Don Pendleton: Patriot Play

Bolan smiled. “Miss Price, what do you think?”

“Me? Oh, above and beyond the call of duty from what I can recall.”

“Personal recommendations always welcome.”

Brognola was approaching from the other end of the corridor. “You two better come with me,” he said without a trace of humor.

Bolan fell in beside the big fed, Price close behind.

Brognola was fumbling in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a pack of antacid tablets. He eased one from the pack and put it in his mouth, which meant he was fretting. He led them to Kurtzman’s Computer Room where the cyberteam was gathered at their boss’s workstation. There was someone else Bolan recognized—Carl Lyons, commander of Able Team.

As Bolan stepped up to the workstation Lyons glanced up.

“Carl.”

“Looks like I called in on a bad day,” Lyons said.

“This came in a short time ago,” Kurtzman told them.

On the wall monitor was a replay of an earlier TV report. The picture was of a fenced compound, identified by the rolling text at the bottom of the picture. It was a National Guard depot in southwest Arizona. The metal mesh gates had been breached and when the camera panned around it showed smoking buildings and bodies lying on the ground.

“Two of our anonymous panel trucks,” Brognola said, “drove in through the gates and up to the buildings. Only a four-man squad of National Guardsmen manned the site. When they confronted the trucks they were cut down by autofire. The panel trucks must have been left outside each of the storage buildings and set off remotely. Vehicles were stored inside one building. The second was the armory. Both were razed to the ground by the truck bombs. It’s already been established that the explosive used was the same as the previous attacks.”

“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.”

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.