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  “Makes you wonder where they’ll hit next,” Huntington Wethers said.

  “Hard to figure,” Carmen Delahunt replied.

  “Is there a deliberate plan to show they can go for anything they choose,” Brognola asked, “or are these just random hits?”

  “Hey, look at this.”

  They all turned at Akira Tokaido’s call. He indicated a TV news flash. Two more attacks had taken place at National Guard bases. One in Oregon, the next in Nevada. The strikes had the same MOs as the Arizona site.

  “The only difference here is the fact they gunned down their victims rather than letting the bombs kill them,” Bolan said.

  He turned to Price. “Is transport ready?”

  “Mack,” Lyons said, “you got room for a partner?”

  “Barbara, can you organize some more cover documents?” Bolan queried. “For both of us in case we need to stop anyone being nosy.”

  “Go to it,” Brognola said. “Carl, you up for this?”

  “Able’s on stand-down. I’ve nothing that can’t wait.”

  “This could be a hot one.”

  Lyons smiled. “You know how I hate the cold, Hal.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bolan was behind the wheel of the black Crown Victoria from the Farm’s motor pool. Lyons had the Stony Man file on his lap, going through the mass of documentation Kurtzman had prepared. He had been reading for the first hour of their drive, saying very little and falling silent as he went through the photographs of the bombing victims. Bolan left him to absorb the data until Lyons was ready to talk.

  “The Brethren looks to be more organized than most groups. Upmarket compared to your usual militia-survivalist gathering.”

  “Yeah. They have a lot to say. Their rallies pull in big crowds. Seeger is known as something of a recluse. He only shows his face in public at meetings, but he has his finger on the public’s pulse. He knows exactly what to say to get a positive reaction. From what Aaron dug up, the Brethren always come away with sizable cash donations.”

  “I guess it has to be said there are a lot of unhappy people out there,” Lyons commented.

  “We have dead and injured people now,” Bolan said, and left it at that.

  Kurtzman’s data had provided them with a location for Jerome Gantz. The man hadn’t been active in the past few years. He’d either quit the anarchy business or he had simply been keeping his profile under the radar.

  If Gantz hadn’t been building bombs, where did he get his money from? Kurtzman posed. According to his financial records, Gantz had been living on welfare and handouts—which wouldn’t enable the man to afford his current home. The cyber warrior vowed to dig deeper.

  Gantz had rented a house on the Atlantic shore of Massachusetts just outside a small hamlet called Tyler Bay. The area was well off the main highway, a slumbering spot that once had a thriving fishing industry. Large fishing fleets now dominated the business. Over the more recent years Tyler Bay’s family-owned boats had failed to stand up to the competition. There were no more than half a dozen boats left. The town lived off the catches from the small fleet, tourism and associated businesses.

  Bolan and Lyons arrived in midafternoon. The narrow road leading into the town brought them to a point overlooking Tyler Bay, which had an Old World charm to it. The road led through the town with a few cross streets intersecting.

  “Nice enough spot if you want to stay hidden,” Lyons said.

  Bolan didn’t respond. He drove the car down the slope that brought them into Tyler Bay along the main street. Beyond the town the Atlantic stirred restlessly. A steady breeze pushed the gray water toward shore, frothing whitecaps on the waves. Rooms had been booked for them at the Tyler Grand Hotel. It was set in the middle of town, on a cross street, and Bolan drove off the street and eased the vehicle into a slot on the hotel parking lot.

  Misty rain was starting to drift in from the curving bay. When Bolan opened his door he felt the chill in the air. Lyons turned up the collar of his jacket and grimaced at his companion.

  “I’ll take Malibu anytime,” he rumbled.

  Bolan popped the trunk and removed his bag, slinging the one with their weapons over his shoulder. There was a second, smaller bag alongside Lyons’s, which held a big-screen laptop. They made their way to the front entrance and up the wooden steps leading inside. The lobby was spacious, and looked as if it came from an earlier era, but the bright-eyed young woman behind the desk was definitely from the twenty-first century.

  “Welcome to the Tyler Grand, gentlemen. Would you be Mr. Cooper and Mr. Benning?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lyons said, his mood lightening for the first time since leaving Stony Man.

  The woman smiled. “Miss, actually.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Bolan said. “He’s really just an old-fashioned boy.”

  “Straight off the farm?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  The woman pushed the register across the desk for them to sign in. She watched Bolan sign and write Washington in the home column. Lyons did the same.

  “Vacation?” she asked.

  “We just needed to get out of the city,” Lyons said. He patted his bag. “And take some pictures and write an article on Massachusetts for our magazine.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “You’d be surprised how city dwellers enjoy reading about places like Tyler Bay.”

  The woman handed them keys. “Really? Oh, nothing happens here. Now you go up the stairs to the first landing, turn left along the corridor. Is there anything you need?”

  “Pot of fresh coffee for two would be nice,” Bolan said.

  “I’ll have it sent up to your room, Mr. Cooper.” The woman found herself staring into Bolan’s blue eyes. A faint flush colored her cheeks for some reason. “About ten minutes? Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Fine,” Bolan said, smiling gently.

  BOLAN LEFT HIS DOOR open while Lyons took his main bag to his room, then returned with the laptop.

  “That was a fast move, Mack.”

  “Sorry?”

  “That girl at the desk was hooked.”

  Bolan shook his head. “Carl, are you developing a wild imagination?”

  Lyons grunted and crossed to the oak desk near the room’s window, which overlooked the street. He unzipped the bag and took out the laptop and a compact color printer. When Stony Man personnel had booked the rooms, they had asked for ones equipped with Internet access. Surprisingly the Tyler Grand had them in all rooms. Lyons connected the laptop and printer and opened the e-mail.

  “I’ll check with Aaron,” Lyons said. “See if he has a data update.”

  Bolan stowed the bag holding their weapons in the wardrobe, then opened his clothing bag and took out the slim leather folder that rested on top. Inside were sheets of paper with the Stony Man-created American Routes logo on the top, the magazine he and Lyons supposedly wrote for. He placed them on the writing table, along with a few pens and a compact digital camera.

  Lyons watched him. “Very professional.”

  “In case anyone gets curious.”

  “Uh-huh. You mean like Little Miss on the desk.”

  “Like covering our backs. Small town, Carl. Visitors are fair game. Something to talk about and talk can get overheard.”

  “CHIEF HARPER? IT’S ME. Those two guests just booked in. They’re in rooms 8 and 12. Cooper and Benning. What do I think? Something about them doesn’t gel. I mean, they’re supposed to be writers for some travel magazine but I don’t know. Very assured. Confident. To be honest I think you should keep an eye on them. They’re in a black late-model Crown Victoria. It’s parked in the hotel lot. Yes, I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.”

  The young woman replaced the handset. As she did a teenage girl walked by the desk, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and cups.

  “Room 8?” the girl asked.

  “That’s right, Lana.”

  LYONS SCANNED THE
TEXT from Kurtzman. He was about to call Bolan over when there was a knock on the room door. The coffee had arrived.

  “You ordered coffee, sir?” Lana asked as Bolan opened the door.

  The soldier reached for the tray. “Thanks. Carl, you got any cash?”

  “No need, sir, it’s my pleasure. Enjoy your coffee.” Lana reached out to pull the door closed as she moved away.

  Bolan placed the tray on a side table and poured two cups. He took one to Lyons, who pointed at the message on the laptop:

  Been running satellite sweeps. Checked Gantz’s place. The house overlooks the beach. A motor cruiser has been anchored in the bay near the house for the last few hours. Managed to get visuals of the cruiser’s name. Running a check on who owns it as a precaution. Still pulling in any intel I can find to do with the Brethren and any names that come up, especially Gantz. Feed you whatever looks interesting.

  Lyons erased the message, then pulled up a two-page document that featured Tyler Bay. The article was in unedited text and ended halfway along a sentence. He left it on the screen.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Wait until dark then check out the Gantz place,” Bolan said. “Hey, this coffee is okay.”

  Lyons had wandered over to the window, cup in hand. He leaned forward as something caught his attention. “Mack, take a look at this.”

  Bolan joined him and they watched a blue-and-white police cruiser roll into the hotel parking lot and stop next to the Crown Vic. Bolan saw the uniformed driver lean across and tap into his onboard computer.

  “He’s checking us out,” Lyons said. “Either Tyler Bay has a superefficient force, or we are being checked for other reasons.”

  “I’m guessing Little Miss has been reporting in.”

  Lyons grinned. “Sorry, Mack, looks like she isn’t lusting for your body after all.”

  “Another disappointment I’ll have to live with,” Bolan said.

  Lyons stayed at the window and watched until the Tyler Bay Police Department cruiser backed up, swung onto the street and drove off. He remained where he was, and his patience was rewarded when the cruiser did a U-turn and parked farther along the quiet street.

  “He’s staking us out.”

  “Let’s give him a long wait,” Bolan said. “Won’t be dark for a few hours and we aren’t going to leave until it is.”

  “IT’S JOHNSON on the radio for you, Chief.”

  Jason Harper, the town’s chief of police, pushed aside the report he was reading. “Patch him through, Edgar.”

  He pressed the button on his desk set. “Go ahead, Scotty.”

  “I’ve been sitting here for nearly five hours, Chief, and those guys haven’t moved. Can hardly see the damn hotel anymore. It’s dark and the fog’s rolling in real fast from the bay. You want me to stay on?”

  Harper checked his watch. “Give it another half hour, Scotty, then you can go home.”

  “Okay, Chief. See you in the morning.”

  Harper figured he’d done his duty where the newcomers were concerned. It looked as if they were what they claimed to be. The check on their vehicle had linked them to the American Routes magazine based in Washington. Maybe their article would stir enough interest in the town to pull in a few more tourists. Lord knew Tyler Bay could do with them. There wasn’t much else to the place now. The few boats that still fished the local waters didn’t bring in much money and once they quit…Harper didn’t like to think about that day.

  He leaned back in his seat, hearing the creak of the frame. He locked his fingers behind his head and stared across his cluttered office. The office and its contents, including himself, needed a damn good overhaul, Harper thought. Hell, the whole building needed an overhaul. The place had been around since the 1950s and that was a long time. Not that much ever happened in Tyler Bay. A tired little town, slowly fading away. Harper had been in charge of law and order for twenty years, and the department remained the same as it always had. He and his small force went through their routine day after day, though Harper sometimes wished something might happen just to break the monotony. He knew that was nothing more than wishful thinking. The folk who inhabited the town were decent and law-abiding, and he didn’t want anything to happen that might bring harm to them. There hadn’t been a major, or—come to think of it—a minor criminal incident since Homer Sprule had taken his shotgun and threatened a guy from the IRS when there had been a mix-up about tax assessment. It turned out there were two Homer Sprules in the county, and the IRS had sent the inspector to the wrong address. Harper chuckled when he recalled that incident. It came to him that had been more than eight years ago. He sighed. Some hot town, Tyler Bay.

  He pushed to his feet and reached for his hat. Passing through the main office he called out to the night deputy that he was going home and if anything came up needing his attention that’s where he would be. Outside he zipped his uniform leather jacket, turning up the collar. He could feel the damp fog against his face as he crossed to his parked department SUV. Once inside he fired up the powerful engine and turned out of the parking area. He flicked on his lights and turned up the radio so he could keep a check on anything coming in. With only four cruisers to patrol the town and surrounding county, Harper wasn’t expecting even a trickle, let alone a flood. He expected just another Tyler Bay Thursday night.

  HARPER DECIDED TO STOP and have something to eat. If he didn’t it would mean he’d have to get himself something after he got home. The thought did not appeal to him. Harper had fended for himself since his wife had died seven years earlier. He’d managed okay, but when he worked late he couldn’t face cooking a meal, so it was easier to head to the diner on Main Street.

  The diner had only a couple of customers in one of the booths. Harper acknowledged them as he made his way to the counter. He preferred sitting there because it gave him the chance to see Callie Rinehart. She was a special lady in Harper’s opinion. Very special. Red-haired, with striking green eyes and a laugh that hit the spot every time he heard it. Her husband had skipped out on her three years back, and the only time she’d heard from him again was in the form of divorce papers from somewhere in Nevada. She and Harper had first got together at the Tyler Bay Founders’ Day celebration twelve months ago. Since then they had formed a cozy relationship. Neither had made any definite commitment. They went out, spent time either at his or her place, and took things on a day-to-day basis. It suited them both. Work time was erratic for him and Callie, so they used what time they had available. Like tonight.

  Harper climbed on the stool he always used and waited for Callie. He smiled when she appeared, carrying the large china mug she kept for him. He watched her fill the mug with steaming black coffee and place it in front of him.

  “Chief.”

  “Callie.”

  She smiled. At thirty-six she was an attractive woman. Harper was fascinated by her facial structure. High cheekbones, a wide, generous mouth and the most even white teeth he had ever seen. There were times he questioned why she could be attracted to a forty-two-year-old man, admittedly not at his physical best. He didn’t question it too deeply. He considered himself a lucky man to have been blessed by knowing two exceptional women in his life.

  “And they say the art of conversation died the day television was invented.”

  “Not true, ma’am.”

  She touched his hand where it lay on the counter. Even that quiet gesture made him feel better. “You want me to stop by later?” she asked. “I’ll bring apple pie.”

  “Shame on you, girl, tempting an officer of the law.”

  “Whipped cream to go with it.”

  “Damn, there goes a twenty-year unblemished record.”

  “I didn’t realize you could be bought so easily.”

  “We all have our price.”

  Callie turned and called through his order. He always had the same when he came in at night. Steak and eggs, with fried potatoes and beans. It was his first meal since coming on duty. He s
eldom ate during the day, not having the patience to leave the office or to break off a patrol.

  A few more customers came in while Harper ate, so he didn’t get much more time to spend with her. He heard someone mention the fog was getting thicker. He finished his meal and had another coffee. Callie took his money and brought his change.

  “See you later, Chief.”

  “You watch that fog when you leave,” he said.

  “Going straight home?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I need to tidy up before you call.”

  “No need to do anything special just for me.”

  “I just need to clear out all the beer cans and fast-food cartons.”

  Harper gave her a wave and left the diner. The fog was getting thicker. The illumination from the street lighting made his SUV glisten where the moisture from the fog had layered the bodywork. As he unlocked the vehicle, Harper heard the mournful sound of a foghorn. Glancing to the east side of town, he caught a glimpse of the hazy lighthouse beam coming from the point.

  He had just reversed from the curb, turning the SUV around, when his radio burst into life.

  “Chief? Chief, this is Edgar.”

  Harper picked the mike off the hook. “Go ahead.”

  “I just had a call from out the point. Someone swears they heard gunshots coming from where that fellar Gantz lives.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Cruiser’s gone,” Lyons said.

  He had watched the police vehicle move off and head through the intersection. Lyons had remained at the window for a few more minutes just to be certain. Both he and Bolan were dressed in dark clothing, carrying their handguns under zipped jackets, while Bolan carried a small carryall that held his night-vision monocular. Slung from Lyons’s shoulder was a compact case that resembled a digital camera. Inside was a GPS unit that held the coordinates they would need to pinpoint Gantz’s home.