Patriot Play

“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.