Blind Justice Read online

  He scanned the area, searching for Cooper.

  How had the guy moved so quickly? And where had he gone? He hadn’t gone in Bishop’s direction. If he had, they would have come face-to-face. That meant Cooper must have gone forward, across the slabs of rock circling the waterfall. Bishop studied the falling curtain, the spray it created as it struck the pool. Was it concealing Cooper? At this very second he could be tracking Bishop, waiting for the right moment. Bishop didn’t fool himself into believing Cooper would give him any leeway. The man would strike at any given moment.

  Bishop dropped to his knees, using a chunk of rock as cover, aware he was too much of a target.

  As he dragged himself behind the rock he heard the single shot, saw stone chips flying as the slug impacted. He felt stinging fragments bite his cheek. Blood stippled his flesh.

  Son of a bitch almost had him.

  Bishop leaned around the edge of the rock. From the angle of the shot it had to have come from behind the waterfall. There was nowhere else Cooper could have hidden.

  Okay, hotshot, my turn.

  Bishop triggered the P90 and raked the curtain of water with a long burst, tracking back and forth.

  Then he moved, clearing cover and cutting to the side, taking himself around the edge of the pool and closer to the fall.

  He opened fire a second time, placing his shots into the curtain of water, then flopped belly-down on the edge of the pool.

  “I know you’re in there, Cooper,” he yelled. “Nowhere to go. I can keep you pinned as long as I need.” Bishop had no idea how long that might be, but he had to maintain his persona. “Let’s negotiate. You know what I’m here for. The senator wants that evidence you came back for. He’s a powerful man. He can do you a lot of good. Give him what he wants and you can walk away a rich man.”

  Silence.

  Bishop clicked in a fresh magazine.

  “Cooper, it’s a dead end where you are. I got you covered. Now there’s a sat phone clipped to my belt. I can call the senator and he can send in a chopper loaded with armed men. Between the senator and Koretski, they can bring in a small army. Hell, some of those Russian boys were in the military. They know tricks I couldn’t imagine. We can surround that pool and just sit it out, or you can walk out now, with the evidence, and we can end this. It’s your choice, Cooper. You want to talk, or do I make that call? I’ll make it easy. Let you think it over. Fifteen minutes, then I make the call. Fifteen minutes. Counting down, Cooper.”

  Chapter 29

  Bolan didn’t like ultimatums. Mainly because they presented him with forced decisions, and forced decisions were never recommended. If he had been the type to buckle under pressure that would have been a secondary consideration. Bolan, however, reacted to scenarios with this kind of threat with his usual direct action. If Bishop figured Bolan would fold and hand over the evidence simply because his back was to the wall, then the Kendal hardman was in for a surprise.

  The GPS coordinates had led him to the waterfall and the shallow cave formation behind it. It ran no more than ten feet deep. Crossing the smooth worn stones from the pool Bolan had flattened against the rock face, then moved quickly behind the falling water. He had turned on instinct to check his back trail and had seen the lone, armed figure appear at the edge of the pool. The surviving guy from Kendal’s crew had made better time than Bolan had expected.

  He had raised the MP-5 and triggered a shot at the moving figure, his slug too high. It clipped the rock where the guy was crouching and sent him into cover. Bolan accepted his shot had been hasty—a reaction to Bishop’s sudden appearance. Firing through the curtain of water had deflected his aim enough to take his slug off target. And before Bolan had time to adjust for a second shot Bishop had opened up with a couple of rapid bursts. Slugs struck the rock face behind Bolan, forcing him to drop to a crouch. The snap of the slugs against the rock had been accompanied by the higher whine of ricochets, threatening a higher degree of hits. By sheer chance Bolan received only one strike as a flattened slug seared a gouge across his left shoulder. It made him aware of his precarious position as he clamped his hand over the stinging wound, feeling warm blood seeping through his blacksuit onto his fingers.

  Then he picked up Bishop’s shouted warning. His threat to call in reinforcements and his “generous” time-out to allow Bolan to consider his position.

  Bolan had no intention of paying any attention to the threat. If Bishop had backup he was able to call in, it would take time. And Bolan had no worries on that score. Bishop might not realize it, but his own span of time was rapidly diminishing. Allowing Bolan a grace period only allowed the Executioner the opportunity to make his own play, regardless of the risk.

  As the fifteen-minute period began, Bolan turned his attention to locating the concealed evidence, following Rachel Logan’s instructions on where she had placed it. He moved to the rear of the shallow cave and found the spot easily. Moving a covering of loose stone fragments Bolan eased out the bulky package Rachel had placed there. He exposed the flat attaché case wrapped in a black plastic sheet she had bound in layers of duct tape. A smile edged his lips as he saw the amount of tape she had used. Her thoroughness would have put the creators of Egyptian mummies to shame. He made no attempt to open the packaging, instead leaving it wrapped in the plastic sheet and placing it aside.

  His immediate concern was getting clear of the cave and dealing with Bishop. A frontal assault was not in Bolan’s favor. There were too many variables in making a rush attack from behind the waterfall. Bishop had the area covered from his land-based position. He would be watching for any overt move.

  Bolan’s agile thought processes spun through a number of possibilities and he quickly discounted them, coming to the only one he decided had the best chance of working. Even that one had drawbacks, but he went with it, and once he had made his decision he acted on it.

  He stripped off his combat harness and placed it at the back of the cave, along with his MP-5. He cleared his blacksuit pockets of everything, including his sat phone, leaving him with just his sheathed Tanto knife and the Beretta 93-R, which he set for triple bursts and secured in the shoulder-rig holster.

  Moving to the far side of the cave, away from Bishop’s position, Bolan eased himself into the pool, fingers gripping the wet rock ledge. The water was cold—Bolan ignored it. He took a few minutes for deep breathing, filling and emptying his lungs before he filled them one last time, then lowered himself beneath the water, kicking to the bottom of the pool until he touched the stony floor. The depth of the pool ran to around ten feet. Above his head the surface of the pool was stippled by the falling water, covering Bolan’s movement as he swam clear. He was counting on Bishop concentrating his gaze on the waterfall itself, not the rest of the pool.

  Bolan’s muscled legs and arms thrust him forward, across the pool. He turned his head and through the hazy depths he made out the far edge, where the ten feet was reduced to no more than a couple. He used the rough bed of the pool to pull himself forward, then turned in toward the shallower side. He had allowed himself at least twenty feet when he turned, seeing the daylight grow stronger as he moved in to the side. As the water became shallower, the image of the poolside became clearer and Bolan was able to see the outline of Bishop crouching behind his covering rock. Bolan’s circuitous route had brought him around to Bishop’s left side. The man was fully exposed—and well within range of the 93-R.

  Bolan reached across and slid the auto pistol from its holster. He felt the bed of the pool under his boots and pushed up, water cascading from him as he cleared the surface.

  As Bolan’s blacksuited form erupted from the water it took a couple of seconds for Bishop to register the movement out the corner of his eye. He reacted, his body leaning back, the SMG swinging round in the arc that would bring it onto Bolan.

  He was way b
ehind.

  Bolan fisted the Beretta in both hands, the muzzle settling on Bishop. The first triple burst cored in under Bishop’s left arm, the impact moving the man’s body so that the next three 9 mm slugs impacted against his chest. Bolan nudged the muzzle up a fraction, firing again. The trio of Parabellum slugs tore into Bishop’s throat, severing flesh and muscle that flowered bright blood. Bishop fell back across the rock that had been protecting him, his finger belatedly squeezing back against the trigger of his SMG. The muzzle was still aimed out across the water and the burst harmlessly sprayed the surface of the pool.

  Splayed out across the rock, his senses already fading, Bishop watched the figure of Bolan emerge from the pool, water shedding from the blacksuit, the big auto pistol in one hand.

  “You…tricked…me…” Bishop husked through the blood spilling from his mouth. The taste of it was heavy, metallic, and with each of his shallow breaths it spurted thickly.

  Bolan looked him in the eye. “No. I out-thought you is all,” he said. Then Bishop moved for his SMG—but he was too slow. Bolan eased back on the Beretta’s trigger, delivering his final triple burst. The top of Bishop’s skull lifted under the impact and bloody bone and flesh flew free.

  Bolan crossed to the waterfall, ducking behind the curtain of water. He geared up, retrieved the attaché case and emerged into the daylight again. He passed Bishop’s body and paused to retrieve the man’s dropped sat phone. Bolan checked the call list and saw that the man’s last call had been to SK. It wasn’t a big leap of the imagination to translate that. Bolan thumbed the call symbol and listened as the connection was made. The voice on the other end of the line was strong, authoritative.

  “This better be good news, Bishop.”

  “Seeing as how I have that package you’ve been so desperate to get your hands on, Kendal, I don’t believe that’s the case.”

  “Who the… Cooper? Is that you?” The shock edged out of Kendal’s voice. “That’s Senator Kendal by the way.”

  “Not for much longer. Once this evidence is in the right hands your time is going to be up. You lose, Kendal. Your get-rich scheme is about to be laid out in the daylight for everybody to see. You and your Russian partner are finished.”

  “Fuck you, Cooper. My God, boy, you must be stupider than I imagined. You think I’m going to roll over and play dead? No damn way. I’ll walk away from this and come out smiling. You have to understand who I am. Realize the influence I have. The people I control are so high up the ladder you wouldn’t be able to see them on a clear day. Take me on, Cooper, and I’ll squash you like the fucking cockroach you are.”

  “At least that makes it easier for me, Kendal,” Bolan said. “Expect me to come calling on you and Koretski. You’ve done enough throwing your weight around. There are deaths to account for—time to pay the bill.”

  Bolan cut the call, turned and threw the phone into the water.

  “House call on the way, Kendal. Executioner style.”

  Chapter 30

  Tyrone Kendal’s vacation home was a split-level, ranch-style house in Teton County, fifteen miles from the small town of Choteau. The area was home to a number of ski lodges, the higher slopes providing access for the skiers who flocked to the area during the season. Kendal used the house when he needed to be away from the pressures of Washington and any other distractions. The house was isolated at the end of a two-mile private road leading in from the main highway, with the majestic sweep of snow-covered mountain peaks as a backdrop. Here Kendal could relax and let his excesses drain away.

  But at the moment the peaceful ambience of his retreat was not working its magic. He had been there for four days, ensconced with his chief legal advisor and a five-man security detail, waiting for Koretski.

  And he was not enjoying his enforced isolation. For the first time in a long time, he felt distinctly unsettled.

  Secure in his home, surrounded by his armed bodyguards, Kendal was unable to shake off the feeling of unease. Since his brief conversation with the man named Cooper, there had been no follow-up. No sight nor sound from the man. Nothing about the supposed recovery of the evidence the Seattle cop, Logan, had gathered. The inactivity and the silence was a damn sight more unnerving than if Cooper had actually shown up.

  Kendal attempted to fill the waiting time—because he was convinced something was going to happen—by throwing himself into work. He’d also been having long discussions with his lawyer as they sought to build a strategy that would protect Kendal from any possible legal threats. Simon Daggett was a brilliant lawyer, almost worth the hefty fees he charged. His knowledge of law, the loopholes and the twists and turns, were meat and drink to the man. His law firm in Seattle had an enviable reputation—it charged high and achieved results. But Kendal didn’t give a damn about any other successes—all he was worried about was his own skin. He had made that clear when he sent his private plane to bring Daggett to the Montana house, stressing that for the money he was paying, the lawyer should be considering moving in on a permanent basis.

  They were seated in the spacious living room, a roaring log fire blazing in the deep stone hearth. Wide panoramic windows looking out across the valley over which the property stood filled two walls, with the snow-streaked slopes of the foothills beyond. To one side was the dining area, where a large dining table was currently occupied by Daggett’s paperwork, with his assistant, Linda, an efficient and attractive young woman, seated and busy at her laptop.

  “This Seattle police officer, as I see it, obtained much of his so-called evidence by unlawful means. He used a phone tap to record your conversations. Recorded and photographed details. And he gained access to your Seattle premises without any kind of legal warrant, thereby retrieving private information from your computer.”

  “You make it sound as if he’s the criminal,” Kendal said.

  “Exactly,” Daggett said. “We base our defense on that very thing. Invasion of privacy. Obtaining information illegally. I can build one hell of a case to get any prosecution simply thrown out of court.”

  “Simon, far be it from me to question your judgment, but all this cop has to do is offer his evidence to the media. What’s to stop them from showing it on prime-time TV? Running a newspaper article?”

  “We obtain a restraining order. It will stop any of the evidence from being shown or written about.”

  “And what if someone simply ignores that order and goes ahead? If that happens, I’m finished. Mud sticks, Simon. Once people get a whiff of anything it sticks.”

  “The D.A.’s office won’t dare let that happen,” Daggett’s assistant said. She crossed to where Kendal and the lawyer were seated. “They know that anything out of step with the law will damage their case. It’s happened too many times, so the D.A. will simply make everyone hold off until he can be one-hundred-and-one-percent sure he has a watertight case. Which gives us more time to build your defense.”

  “Linda is right, Tyrone. With the way things are these days the prosecution has to walk on eggs. Even a misspelled word in a document can get a case thrown out. They’ll be going over everything a dozen times. Looking for the little things that I’ll be waiting to jump on.”

  “The way they got their evidence will have them sweating about civil rights, abuse of procedures,” Linda said. “The days of busting down doors and hassling suspects is long gone.” She allowed herself a smile. “The law is on our side, Senator.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Kendal said.

  One of his security crew rolled in a metal trolley holding a fresh pot of coffee and mugs. Kendal caught the man’s eye and led him aside.

  “Anything?”

  “No, sir. Nothing. Two of the guys are on foot patrol, circling the house. Lucky for us the terrain is open and flat. No chance of anyone approaching without being seen.”

  “Has
Koretski been in contact?”

  “That was the other thing I came in for. He called a little while ago. He’s on his way. Should be here in less than an hour.”

  “Thank you, Tony. Stay sharp now.”

  “You got it, Senator.”

  Leaving Daggett and Linda to their legal work, Kendal took his mug of coffee and stood at the main window. Sky and mountains, the open green slopes running down past the house—it all looked so peaceful. And, as Tony had said, there was no way anyone could approach the house without being seen.

  So why did he still feel vulnerable?

  The answer came easily.

  In three or four hours daylight would be gone.

  It would be dark—and that made a difference.

  Kendal picked up the house phone and called Tony.

  “You did check the floodlights, Tony?”

  “Yes, sir. All working. And the generator is secured.”

  “Fine.”

  Kendal put down the phone and returned to stare out the window.

  “More coffee, Senator?”

  It was Linda. She topped up his mug and glanced out of the window.

  “It’s beautiful up here,” she said. “So different from the city. Quiet and peaceful.”

  And isolated, Kendal thought. Out in the middle of nowhere. Just like Koretski’s house up in the Cascades.

  “Son of a bitch, Cooper, where are you?”

  “You say something, Tyrone?” Daggett asked.

  “Just thinking out loud. It was nothing.”

  It had never occurred to Kendal that he might, one day, require security above and beyond a small crew of armed men. Like outside TV cameras, maybe with infrared to pick up any stray movement in the dark. The house had been his haven. It had been a place where he could sit back and simply enjoy the solitude—the eternal peace of the hills and mountains, away from Washington, away from his Seattle responsibilities. But all that had faded into the background. With the possible threat of prosecution and the greater threat from this man, Cooper, the house had become less of a home and more of a fortress. It made him aware that vast financial holdings and a high-ranking political position meant very little in a world where a lone man could end it all with the pull of a trigger.