Blind Justice Read online

  “It’s true. On my life, Marty. It’s all true.”

  “So who is this guy, Ray?”

  “He doesn’t give much away,” Logan said. His voice was becoming softer, the words almost whispered. He paused to take a breath. “All I know, buddy, is he saved my life. He’s in the kitchen making coffee right now.”

  “I got to ask, Ray. You trust this guy? I mean you…”

  “Yeah, I trust him. Hard to explain but he makes it so you can’t do anything but trust him. Something about the way he talks. I know I only met him a few hours ago, but…what the hell, Marty, the guy pulled my ass out of the grinder.”

  “You say he had a piece? Took a shot at Brenner and Dunn? I got to give him full marks for that. So what is he? Another cop? Some kind of Fed? Ray, he isn’t setting you up is he? Playing games while he’s really working for Senator Kendal?”

  “Marty, if he worked for Kendal I wouldn’t be calling you like I am. I’d be tied to a chair while Kendal’s lowlifes beat the shit out of me. This guy told me he works special assignments for some agency. Operates on his own. Marty, there was no way he knew I would show up when I did. Hell, I didn’t know where I was going when I took off. I’m just grateful it happened.” Logan went quiet for a minute. “You heard anything from Rachel and Tommy?”

  “Sorry, pal. Nothing since I got them relocated. You know the way we played it. Out of the city. Way up country where she feels comfortable. No contact unless she makes it. I keep the location secret. Even from you.”

  “Damn.”

  “We have to keep this in play. You don’t know where she is, so you can’t spill. Until I can figure out how to get your evidence into the right hands we need to keep this way deep.”

  “I know. You realize what this is doing to me, Marty? If anything happens to them…”

  “I’ll keep Rachel and Tommy out of harm’s way. Promise.”

  “Hell, I know you’ll look after them…”

  Logan’s voice faltered, dying to a whisper. His body was forcing a shutdown. Weakness from his wounds and the effects of the painkillers.

  “I won’t give up on this, Ray. Look at it this way. Rachel is a smart girl. You told her to lose herself. That’s what she’s done. As long as she stays out of sight so does your evidence.”

  Keegan heard a low, mumbled whisper, then the phone cut off. He stared at his cell, then dropped it back in his pocket. “You hang in there, buddy.”

  Through the partition window of the squad room he could see that Dunn and Brenner were looking in his direction. He moved away down the corridor. The pair of cops were paying him too much attention. They knew he was not only Logan’s partner, but a longtime friend. He was going to need to stay alert. Return the favor and keep his eyes on them.

  Chapter 3

  “Marty is a good friend and partner. He was my backup when I was undercover. Rachel and I have known him a long time. You figure it out. Would I have trusted him with the safety of my wife and boy if I had doubts?”

  “You make a good case,” Bolan said. “You believe he’s got your family safe?”

  “Marty’s smart. He’ll have located them way out of the city.”

  “And what about your evidence? Will Rachel have it with her?”

  Logan didn’t reply immediately. Bolan saw he was fighting against the drugs and the infection. He let the cop have his time. It wasn’t going to get him anywhere if Logan became too weak to talk. So Bolan sat back and waited.

  “Man, that really caught me. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. If you need to rest longer, Ray, just tell me. You need the doc? Want me to call him in?”

  “I’m good. I can’t be sure what Rachel did with the evidence. She either took it with her, or hid it before she left. Maybe in our house.”

  “I can start there,” Bolan said. “Eliminate that, then we can look at other options.”

  Logan managed a brief nod. “Okay, Cooper, I’ll give you the address.”

  Bolan saw him sink back against the pillow, eyes closing. The Executioner stood and quietly left the room to speak to the doctor before he left.

  The medic was an old ally of Stony Man Farm. A man who understood Bolan’s enduring struggle. He had experienced his own epiphany during a personal trauma and Bolan had come to his aid. The life-affirming philosophy that Bolan expressed, in actions rather than words, formed a bond between them that never needed expressing. Eric Madsen responded any time Bolan showed up. It wasn’t the first time the Executioner had sought Madsen’s help, and when he’d shown up with the badly wounded Ray Logan in the rear of his SUV, there had been no questions. Madsen took the wounded cop into his home office, ushered Bolan out of the treatment room and went to work. Logan was currently recovering, slowly, housed in one of the doctor’s bedrooms and being tended by Madsen and his wife. When Bolan had explained the background and the possible threat to Logan, Madsen’s wife, Laura, had smiled at him.

  “You’re trying to tell us this could put us in danger? Don’t worry. You know how we feel about you, Coop, and how we can never repay you for what you did. So you just go out there and do what you do best. Leave that boy to get well. Find his wife and son, because that will help him get better faster than all the medicine Eric can offer.”

  THE LOGAN HOUSE stood back from the street. Timber and stone, well-maintained. A single garage attached to one side. Paved area for two cars. Bolan drove on by, passing three more homes before he took a right and parked out of sight. There was a wide alley running at the rear of the row. Bolan took it and made his way to the back fence of Logan’s property. He checked the high gate, found it unlocked and slipped through. This kind of probe was better suited to the dark, but time didn’t allow Bolan that luxury. He crossed the neat patio and reached the house. He saw immediately that the patio doors were breached—an inch gap told him someone had gotten inside.

  Bolan unholstered the Beretta, easing off the safety. He slid the glass door open. The room inside had a wood-block floor. He noticed books disturbed on the shelves to his right. Furniture pushed out of place. A lampshade tilted. Moving quickly, avoiding any extraneous sound, Bolan reached the door, paused, listened. To his right, the open entrance hall and the front door. Directly across from the front door was the staircase leading to the upper floor.

  He picked up a muffled voice. It came from upstairs. Bolan went up fast, the carpeted stairs deadening any sound. Movement on his left. A partly open door. A shadow disturbed the soft light. The same voice. Low, measured, not speaking English.

  Bolan knew enough to recognize the language.

  Russian.

  Was the speaker talking to himself?

  Or did he have a partner with him?

  A thud as something was dropped to the floor.

  This time a second voice. Remonstrating with the first man. This speaker was to the left of the door.

  Whoever the men were they didn’t belong in the Logan house.

  Bolan took a step closer, ready to go through the door.

  His intention was preceded as the door was wrenched open and a dark-clad figure appeared, a stubby SMG slung from his left shoulder. The guy had his head turned away from Bolan as he said something to his partner.

  So much for the stealth approach, Bolan thought.

  Then used the clear moment to his own advantage. As the visible man stepped through the door, head swiveling to the front, seeing Bolan and reaching for the SMG, Bolan swept the Beretta round in a brutal, clubbing action. It slammed against the man’s skull with a sodden thud. The gunman uttered a shocked gasp, sagging against the door frame, and Bolan struck again—same place, even harder. Blood spouted, rushing down the man’s face and soaking into the sweater he was wearing. As he began to slump, Bolan shouldered him back into the room, already pic
king up the thump of footsteps as the second guy ran forward. He sensed the movement seconds before he saw the man. Big, his broad shoulders and barrel chest topped by a shaved, short-necked head, he moved with a solid gait. Bolan had no chance to raise his weapon. The large figure loomed close, muscular arms and wide hands reaching for him. Bolan lowered his own shoulders, turning slightly and hit the guy in his midsection, not to halt him, but to use the other’s forward momentum to propel him across Bolan’s back. Bolan thrust upward and the big Russian was hurled over his back, feet leaving the floor. The big man uttered a startled cry as he was launched through the air. Bolan turned about in time to see the Russian slammed against the wall, plaster shattering under the impact. Framed pictures were shaken from the wall as the man crashed to the floor in an ungainly tangle. Bolan stepped in close, ready as the Russian started to rise. He timed it so that as the man swayed on his legs, Bolan drove his right knee in hard. It caught the guy under the thick jaw. The Russian grunted, blood spurting from between his lips as his teeth snapped together and sliced into his tongue. He toppled back, eyes glazing, as he bounced off the wall and into Bolan’s knee a second time. The brutal impact put him down with a subdued crack as his neck and upper spine snapped. The big man dropped with the looseness of death.

  Behind Bolan the first guy was struggling to recover himself, groping for the SMG hanging from his shoulder. The big American turned fully. He saw the SMG tracking in, the guy’s finger already on the trigger. No hesitation as Bolan brought the 93-R on line and punched a triple burst that took away the left side of the man’s skull in a glistening spray. The Russian toppled back, eyes wide from shock as he hit the carpeted floor on his back.

  “Damn,” Bolan muttered at the way it had gone.

  He was less concerned with the Russians’ deaths than he was with the probable outcome once their principals found out what had happened. The would-be shooter had placed himself in the firing line once he went for his weapon. He had gambled and lost. Rules of the game. But there was someone behind the pair who had invaded Logan’s house, plainly looking for something, and that someone was not going to be pleased to learn his men had been discovered and taken out.

  As he frisked the two men Bolan was questioning the presence of Russian heavies in the equation. How did they fit into what Ray Logan had unearthed?

  A U.S. senator involved with Russians? Bolan let the question lie as he discovered two wallets, a pair of Russian passports and a vehicle key with a rental fob attached. The fob had the license-plate number on it. Bolan pocketed the items.

  Neither of the Russians had a cell. Unusual, but not unheard of. Perhaps they had a phone installed in their vehicle.

  Bolan called Stony Man Farm on his cell, connected with Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman.

  “Hey, we figured you were on your way home. Didn’t you finish your mission?”

  “Yeah. But something new came up and I need your help.”

  “Can’t get along without me, can you, Striker?” Kurtzman grumbled amiably.

  “It would be a struggle,” Bolan said.

  “Give me the details.”

  Bolan gave Kurtzman the number from the key fob and the passports. “See what you can come up with.”

  “Be in touch,” Kurtzman said.

  Bolan took a tour of the house. Checked it thoroughly, including all the places Logan had suggested. He found nothing, figuring that as the Russians had still been looking they hadn’t unearthed anything themselves. The more he searched, the less he believed Rachel Logan had used her own home to hide her husband’s evidence, and the more convinced he became that she had taken it with her when she left for her secret location.

  He exited the house after a half hour, closing the patio doors behind him and returned to his own rental. He fired up the motor and drove on, cruising the back lane until he was able to rejoin the main road. Bolan headed back in the general direction of the city center, spotted a diner and drove in and parked. He went inside and ordered a coffee. He took his cell out and called Logan’s burn phone, indentifying himself to the cop.

  “You had visitors. They were looking for something in your house, too. There was nothing to find. Place is clean.”

  “Trying to get a line on my evidence and my family. Rachel wouldn’t leave any trace. You get an ID on them?”

  “Work on this, Logan. They were Russian. Had passports to prove it.”

  “Russian? What were Russians doing in my house?”

  “I’m having that checked out now.”

  “Where are the perps?”

  “Still at your house, but not in a position to leave on their own two feet. They didn’t take too well to being interrupted.”

  “I’m trying to figure out how a pair of Russians are involved.” Logan paused, his thoughts slowed by the effects of the sedatives and his weakness. “Hey, Cooper, I’m getting some recall here. I almost lost it. I did come up with a Russian connection during my investigation. A guy Kendal had contact with. Can’t make it any clearer at the moment. Hell, why did I forget that?”

  “When we get some identification maybe we’ll get an answer to that,” Bolan said. “In the meantime, don’t beat yourself up if you can’t pull all the details into the open. Ray, you just let me know if you hear anything about or from Rachel.”

  “I will. Cooper, she’s gone to ground so it’s not going to be easy finding her. Rachel knows how to survive. Before we were married she did three years as a Park Ranger upstate. It was how we met. I was following up on a murder inquiry that took me out of the city. Rachel had found a body that had the earmarks of the perp we were after. Her intel helped us track the guy down.”

  “Now that’s a romantic way to meet your future wife,” Bolan said.

  “Tell me about it. Happened between us before we knew what hit us. I figure that’s what Keegan has done. Sent her somewhere up country. And Rachel hasn’t lost any of her outdoor instincts, Cooper. She’s at home out there.”

  “So she can handle herself?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What about weapons?”

  “That girl can shoot. Just don’t ever get her mad if there’s a 9 mm in the same room.”

  “Would she favor the part of the country she patrolled when she was a Ranger?”

  “Maybe, but Keegan isn’t about to let on where. It’s a big piece of freehold, Cooper. Runs all the way up to the Canadian border.”

  After ending the call, Bolan ordered fresh coffee, then decided he might as well eat, given this enforced downtime. The old military maxim.

  Eat when the opportunity presents itself.

  Sleep on the same premise.

  The combat soldier’s credo. Never waste free time. Use it like it’s going out of fashion. Grab it with both hands. Make the most of this day and let tomorrow catch up when it can.

  He turned his thoughts to the man who seemed to be the driving force behind Ray Logan’s problems.

  Senator Tyrone Kendal.

  Bolan tried to imagine what was behind the man’s desperate actions. Why did he want so badly to get hold of Logan and the evidence that the cop claimed to have gathered?

  Must have been something damning. Something that had pushed the senator into such a flurry of activity.

  Armed teams searching for Logan.

  Bad cops shooting at him.

  And Russian heavies invading the man’s home.

  KURTZMAN’S CALL CAME just as Bolan got back in his vehicle. He put the cell on speaker and listened to the rundown on the Russians.

  “Couple of heavy hitters. Ivan Tupelov and Mako Sheranova. Suspected of a number of crimes but never proved. They showed up on U.S. and international databases. They work for a dubious character named Maxim Koretski. If it’s illegal this lovely guy has his ha
nds in it. Trafficker in everything murky. Runs a number of clubs here and in Russia—guy gets around. But he’s so lawyered-up he’s bulletproof. We dredged up a few articles from newspapers and magazines. This guy is seriously into big-time crime. Suggestion is he wants to be Mister Big. In the past a couple of his near rivals have been mysteriously eliminated. No proof, but the finger points Koretski’s way.”

  “Any connection at all to a Senator Tyrone Kendal?”

  “He in this deal, as well?”

  “I think so, but right now I can’t figure the why. I’m just trying to connect the dots.”

  “I’ll keep checking. The car detail panned out. A rental paid for through one of Koretski’s legitimate businesses.”

  “Thanks, Bear. Come back anytime you dig up anything.”

  “You got it, Striker. What’s next for you on this?”

  “Collateral damage. I need to cut away some of the trash.”

  Chapter 4

  It was no secret that Senator Tyrone Kendal enjoyed the good things in life, and he made sure everyone around him understood that. Kendal tolerated no deviation from his desires or his expensive lifestyle. Only the best was good enough—home, possessions, his cars. It helped that he was a wealthy man. He had inherited the Kendal fortune on the death of his father, a man who had worked his way up from a menial job as a dirt farmer to become the head of a multinational company encompassing oil, copper-mining and a manufacturing base providing products as diverse as home appliances to electronics for the IT industry. Tyrone Kendal the younger inherited the companies and the money, but unfortunately he lacked the people skills. He assumed the mantle of top dog, but in doing so he became arrogant, self-important and unfeeling.

  So it was a surprise when he entered politics. He abandoned his commercial interest in the slew of companies, handing over the reins to his previous second-in-command, and presented himself as a man free of business connections. But that was for public consumption only. The truth was that Kendal still maintained control of the businesses. It was all done through a layered facade of shell companies, corporate subterfuge and a legion of lawyers. As far as the world in general understood, Kendal had stepped down, distanced himself from the business enterprises and had become a man of the people. He devoted himself to his new calling, and with the skill that had created his business empire, he entered politics and surprised everyone with his early successes. That surprise was compounded when he eventually became a U.S. senator, due in great part to the unstinting efforts of the team he built around him. They portrayed him as a caring, honest man who represented the people. He spent lavishly on the things that mattered, not sparing himself during the rallies and the election hustings. He travelled the state of Washington, where his main dwelling was situated, enduring the long days and nights of meeting his constituents. He listened to their needs, promised them whatever they asked for, smiling and waving, then returned to his home and wiped the smile away, downed expensive whiskey and swore if he ever had to listen to another request for help he would take out his shotgun and blow the bastards’ heads off.