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.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

The digital and fingerprint images sent from Bolan were in the system, being scanned by the FBI’s AFIS recognition program. Kurtzman also had them being scanned by military databases and any other recognition systems he could work into his search. Huntington Wethers was taking his turn watching the scans running across his monitors. It was just over an hour when he got his first hit.

“We got one,” he called.

Kurtzman rolled up to Wethers’s workstation as a hard copy slid from the printer. He snatched it up and scanned the information.

“There it is,” he said. “Henry Jacks. He’s done time for assault. Over the past ten years he’s been associated with three different militia groups. Guess who he’s been with the last three years? The Brethren. He hates the government and doesn’t agree with anything they do. He has been quoted as saying ‘when we burn you down, it will be a new day for real Americans.’”

“His burning days are over,” Wethers said.

“Let me run a check on known associates,” Kurtzman said. “We might hit lucky.”

It was quickly found that Jacks’s two closest friends were both members of the Brethren, and a cross-check revealed they had both died in the assault on Jerome Gantz’s Tyler Point home.

Carmen Delahunt, who had been quietly monitoring her data input, called for Kurtzman’s attention. “A news service in Washington just received a claim from a group calling itself America the Free. They are saying they are responsible for the recent bombings, and there are more to come.”

“New name to me,” Kurtzman said.

“I just ran a trace through FBI files,” Delahunt said. She was former FBI herself, so her knowledge of their procedures was a great help to Stony Man. “There’s no data on such a group. But the information they included in their claim is pretty close to what the FBI has on the bombings.”

Kurtzman pondered on that. “Okay, Carmen, you stay on that for a while. See what else you can find on America the Free. There’s something odd in this. Let’s see if we can dig it up.”

Kurtzman relayed the current information to Bolan and advised they were continuing with the identification of the others involved.

Tyler Bay Hotel

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION came through the laptop, and it was Bolan’s turn to check the screen when another Brethren connection popped up. He found himself staring at an image that took him back to the Gantz house and the boat retreating into the fog shrouding the bay.

The image stared at him from the screen. A long, lean-featured face. The stare was hard and direct, and above it the hair was pale and cut short. It was the man Bolan had seen at the stern rail. He had been right at the time—it was a face he wouldn’t forget. He called Lyons to take a look.

“He’s the one I spotted on the boat just as it pulled away. Deacon Ribak. One of the Brethren’s top lieutenants. Ex-Army Ranger out of Fort Benning, Georgia. Served thirteen years. Last couple of years his personal politics clashed with the Army’s. He refused to change his views and took a discharge a couple of years ago. Joined the Brethren six months later and has been with them ever since. He’s a trained professional, Carl. He’s seen a lot of hard action.” Bolan ran his fingers down the column that detailed Ribak’s military career. “One hell of an asset for the Brethren.”

“I still don’t get why they hit Gantz. What they did screams interrogation. If you want the guy dead, it can be done quick and easy. Unless you want him to tell you something.”

There was a knock on the door. Lyons turned and flattened himself against the wall, his Colt Python in his hand, as Bolan crossed the room and cautiously opened the door. Chief Harper stood on the threshold.

“Come in, Chief,” Bolan said, more to warn Lyons to stand down.

Harper stepped inside. When Bolan closed the door the cop saw Lyons putting his weapon away.

“Don’t tell me you guys sleep with your guns under your pillows.”

Bolan smiled. “I keep mine in my hand and one eye open.”

“Damned if I don’t believe you.”

“What can we do for you, Chief?”

“Quit the ‘Chief’ crap. The name’s Jason.”

“Coffee?”

Harper nodded. “I feel like I’ve done a week’s shifts in one night.”

Lyons handed him a cup. “You mean, this isn’t normal for Tyler Bay?”

“Hell, no. If it was, I’d been retired and gone by now. I came to tell you I had a call from county hospital. Gantz is still in surgery. The outlook isn’t too good. Apart from the damage those big .50s did, he has broken ribs on both sides of his body and two kneecaps more mush than bone. Lower jaw totally shattered and most of his teeth are gone. That crack on his head split his skull clear open.”

“Your officer get anything from him?” Bolan asked.

If Harper thought that was coldhearted he made no comment. He simply shook his head. “Edgar stayed with him all the way to the hospital. Gantz didn’t say a thing. Edgar didn’t leave his side until they wheeled him into the operating room. He’s still there in case Gantz survives. Not that it seems likely.”

“Something to look forward to,” Lyons said quietly.

Harper rounded on him. “Son, I figure you’ve had a tough time tonight, but every man deserves a little Christian pity when he’s down.”

“You think so?” Lyons snapped. “Get out of small-town U.S.A. and smell the real world, Chief.”

Bolan stood between them. He put a big hand on Lyons’s shoulder. “Doug, go and cool down, okay?” He met Lyons’s anger with a calm manner that stood the Able Team leader down. He turned aside and crossed the room to stare out the window.

The soldier faced Harper. “You heard about the bombings and saw the TV reports cut and dried for public viewing. We had the official versions. No hiding the results of those explosions. Every little detail. Men, women and especially the children. Innocent victims. Americans like you and me, Jason. Going about their business and not expecting what happened to them. It doesn’t leave us much room for pity when we realize this was done by Americans to Americans. We have to deal with the aftermath, and have done so before. There are times it’s hard to distance ourselves. Sometimes we succeed. Other times we don’t.”

Bolan’s quiet explanation had its calming effect on the cop. Harper drew a hand across his tired features, staring into the blue eyes of the big man who seemed to have total control of anything that came his way. He was unaware it was the way Mack Bolan dealt with tangled emotions. The ability to move away from crisis moments and bring his natural skills as a mediator into a tense situation. It served Bolan well. He employed the same emotion to clear his own anger when faced with a mental struggle.

Over his years of conflict he had learned long ago there were times he needed to detach himself. Not to completely forget the evil his enemies employed, but to put them on standby while he refreshed his mind and body. The things he had seen he would never fully forget. That was an impossibility even for the Executioner. It was not something he wanted to forget. As long as he had his memories of the terrible things witnessed in the past, he remained strong for his battles in the future. Mack Bolan was human. A caring human being. He understood the deep and dark acts his enemies were capable of. He was also aware of his own strengths, which kept him fighting his War Everlasting.

Harper glanced across to where Lyons stood at the window, shoulders hunched and taut as he struggled to contain his anger. “Could be maybe I have been here in Tyler Bay too long. Backwater town. Nothing much happens. Worse thing about it is, I like it that way.” He looked at Bolan. “Hell of an admission for a professional cop.”

“You keep it that way, Jason. So we can all remember there are places like Tyler Bay. That there are still sane and safe places in the middle of the madness. That’s something we all need to hang on to.”

“I guess so.” Harper went across to Lyons. “Rough night for us all, son. Best excuse I can come up with right now.”

Lyons turned to face him. “No sweat, Chief. I blow hot too fast sometimes.”

“Way I hear it, you got more right than anyone to do just that.”

Incoming mail made itself heard on the laptop. Bolan opened the message.

Boat was on a charter from a marine rental company up the coast. It was paid for with plastic. I accessed the details. It was charged to a company in Philadelphia. South Star Investments. Operated by a guy called Arnold Petrie. Hope you are sitting down for next piece of info. It took me some time unraveling all the strings but I came up with a name that rang dim and distant bells. Ran it again until a name came through. Thin link, but the guy fronting the Philly company has a connection, albeit skinny, to the Eric Stahl Corporation. You owe me big-time, big guy.

IN THE MORNING, following breakfast, Bolan and Lyons checked out and drove to a final meet with Chief Harper.

“I was going to give you a call,” Harper said as they walked into the station house.

“Good or bad call?” Bolan asked.

“I figure it depends how you feel on the subject. I just spoke with my officer at County Hospital. Gantz died around 2:00 a.m.”

“Can’t say I’m heartbroken. Not after what the guy did.”

“I guess not,” Harper said. “Bad way to die though.” He glanced at Lyons. “No offense meant, Agent Benning.”

Lyons shrugged. “You sow what you reap,” he said, and that piece of philosophy got him a puzzled look from Bolan.

“I got the number you gave me,” Harper said. “If anything comes up I’ll pass it along. Likewise if anyone comes asking about Gantz. By the way, I’ve got the house sealed off if any other agencies show up. Like you told me, I’ll refer them to your contact.” Harper reached down and opened a drawer in his desk. “Almost forgot. One of my deputies found this in the pocket of one of Gantz’s jackets.” He held out a plastic bag containing a slim cell phone. “You must have interrupted his visitors before they made a full search of the house. Think it might be useful?”

“We’ll know that after I send it to our people.” Bolan held out his hand. “Missed it myself. Appreciate your help, Jason.”

“Any time, guys. Tyler Bay always likes to give visitors a welcome.” He grinned. “Your kind of visitors, I mean.”

“You sure as hell did that, Chief,” Lyons said.

“Take care,” Harper called as the two walked out of his office.

Watching them go, Harper shook his head. Some night, he thought, then realized he’d forgotten all about his date with Callie. He grabbed his hat and hotfooted it to the diner.

CHAPTER FIVE

Liam Seeger liked to believe he had been born a rebel, despite being born into a wealthy family. Since early childhood he had fought against authority, and as the years passed he’d developed this persona until it was like a second skin. He joined any group if it had a hint of being radical. In school, then university—those years had been his best—he battled the establishment wherever it existed, doing everything he could to embarrass it and his family. He had only been twenty-three when he became involved in a subversive movement that saw conspiracy in all aspects of government policy. He read articles, he watched documented evidence and he spoke to antiestablishment figures, steeping himself in the lore. His conversion to becoming a dedicated antiestablishment figure came during marches and rallies that denounced government policies and the fragmentation of America. Seeger saw this happening across the country. Dissatisfaction. Mistrust. The betrayal of the nation by a cynical and manipulative administration that ran rife through all levels of society.

His own struggle against the administration became personal when he was involved in a violent demonstration against America’s foreign policy. During the physical struggle against an overwhelming police presence, someone fired a gun and the police responded. Seeger was hit when a riot shotgun was discharged. He took part of the blast in his face and left shoulder and arm. The aftermath was that he lost his left eye from the injury and his arm became partially disabled from the wound. Worse he developed an antisocial attitude and became a recluse. He ran his battle against them from the basement of his house. The authorities closed ranks against his claim for personal injury, and his claim for compensation was thrown out of court. It was not for the money. It was the principal of the matter and to simply prove to Seeger that his theories were justified. The attitude of the establishment demonstrated to him that he had been correct all along. The result catalyzed his struggle against them, and he threw himself into aligning himself with groups working along the same lines. It brought him into contact with diverse members of the antiestablishment community. Seeger met them, heard their stories and threw himself fully into the struggle. He created the Brethren from a small, struggling militia group, using the not-inconsiderable money that had come to him after the early deaths of his parents. He gained more money when he sold off the family tool-and-die company and plowed it into building his reclusive home in the Colorado mountain country and establishing a permanent base for the Brethren in even more isolated Colorado high country.

As far as Seeger was concerned, the country was becoming a shadow of its former self. Pride in America was receding. So much was happening. America was waging a struggle with itself; the greed for money against the struggling lower classes. Against a powerful and increasingly repressive federal authority that had abandoned the nation to further its own global-militaristic agenda. Instead of looking after Americans the government machine reached out to dominate the world with its military actions and its need for oil. It silenced its critics. Smothered protest and manipulated the media. Liam Seeger, by the time he was in his forties, had become a man the antiestablishment groups listened to. From his residence in Colorado, standing in splendid isolation, Seeger was the head of an amalgamation of groups that now came included beneath the Brethren umbrella. Formed as the Praetorian Guard of militia groups, the Brethren showed the way for other groups to follow. He had recruited well, choosing only people who held not only his beliefs, but with the same passion. Using his natural skills at oratory and organization, Seeger made the Brethren a group to be envied. His persuasive skills kept donations flowing in. The creed of the group was assertive action, not the sterile bleating that came from other militia groups. Seeger had formed the Brethren to actually do something positive to destabilize the government.

In the early days the Brethren carried out low-key operations against federal targets. They were small and more of an irritant at first. But then the Brethren’s strike teams hit out at larger targets. They stole equipment and arms. Seeger sought and recruited men with professional skills that would become vital when his long-term operation became ready to launch. It was big, ambitious enough to create the situation that would lead to a massive rejection of federal authority, and if it went to plan, oust the government by showing it was helpless when it came to protecting the American public.

The deeper he went into his intentions the harder Seeger worked to bring it to fruition. He saw a desperate need to hit out at the establishment, to split it wide open and to make it look ineffective in front of the American public. He was aware that what he was planning would become nonnegotiable. Once the operation actually got under way there would be no turning back. It would be a one-way street. Full commitment would be expected from everyone involved. He received this assurance from his people, and that solid confirmation gave him the confidence to move ahead.

The plan took many months to conceive and move forward. There were people to put in place, covers to establish. He had to recruit specialists who would help to create the tools the Brethren needed to go ahead with the planned strikes.

A bonus came in the form of an anonymous benefactor who gave his support through an intermediary named Harry Brent. From what Brent explained, the benefactor hated the government with a passion. He would do what he could to aid the Brethren. He had contacts that would help bolster the group’s continuing need for finance. This was demonstrated by the first of a number of donations of diamonds from a source in West Africa. Brent explained that the diamonds had been obtained cheaply because the source was dealing illegally. Through Brent’s continuing brokerage the diamonds were sold for a considerably higher sum. The infusion of such a large amount of cash realized Seeger’s dream of his planned attacks to be able to come sooner rather than later.

The attacks, which would result in death and injury on U.S. streets, did nothing to quell Seeger’s intentions. The sacrifice of a few to benefit the many was not a new concept. It had happened before and would again. The dead could rest in the knowledge they had helped to wrench the future of a nation from the hands of a repressive and heartless government.

Through Brent, Seeger’s benefactor had been taken off guard when he first heard of Seeger’s plan. He came around to accepting it very quickly though when Seeger expanded its potential. The benefactor had agreed that he would stay in partnership with Seeger, but remain a sleeping partner until he saw the outcome. He would provide assistance that would help to draw in more financial assistance and personnel through covert organizations and deals. Seeger had no objections. Money was still needed to fund the Brethren and its schemes. On top of the supply of illicit diamonds from a West African, there were weapons. Brent had his own man named Jack Regan, who gave the Brethren a solid source for guns and allied equipment.

The months passed, details were worked out and people put in position. The manufacture and distribution of the bombs took place in secrecy, so that the attacks could be coordinated to the minute.

The day came for the first strikes. The bombs were delivered and did exactly what they had been designed for. Shock and outrage followed. There was panic. Again, as intended. The second and third strikes followed, increasing public unrest as the administration in Washington, fed by its agencies, was in the dark as to who and why. The outcome was a total success as far as Seeger was concerned and in his isolated compound in the Colorado mountains, they celebrated this initial assault of their war against the federal government.

Seeger’s satisfaction, however, was shortly to be interrupted by news of a betrayer in their midst. One of their own had initiated his own campaign. The reason was the most bitter pill to swallow—sheer greed.

Jerome Gantz, the bomb maker. The man who had concocted the compound, manufactured and placed the detonating devices, had turned against them. He had engineered the theft of four million dollars’ worth of the African diamonds, and though his scheme had been uncovered, the diamonds had not been recovered. The money the diamonds would have brought represented a significant contribution to the continuing campaign. Gantz may have been the best at manufacturing the explosive devices Seeger wanted. Unfortunately for him his skills as a thief left a lot to be desired and his complicity in the double-cross was exposed by one of Seeger’s security people. A team had been sent to Gantz’s Tyler Point home to get the information of the diamonds’ whereabouts. The mission had failed due to armed interference and Seeger’s military commander had returned empty-handed. Because of the seriousness of the events Seeger had called a council of war at his Colorado home.

The meeting had been convened hastily, following the Tyler Point incident. By the time the attendees were gathered, it was midday. They waited in the well-appointed lounge of Seeger’s home. From the lounge windows lay a wide panorama of timbered land and distant mountains. It was lush country, quiet and unspoiled.

Food and drink had been prepared and laid out on a large table for everyone to help themselves. With the mood that hung over the gathering more drink than food was taken.

Deacon Ribak, who had been in charge of the aborted mission on Tyler Point, was the least affected. His attitude was considered almost cavalier by some of the gathering, but Ribak himself saw it in a less disastrous light. He was seated in one of the deep leather armchairs, a drink in one hand and a chicken leg in the other, watching the hushed conversation with amusement.

The door finally opened and Zac Lorens came into the room just ahead of Seeger. As always, Lorens was immaculately dressed in a suit and neatly knotted tie, his thick hair neatly brushed back from his high brow. Being second in command, as well as lawyer to Liam Seeger, was a position Lorens prized highly and he was never slow in reminding others of his position. The first thing he did was fix his stony glare on the seated Ribak. It was admonishment for daring to sit in the presence of Seeger. It was lost on Ribak. He sat defiantly, refusing to be intimidated.

Liam Seeger strolled into the room, glancing at the assembly, and his imperial air almost demanded a fanfare. He was dressed in casual clothing. As with everything he wore, his clothes fit his lean frame perfectly. A black patch covered his empty eye socket, and the hand of his crippled arm rested in his jacket pocket. He scanned the room, pausing briefly on Ribak, then sat.

“We all know why we’re here,” Lorens said, taking the lead. His words and his scathing look pinpointed Ribak. “The disastrous screwup at Tyler Bay.”

Ribak placed his chicken leg on the plate beside him on a side table and emptied his glass of wine. He used a paper napkin to wipe his lips and hands before looking in Lorens’s direction and feigning surprise. “You talking to me, Lorens?”

He changed tack instantly. “Nice glass of wine, Mr. Seeger. Just the right temperature.”

Lorens’s face had become flushed with rage. “You know damn well I’m talking to you, Ribak, and you will address me in the correct manner.”

“Lorens, this isn’t the Army and you sure aren’t an officer. Now I came because Mr. Seeger asked me. Any problems I’ll answer to him.”

Lorens took a step forward until Seeger’s outstretched hand halted him. “Zac, go and get yourself a drink. The rest of you, take a seat.”

Seeger allowed the moment to pass before he addressed Ribak. “Actually, Deacon, I do feel an explanation is in order.”

“Yes, sir, I agree. The operation was running smooth. We waited until dark. Shore party went into Gantz’s house and followed procedure. Beringer was in charge. He radioed that they had Gantz and the interrogation was under way. At that point Gantz was holding out. He refused to give Beringer the information, and they couldn’t find what they were looking for in the house. Next thing I heard was automatic fire. Hell of a lot. I got a message from Beringer that they had been hit by unknowns and they’d taken casualties. Whoever it was came storming out the rear of the house and took down the beach team. We opened up with the .50-cal. It didn’t go our way. So I called the assault off and we got the hell out of there. Nothing else we could do, sir.”

“So you ran,” Lorens said, unable to hold back.

“You ever been under fire, Lorens? I doubt it. Little pink-skinned lady-boy like you would dump in your pants if one of Mr. Seeger’s saddle ponies farted behind you. Now my assault backfired on me and I lost half my team, but don’t you ever accuse me of running, or I swear I will rip your fucking throat out here and now.” Ribak had leaned forward in his chair. He caught himself and sat upright again. “I apologize for my outburst, Mr. Seeger. Shouldn’t have let myself get upset.”

“No problem, Deacon,” Seeger said. “What is more important is, do you have any idea who the intruders were? Could they have been a government agency? FBI? Homeland Security? Anything like that?”

Ribak admitted he had no idea. “They came at us out of the fog, weapons up and firing. No warning. No announcement. FBI will normally throw a challenge first. These people just hit us hard and fast. I can’t give you an answer, sir.”

“Perhaps they represented the group Gantz was negotiating with?” Lorens suggested, neatly bringing himself back into the conversation. “We can’t ignore that possibility. Gantz must have known that what he’d done was liable to bring retribution if we found out. We did find out, and maybe Gantz had a team around to offer protection.”

“Could be, Mr. Seeger,” Ribak said. “Could be a coincidence, but they damn well showed up fast when we went to work on Gantz. He was in to us for a lot of money. He’d want backup.”

Seeger appeared amused at Ribak’s comment. “As usual, Deacon, you are a master of understatement. Only you could class four million dollars’ worth of diamonds as a lot of money. But as you say, it is a possibility that both you and Zac have a valid point.”

“You want it checked out, sir?”

“It needs checking out, Deacon. Only this time just send a small force. No more than two or three. Let them do some discreet gathering of information. Find out if Gantz is alive or dead. Where he is. And we had better check out Mr. Petrie in Philadelphia, too. In case he was involved.”

“I’ll get straight on it, sir.”

Ribak took his leave from the meeting. Lorens waited until the door had closed before he turned to Seeger. The Brethren leader lifted a hand briefly.

“Deacon was man enough to accept the failure of his operation, Zac. I cannot, in all truth, censure him for that. And he is our best man when it comes to military know-how. Let’s move on, shall we?”

Lorens understood he was being instructed to back away from the subject. He dismissed what he had been about to say.

Seeger nodded. He turned to the rest of the group. “A failure, gentlemen, but one we can learn from. As Deacon has admitted, he was caught unprepared being confronted by an unknown force. If this force was part of the group aiding Gantz in his theft of our diamonds, then we have the answer. However, the possibility it was some government agency means we should ask ourselves how and why. Had Gantz tipped them off himself in the hope of escaping our wrath? Or was it an unfortunate coming together of opposing sides by a simple twist of fate? We know this government has its insidious tentacles spread far and wide. It intrudes into every aspect of American life. They monitor the communications networks. Bug phones and have spy cameras everywhere. Maybe they had prior knowledge of our intent. We will check every possibility. Foremost we must learn a valuable lesson. Not to take anything for granted. Trust no one we do not know. Consider every stranger a potential enemy. If we allow ourselves to become too confident we invite betrayal, and as we all understand, this administration feeds on betrayal. Turning American against American. They do it with such deceit that the masses have no idea how they are being manipulated.”

Lowell Rogerson, commander of the northeastern Brethren unit said, “The bombings showed how lax the authorities are. It’s thrown them into total confusion. But it will make them more vigilant. They’re going to be watching out for us next time. Perhaps this incident with Gantz proves they are becoming more alert.”

“A good point, Lowell. We do need to be sharper. On your other point, though. You feel they’ll be watching out for us? Their blind spot is the fact that they have no idea where, when or how we strike. If we keep changing our targets, I don’t see how they can anticipate.”

ERIC STAHL GLANCED UP. “Well, is he still a believer?”

General William Carson smiled. It made him look like a hungry wolf ready for the kill. “Eric, that one-eyed idiot is ready to march up Pennsylvania Avenue right this minute. Believe me, son, Seeger is close to pissing his pants with the pure joy he’s experiencing, according to Ribak.”

“He’s saving America. Allow him his moment.”

“He’d be advised to make the most of it.” The general filled his tumbler with more of Stahl’s malt. “Oh, you don’t mind?”

“You can take the whole bottle, Bill. Now let me ask you something. Is this really going to work? Dropping the whole of the blame for the atrocities on the Brethren? You can’t see any backfire coming our way?”

Carson had already taken up his seat again. He swallowed a mouthful of his drink. “Not going queasy on me, Eric?”

“Not at all. Just my cautious side rearing its head.”

“We have that arrogant prick just where we want him. Let him and those weekend soldiers run around making all the noise they want. Come the day, with the whole country up in arms and screaming blue murder because the President is wavering, that’s when we make our move. With the President having lost support, the public demanding his resignation, he’ll be on his own. If he tries to bring in the military, we stall him. Let his own statutes create delays to prevent him getting his assistance. We use your communications setup to blanket the country with the news he’s ready to quit. Force him to resign. Then I get the military to move. We take control. Have the streets full of armed troops. Planes overhead and we also send in cleanup companies to blast hell out of the Brethren’s compounds. Every damned one of them. No quarter. We put them down like the rabid dogs they are. When it’s over we produce the evidence that links them to the bombings. Once they’re dead and gone, who is there to point the finger?”

“I can think of one.”

“Not that one-man band running around poking sticks into wasp nests? Eric, he’s doing us favors. Think about it. Who is he going after? The Brethren. Every strike he makes it’s more likely to draw attention to them. Not us, because we’re not even in the picture at the moment.”

“Assume he makes a connection. Starts to move on us?”

“Then we employ our usual tactics and call in our people. Let them deal with him. Pulls the heat off us so we can move ahead. Trust me, this is what I do for a living. Jesus, Eric, nigh on thirty years. I think I have it worked out by now.”

Stahl didn’t doubt that for a second. The career of General William “Bull” Carson was second to none. The man had joined the Army a year under the enlistment age and had seen combat before a year passed. Even at that young age he had proved his worth. His career went from strength to strength. His reputation for taking orders, coupled with a no-compromise attitude when in combat earned him quick promotion. He rose through the ranks as easily as some men breathed and thrived on challenges. Men under his command would walk through fire and brimstone for their commander. His tough stance in battle earned him the unofficial title Bull Carson. He accepted the name with pride, and it served him well as he pushed and fought his way to the top. Carson treated his men fairly, but expected the best from them, and to see him bawling out an offender for some misdemeanor was never forgotten. Once the reprimand was done with, it was over. Bull Carson never held a grudge. He would hand out his verbal punishment in the morning, and he would be seen sharing a drink with the man the very same night.

Eric Stahl had known Carson for more than ten years. He respected the man’s military judgment, and found that Carson had similar feelings about the state of the nation. Carson was secretly incensed the way America was going. He despised the slide into too many wars. Too many interventions abroad while the U.S.A. was struggling at home. He viewed the current administration as weak, opting for the quick fix instead of tackling problems over the long term and settling them once and for all. He sensed the U.S. Military machine as being betrayed. Given too much to handle with not enough resources. Sending young Americans to die in dusty streets thousands of miles from home, often never quite sure just what they were fighting for. And when the despots of those countries were caught and put on trial he had to watch them playing their sick games in the courtroom. Demanding this and that, refusing to acknowledge the courts and throwing tantrums. Vast sums of money and hours of wasted time were expended on these people. The courts backed down and let the ranting prisoners claim their human rights had been violated. Their human rights. These complaints coming from men who had no problems with human rights when they slaughtered men, women and children of their own countries. There would have been no human rights concerns if Carson had his way. The tyrants would get swift justice if he had his way; a merciful 9 mm bullet in the back of the skull and the matter would be settled.

Carson had not earned his high rank by bucking the system. He knew the right time to stay silent and when to raise his voice. He also knew that his beloved America needed help within its borders. The hell with the rest. Let them squabble and fight, kill each other over some damned religious incident. His concern was the U.S.A. It needed a leader with a hard line, who would not bow to the namby-pamby decrees of the PC brigade, a President who would toughen the line and say enough. Clamp down on excesses and channel money and time into the ills of the nation. The trouble was the mass of Americans only had the two main political parties to choose from and at the end of the day they were interchangeable. Politics had become a brightly colored, yelling, screaming circus at election time. It was big-time entertainment, with millions of dollars cast to the wind. Candidates toed the party line, made promises that were little more than verbal placebos and once the raucous din settled down everything returned to what it had been before.

Carson watched and quietly fumed, and in his own mind understood the way to change things was by direct action. His association with the then Senator Eric Stahl made him aware he wasn’t the only man with a vision for the country. Drastic, yes. Needful, yes. Carson had seen Stahl’s attempt, and failure, over the Zero affair. It had been a wild, and in Carson’s eyes, brave attempt to set things right. Stahl had lost his senatorial status, while Carson had watched from the wings. He knew one thing. Eric Stahl would not let his desires drift away. Carson and Stahl had worked together over the years, the general dealing with many of the weapons contracts that went Stahl’s way. He saw no reason why that should end.

Stahl Industries produced fine ordnance for the military complex. The two men had shared many weekends together at their country retreats and the practice continued. During long evenings, over dinner and drinks later, they had discussed their feelings concerning the fate of America. Piece by piece, like a jigsaw of the mind, the overall picture revealed itself to the pair. With quiet determination they drew their plans, each coming up with a new angle, a different slant, until the battle plan was complete. Complex and requiring deep planning, the scheme was bold, had parts that needed strong nerves and stomachs, but would, if successful, present them with their one and only opportunity to succeed.

Carson sat on his own on a number of occasions, long after Stahl had retired, going over the plan. He asked himself questions that veered toward his personal loyalties to country and President, first accusing himself of a traitorous act, then countering with the justification. The suggestion he might be turning away from America and becoming nothing less than a terrorist himself gave him long, sleepless nights. In the end his conscience cleared itself of that accusation. He was not turning away from America, he was making a sacrifice so that America could be strong again in body and mind. He understood that to achieve that, there would be a need for sacrificial action. Drastic as it was, it had to be seen as a wake-up call, incidents that would make the American public suffer; incidents that would frighten and put them in a panic because the government would not be able to stop them.

The President would be seen in a weak position, the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth having to stand by while the nation cowered beneath the shadow of some unknown threat laying waste to sections of the country. As the incidents increased, the less in control the Washington administration would appear. It would go on until Stahl and Carson decided the right moment had come. Their moment. Then, Stahl would use his substantial radio and television links to put to the people that enough was enough. The President was failing and it was time for a new leader, one who would not flinch from the harsh realities. At the same time military forces acting under orders from General Carson would make their planned strikes at the Brethren. It would be an overwhelming surgical strike against the militia group, destroying their compounds and routing their forces. In the aftermath conclusive evidence that the Brethren had been responsible for the attacks on the nation, painting them as heartless radicals intent on uncalled-for death and destruction, and the current administration had allowed it to happen through ineptitude and a reluctance to make a strong defense.

In his reflective moments Carson had admitted, only to himself, that it was a reckless and dangerous action he and Stahl were contemplating. So much could go wrong. But he reminded himself that through his military career he had witnessed, and had been involved in, similar wild actions. Some thought up by others, many of his own. But war required decisive and off-the-wall decisions. The very nature of war begged for operations that had to come from moments of sheer audacity, simply because the moment required just that. In combat situations, with the tide flowing in opposite directions to what had been planned, instant decisions had to be made. And many of those instant solutions worked, changing the status quo. Veritable losses had been changed to resounding victories by quick thinking.

In the end Carson made his decision. However chancy the moment, it had to be taken. The need of the nation outweighed the fate of those trying to make a difference. It was as simple as that. The facets that went to make up the fabric of the action, unpalatable as they were, had to be faced. General William “Bull” Carson was prepared to shoulder that responsibility. He would live with the burden and face the consequences, and God, in his own way.

“Your man Ribak. He’ll keep us updated on what the Brethren is doing?”

“Don’t you worry about Deacon. He might be a hard-assed, insolent son of a bitch, but he’ll do whatever I want. I recruited him because he’s just the right man for the job. Seeger believes Ribak’s one of God’s chosen soldiers, come down off the fuckin’ mountain to train his rednecks how to fight. They’re just a bunch of loonies. Give me a single squad of my trained boys and we’d wipe that sorry-assed bunch of yokels off the face of the earth without raising a sweat.”

“I’m confident you could,” Stahl said. “My real concern is this man taking on the Brethren. I’m sorry to bring the matter up again, Bill. I’m starting to have a familiar feel about him.”

“No need for apologies. Better to be concerned than to just ignore any kind of threat. From what you’re saying, is there a chance you might know who he is?”

“I may be wrong. If I am, I’ll apologize in advance, but if I’m right we could have more on our hands than we thought a few minutes ago.”

STAHL HAD ALWAYS been known as a hard-liner. The epithet neither embarrassed or fazed him. His views on the way America was going were well-known and had been printed in newspapers and magazines for years. Stahl, the industrialist, commanded his massive armament industry with unlimited zeal. He was a powerful man, still so even after he had been forced to step down from his senatorial position following the Zero fiasco. Because the administration was required to keep Zero out of the public and global eye as much as was humanly possible, Stahl’s involvement in the failed attempt to gain control had been kept under wraps. Eric Stahl, always one to grasp any opportunity, plea bargained and promised to remain silent if he was freed from any kind of prosecution. The concession was that he stood down from public office. Stahl was disappointed. He had enjoyed the privileges the position granted him, but he reasoned that at least he was maintaining control of his vast business empire, and that would still give him the opportunity to carry on with his personal agenda—that being the toppling of the U.S. government. He reasoned that he could still do that without the need to be in office during its inception. When the time came Eric Stahl would assume the mantle of commander in chief and take charge of the country.

There was no doubt in Stahl’s mind he was the man for the job. His vision of a superior America, powerful and able to quell any threat, was no mad scheme. He understood the discontent that ran throughout the nation. Past administrations, through weak leaders and feeble policies, had plunged the country into a state of malaise. No one dared stand up and point the finger. Even after the terrible events of 9/11 America was still in the grip of terrorism. Attempts to crush the opposition had resulted in the disastrous war against Iraq. That still lumbered on, with more U.S. troops, equipment and money being poured into the country. Stahl had watched and listened, and to his dismay he saw very little that promised it would be over soon. More American lives would be wasted under the guise of cleansing Iraq and establishing democracy. Afghanistan was still very much in the headlines, with the supposedly defeated Taliban once more raising its brutal head, while at home bad government policy was doing nothing to ease the condition of the country.

Staying below the radar had been Stahl’s wisest move. Walking away from a prison sentence had allowed him time to regroup his thoughts, step away from direct involvement with the Third Party, despite it having been more his creation than any of the other members. He made it clear he was doing it so there would be no slur on the party, and they could maintain their campaigns in good conscience. Once he had severed his links he was able to let the dust settle and concentrate on his business empire. Washington had much on its mind, and an ex-senator soon lost out to other more pressing matters at home and abroad. Stahl still had powerful friends, mainly in the military-industrial complex, and a number of those still favored his vision of a harder-edged, defiant America. Stahl decided that taking his time and rethinking strategy was an advisable concept.

The emergence of the Brethren had been a gift for Eric Stahl. He had heard about the isolationist, antigovernment group. He dug into the history of the organization, learned everything he could about the people and their policies, and after assimilating the facts, realized that here was a group he could assist in their aims and at the same time strengthen his own position.

The first and most important thing to establish was his need to remain anonymous. Stahl had reasoned from his investigation into the Brethren that its manifesto encouraged the use of extreme violence as a means of exposing Washington’s weakness when it came to protecting its citizens and its organizations. Stahl had no problem with that kind of methodology. Shock tactics were needed to make the American public aware. If a few civilians had to be injured or die, to hammer home the need for a stronger administration, so be it. But it also called for a careful orchestration of the program. So until the country was backed against the wall Stahl decided he would remain in the shadows, ready to step in at the critical moment.

He recruited a go-between, Harry Brent, someone who could bridge the gap between benefactor and recipient. His in-depth investigation of the Brethren showed that their main obstacle was obtaining enough funding so they could run their program of violence. As with any complex plan, money was a deciding factor. The Brethren needed money. Stahl would help them get it. From the start he realized he could not do this openly. He would have to organize a means by which the organization could receive its much-needed funding without his name being known.

His scheme involved using illicit diamonds purchased directly from a source in West Africa. A subsidiary of Stahl Industries had been approached in the past by agents of rogue African groups looking for hard cash. The concept was simple: illicitly mined diamonds of both industrial and high quality were offered at a low cash price. These could be resold on the European and American markets for a much higher yield. The African sellers had no way of getting to these markets because of their status, so they were happy enough to take a percentage of what the diamonds were worth. Through his contacts Stahl’s intermediary was able to set up meetings with a chosen seller and arrange for regular purchases. As an added incentive, Stahl brought in an arms dealer, Jack Regan, who would offer to supply ordnance to the rogue groups for their internecine struggles over tribal territories at subsidized prices. Stahl’s involvement was as a benefactor who wanted to help the Brethren, providing he remained anonymous.

It worked. For a few months. The Brethren benefited from the large cash amounts the illicit diamonds brought in. It enabled them to bring forward their planned demonstrations of the government’s inability to protect the nation and its people. Through his go-between, Stahl learned about the Brethren’s command structure, the people within the group and how it worked. Stahl read about and watched on television the results of the group’s indiscriminate strikes. He was also able to witness the dismay, the anger and the frustration of America’s people. Faced with these savage acts they turned to local and national representatives, demanding something be done. Which only encouraged the Brethren to commit more destructive acts, emphasizing how ineffectual the administration had become. America was under siege within its own borders, and no one seemed to be able to even point their finger at who was behind the strikes, let alone stop them.

Police units were deployed as show of force. There were localized riots against these units, purely from frustration by members of the public who had no other way of showing their emotions. Racial attacks increased as rumors spread that the strikes were the responsibility of extremist terrorist groups within the U.S. These attacks were repelled by the police, and it soon developed into American against American. The Brethren found its membership increasing as individuals responded to the call, as did many other militia groups.

Much of the rumormongering was initiated by the Brethren itself, though the group was careful to only issue statements espousing its shock at the cruel strikes. There was never any suggestion the Brethren was involved, only that its members were repulsed by such attacks against America. But its spokesperson reminded the public it had been warning of such violence. The propaganda was cleverly worded, designed to discredit the government and to raise the Brethren’s credibility as a group to be listened to.

Eric Stahl devoured the reports with relish. He was finding his shadowy participation with the Brethren to be paying off handsomely. His covert activity was bringing his day closer. That time was not due yet. Not until the voice of America demanded a change. When the great mass of the people became overwhelming, then he would put into motion the second strategy.

CHAPTER SIX

Clear of Tyler Bay, Bolan headed for the interstate and picked up speed once he was on the highway. He estimated a four-to five-hour drive, depending on conditions.

“Apart from the disturbance last night, that was a nice town,” Lyons observed.

“You’ll tell me next you could live in a place like that.”

“Why not?”

“Too cozy for you, Carl. You need noise and color. A place where the action buzzes.”

“Whoa, whoa, where do you come up with that profile?”

“Carl, I know you too well.”

“Yeah? Well there’s no need to spoil my illusions so early in the damn day.”

“Okay.”

“By the way, are we being politically correct today? Or are we going in hard?” Lyons asked.

“The Brethren has already shown its disregard for law and order,” Bolan said. “How high does the body count need to go before we get the message?”

“I’m getting the feeling it’s leveling out already, Mack.”

“Carl, no illusions on this. We’re in a war situation here. Plain and simple. The Brethren has declared that, so we respond in kind. Search and destroy. Go for everything that has the Brethren written on it.”

Bolan glanced at his partner. His expression told Lyons all he needed to know. The Able Team commander settled back and checked the Philadelphia city map he’d taken from the rack back at the hotel.

“Pedal to the metal, Chief. Let’s go see a man about a boat rental.”

Bolan handed Lyons the plastic bag holding the cell phone. “See if you can get anything from that. It’ll give you something to do and stop you from making funny remarks about my driving.”

Lyons switched on the phone and began to go through the various functions. In the phone number list there were no more than half a dozen saved contacts. The recent call list only had three registered. Lyons used his own phone and contacted Stony Man. He spoke to Price and quoted the information from Gantz’s cell.

“Have Aaron check these numbers. See if he comes up with any names for us.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Let you know. We’re on our way to Philly. Update when we make contact.”

IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON. The sky over Philadelphia had a sullen, cloudy aspect. It didn’t promise a great deal, but then Bolan and Lyons weren’t in vacation mode. Both were aware that the Brethren could launch another attack anytime, anywhere within the United States. That very thought motivated them as Bolan drove into and through the city, Lyons guiding him from the Philadelphia map he had open.

South Star Investments was painted on the door, directly above the name Arnold Petrie, CEO. The office suite was on the fourth floor of a building that housed a collection of business enterprises with less than exciting prospects in their immediate futures.

“This place makes tacky look good,” Lyons muttered as he and Bolan emerged on the landing from their walk up the stairs.

“You never learned that appearances don’t always tell the full story?”

Bolan leaned on the handle and pushed the door open. There was an outer and an inner office. The outer office held a desk, chair and a row of filing cabinets that looked straight out of the showroom. On the desk a computer showed a dead screen. Papers were strewed across the desk, a pen dropped in a hurry lay on top of them. A nameplate sat at the front edge of the desk: Val Paxton, Assistant. The door to the inner office was ajar and hurried movements could be heard coming from the room beyond.

Lyons closed the main door behind him and locked it. He took out his Colt Python and held it down by his side. Ahead of him Bolan, Beretta 93-R in hand, stood at the door to the inner office. He extended his right foot and nudged the door wide open.

Arnold Petrie’s office was well furnished. Everything looked new: thick carpet on the floor, pale wood desk large enough to act as a dining table. The executive chair behind it was the best money could buy. A large-screen laptop sat on the desk beside two telephones.

The lone man in the office was throwing files into a box. A wood filing cabinet against the wall had all its drawers pulled open.

“We seem to have chosen the wrong day to make our investments, Mr. Petrie,” Bolan said conversationally.

“Sorry, we’re closed for business,” the man said over his shoulder.

“You are Arnold Petrie?”

“No, I’m Homer fuckin’ Sim—”

Lyons heeled the office door shut with a bang.

Petrie spun, saw his visitors and the weapons they were carrying, and froze. The man was haggard, pale and unshaved, heavy dark rings beneath his eyes. His striped shirt was half unbuttoned, and the tie he wore hung askew. Arnold Petrie was displaying the symptoms of a man haunted by events and scared the aftermath was about to catch up with him.

“Sleepless night, Petrie?” Bolan asked.

“Must have something on his mind,” Lyons said.

“Who the hell are you two? And what’s with the guns?”

“We have business with you,” Bolan said.

“And the guns,” Lyons continued, “are there because we might want to shoot you.”

“Shoot me? You can’t just walk in and threaten…”

“It might be a good idea if you sat down, Petrie. We could be here for a while.”

“Is this a holdup? You guys after money? Hell, you’ll be disappointed if you are. This office is for investments. All done over the phone or Internet. No cash involved.”

“I understand your kinds of investments, Petrie. Tell me, how are share prices in agricultural fertilizers doing at the moment? And nitromethane? Should be rising, the amount your people have been buying.”

Petrie’s expression gave him away. He backed toward the desk, suddenly leaning across it to snatch up a handgun resting in an open drawer. As fast as he was, he looked slow when Lyons moved, crossing the space between himself and the desk in two long strides. His left hand swept around and slapped the pistol out of Petrie’s hand.

“Miserable son of a bitch,” Lyons growled.

He caught hold of Petrie’s shirt, hauling the man away from the desk and across the office. Unable to control himself Petrie slammed into the filing cabinet. The unit toppled under his weight and the man rode it to the floor where his head snapped forward and impacted against the side, breaking his nose. Petrie rolled off the cabinet, blood streaming from his nose.

“Easy,” Bolan cautioned. “Right now we need him conscious.”

Lyons backed off, expending his energy by going through the box Petrie had been packing.

“Broke my fuckin’ nose,” Petrie mumbled.

Bolan rounded on the man. “You want him to break something else?” Petrie’s wide-eyed stare was answer enough. “Talk to me, Petrie, I’m all that’s between you and my partner.”

“Tell you what?”

“You hired the boat that delivered the thugs who attacked Gantz. Why was the Brethren angry with him? He can’t tell me because he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“See how it’s getting bigger? Now you’re an accessory to one more murder.”

“Look, all I did was arrange the boat rental.”

“Copping a plea already,” Lyons said. “Same song you dirtbags sing when you get caught. It isn’t going to wash this time, Petrie.”

“Gantz is dead because the Brethren sent a bunch of hard-asses after him,” Bolan said. “You’re included in anything they did. Just the same as being involved with the bombings. It puts you right in the frame, Petrie. Multiple deaths. Attacks on federal property. That means a long, long stretch. Even if they could keep you alive permanently, you’d never be let out of prison. No parole. Just a single cell where you’d be lucky to even see daylight.” Lyons turned from the box and showed Bolan a leather-bound personal organizer he’d located. “If it was left to me I’d make it quick for you and do everyone a favor.”

“You can’t pin this one on me. All I did was act as middleman. Gantz sent me a list of what he wanted and I filled it. Arranged delivery. That’s all. I didn’t know what he was going to do with that stuff…”

“The hell you didn’t,” Bolan said. “Petrie, you knew about Gantz. What he did. You’re in up to your neck.”

Petrie wiped blood from his face, glanced from Bolan to Lyons and back. “I want my lawyer. I have my rights. This is harassment.”

Lyons smiled. “Dirtbag, you have got this so wrong. We’re not even cops. Don’t play by their rules. With us you get no favors.”

“So why should I cooperate?”

“Because right now you are on panic street,” Bolan said. “Ready to skip town and hide. Tell me I’m wrong, Petrie. Tell me your business partners have decided to move on and they don’t want to leave any loose ends around.”

“Jesus, you don’t know. One prick upsets their arrangements, and they figure the best thing is to close down here and move somewhere else. You don’t know what these people are like.”

“Bombings, indiscriminate slaughter. I think I know exactly what they’re like. Killing you isn’t about to make them lose any sleep.”

“Look, all I understood was that Gantz had stolen something from the Brethren. Something they wanted back. Whatever it was had pissed them off. That’s why they went after Gantz. But things didn’t work out the way they wanted. They got hit, and Gantz was taken out of their hands. Why am I telling you when you already know?”

Petrie slumped against the wall, silent, not even making any more attempts at stemming the flow of blood from his nose.

Lyons wandered into the outer office. When he returned he asked, “Where’s your assistant? Val Paxton. I get the feeling she left in a hurry.”

“Val? What about her?” Petrie refused to meet Lyons’s eyes.

Bolan leaned in close, his voice hard. “Where is she, Petrie. Quit stalling.”

“I told her to get out. Go home and stay clear until she hears from me.”

“Son of a bitch,” Lyons said. “You knew the Brethren might come calling so you threw her out on the street to look after herself? Nice move, Petrie. This isn’t going away and you damn well know it,” Lyons snapped.

Bolan had a bad feeling about the woman. “You called them. The Brethren. Laid it on them that Val knew about Gantz’s double cross. You gave them some story that would put them on her trail and leave you with enough time to skip town.”

Whatever else he was, Petrie had no chance as an actor. He tried and failed to conceal his guilt. “It was her or me,” he said.

“I’d say you just bombed out of Philadelphia’s Employer of the Year award,” Bolan said.

Lyons began to thumb through the personal organizer until he located the page with Val Paxton’s employment information. “This is where she lives? And her phone number?”

“Yeah. She won’t answer. I told her whatever she does, not to answer the phone. She trusts me. She’ll do what I told her.”

“Going to be one hell of a shock when she finds out what you’ve been up to here. Or does she already know?”

“She has no idea. I hired her because she has experience in the investment business. I worked this office as a genuine agency and that’s all Val knew it as.”

“Your Brethren associates won’t be taking any chances,” Bolan said. “If they’re putting a hold on their dealings in this town, they’ll make a clean sweep. And that will include you. Once they deal with Val, you’ll be next. I guess you already figured that by the packing you’re doing.”

“You handle things here,” Lyons said. “I’ll grab a cab and get across to Val’s address. I spotted a cab rank just around the block when we drove in.”

Bolan nodded. “Stay in touch.”

Lyons holstered his revolver and left the office without another word, leaving Arnold Petrie alone with Bolan.

THE APARTMENT BUILDING where Val Paxton lived was thirty years old, well maintained and five stories high. The cars parked at the curb fitted the area—except for the large, dark blue SUV wedged in between a Honda and a three-year-old Buick. Lyons’s cabdriver established that when they drove by and he spotted the Suburban.

“That’s something you don’t see around this neighborhood every day. Somebody won the lottery, or else the pushers are marking new territory.”

Lyons asked to be dropped at the far corner of the block, paid the cabbie and started walking back to Val Paxton’s building. He went up the steps, then took the stairs to the second floor and checked out numbers on doors. When he came to Paxton’s door, he reached inside his jacket and loosened the Colt Python.

That was when he picked up a scuffle of sound from inside the apartment—a man’s demanding voice, followed by the unmistakable protest from a female seconds before the sound of a slap.

Lyons hit the door with his foot, just below the lock, and it flew open and banged against the wall. The Python was in Lyons’s hand as he dived into the apartment, landing on one shoulder and rolling, coming up on one knee. The .357’s muzzle tracked across the room, Lyons making his scan of who was there: three men, one young woman on her hands and knees, long ash-blond hair hanging over her face, her clothing disheveled and torn.

The Able Team leader leveled his revolver, swinging around to cover the trio of men. One guy had an autopistol in his left hand and he aimed it toward Lyons.

The room echoed to the heavy thunder of the Python as Lyons triggered a 180-grain slug. It hit the pistol man in the chest, coring through to puncture his heart before exiting through his back. The brute force of the shot kicked the guy backward. He struck the edge of a chair and went down hard.

The man’s partners went for their own handguns in the space of a couple of seconds, but their actions did nothing to save them from Lyons’s second and third shots. He took one guy in the left shoulder and the third in the throat. He went down instantly, making a bloody mess on the carpet.

The guy with the shoulder wound started to yell. Lyons, his mood ugly, pushed to his feet and slammed the Python’s steel barrel across the guy’s skull, dropping him to his knees where he collapsed facedown on the floor. If he had been conscious he would have seen Lyons standing over him, the Python aimed at the back of his skull, a wildness in his eyes that only faded when his finger eased off the trigger. The rage inside had almost made him pull that trigger. Lyons knew his limitations. One of them was his short fuse. It was liable to land him in trouble unless he managed to control it. Most times he did, but the temptation was always there, lurking, waiting to push him into the abyss.

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