Don Pendleton - Patriot Acts

“But everyone breaks eventually,” Dozier said.

“And while I’m doing that, the rest of your organization continues its operation, killing innocent American citizens,” Bolan countered. “I’d spend the time to break you at the cost of what, thirty? A hundred? A thousand lives? Nah. I’ll just let you go as a goat. When your friends pop up to eliminate you, I pounce on them. I work up the food chain. A worm to catch a small fish. A small fish to catch a big fish. A big fish to catch the shark.”

Dozier shook his head. “They’ll know I didn’t talk.”

“Like you just said—everyone breaks. Especially after the beating you’ll take from my friends,” the Executioner said.

Dozier frowned. He reached for the handcuffs. “I’ve got rights.”

Dozier’s head bounced from the force of Bolan’s fist, and he sprawled across the floor.

“I told you, you have no rights. You’re a dead man,” Bolan stated. “Now get out of here.”

Dozier looked at the gauntlet he’d have to run. He knew the big man was right. There was someone out there who would eliminate him. He struggled to sit in the chair, holding on to the restraint bar. “I’m staying,” he said quietly.

Bolan’s next punch rocked Dozier’s head.

“Ask something!” Dozier snapped, thick, blood-filled spittle spraying all over Bolan’s pants.

“It’ll be a dead end,” Bolan replied. “Now go.”

Blood dripped from Dozier’s mouth. “We’re government. Not Treasury. We’re called the Rose Initiative,” he said.

“Never heard of it,” Bolan said.

“Rose Initiative,” Dozier repeated.

He regarded the Executioner. This was a man used to violence. He could see the hardness in his expression, the streaks of scar tissue on his skin. His very stance was one of restrained, explosive violence. But except for a few love taps, Dozier was unharmed.

“I told you, that name means nothing to me,” Bolan replied. “Maybe if you make it mean something, I won’t hang you out on the street as bait.”

“The Rose Initiative is a semiofficial entity. We’ve had the blessing of various administrations since the fifties,” Dozier said. “But we don’t officially exist. Not on paper. Any sanction we get is merely implied.”

“This way if you get caught, you can be denied—operating outside of government policy,” Bolan surmised.

Dozier nodded.

“Who do you report to?” Bolan asked.

“Nobody official,” Dozier said. “We’re in the cold.”

Bolan frowned. “But still close enough to the warmth to get legitimate T-man badges.”

Dozier shrugged. He winced at the simple motion, remembering how the big man had used enough leverage to almost pop his shoulder out of shape.

“Who told you about the money at the crime lab?” Bolan asked.

“It came up on a computer watch,” Dozier answered.

Bolan nodded.

Dozier wiped blood from his mouth. “I don’t have anything on the upper levels of management. I’m just a grunt.”

“Who’s your immediate superior?”

“Winslow Spelling’s about the only one I can assume is still out and around. He came with us as our driver, and the man’s a snake,” Dozier said.

“Where does this snake have his nest?” Bolan asked.

Dozier rattled off the name of a hotel and room number. “If he’s still there.”

“So why did you come after the money?” Bolan pressed.

“To cover up our involvement with the renegade,” Dozier admitted.

“The assassin went rogue?” Bolan asked.

“Killed his handler at LAX. He’s officially off the reservation,” Dozier said. “We’re trying to burn any leads back to us.”

“So who’s your rogue?” Bolan asked.

Dozier winced. “Cameron Richards.”

“Identifying features?”

Dozier shook his head. “The man’s a complete chameleon. It’s why we picked him, because he can disappear in a crowd.”

“He didn’t disappear yesterday. He went through the crowd like a chain saw,” Bolan growled.

“He might be off his medication,” Dozier mused.

Bolan tilted his head.

“Mood suppressants keep him malleable enough for our purposes, yet leave him lucid enough to be a top line operative,” Dozier explained. “Richards was a washout from special operations. His whole team is. Too violent, too ready to buy into whatever holy crusade. Richards was a true believer, and we milked his psyche to take advantage of that.”

“So why Amanijad?” Bolan asked.

“Discrediting the hard-core factions. We wanted it to look like one of the radical right decided to begin the second Civil War early,” Dozier said.

“Second Civil War?” Bolan asked.

Dozier nodded. “From the ashes of modern corrupt society, a new phoenix will rise. That’s the joke of the Initiative’s name. We’ve already risen.”

Bolan’s eyes narrowed.

“Richards has taken on real threats as well. But he’s still convinced that the union will shatter again. And this time, the rift won’t be healed,” Dozier said.

“You’re cultivating this?” Bolan asked.

“No. A little tension is good. It keeps the attention off us while we do what we have to,” Dozier explained. “The problem is that some of the hard right have been…examining some of our roots. Conspiracy theorists who in their quest to find the New World Order were sniffing too close to our home.”

“And for that, dozens of innocent people had to be killed and wounded?” Bolan asked.

Dozier nodded. “Corpses made by our enemies create excellent distractions.”

“Then you’re going to love this, Dozier,” Bolan said. He turned toward the open the door.

“What are you doing?” Dozier asked.

“Walking out. You can go run to the Rose Initiative, and you can tell them I’m on their trail,” Bolan explained.

“What?”

“You think I’m going to give my word of honor to a liar and a murderer? Get real. I’ve got what I wanted,” Bolan told him. “You are the purest form of scum I’ve dedicated my life to destroying.”

“The Rose Initiative will kill me!” Dozier cried.

“Someone should,” Bolan said. He closed and locked the door behind him.

Brognola would have someone take care of the venomous thug.

ALLISON CALLAHAN WAS a classically beautiful woman. She had thick, lustrous strawberry-blond hair and a curvaceous figure, and Bolan could see a keen, calculating intellect behind her sparkling hazel eyes. She examined Bolan as if he were a slide subject under a microscope. She held out her hand and he took it. Her grip was firm.

It made sense. As a forensic scientist, Callahan had developed a handshake that was cop-proof. She had to have expected Bolan to come forward with a knuckle-grinding grasp. Her smile was all the evidence the Executioner needed to ascertain the truth of his suspicion.

“You must be Agent Matt Cooper,” Callahan said. She eyed his knuckles. “Been having a rough day.”

“Chasing down the thugs who attacked the crime lab,” Bolan said.

Callahan looked him in the eyes. She wasn’t convinced by Bolan’s explanation. The bruises on his strong, callused hands were too livid to be anything other than fresh.

“Having a talk with one of them,” Bolan added.

Callahan nodded. “He most likely deserved everything you gave him.”

“He’ll be regretting his decision for a while,” Bolan said.

She looked questioningly at him, but the Executioner’s cold gaze informed her that the subject was closed.

“What have you got for me on the three you got to see?” Bolan asked.

“We’re running checks on them now,” Callahan stated. “The coroner examined their stomach contents, thinking we could narrow down where they were before they launched the raid.”