He took a sip from a thermos full of coffee. Now just after dawn, he was doing 55 on the interstate.
Earlier, he’d reserved a motel room using the smartphone on the Lamborghini’s dash. He pulled into the lot and parked. He caught a weary, curious glance from an old man sweeping the sidewalk.
“Nice car,” the elderly man told him.
“Thanks. It’s borrowed, though,” Bolan answered. “I needed a quick ride.”
“Where’s the fire?” the old man asked.
Bolan paused for a moment then replied, “The Foster Portman Women’s Health Center.”
He nodded. “Yeah, there’s been trouble. Heard about that on the news.”
“Heard anything else?” Bolan asked.
“If I did, I’d tell ya, son. You look like you could put out a few fires here.”
“Yeah?” Bolan said.
The old man grinned. “Yeah. You must be the guy who phoned ahead with that motel app.”
“I must be,” Bolan returned.
“I’ll get you the key,” he told the Executioner. “Nice thing about those programs, you can pay by credit card right on the phone.”
“Makes cross-country travel easier,” Bolan admitted.
The old man smirked. “Y’all look like a rambling man.” He ducked into the office.
Bolan left his Pelican case in the Lamborghini, but did take out his more conventional luggage before the man could see the weapons bag. The clerk came back and underhand lobbed the room key to Bolan. “I’ve been known to wander.”
“Thanks, Mr. Cooper,” the clerk said. “I’m Joseph. I’m the one who keeps the odd hours running this place. Jessica works mornings and Baxter does afternoon to evening.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said. He offered Joseph a handshake. The older man smiled and gripped the Executioner’s hand firmly.
“Just so you know, Mel’s Diner is the one with the best coffee and bacon and eggs. It looks greasy, but it’s cheap, it’s good, and what it doesn’t put into decoration, it makes up for with good food. And the health inspector doesn’t need bribes from the owner.”
“Thanks.”
“Mel’s also has the best gossip, if you sit for a bit.”
Bolan nodded and gave a slight salute to the clerk before heading to his room.
Right now, it was time to unpack and organize.
Chapter Three
Bolan had allowed himself an hour’s nap in his motel room. Under the pretense of fetching his windbreaker from the car, he’d first grabbed the Desert Eagle and folded it into the fabric, easily concealing the weapon. He wouldn’t take it to breakfast with him.
The Beretta, on the other hand, with its flush-fit magazine in the grip, scabbarded under an untucked shirt, would ride with him. Not considered an inside-the-waistband pistol at best, and with an extra inch and a half of barrel, the 93-R would be too much for most people to conceal. Luckily, Bolan was over six feet tall and broad-shouldered. His shirt hung wide and his hips draped his slacks well over the long handgun. If things really went wrong, the machine pistol would be as powerful and useful as an AK-47 in countering all but the very worst of urban violence.
Joseph was correct about the diner. When the coffee kicked in, any last shreds of fatigue were washed away. Breakfast was hearty, and Bolan filled his belly. His ears filled, too.
People were talking about the politics of yesterday’s big shooting incident and the rumors. This was when he realized that a couple of the people at the diner’s counter were clerks from a nearby police station. It wasn’t the same station as the one where the domestic terrorist had been taken, but rumors flew quickly between precincts, especially among the support staff.
Bolan listened in and picked up a couple of rumors.
The clinic shooter had been taken alive. An officer had been watching the cell in the squad room, and the prisoner had killed the cop with his own sidearm. The shooter had then turned the gun on himself, but failed to fire a kill shot. While in a squad room scrum, the suspect had managed to secure a second gun and was ultimately stopped by a third officer.
The investigation of the dead assailant had been put on the back burner, simply because there was no one to prosecute. He was a lone gunman, and a self-resolved problem.
Bolan’s phone alerted and he looked at it. Dr. Annis Hassan had texted his dead drop. He opened the transmission and saw a photograph of a 3x5 note card.
A police officer gave me this. To look into the issue. You were the only one I could think to contact.
Bolan blew up the image and took note of names, addresses and other data on the screen, then texted Hassan back.
Already in town for another reason. Be with you as soon as I can.
Bolan looked outside and scanned the area. He could present his Justice Department credentials at a local FBI office and procure a car that wouldn’t stand out in Mobile like a neon-yellow spacecraft. A government “unmarked car” however would be as obvious as the Lamborghini. He checked via his phone and found a used car lot three blocks away.
That was perfect. Used car lots had a fifty-fifty chance of handing over a vehicle for a wad of crisp cash. Thanks to the drug dealer who “loaned” Bolan the Huracan, he had several stacks of those. He paid for breakfast and left the waitress a hefty tip.
On foot, he made good time to the lot and looked around. Many of the vehicles were rusted and battered. But a look under the hoods and a peek with a mirror at the shock towers showed him that they were serviceable. He narrowed it down to three interesting vehicles. The first was a twelve-year-old Ford Transit van. The second was a 1960 VW delivery van. And the third was a rust-patina-painted Chevy Nomad.
The Nomad had been upgraded over the years. From the looks of the engine, it’d been given a modern Camaro engine and carburetor to allow it to use modern unleaded fuel. The original power plant would not perform well, but this version promised at least 450 horsepower and plenty of room for equipment. It was a beautiful machine, and tempted the Executioner, but its rust-patina paint job and the teal base, as well as a racing sticker on the side, made it far too memorable.
The Volkswagen delivery van would be less memorable, and someone had replaced the original 1.5-liter Flat 4 with a 2-liter version with turbo charging.
In the end, he picked the most boring and overlooked vehicle, the Ford Transit. The van had a 2.3-liter Eco Boost engine, which meant it would be fuel-efficient but decidedly not lacking in oomph. On paper, 200 horsepower didn’t seem like much, but 360 pound-feet of torque meant that it would not be sluggish. If he had to knock a car out of his way, he’d send the barricade vehicle spinning. Bolan got the van for eight thousand dollars, paid for it with twenties and drove it off the lot with temporary plates.
Bolan brought the van back to the motel and spent a few minutes transferring his luggage from the Huracan to the Transit.
“Need help, Mr. Cooper?” a perky voice asked him as he closed the back of the van.
“You must be Jessica,” Bolan said.
“That I am,” she answered. Jessica was a stout woman. She was pretty, with an engaging smile and liquid brown eyes. And she looked like she could pick up a bed with one hand to vacuum beneath it. “You’re already done moving your luggage?”
“Sorry, yes.” He knew motel staff relied on tips as much as waitresses did, and if workers had the opportunity to pick up a few bucks moving luggage, they would. But he didn’t want to explain the weapons cases for his long guns.
“Since I’m not going to be using that in town—” he nodded at the Huracan “—I’ll need someone to put it somewhere out of sight.”
“Yeah, something this nice parked here is going to anchor a lot of eyeballs on you,” Jessica said. “And judging by your new wheels, you don’t need the attention.”
Bolan arched his brow.
Jessica chuckled. “
Most people wouldn’t notice the way you shield your right hip, meaning you’ve got something there that you don’t want seen. I’ve dealt with enough cops and gangbangers to know you’re packing. Joseph said you were looking for information. This place isn’t exactly top-of-the-line accommodations. There are three hooker offices spread among our rooms, and the second floor is a back-door pill clinic, sometimes dealing out opioids, but also other forms of hard-to-get medicine.”
“All I need is a clean room. I’m not fussy, and I don’t judge,” Bolan said. Indeed, the phone app had come with reviews, and mention of the amount of seedy activity going on had drawn him to the place like a moth to a flame. He handed Jessica a couple of twenties and the keys to the Lambo. “You don’t have to hole it up right now, but at least get it out of sight until you do. There’ll be a tip in it once you bring a parking receipt.”
“You want a receipt for a stolen car?” Jessica asked.
“It’ll look bad if you don’t get a receipt, and we can always destroy our copy,” Bolan said. “Sunglasses and a nice big hat should help with disguising yourself if it’s a garage with security cameras.”
Jessica snorted. “Honey, I’ve been around the block a time or two.”
That elicited a smile from Bolan. Though Joseph and Jessica operated on the gray side of the law, he could trust them. If they tried to screw him, their cozy operation would be jeopardized. These people wanted repeat business and word of mouth, and screwing over someone hiding out in their motel ruined both.
Bolan got in the van and took off for Dr. Hassan’s home, GPSing the address Price had sent him earlier.
Expecting that someone would be kicking around Hassan’s home, the Executioner was on the lookout for something out of place or some sort of covert action. He wasn’t disappointed.
As he neared the block of apartments where she lived, he noticed another van much like his. That one, though, had blacked-out windows. Two men stood at the rear of the vehicle, but he could see no stack of tools laid out on the van’s bed between the open doors. However, Bolan could see a dark blanket with several slender objects concealed beneath it. The van was too clean, with no sign of equipment needed by a repair crew.
The appearance of the two men demanded closer scrutiny. They each had crude blue-black tattoos. He recognized the symbolism in one guy’s “Crew 1488” and other phrases. “Blut and Ehre” were red flags on the forearms of the other man, being German for “blood and honor.”
The Executioner knew from experience that men with that kind of ink would be not be charitable to anyone whose blood they didn’t like. The 14 in “Crew 1488” stood for the fourteen-word oath of white supremacists: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.” And 88 stood in for HH, short for “Heil Hitler.” Neither of these two seemed to be wearing their colors ironically. They were burly, and wore neckerchiefs and sunglasses. Hard hats covered their hair, as well, so that when they walked in front of a security camera, they would be hard to identify.
All of that was rolling through the Stony Man warrior’s head as he observed them. He decided to park halfway down the next block and double back. Their stance showed that they were in for a wait and that they weren’t too close to the weapons hidden under the dark blanket. He could have been wrong, but there were too many different flags for Bolan to discount. He parked, made certain that he had two 20-round magazines for his Beretta and walked back toward Hassan’s apartment building.
The other van had been parked in front of the apartment complex. As Bolan closed in on them, the two men straightened. He was a big, imposing man. Their sudden fixation and agitation told him all he needed to know. The Executioner had faced hundreds of anxious gunmen ready to bust into someone’s home. Their reaction to him was unmistakable.
For Bolan, there was no “circumstantial evidence,” just experience with situations and people like these. The timing, the behavior, the whole kit, all registered in the space of seconds. As he approached, one guy stepped closer to the open rear doors of the van. Bolan waited, but the other man cleared his throat and shook his head.
Bolan looked at the sticker wrap on the side of the van. “Gas problem? My girlfriend’s not gonna like this.”
“She live here?” asked the man who had checked the response of his companion.
“Yeah. Fourth floor,” Bolan answered.
“That’s where we’re looking.”
“Why would an electrical service company be investigating a gas problem?” Bolan asked.
One man looked at the other. The guy who’d reached for the blanket rushed to the items underneath it. The more cautious man was split between attacking the Executioner and stopping his friend. Bolan kicked him in the chest. He grunted and crashed backward to the asphalt.
The downed man’s companion flung aside the blanket and bared an assault rifle. Bolan hit the would-be shooter in the kidney with a hard, projected knuckle punch. The impact folded the man sideways in a spasm of agony and his fingers were unable to make contact with the rifle. The Executioner cupped his hand around the back of the stunned man’s head and pushed hard.
Scalp met the frame of the van’s rear doorway and flesh yielded and split. Eyes unfocused, the guy took a stumbling step backward. Suddenly concussed, he forgot about the weapons under the blanket. Bolan seized him by the throat and stuffed him into the back of the van. Rifles clattered as the stunned would-be shooter rolled over them.
Bolan fished a nylon cable tie from a pouch on his belt and secured the guy’s wrists. Another was looped around his ankles. He connected the two bound sets of joints together with a third. Bolan wouldn’t win a blue ribbon at a rodeo, but he’d be a contender with the speed at which he’d trussed the man.
As this all took about twenty seconds, the man who’d taken a near paralyzing kick to the chest was only just starting to stir. Recovering his breath, one hand snaked into a voluminous pocket in his pants. Bolan hopped out of the back of the van and delivered a steel-toed kick to the man’s wrist. There was an ugly wet snap, and the forearm was bent and bloody. Bolan tugged the guy’s hand free from the pocket and looked for what he went after.
A snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson Centennial came into view. With no hammer, the tiny revolver was a quick draw from a front pocket, and could be fired from within a coat without jamming. Bolan tucked the Centennial away and lifted the fake repairman.
“You forgot that you put an electrical service company sticker wrap on your van,” Bolan said. “Rookie mistake. Always keep track of your cover.”
“Fuck you. That Arab bitch is still gonna die,” the thug growled.
Bolan thrust his thumb under the man’s jaw, squeezing hard. There was a major blood vessel and a cluster of nerve cells there, and the man’s eyes bugged out with the sudden influx of pain. Torture wasn’t the Executioner’s style, but he needed information quickly. He glanced at the floor of the van. There were four rifles, so more than one man had gone into the apartment building.
He was glad that the rifles had been left behind, but considering the pistol he’d found, Bolan had a hunch that the others would be armed. He timed the thumb pressure, then released it. His captive’s eyes uncrossed and he sucked down a breath.
“How many went in?”
The man sneered. “You’re getting nothing out of me.”
“Fine,” Bolan said, clenching his fingers around the man’s throat. It was a one-handed choke, and he took care not to crush his captive’s windpipe. He needed answers, not a dead man. However, something clicked in his mind. When he swung the captive around, he heard jangling from within the man’s other pocket. He looked toward the driver’s seat then back to his prisoner. Bolan felt the pocket.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” the man choked out as Bolan released the pressure on his throat and stuck his hand in his captive’s pocket.
He fished out a ring of
keys for the van. At a glance he knew it was a rental, thanks to a rubber tag. The keys hadn’t jingled so much against each other, as plastic heads prevented it. However, the driver had loose shells in his pocket that had rattled against the keys.
“Two or three?” Bolan growled at the man. He pushed the .38 revolver against the guy’s chin.
“Three. Three of them went in...” the driver gasped.
“Jethro?” It was a summons from the other side of the van. “Boy, where’d you git?”
Bolan’s captive suddenly grinned. “You’re fucked!”
“Sorry, Jethro,” Bolan answered. He pulled up the captive and used him as a human shield, stepping out from behind the van. “Drop your weapons!”
Bolan didn’t aim the revolver at his captive’s head, but the driver’s broad shoulders were enough to minimize the Executioner’s vulnerability to the newcomers. True to the prisoner’s word, there were three men. One of them wielded a big .44 Magnum Ruger revolver. The other two had .45-caliber semiautomatic pistols, and one of them was thumb-cocking his weapon.
If they heard Bolan’s order, they didn’t comply. The one who’d thumb-cocked his .45 immediately betrayed his lack of training. Hammer down carry for the former Army Issue Colt .45 Automatic Pistol was not a part of military training. One either carried it with the hammer down and the firing chamber empty in accord with combat counterintuitive army safety procedures, or cocked the hammer on a live chamber then applied the safety catch.
Bolan glanced at the other man with the same pistol. He hadn’t even drawn back the hammer; it sat in the resting position. It would take him seconds to get into the fight. That left the man with the big iron in his hand, and that .44 Magnum revolver was cocked and steady. Despite his archaic choice of firearms, the guy knew what he was doing.
Bolan heaved his prisoner at the man with the .44 Ruger Blackhawk. The gun boomed, but the gunslinger had shifted his aim so that the big bullet only tore open the shoulder of the captive driver. The Executioner fired the .38 revolver, two rounds to the sternum and one to the face. The would-be killer with the Colt .45 flopped backward, but not before his finger jerked on the trigger. Hot air rushed past Bolan’s ear, the crack of the slug a dull thump.
Righteous Fear Page 4