Don Pendleton - Patriot Play

“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.