Don Pendleton - Blind Justice

“Don’t you fucking lose him,” he called.

Up ahead he could see the dark outline of Logan, framed at the far end of the alley. There was a moment when it looked as if he had stopped running, half turning to look back at his pursuers.

Then he broke into motion, plunging out of the alley and into the street beyond.

THE MAN CAME OUT of the alley, cutting directly across the rain-swept street and was caught in the glare of the SUV’s headlights. Tires squealed as the heavy vehicle violently braked, the forward motion arrested briefly as the rear end cycled around, the driver working the wheel with strong hands. It came to a rocking halt, the driver’s-side window level with the fleeing man. There was a frozen millisecond where the two men held face-to-face.

The sharp crack of an auto pistol was followed by a blinking muzzle flash, a second shot was fired, and the fleeing man was slammed against the SUV’s door. He tumbled away, going to his knees as the driver shoved open the door and exited the vehicle. He stood over the fallen man, a weapon filling his hands, and he returned fire in the direction of the two shadowed figures at the mouth of the alley. Whatever they might have expected, someone shooting back at them was not it. The shooter’s slug slammed into the brickwork at the mouth of the ally, splinters peppering them, and without continuing the attack the men fell back into the dark maw of the gap between buildings.

Wind gusted in the deserted street, driving the rain forward in chilled sheets. It was close to 1:00 a.m. and the backstreet area of the city, never heavily congested even in daylight, was devoid of pedestrians in the early hours.

The SUV’s driver leaned over and helped the wounded man to his feet. He opened the rear door and eased him inside the vehicle. He climbed back behind the wheel, dropped the lever into Drive and took the SUV away from the alley, making a fast turn, and headed for the city center.

“You okay back there?”

The wounded man had pulled himself to a sitting position. Pain from his wounds was starting to make itself known and it took him a moment to speak.

“Been better,” he said.

His rescuer glanced into the rearview mirror. He saw a gaunt face, eyes deep-set and dark-ringed. The hair plastered to the skull. Whatever had happened to the man had started well before the shooting. The problem was of long-standing.

“You need a hospital?”

“No hospital.”

“You’ve got a couple of bullets in you,” the driver said.

“Can’t risk a hospital. They have to report gunshot wounds and details go on computers.”

“You wanted by the police?”

The hoarse laugh from the rear seat held a cynical undertone. “Not in the way you might believe.”

“How do I interpret that?”

There was a silence as the man reached inside his rain-soaked jacket. He held an object the driver could see in the mirror.

It was a black leather badge holder, and the streetlamps reflected off the metal of a shield that identified the Seattle Police Department.

“I’m a cop,” the guy said. “The pair trying to bring me down were cops, too. Dunn and Brenner. I have something they want. My own squad captain, Fitch, is in on it, too. I was working undercover, on my own, and gathered one hell of a package of incriminating evidence against a guy named Kendal. Tyrone Kendal. And get this. He’s a U.S. senator. Powerful man. Ruthless bastard. All started with a few rumors I got from one of my informants. Tied in with a case I was already working. So I turned my attention to Kendal and some of the lowlifes on his payroll. Didn’t realize what I was into until I’d worked myself in deep. Spent a couple of months on it. Started to get results. Pictures. Video. Telephone voice recordings. Even managed to get into some of Kendal’s computer files. The guy is into real nasty stuff. Blackmail. Bribery. He has a number of influential people by the balls. Other politicians. Business executives. Those three cops are banking payoff money—big bucks, too. One of my informants calls and tells me to get the hell out. Said I was blown. Next day they pulled his body out of the water. He’d been cut to pieces. I put my information together and checked into a hotel. Called my wife and told her to lie low until I had things sorted. I tried to bring one of the squad heads in on what I had. He reacted weird. I got the feeling he was working me. That was Fitch. Proved out when I found I was being followed. I managed to lose the tail, then realized the son of a bitch was working for the people I’d fingered. So I went off the grid. I’m trying to stay one step ahead while I try to figure out what to do. Who to trust now. When I called Rachel she warned me to stay away from the house. It was being watched.”

There was a soft sound as the guy passed out and slumped across the rear seat. The driver decided his next move in seconds, turning the SUV at the upcoming junction and heading across town. He had made a swift decision, knew where he had to go, even though at that moment he had no idea where his choice would take him.

Be it by chance.

Fate.

A coming together of the two of them. He didn’t know. All he was aware of was the wounded man in his vehicle. The guy carried a problem on his shoulders. And by stepping in he was now involved.

His commitment was dictated by his nature. The unspoken trait that seemed to bring him by time and place into direct contact with those in need of help.

And no one in such circumstances would ever be ignored by the driver of the SUV.

His name was Mack Bolan.

In a past time, in another place, due to his actions, he had been called Sergeant Mercy.

On that rain-swept night in Seattle that was the persona he was channeling. But within a short time the twists and turns of life would click him into his other alter ego.

The Executioner.

Chapter 2

Marty Keegan felt the cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He didn’t need to check who was calling him because there was only one person who knew the number. The cell was a burn phone, purchased ten days ago when Ray Logan had taken himself off the grid and vanished. Keegan eased out of his seat, walking away from his desk and out of the squad room. As he reached the corridor outside he eased the phone from his pocket and keyed the button to accept the call.

“Hey, Ray,” he said.

Logan’s voice sounded tired. “I was ready to switch off,” he said.

“Sorry, buddy. I had to get out of the squad room before I answered.”

“You got anything for me?”

“Brenner and Dunn are acting like a couple of nervous old ladies. I’d be surprised if they’re not in with Fitch. They’re just standing around in a huddle and they break off if anyone goes near them. They came into the squad room last night looking like drowned rats. Dunn had a fat lip, like someone had punched him out. Don’t know what they’d been up to.”

“They were laying in wait for me near my hotel,” Logan said. “Damn near let them take me, too. I slugged Dunn and managed to break away and run through an alley. Thought I was clear until I almost got myself run down. One of those bastards put a couple of slugs in me and I would have been finished if the driver of the SUV I ran into hadn’t fired back at them, thrown me into his car and drove off.”

“You hurt bad?”

“I’ve been in better health.”

“Where the hell are you, Ray?”

“Not quite sure. Out of the city. I’m not being vague, buddy. I just don’t know. I passed out a few times. When I came round the last time I was in a bed, bandaged up, hurting like crazy. The guy from the SUV told me the bullets had been removed. Racked up my shoulder some and one had cracked a couple of ribs. When I asked him he told me a doctor had dealt with me. Gave me blood. Pumped painkillers into me and left instructions that I wasn’t to be moved for a few days. Said I had some kind of infection.”