Patriot Play
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.