digested the information. “Come to think of it, Gantz did make some of his away trips days before the recent attacks.”

“He make any trips out of town since the attacks?”

“His last one was a couple of days ago. Hell, you think he was setting up more bombs?”

“It’s what we have to find out, Chief. I’d be grateful if you could arrange for photographs and fingerprints of all the dead. I need to get them to the lab for positive identification.”

“I can do that. We might be a small department, but we have the equipment. I’ll call for my guy to do it for you.”