Patriot Play

“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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