Don Pendleton - Patriot Play

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 seldom 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.”

“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.

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.