Patriot Acts

“It’ll be a dead end,” Bolan replied. “Now go.”

Blood dripped from Dozier’s mouth. “We’re government. Not Treasury. We’re called the Rose Initiative,” he said.

“Never heard of it,” Bolan said.

“Rose Initiative,” Dozier repeated.

He regarded the Executioner. This was a man used to violence. He could see the hardness in his expression, the streaks of scar tissue on his skin. His very stance was one of restrained, explosive violence. But except for a few love taps, Dozier was unharmed.

“I told you, that name means nothing to me,” Bolan replied. “Maybe if you make it mean something, I won’t hang you out on the street as bait.”

“The Rose Initiative is a semiofficial entity. We’ve had the blessing of various administrations since the fifties,” Dozier said. “But we don’t officially exist. Not on paper. Any sanction we get is merely implied.”

“This way if you get caught, you can be denied—operating outside of government policy,” Bolan surmised.

Dozier nodded.

“Who do you report to?” Bolan asked.

“Nobody official,” Dozier said. “We’re in the cold.”

Bolan frowned. “But still close enough to the warmth to get legitimate T-man badges.”

Dozier shrugged. He winced at the simple motion, remembering how the big man had used enough leverage to almost pop his shoulder out of shape.

“Who told you about the money at the crime lab?” Bolan asked.

“It came up on a computer watch,” Dozier answered.

Bolan nodded.

Dozier wiped blood from his mouth. “I don’t have anything on the upper levels of management. I’m just a grunt.”

“Who’s your immediate superior?”

“Winslow Spelling’s about the only one I can assume is still out and around. He came with us as our driver, and the man’s a snake,” Dozier said.

“Where does this snake have his nest?” Bolan asked.

Dozier rattled off the name of a hotel and room number. “If he’s still there.”

“So why did you come after the money?” Bolan pressed.

“To cover up our involvement with the renegade,” Dozier admitted.

“The assassin went rogue?” Bolan asked.

“Killed his handler at LAX. He’s officially off the reservation,” Dozier said. “We’re trying to burn any leads back to us.”

“So who’s your rogue?” Bolan asked.

Dozier winced. “Cameron Richards.”

“Identifying features?”

Dozier shook his head. “The man’s a complete chameleon. It’s why we picked him, because he can disappear in a crowd.”

“He didn’t disappear yesterday. He went through the crowd like a chain saw,” Bolan growled.

“He might be off his medication,” Dozier mused.

Bolan tilted his head.

“Mood suppressants keep him malleable enough for our purposes, yet leave him lucid enough to be a top line operative,” Dozier explained. “Richards was a washout from special operations. His whole team is. Too violent, too ready to buy into whatever holy crusade. Richards was a true believer, and we milked his psyche to take advantage of that.”

“So why Amanijad?” Bolan asked.

“Discrediting the hard-core factions. We wanted it to look like one of the radical right decided to begin the second Civil War early,” Dozier said.

“Second Civil War?” Bolan asked.

Dozier nodded. “From the ashes of modern corrupt society, a new phoenix will rise. That’s the joke of the Initiative’s name. We’ve already risen.”

Bolan’s eyes narrowed.

“Richards has taken on real threats as well. But he’s still convinced that the union will shatter again. And this time, the rift won’t be healed,” Dozier said.

“You’re cultivating this?” Bolan asked.

“No. A little tension is good. It keeps the attention off us while we do what we have to,” Dozier explained. “The problem is that some of the hard right have been…examining some of our roots. Conspiracy theorists who in their quest to find the New World Order were sniffing too close to our home.”

“And for that, dozens of innocent people had to be killed and wounded?” Bolan asked.

Dozier nodded. “Corpses made by our enemies create excellent distractions.”

“Then you’re going to love this, Dozier,” Bolan said. He turned toward the open the door.

“What are you doing?” Dozier asked.

“Walking out. You can go run to the Rose Initiative, and you can tell them I’m on their trail,” Bolan explained.

“What?”

“You think I’m going to give my word of honor to a liar and a murderer? Get real. I’ve got what I wanted,” Bolan told him. “You are the purest form of scum I’ve dedicated my life to destroying.”

“The Rose Initiative will kill me!” Dozier cried.

“Someone should,” Bolan said. He closed and locked the door behind him.

Brognola would have someone take care of the venomous thug.

ALLISON CALLAHAN WAS a classically beautiful woman. She had thick, lustrous strawberry-blond hair and a curvaceous figure, and Bolan could see a keen, calculating intellect behind her sparkling hazel eyes. She examined Bolan as if he were a slide subject under a microscope. She held out her hand and he took it. Her grip was firm.

It made sense. As a forensic scientist, Callahan had developed a handshake that was cop-proof. She had to have expected Bolan to come forward with a knuckle-grinding grasp. Her smile was all the evidence the Executioner needed to ascertain the truth of his suspicion.

“You must be Agent Matt Cooper,” Callahan said. She eyed his knuckles. “Been having a rough day.”

“Chasing down the thugs who attacked the crime lab,” Bolan said.

Callahan looked him in the eyes. She wasn’t convinced by Bolan’s explanation. The bruises on his strong, callused hands were too livid to be anything other than fresh.

“Having a talk with one of them,” Bolan added.

Callahan nodded. “He most likely deserved everything you gave him.”

“He’ll be regretting his decision for a while,” Bolan said.

She looked questioningly at him, but the Executioner’s cold gaze informed her that the subject was closed.

“What have you got for me on the three you got to see?” Bolan asked.

“We’re running checks on them now,” Callahan stated. “The coroner examined their stomach contents, thinking we could narrow down where they were before they launched the raid.”

“Any luck with that?” Bolan asked.

“I was going down to trace to check it out. Feel up to looking through vomit?” Callahan asked.

Bolan shrugged. “I’ve done worse.”

The corner of Callahan’s mouth rose slightly. Bolan could tell she was feeling him out, to see if he was worth working with. He knew that too often, when a cop was hooked up with a federal agent, there was a quick contest of wills.

Sifting through the partially digested last meals of three men he’d killed was undoubtedly a test of Bolan’s mettle.

As they entered the trace lab, Bolan looked at the three pans filled with bile and chunks of food. Callahan handed Bolan a box of latex gloves, and he donned a pair.

“Looks like Mexican food at first blush,” Bolan said. He leaned forward and took a whiff of the contents of one tray. “Hard to pin down the exact kind, though. The stomach acid’s altered the smell. Might be El Salvadoran or even something farther south.”

Callahan nodded in approval. “Some of the spices we’ve found are indicative of Honduran cuisine. It narrows things down significantly, as the Honduran community is fairly compact.”

Bolan took his note with the hotel listing given to him by Dozier and compared it with a map that Callahan had placed on the light table. “This last known address also fits with the area. We might not have an exact restaurant, but we do have someplace to look.”

“I’ve also had some of the other crime-lab staff go over the tires of the vehicle left in the alley. We’ve got soil samples, and signs of fresh tar in some of the treads,” Callahan added.

“Repaving? Or was it just loose pellets dropped in a pothole that didn’t melt together?” Bolan inquired.

Callahan’s smile widened. “So the super Fed knows his way around an investigation.”

“Not my specialty, but observation has always been a skill of mine,” Bolan answered. “I pass your test?”

Callahan nodded. “Yeah. You’re in my cool book. And yes, unlike most people, I really do have a book of cool people.”

Bolan nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll take a trip over to the neighborhood and see if anything’s popped up.”

“By yourself?” Callahan asked.

Bolan nodded.

“You’ll at least need backup,” Callahan offered.

“Jo Wolfe got shot today hanging out too close to me,” Bolan countered. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back. I want to see if you manage to pick up anything else about these men.”

Callahan looked skeptical.

“These men were part of a supposedly top-secret project. Look close to see if they have any special immunizations or radioactive trace elements in their bloodstream,” Bolan said. “The sooner I spread this investigation out of the Los Angeles area, the better chance I have of finding out where my quarry’s off to.”

“The Hondurans aren’t going to just roll over for you,” Callahan warned.

Bolan wasn’t fazed. “By the time I’m finished with them, they’ll come to heel.”

COLONEL JACOB WEIST LOWERED his binoculars, then glanced over to Richards and Costell.

“You mean to tell me that we’re going to break into one of the most highly defended installations in this country and fly out with advanced, high-tech helicopters?” Weist asked.

Richards nodded. “Pretty much.”

Weist grinned and scanned the horizon. “The base layout is fairly generic. We could make the most effective equipment retrieval with a Delta Seven assault pattern, given the troops I have with me.”

Richards agreed with a slight grunt. “That’s what I was figuring too.”

Weist let the binoculars hang on their strap. “I can’t believe the Initiative tried to make you into a scapegoat.”

“It’s not so much that,” Richards replied. “I’ve been looking online, and the blame seems to be resting on our fellow true believers. The cover story for my op was changed, and now the last people in America who actually remember her purity and ideals are coming under blame for my so-called terrorist attack on Los Angeles.”

“They tried to kill you, though,” Weist said.

“No, they noticed that Cam was no longer under their chemical leash when he reported to his liaison,” Costell said. “With those drugs still running in our system, we wouldn’t think to look if the right people were taking the blame for the death of that anti-American Arab.”

Weist shook his head. “I knew it was too much of a good thing to be paid by the government to fight the important battles.”

“I’m just glad we pulled you off of your coyote patrol,” Richards noted. “We need good men. All the good we can find.”

“You have us,” Weist responded. “We can stem the tide of illegals across our border anytime. But when our own leadership betrays us…”

Weist grimaced. “I can barely believe it. But ever since we stopped taking our vitamins, you’re right. Everything is clearer. I’m no longer in the same haze I used to be.”

“You’re asking questions,” Richards explained. “The pills, they nullified our ability to reason, without hindering our tactical abilities.”

Weist’s eyes narrowed. “We can use the advanced X-birds in that facility to give us all the advantage we need against our enemies.”

“We’re not going to run,” Richards said. “We’re going to take the fight to them. But if we take down the Rose Initiative and the traitors they prop up, then we’re leaving our nation open to our enemies.”

Weist looked askance. “Not only that, but if we take down the puppeteers, the country will turn against itself. It’ll be a civil war again.”

“A civil war, war with China, the mullahs and the Mexicans hitting the disparate parties,” Richards said. “Apocalypse in a bag.”

“So what do we do?” Weist asked.

“We get those choppers, and we get to some truly nasty weaponry,” Richards said.

“The Extinction Archive!” Weist exclaimed.

“None other,” Richards confirmed. “From there, we can easily take out any opposition, including China.”

Weist rolled it over in his mind, and he nodded. “Fuck all of them before they fuck us again.”

Richards smiled, looking at the base. “How long before we make our move?”

“Give me two hours,” Weist said.

“Two hours,” Richards repeated. “Two hours, and the first step in freeing this country will be taken.”

5

The Executioner moved easily, slipping into the shadows of the alley. He grimaced as he mentally reviewed his war load, concerned about the implications of using too much firepower in the middle of Los Angeles. With his signature pistols riding under one arm and on his right hip and a sound-suppressed assault carbine in a gym bag, he had enough firepower to take on a company of enemy soldiers, and yet, only a few blocks back, children sat on a curb, fiddling with tiny electronic toys in their chubby little palms.

The building he was closing in on used to be an old machine shop, but an arm twisted here, and a leg broken there, informed him that it was a refuge for members of the Honduran immigrant community who could find easy profit in black market weapons and illicit narcotics. Bolan knew if something went wrong, he would drop a war in the middle of a civilian population. Unlike Richards, the rogue government assassin he sought, there was nothing in the Executioner’s heart of hearts that could allow a battle plan that turned unarmed bystanders into targets. And yet, except for targeting those who weren’t part of the battle, Richards’s extraction plan resembled the kind of hit and run blows against enemy governments that the Executioner specialized in.

Though he and Richards paralleled each other tactically, ethically they were polar opposites. Richards saw his duty to his government as a license to kill without restraint. Bolan was obligated to his duty to justice, which meant that the only ones who should suffer directly by his hand were the predators who inflicted their own suffering.

The smell of gunpowder was strong as Bolan closed in on the machine shop. A burly, bullet-headed man stood guard, the ugly outline of a heavy handgun bulging against his washboard stomach as he leaned against the back door. Cruel, dark eyes scanned the alley as Bolan nestled in the doorway, observing him.

The door guard was a hardened professional thug, observant and obviously quick. Only Bolan’s stealth and the lowering of the sun in the sky, extending shadows, gave him an element of surprise. Bolan set down his war bag containing his collapsed assault carbine and stepped out of the shadows. He had his Beretta shielded from view behind his leg, and the alley was empty enough that a stray shot wouldn’t end up in a noncombatant.

The tough guy saw Bolan and didn’t even offer a vocal challenge. His instincts were good, and his hand dived to the pistol-butt poking out of his waistband. With the Beretta already in hand, the Executioner had the advantage, snapping it up and punching a sound-suppressed bullet through the bridge of the gang member’s nose. The 9 mm slug drilled through bone and brain, and lifeless fingers dropped the thick, ugly pistol in his hand.

Bolan turned back and scooped up his rifle, pulling it from its concealing case. This wasn’t going to be a soft probe, but the quiet approach had already been risked. The moments before the contraband runners discovered that they were under attack were falling away quickly, the countdown to a full-fledged conflict was evaporating like alcohol under a blow torch. He strode swiftly up to the door the thug had been guarding, and pulled the trigger on the Masterkey shotgun under the barrel of his carbine. The “key to any door” was a 12-gauge chunk of enamel-fused lead filings weighing an ounce, a hybrid slug of metal and polymer that disintegrated on contact with a lock, but in the process rendered the lock useless. A blunt gas collecting canister on the nose of the Masterkey muffled the thunder of the shotgun’s bellowing report, but the door still slammed open violently, its clatter alerting a pair of men looking over an open crate of hand grenades.

The handguns jammed into their belts informed Bolan that they weren’t choir boys, and the Executioner milked the trigger on his folding stock VEPR, the stubby suppressor swallowing most of the chatter of the American-made AK-47 as its 7.62 mm COMBLOC rounds ripped into one heavily tattooed gang member as his hand dropped to the pistol at his side. The other one gawped at the Executioner in stunned shock, so Bolan reversed the VEPR and smashed its tube-steel buttstock hard into the man’s chin, knocking him senseless. He relieved the prisoner of his handgun.

Bolan rested his foot on the stunned man’s thigh and replaced the VEPR with the huge, gleaming Desert Eagle. The big .44 Magnum pistol was pure intimidation. The big American addressed the dazed arms inspector in Spanish.

“You sold some Uzis to a group of white men,” Bolan said. “Where are they now?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the gang member answered.

The blocky muzzle of the Desert Eagle crashed across the man’s cheek, splitting skin and laying bone bare. “Who would?”

“Armageddo,” the wounded man grunted.

“He in the building?” Bolan asked.

“Next room,” the Hispanic answered.

“What does he look like?”

“He has devil horns tattooed on his forehead. Bright red, amid the crown of thorns,” the gang member stated.

A second swipe of the big Magnum’s barrel to the temple left Bolan’s captive unconscious on the floor.

“What the fuck is the noise in here?” someone cursed, opening the door, gun leading.

Bolan checked for the devil horns, then pulled the trigger on the Desert Eagle, spearing the hapless man back through the doorway, a gaping hole in the center of his face.

The Executioner burst into Armageddo’s workplace as the arms dealers were still gawking in shock at their dead partner thrown to the floor. Bolan was in the room among them, even as the corpse flopped on the floor tiles, transitioning from the Desert Eagle to the folding-stock rifle. The gang members scrambled in wild panic as the heavily armed Executioner exploded into action.

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