Force Lines

So far, the EM scanner hadn’t turned up any sensors and cameras. In truth, Bolan knew a den of Goliaths may be on hand, waiting for his special brand of scorched earth, but the Executioner wasn’t about to take any man for granted.

The living ghost in black spied a narrow trail that snaked northward, marked it on the personal digital assistant, and set out to ring in the new day for the Sons of Revelation.

CHAPTER THREE

It was beyond insanity. And, he decided, when he weighed the truth and the rediscovered precepts of his own faith against the present, he now knew, beyond a morsel of doubt, that he no longer belonged, no longer fit.

That he was living a lie.

Or was he now simply donning the disguise of wolf in sheep’s clothing?

Whatever the case, the strange state of utter and miserable aloneness he now found himself submerged, Mitch Kramer braced for the coming events. If the past proved true to form—and he had little doubt it would—the floorshow would be one part briefing, laced with the usual fire and brimstone about the ills of America and the coming Apocalypse, one part initiation. The latter already had him squirming in his seat, even as he tried to will away the first onslaught of revulsion.

They were gathered in what was called the Council of the Living Creatures. He was seated at the knight’s table with the other so-called High Sons, while the regular army—just over thirty strong—was forced to take its place in the rows of metal chairs at the back of the hall, reserved for the grunts. Two of the big chairs were empty, and about twelve seats from the grunt gallery were vacant, but he had his suspicions, based on what little he knew about the Day of Judgment. Dear God, he heard his mind groan, what had he done? What had he involved himself in?

As he felt the anticipation build from without and the blazing furnace of disturbance heat up from within, he felt himself on the verge of a sudden and frightening revelation. For the first time since day one—when he’d allowed himself to become entangled through what he reasoned was the sheer loneliness and maddening isolation that was alcoholism and the final dirty vestiges of every vice attached to his old ways he had sought so desperately to shed—Mitch Kramer saw it all in a new and blinding light.

He had begun to pull himself together a few short hours ago and then the call had come from the First High Son, demanding his immediate presence. Reporting, then, to the SOR compound, he felt trapped, surrounded by living evil. In truth, his very participation in the events about to unfold would find him condemned by his faith, both in this world and the next.

From the far end of the knight’s table, he watched as their leader took his chair, a mahogany throne, rather, with gold trim around the arms, on which protruded white marble cherubim and seraphim. Jeremiah Grant cleared his throat in a rumble that called them all to order.

The lingering silence seemed to carry a living force all by itself, as Grant sat, unmoving, glaring down the table, with the coat of arms of the Four Living Creatures seeming to roll out of the wall directly behind the man. With smoke clouds swelling the air from one end of the hall to the other, Kramer stole the dramatic pause to search each face in turn, and wonder about the madness of it all.

“Soldiers and Sons of Revelation, we are the chosen converts of the Almighty. As such, we are no longer ‘of’ the world, but are simply ‘in’ the world, a world, we all know, that is quickly succumbing to the dominion of the adversary. Our own country, once the land of the free and the brave, is being devoured with each passing minute by an army of infernal spirits who masquerade among us as human beings in the present day American society.”

And thus Grant began, but in a slightly altered version of his usual preamble. It was all Kramer could do to stifle the groan. Suddenly, the vision wanted to flame back to mind, and he wondered why the .45 Glock grew heavy in its shoulder rigging beneath his sheepskin coat. He glanced at the leader, fearing he might be singled out for lack of rapt attention. He was pretty sure that sparkle in Grant’s eyes was owed more to a shot or two of whiskey-spiked-coffee than any fire of fanaticism, though there was no question in Kramer’s mind the man was deadly serious.

“In the name of God, we are prepared at what is the most critical juncture in the history of democracy to carry out His justice. We are at war, my friends, make no mistake, and we must stop the sons of Cain—the military-industrial-pharmaceutical complex of the United States shadow government and who uses the mass media as its propaganda puppet-slaves, but who control what was once a great and God-fearing nation. Yes, we know well who the sons of Cain are, my friends. They are the devil’s vanguard. They dwell and claim seats of power and influence from the nation’s capital to Wall Street, from the scattered and numerous classified military bases around the West and Southwest to the whoremongers and purveyors of filth of Hollywood, but this is our supreme hour. We must, therefore, take courage. And since we are on the side of God—and if God is for us, then who can be against us?—we will unleash what will be the breath of divine wrath on all those not of the elect and who would trample us to dust with every outrage, every vice, every blasphemy, every abomination. Nothing short of a vengeance that far exceeds anything that annihilated Sodom and Gomorrah in the blink of an eye is demanded.”

And there it was, Kramer decided. For all of his next spiel about all of them renouncing their former ways, how there were no deathbed conversions among them and which was what made them all so real and heroic, doing what was right and true in the name of God’s work without the terror of impending death forcing them to answer the call to divine arms, Kramer knew the very rottenness of their former lives and transgressions was what had led them all to this room.

To this moment in their lives where eternity would be decided.

“Before I get to the heart of our mission, I would like to remind you men of the simple facts of life, lest you feel your backbone begin to lose some of its iron.”

Kramer glanced at the small black file in front of him. Each of them had been given their marching orders, detailed, more or less, on the CD-ROM inside each packet. He reached out and picked his intel package up, then spotted the tremble in his hand. He realized the other hand had suddenly somehow moved toward his coat lapel, just inches below the hidden semiautomatic pistol. Quickly, he dropped both his hands in his lap, one ear tuned to Grant, as his own voice seemed frozen in the blackest of midthought, shocked at what he realized he was prepared to do.

By slow degrees, he became aware of the doors opening, a shabby naked figure being marched forth, hustled toward the shower stall near the east wall, midway down. He heard the snickers from the grunt gallery, as one of the soldiers twisted the knob and water hissed from the nozzle. It was just about all Kramer could endure. As they held the plebe by the arms and whose hands covered his crotch and who wore the despair and horror of a condemned man he recalled his own agonizing rite of passage into the Sons of Revelation.

It was Grant’s version of baptism, only these waters were scalding hot, and the only stain they purified was the surface dirt and grime.

With the concrete walls spaced just far enough apart to allow a man to squeeze between, there was no escaping even a few drops.

Kramer could already feel the man’s pain. Every second in that cramped cubicle, he recalled, felt like an hour, as what seemed like no less than liquid fire wanted to eat the flesh right off the bones. A man quickly forgot about the shame of his nakedness.

As if reading the grim confusion on a few of the faces of the High Sons, Grant explained that this was penalty for failure, only it would be eternal.

And Kramer could believe it.

“Put him in,” Grant ordered.

Kramer felt sick to his stomach as the figure was shoved ahead, all but vanishing into the thick billows of steam. At the first scream, Kramer was rising from his seat. He glimpsed the victim trying to fight his way out of the watery hell but, as part of the price for such a display of cowardice and timidity, he suffered vicious blows to the head and stomach that drove him back, his so-called guardians shouting curses in his face. Of course, he could quit, holler as much, but there would be no money, and he would be sent packing, warned to never return or speak about what happened and under the most severe penalty. When it was over, when he was freed—or sometimes collapsed from pain and shock—every inch of skin would be raw, his flesh like living coals but that burned inward. There would be blisters the size of thimbles all over, a relentless maddening itch from head to toes that would last for…

Kramer suddenly realized he was heading for the door, as Grant’s voice boomed and shattered the sense he was a disembodied figure slogging through a bad dream.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to take a leak.”

It was not altogether a lie, but he was surprised at how easy, how quick the words left his mouth, then how Grant seemed so ready to accept his excuse, the man nodding, then returning to the torture show.

Mitch Kramer somehow forced himself to move, slow and steady, even as the screams of pure agony flayed his ears and hit his back like invisible fists.

THE PLAN CAME to Bolan, walked straight toward him, in fact.

Opting for the sound-suppressed Beretta, he was settling into a low crouch, poised to launch from a half circle of bramble and hanging ferns, the last of four-pound blocks just planted and primed when the first of the bone-chilling screams, muffled as they were by the wall, struck his ears. The fireworks were staggered, every third or fourth vehicle, the shaped charges just inside wheel wells closest to the few gas caps he discovered lacked the modern era necessity of locks. He counted the headwinds as another small blessing, whatever fumes meant to be ignited by the initial blast wave carried away from the sentries.

The lean figure in sheepskin coat was ambling away from his two militia pals, both of whom were chuckling and hooting about his lack of nerve while Sheepskin turned and shot them the middle finger salute. He was hollering back something about a little privacy, when the soldier judged the hang-dog expression that struck him as akin to depression, or regret. Bolan considered himself better than a decent judge of character—though the darkest corner of the human heart and mind was capable of hiding the worst of evil and treachery—and as Sheepskin shuffled closer he made a sudden decision.

A choice that would either burn him down before the mission was even out of the gate, or lead him through a back door, hopefully to step on the tail end of the vipers.

The next moment turned even brighter for Bolan. Sheepskin got the privacy he demanded, as the soldier watched the sentries vanish around the far south end. For a heartbeat or two, the warrior analyzed the look, weighed his next move against the pluses and minuses of the hard probe.

Sheepskin, the bulge beneath his coat warning Bolan he was packing, stepped onto the narrow path, took a few more strides his way, unaware of the problem ready to spring on him from little more than an arm’s length away. He put a cigarette on his lip, shook his head about something, scowled, reached for his fly. That was disgust, contempt or the expression, the warrior decided, of a man in search of a new future. Clearly, he was pondering some deep thought that had left him spooked, some far-away glaze to the eyes that Bolan would have sworn was the face of a man who had just seen a ghost—or his own death.

Just as he was torn between lighting his cigarette and tugging at his crotch, Bolan rose and surged forward. Sheepskin became aware, too late, of the dark menace boiling out of the brush. He was turning, as Bolan slammed an overhand left off his jaw and sent man and cigarette flying.

IT WAS BEYOND the point of no return, and this was only the start of the very beginning.

As Mark Drobbler trailed Infinity to the keypad on the steel door of the oversize black barn a mental picture flamed to mind, out of nowhere. He saw himself doing a rapid about-face, washing his hands all the way back to the Black Hawk. But, then what? He was too old, too tired, too set in his ways. There was nothing but an empty mobile home in the deepest bowels of the remotest wilderness to return to if he bolted. Four walls, inside of which he could sit, swill beer and whiskey and pass the time watching cable television or hang out in the local tavern for yet more drinking and mental gnawing on all that could have and should have been while…

Right. While opportunity passed him by. And if the others didn’t outright hold him in contempt for bailing, all but branding him a coward and a traitor, he would never know a moment’s peace for whatever the remainder of his days. Not without looking over his shoulder. Not without sleeping with his assault rifle set on full-auto under the covers.

Infinity was punching in the sequence of numbers, then Drobbler found those lifeless chips of glacier ice were looking back at him, as if the black op was having second thoughts about something.

Drobbler broke the stare, scanned the dark wood-line. He was sure that hidden cameras, motion sensors were all over what was another classified U.S. government compound. Up to then he’d only heard a word or two about what waited inside the black barn, aware that the bulk of the matériel had only been shipped by van and military transport with U.S. government plates two days ago.

The door opened on a soft pneumatic hiss.

“After you, Mr. Drobbler.”

Without hesitating, lest that stare turn even darker, Drobbler was past the man. Three steps inside the sprawling makeshift factory and he caught his breath, braking to an abrupt halt. The walls, he reckoned, were soundproof, had to be since the noise of hydraulic drills driving home bolts and the hiss and spray of blowtorches assaulted his senses, and would have carried clear to town, a short distance away.

A look to his side and Drobbler found the twelve handpicked Sons of Revelation. They were grouped around a large steel table, poring over what he knew were blueprints, computer-enhanced specs, to a man as grim as death. Two men in black raid suits with shouldered HK subguns were hovering behind them as they ran down mission logistics and parameters.

The drills suddenly ceased. Two figures in face shields stepped back from the rear of the bus they worked on, the blue-orange flames from blowtorches shrinking as Infinity rolled out to the middle of the floor. He was all award-winning actor, that one, eyes beaming as he claimed the spotlight. It was his world, no question, and this was his stage.

Drobbler took a few steps toward Infinity, one eye running the length of the leviathan. It was painted black, and for the life of him he couldn’t tell where the windows began and ended. Eagle Charters was painted in bold white letters above where a cargo hold would have been. The single door to the front portside was open, with three steps leading up to a walled-in cubicle where the driver sat.

“There it is, Mr. Drobbler. Attila. In just a few minutes, it’s all yours.”

Drobbler saw Infinity motioning for him to step his way, then the black op slipped the subgun off his shoulder.

“Coming your way inside, gentlemen!” he called, then cut loose with the subgun.

Drobbler flinched as the first few rounds scorched the hull, his ears spiked as those bullets, muzzling at what he believed was 400 meters per second, marched a line of sparks down the side. Ricochets went screaming toward the nose end, the wall beyond and beside the entrance door absorbing more slashing steel-jacketed hornets. Drobbler felt a flash of gratitude that Infinity had seen fit to pull him away from Attila at the angle he now stood. Infinity shifted his aim, drilling some rounds where Drobbler suspected the windows were positioned. A split-second pause, then the black op burned out the clip, the final rounds pounding the rear tire with a peculiar loud thud.

Infinity was all smiles behind the rising cordite as he said, “You like it?”

Drobbler examined the bus, stem to stern, top to bottom, but couldn’t spot the first nick, dent or scratch. Without a close-up inspection, though…

“Well?”

“Let me guess. The tires are reinforced by Kevlar?”

“And the hull is all titanium-plated. Double-layered where the driver sits. Nothing short of a cruise missile will knock him out of his seat. Hubs, axles, the whole chassis is reinforced steel with, again, a titanium coat.”

“Windows are bulletproof, I gather?”

“Better. Right around your gun revetments and the driver’s half of the window it’s diamond layered.”

Drobbler took another long hard look at it, their beast of burden. “Nothing short of a cruise missile, huh?” he muttered.

He had to admit he was impressed, but if he was supposed to be grinning like a school kid and jumping up and down…

The black op rolled past Drobbler and dumped the large nylon bag at his feet. He zipped it open, and Drobbler beheld the down payment. Three million dollars, rubber-banded stacks of hundreds, stared him back. He was about to bend, thinking he should touch a few stacks, just to make sure it wasn’t too good to be true, when Infinity took a step toward him.

“You can count it on your own time, Mr. Drobbler. Right now, we have work to do and not much time to do it in before you and your men ship out.”

“THE CHOICE IS REAL SIMPLE.”

The voice was graveyard, icy, with no room for compromise. It matched the coldest set of blue eyes he’d ever seen. Those eyes, framed in the black-face of combat cosmetics, told stories all by themselves.

Bad stories. Real stories. Stories about death and pain and misery, and, Mitch Kramer could damn well believe, more given than received. This was not some weekend local yokel stumbling about the woods, playing paintball grab-ass with a few drunken morons.

This was the real deal. This, his gut screamed at him, was Death in human flesh.

Something hit his stomach, and Kramer saw it was his wallet. He was told to get up, wondering if he moved fast enough for the man’s liking, but it was all he could manage just to get his legs back on the ground. He rubbed his jaw, worked his mouth, tongued his teeth. All there. The big man knew, then, about applying just the right amount of force where it didn’t go too far, break something, put a guy in a coma or in the ground. Cop stuff. Or military training?

On second look, decked out in commando gear with slung sound-suppressed HK subgun, with all the right bearing, all the right attitude, the commandeered Glock now snug in his waistband, maintaining a nice distance where he could fire at will with his sound-suppressed Beretta before he could cut the gap in a quick rush…

The stranger was examining something in his hand. Kramer gathered his bearings. He had been dragged a few more yards deeper into the woods. He was wondering if the two SOR clowns posted as sentries had heard the ruckus, how long he’d been laid out when the big guy spoke.

“You come with me, cooperate as my prisoner, answer my questions.”

Kramer was almost afraid to ask for the alternative, but said, “Or?”

“I’ll send you back.”

Why did that sound not only too easy, too good to be true, but no choice at all? Who the hell was this guy?

“You take option number two, be forewarned. When I bring the walls down on the Sons of Revelation, I spare no one. There will be no second chance.”

Just being in the man’s presence, Kramer could believe as much. “You know, you may not believe this, but I was looking for a way out.”

The stranger held out what he’d been examining. Kramer took it and smiled even though it hurt. Somehow his laminated daily prayer card to Saint Rita had been dislodged from his wallet. During the fall, or the frisk? And did it matter? Glancing at the first few lines—“O powerful Saint Rita, rightly called Saint of the Impossible, I come to you with confidence in my great need”—and Kramer thought he might lose it. This was it. This was the moment, the deciding point in the fork of the road. He was a wretch, beaten, whipped, broken, defiled his whole life by his own hand. He was the vilest of worms, deserved nothing less than sudden death and instant justice, and yet…

He was tucking the card away, as the big man, holding up a small black box with a flashing red light, told him, “I even catch the whiff of a problem from you, and you’ll have less than a second to call on that holy lady.”

Kramer didn’t need convincing, but he knew what was coming. The motor pool was maybe forty, fifty yards away, but to Kramer it sounded like the trumpet blast of Judgment Day, calling forth the living and the dead. He held his ground as the fireballs tore through the vehicles, pulped the classics that were worth, he’d heard, a combined quarter mil. There was shouting and screaming and cursing next as the wreckage pounded the east and north walls. Something told him, as he was ordered to get moving, this was only the beginning of the end for a whole bunch of bad men.

CHAPTER FOUR

“We’re creatures of habit, Mr. Radfield. Each one of us is, to some greater or lesser extent, predictable. We wake up at the same time for the same job. We drink the same brand of coffee and the same amount before we drive roughly the same route to our place of employment that expects us there at the same time, five days of the week. We drink the same brand of beer, watch the same brand of movies, listen to the same brand of music. We go to the same church at the same time on Sunday and sit in the same pew, on the same side. We…”

Paul Radfield got the gist of it. And still he went on with the infernal litany, until Radfield had the urge to bellow at the guy to shut his damn piehole. But that was just a wishful thought. He’d been stalked and kidnapped, and was now cuffed, blind, and God only knew where.

How they’d done it—and who they were—was beyond him, but he had some general suspicions.

He stared at the pitched blackness, listening to what he began to think of as the Voice. It was smooth, educated, white, a taunting ring to the words, and why not? The SOB held all the right cards, and in his roundabout infuriating superior way was letting him know all about it. There was no Texas twang or Southern drawl he could make out, no accent of any kind, and that made him just about any man from Anywhere, U.S.A., with the possible exceptions of New England and New Jersey. As for where he was? Talk about a shot in the dark. There was something like 367 miles of Gulf Coast—624 miles of tidewater coast when he threw in all the lagoons, swamps and bays and with the longest chain of barrier islands to be found anywhere on the planet—so he could be anywhere, even south of the border. Or maybe he was out on the water, only there was no discernible rock and roll that would come with even the most gentle of swells. And, for all he knew, once he’d been hit with the dart in the garage of his suburban enclave southeast of Houston, recalling how he’d glimpsed the dark shadow rising from beside the free-weight jungle gym, it could have been one hour or one day since he’d gone under. A little bladder gauging, however, told him it was the former, give or take.

Where then? And what about…

“We make love to the same woman the same three nights of the week, but, to one man’s credit—that would be you, Mr. Radfield—rarely in the same position, though Cynthia—or Kit, as she likes you to call her when in the throes of passion—seems to like Thursday nights a little more than the others. That is, if I judge the sound of her voice and the way she cries your name correctly.”

Radfield felt the blood pulse into his eardrums like a molten war drum. The bastard had bugged, worse, maybe installed hidden mini-cams all over the house, but he wasn’t surprised. He felt his face flush next, as hot as live coals, wondering if the rotten SOB had maybe videotaped their passion for his own personal viewing pleasure. Get a grip! Shame was the least of his woes, he knew, as he then smelled his breath, sucked back in on his sweaty face, thanks to the tight confines of his hood. It was still ripe from the previous night’s veal and pasta, those three whiskey and waters and a glass of red wine, with the residue of the morning’s three—predictable three—cigarettes swirling up in his nose. He also took a whiff of the first tainted aroma of something else.