Patriot Play Page 3

  They left Bolan’s room and made their way down to the lobby. Little Miss was no longer behind the desk. A male receptionist glanced up as they walked by, then returned to his copy of Soldier of Fortune.

  Bolan carried the bag with additional weapons, which he deposited in the trunk. Lyons got behind the wheel of the Crown Vic and drove them out of the hotel lot. He passed the GPS unit to Bolan. Kurtzman had provided them with a map that would guide them to the area where Gantz lived. The map became even more helpful as they encountered the fog rolling in from the Atlantic. They had about eight miles to cover once they were clear of the town, as Gantz’s house was located on the coast in an area known as Tyler Point.

  “Think Gantz will spill what he knows?” Lyons asked.

  “He’ll spill,” was Bolan’s reply. He recalled the images in the photographs he’d viewed back at Stony Man. The callous disregard that had been displayed by the group behind the bombings was deeply imprinted in the soldier’s mind, and he refused to even attempt to blur them. He wanted them to remain sharp because they were the driving force behind his mission: to locate the bombers and bring them down.

  Executioner style.

  Bolan used his cell phone to check in with Kurtzman at Stony Man.

  “Nothing new for you, Striker. That fog you have down there is delaying any new intel on Gantz’s place. Satellites are blocked out.”

  “Just keep an eye out,” Bolan said.

  “I’ve got a trace running now on Gantz’s telephone. Nothing yet, but we might pick something up. He might have used his landline to call an associate. If you get close to him, see if he has a cell. More likely to have used that to make an indiscreet call.”

  “Call you later.”

  LYONS ROLLED the vehicle off the narrow tarmac road that passed by the Gantz house. He cut the engine and they went EVA. Once they were out of the car, Bolan checked the GPS unit and read the digital display.

  “That way.”

  They followed the directions of the unit, taking care to check the ground. The terrain at this proximity to the coastline could prove to be difficult and more so in the enveloping fog. According to the information received from Kurtzman earlier, the house was set on the edge of the beach and the water. From the tarmac a side road led directly to the house. From the location on the GPS unit they were left of that side road and within a couple hundred feet of the property. He switched off the unit and returned it to Lyons. They moved in the direction of the house.

  Bolan, slightly ahead of Lyons, held up a hand to halt them. He dropped to a crouch and used the night-vision monocular to check the area. The green-toned image, surprisingly clear and bright, showed Bolan a large 4x4 vehicle parked at the side of the road. He also pinpointed a man in a long leather coat, cradling a stubby submachine gun in his arms, leaning against the side of the 4x4. Bolan passed the monocular to Lyons. The big ex-cop took a look, then tapped his partner on the shoulder and passed the device back.

  “Looks like he’s on his own,” Bolan said. “But don’t take that as gospel.”

  Though he couldn’t see Lyons’s face when he spoke, Bolan was sure he was smiling when he said, “Think he’d like some company?”

  “Nobody enjoys being out in the cold.”

  Lyons slipped away.

  BOLAN STOWED the monocular in the shoulder case, slung it across his back, then moved in closer to the beach house. He made his move as fast as he could without creating any giveaway sound. He reached the wooden front porch and crossed it to flatten against the wall to the right of the door. He slipped the 93-R from its shoulder holster. Just to his right was a window. Bolan turned toward it. What he saw decided his course of action.

  And then the rattle of autofire came from the direction of the 4x4 and Lyons.

  From inside the house raised voices reached Bolan. There was muttered conversation; the sound of boots on a wood floor, coming in the direction of the door next to Bolan.

  The door was yanked open and an armed figure came into view, a raised MP-5 in his hands.

  The gunner came through the door without checking his perimeter. Bolan hit him full in the face with the Beretta. Flesh split and blood welled up immediately. The guy slumped against the door frame, his weapon forgotten in the world of pain that engulfed him. Bolan hit again, harder this time, and the groaning man went to his knees, then flat to the porch as the Executioner caught him around the neck, applied pressure and a hard twist that snapped his spine. Bending over the prone form, Bolan snatched up the MP-5, pushed his Beretta back into its holster, then checked the load for the weapon he had acquired.

  Turning, he kicked open the door and stormed into the house, his weapon tracking in on the men standing over the battered and bloodied form of Jerome Gantz. They swung around at his noisy entrance, realizing he wasn’t one of their own, and went for their holstered weapons. One of them also raised a handset he was holding and began to yell into it. His commands were drowned by the harsh crackle of the SMG in Bolan’s hands. He drove hard bursts into the guy with the handset, then swept the muzzle around and took down another hardman. That left one standing, and he had his handgun clear and opened fire the moment he spotted Bolan. The Executioner, ducking low and breaking to the left, had already moved, forcing the guy to track in again. Down on one knee, Bolan swept the guy aside with a sustained burst that blew the life from his body and slammed him to the floor in a mist of blood.

  From outside the house Bolan heard the stutter of an autoweapon. Then a brief pause was followed by the unmistakable boom of Carl Lyons’s Colt Python. Two shots rang out before silence fell.

  “On the boat. There are more on that boat,” someone whispered, the words slurred and spoken by a person in terrible pain. Bolan turned and met the pain-filled eyes of Jerome Gantz. His captors had stripped him to his shorts and tethered him to a wooden kitchen chair using fine wire around his wrists and ankles. Blood was seeping from where the wire had cut deep into his flesh, and the wooden floor around the chair was spattered with blood. Gantz’s face and body had been beaten to a bloody wreck. Blood dripped from a baseball bat on the floor close by. The white bone from his shattered left cheek gleamed through the split flesh. His lips were pulped, and bloody teeth hung by shreds from his gums. A bleeding gash lay open on his exposed skull. Livid red marks showed over his ribs and around his knees the flesh looked swollen and pulpy.

  “The Brethren?”

  All Bolan got was a tired nod from Gantz before the man’s head lolled forward against his bloody chest.

  A sweep of the open-concept room, which extended from living area to the kitchen, showed that someone had thoroughly trashed the place. Broken items littered the floor; every drawer and cupboard hung open; the furniture in the living area had been overturned. The TV had been tipped to the floor and smashed, and so had a CD player.

  Lyons appeared in the doorway, taking a look around the interior before stepping inside. His Colt Python was back in its holster, and he carried an MP-5 he had taken from the outside guard.

  “Somebody is really pissed at him,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact and holding no trace of pity for Jerome Gantz’s condition.

  “The Brethren,” Bolan said.

  “Coop, tell me why we’re bothering to save this dirtbag’s life.”

  Bolan was about to reply when he heard a distant raised voice. It came from the beach side of the house.

  Gantz’s warning: On the boat. There are more on that boat.

  Bolan jabbed a finger in the general direction of the rear entrance. “We need to clean house first.”

  It was enough for Lyons. He followed Bolan toward the door that exited onto the rear porch. The soldier paused for a heartbeat, reached for the handle and jerked the door open. He ducked low, went through and to the right. Lyons was on his heels, moving left away from the lighted rectangle of the open door.

  Their exit was accompanied by wild bursts of autofire. The rear porch was hit by heavy fire, wood splintering and shr
edding under the salvos. A window shattered, glass blowing into the house.

  The sea breeze that had pushed the fog inland had dispersed a greater part of it on the beach. Both Bolan and Lyons were able to pick out the moving silhouettes of the men behind the guns from where they now lay prone on the sandy beach. Bolan raised himself to a semicrouch and turned his MP-5 on the shooters, his calmly delivered volley cutting a bloody swathe through them, while Lyons’s SMG added its own deadly noise. Men went down yelling and screaming until there was none left standing except the single guy tending the inflatable raft that had brought the killing crew to shore. He witnessed the deaths of his partners and decided enough was enough. Turning, he shoved the inflatable through the incoming surf and threw himself on board, struggling to use the single oar. He might have made it if he hadn’t pulled the pistol holstered on his hip and fired warning shots in the direction of the beach.

  Lyons snapped in a fresh magazine from his confiscated weapon and returned fire. The MP-5’s 9 mm slugs shredded the rubber of the inflatable and cored into the shooter’s body. He fell back into the deflating folds of the boat and went down with it.

  Bolan made his way across the beach. He could just make out the dark bulk of the waiting boat riding the soft Atlantic swell. It showed running lights at bow and stern. He reached for the night-vision monocular and took it from the pouch slung across his back. When he peered into the lens he could see a clearer picture of the cruiser. The dark shape of men moved back and forth.

  And the dull gleam of misty light running the length of a gun barrel—a .50-caliber machine gun, was aimed in their direction. Bolan didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran in Lyons’s direction, hit him side-on and they thumped to the sand an instant before the boat-mounted machine gun opened up. The solid sound of the autofire, slightly dulled by the enveloping fog, hammered at the air. The intermittent flash of tracers told Bolan they were being fired at by professionals. The slugs pounded the sand, showering the men as they crawled away from the line of fire. Then the trajectory rose and the fire was hitting the house, pounding its way through the wooden structure, a long and incessant blast of fire that had no other intention than that of rendering the house into a wreck. The bloodied image of Jerome Gantz flashed through Bolan’s mind. Whatever had happened to the man before Bolan arrived would now be completed. He had no illusions—the directed gunfire was intended to make sure Gantz was dead.

  Someone was determined to kill the man.

  The question was, why?

  With everything that had happened it appeared more than likely that Jerome Gantz had been the man behind the design and construction of the massive bombs used in the devastating public attacks.

  For some currently inexplicable reason Gantz had been singled out for some kind of reprisal action. Torture? A savage beating? For something the Brethren wanted and now that they had failed, the death of Gantz was the final act. The seemingly overt act of destroying his home knowing Gantz was inside and helpless proved that thought.

  The hellish beat of the .50-caliber machine gun ceased abruptly. As Bolan raised his head, he heard the rumble of a powerful engine, the throbbing pulse of the screws as they pushed the cruiser away from the shore. He shoved to his feet and grabbed for the monocular, taking a hurried scan of the departing boat. He saw its stern as it disappeared into the fog, and picked out the shape of a man leaning against the stern rail. He was tall, the pale oval of his face indistinct. Bolan did see the cap of white-blond hair above the face. Short cut, almost spiky. It was an image he wasn’t about to forget.

  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.”