Lemmon’s eyes narrowed. “And if he doesn’t bend over for your line of bullshit?”
Flyright smirked. “You forget. Most of the world is looking for some kind of bullshit to believe in. Faith is the night crawler you dug up the night before your fishing trip. So far, I’ve snagged smaller fry, but this is the great old catfish, the ruler of the lake. And my personal crusade and his are likely not too different.”
* * *
Bolan lowered his eye from the sniper scope leveled at Morris Flyright’s window. The scope was not attached to a rifle but to a laser microphone, which picked up vibrations within the office created by speech. The laser measured distances at an imperceptible scale, which then transformed the variation in vibrations into speech. Bolan had been using this kind of technology for years. He listened to Lemmon and Flyright talk, but the statement that the evangelist made about people looking for “bullshit” to believe in was like a slap in the face for anyone searching for meaning to his or her life.
The Executioner could see that the bloody fingers of greedy men, with a bottom line of profit and power, had hijacked a new religious franchise and transformed it into an ever-growing pyramid scheme, in violation of the rules and honesty that had once been at the heart of their corrupted message.
Flyright was no different from an Imam who directed his followers to fly jumbo jets into skyscrapers. So far, the scale of his terrible death toll hadn’t matched some of the worst of another faith’s fanatics, but Flyright’s crusade was murderous and opportunistic just the same.
Bolan had a rifle within arm’s reach and he’d be entirely justified in taking it and blowing off the head of the evangelist. The Executioner could find a way to defeat the bullet-resistant glass that shielded Flyright from the outside world. Lemmon—the younger Lemmon—was a relative innocent with very little blood on his hands. His discomfort with the violence roiling in Mobile, Alabama, gave him extra points of favor in Bolan’s eyes.
A thief and a con artist could lead to death and destruction, but here, so far, Bartleby Lemmon was no mass murderer.
The Executioner had one certain target. The New Jersey con men could wait until they hitched up closer and took advantage of their violent and intolerant followers. When that moment arose, Bolan would have no qualms. As it was now, Lemmon looked ready to pull out of any agreement that Flyright would mention.
“You think that he’s going to come right into your lap?” Lemmon asked. “He’ll plop down like a puppy and roll over for your belly scratches?”
“Absolutely, Bart,” Flyright said. “I know men like this.”
Bolan took out his cell and dialed Flyright’s office.
He heard the phone ring. The evangelist had a receptionist, but Bolan had a direct, and allegedly secured line, that bypassed that nicety. Flyright’s eyes widened with surprise as his phone in his breast pocket alerted.
“What?” Flyright fumbled with the lapel of his jacket. It took him moments to fish the device from its hiding place. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“Well, you said that our crusades are compatible. Are you so surprised that I could find your phone number?” Bolan asked.
Flyright dropped the cell phone as if it were a tarantula. “Jesus Christ!” His wide, terrified eyes flashed to the windows around his office.
Lemmon sat stone-still, sweat beading his forehead.
Bolan worked a program on his phone’s screen, taking over command of Flyright’s device. Stony Man Farm’s hackers had already worked their way into the man’s cell phone, draining every bit of hard intelligence from its memory. The tools used to dig around inside the man’s privacy could also be used to remote control his phone. Bolan set it to speaker.
“Morris, is that any way to treat your kindred crusader?” Bolan asked. “You said that you could have me throw in with your battle. That you knew exactly what you wanted to do with me. You’ve snagged the great old catfish, so reel me in.”
“That was a private conversation!” Flyright bellowed.
Through his scope, Bolan watched as Lemmon grew more and more frightened. It was as if Bolan had pulled the trigger on a slow-burning musket. Flyright’s fuse burned brightly, and Lemmon knew the cannon was about to fire, though he didn’t know where the muzzle was aimed, or if even the breech could contain such an explosion.
Bolan was tempted to take a shot at the office window’s glass. To give Flyright an idea where his stalker had hidden. Of course, the Birthright University office tower stood out on the campus. The Executioner’s nest was not at the same level as the penthouse office, which meant that such an act would do more to expose his position.
“I gave you an order,” Bolan said. His voice hardened. Flyright had received orders from only one man before—his own father. Given the way that Flyright expanded his father’s old dreams, creating a world-reaching university and buying up real estate far and wide, Flyright Junior had been released from his leash, and begun to pursue his own dreams.
It was the right button to press on Flyright, as the crooked evangelist lurched forward and kicked his chair over. “No one orders me!”
“Your very existence is supposed to be submission to the Lord,” Bolan said. “But I guess without your earthly father, you don’t have to listen to even your heavenly father.”
“Fuck you!” Flyright bellowed. He slapped the cell phone off the desk where it crashed against the window. Bolan’s signal was lost to talk to the man’s phone, but he still had the laser microphone to hear what was going on. Through the scope, Bolan continued to follow his opponent’s drama.
Lemmon scrambled out of his chair, folded his briefcase and rushed toward the elevator.
“No! You don’t get to leave, rich boy!” Flyright snapped.
“Yes, I do!” Lemmon replied. “You’re not the person my family entered into business with. You ply me with whores! You admit to causing violence, a war in your home city for a tract of land!”
Flyright’s face distorted. Bolan knew that kind of snap and reached for his rifle. Lyons had packed heavy for his trip here to Mobile, and as it was a trip to meet the Executioner, the Able Team commander had brought something substantial and with enough range. It was a familiar design to the Executioner—the M-2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle in .300 Winchester Magnum. It was an up-caliber version of his old service rifle, the M-24.
The Executioner shouldered the .300 Magnum rifle even as Flyright rushed for his desk drawer. Bolan heard Lemmon slap the elevator call button, heard the drawer open, heavy metal bouncing on the inside of the desk.
The Stony Man warrior sighted through the scope and saw that Flyright, in his fury, fumbled with a gun that he had stored away in his drawer.
Bolan pulled the trigger on his rifle, aiming away from the evangelist. The bullet smacked the resistant glass, cracking it just as Flyright got the weapon clear. The sudden impact of Bolan’s round on his window startled Flyright enough that he dropped the weapon.
Within a moment, the elevator doors slid open and Lemmon hurled himself inside.
Flyright scrambled to get his gun off the floor. He came up over the desktop and pulled the trigger, but all he harmed were the closed doors of the elevator. The way Lemmon had cringed in the corner of the car, a shocked expression on his face, Bolan was certain that even if the cannon had somehow penetrated, the bullets would be high and have missed the real-estate scam artist.
“You gave me an order? You dared to give me an order? Well, where are your taunts now?”
Bolan answered him with another cracked window. The bullet-resistant glass was good, because a .300 Winchester Magnum round was designed for penetration of body armor at long ranges. However, the Executioner had left lightning-shaped scars on the two windows that he’d shot. He figured he could bring the window down with two more trigger pulls.
Flyright’s death in his office was not the
goal today. He wanted to make certain that the evangelist could put his people, his violent people, together in a place where the Executioner could easily either eliminate them or render them harmless. Flyright aimed at one of the windows that Bolan had cracked and fired off three shots. The Executioner recognized the roar of a Desert Eagle.
The bullets embedded in the glass, causing a little more stress to the pane. Bolan decided to clear out the glass, and fired a third round. The window turned white, fractures spreading like a sheet of lightning. The next instant, it disappeared, cubes raining down to the ledge beneath the panel. Flyright took that as an invitation to empty the magazine through the empty space.
“I’ll kill you!” Flyright bellowed.
“You’re welcome to try,” Bolan said softly. He wished that he could still use the speaker on the phone. He looked down at his own and sent a text message to the evangelist.
The phone alerted, and Flyright threw his heavy hand cannon atop the desk with a thunderous clatter. He walked over to the phone and picked it up.
Come out to the island. We’ll have a few laughs, Emperor.
Bolan knew the hubris of Flyright was off the scale as he’d bought one of the barrier islands on the Gulf of Mexico and named it Dolphin, after Dauphin Island, a tourist mecca for people who loved the Gulf Coast. Whereas Dauphin had a year-round population of 1300 people, with hotels and golf courses, Dolphin had only a few official residents. Flyright and his wife lived in a mansion, but a staff of dozens lived in the house and its barracks.
Dauphin Island was so named to honor the heir to the king of France. Dolphin Island was named to be a homophone for such an heir to such an esteemed position. Flyright’s father was an uncrowned king to millions of followers. Flyright himself wanted to become a crowned king, an emperor who could conquer and reign over a vast area with millions of people, much like his father but with deeper devotion from his “subjects.”
“I know you can hear me. You’re going to attack my home?” Flyright asked. “You’re telling me that you’re coming?”
Bolan texted back.
I’m telling you to get ready. You said your crusade was akin to mine? That you could suss me out, pluck me from the fishing hole? Then prove it. Get ready.
Flyright attempted to crush the phone in his hand, a display of rage that almost would have been impressive, had not Bolan seen the splintered screen draw blood. “I’ll be ready! I’ll be ready and your head will decorate my front door!”
Bolan put his surveillance kit back together. He looked toward the entrance of the building and saw that Lemmon had already reached the lobby, staggering out into the street.
Back in the office, Flyright went to the multiline phone on his desk. “Security! Security! Stop Bart Lemmon from leaving! Don’t worry about excessive force!”
Bolan heard that pronouncement moments before he turned off the laser microphone, and grabbed up the M-2010 once more. He hoped the security guards in the lobby had the ethics and the sense not to go after an unarmed, fleeing man. The Executioner didn’t want to gun down a security guard whose only crime was following orders.
That reluctance to fire evaporated as the first of the hired guns burst through the entrance, weapon aimed without concern at Lemmon and a group of people he rushed toward. One pull of the trigger and the guard would endanger noncombatants, and there was no justification for that no matter how guilty he thought Lemmon was.
Bolan locked on to the gunman and fired instantly. The security guard’s weapon went off at the same time. People dropped to the ground, and Bolan hoped that it was out of fear and not from the impact of a wayward bullet.
The .300 Winchester Magnum round was designed to fire much farther than even the standard US Military .308 Winchester. It was a hunting-rifle caliber, not a battle rifle, and certainly not the lowest power assault-rifle cartridge. Hunters used this round to take down 500-pound animals at close range, or to shoot bighorn sheep on mountainsides 1000 meters away.
Against a callous gunman who fired his service pistol at a crowd of citizens, it was instantaneously deadly. The high-velocity slug sliced through him, stopped only by the heavy lumbar vertebrae at the bottom of his back. Bone shattered, but it arrested the bullet’s motion. The man’s gun dropped to the steps leading up to the tower.
The second security guard saw his friend jerk violently and collapse, the sound of the gunshot arriving a moment after the fatal impact. This guy lifted his pistol and scanned the surrounding buildings for signs of the shooter. Bolan saw the guard’s muzzle-flash and knew the man fired wildly, looking to avenge his comrade.
That gunfire was also reckless, dangerous to people in other buildings. Bolan had to protect the innocents. He put a bullet right through the middle of the security guard’s face. At the speed the .300 Magnum hit, the gunman’s brains instantly liquefied. He dropped with equal speediness and certainty.
Bolan’s worst fears came to pass. The security guard had hit someone.
He looked for Lemmon. The man got up from the ground, his briefcase forgotten. Blood-spattered contracts blew in the wind. Lemmon lurched into a waiting automobile, a shiny black Lincoln limo that had awaited him. The crowd gathered around another figure in the plaza in front of the Birthright University tower.
Bolan zoomed in and saw people putting pressure on a young woman’s shoulder. A crimson pool spread beneath her, and the Executioner cursed.
“‘Don’t worry about excessive force.’” Bolan repeated Flyright’s last command. “No. I will not worry about excessive force against you, reverend.”
Chapter Twelve
Franklin Dabney, Morris Flyright Junior’s faithful assistant, wound micro-pore tape around the gauze he’d put over the wounds inflicted by the shattered cell phone screen and body. It’d taken a couple of bottles of water and a soaked carpet and seat in the helicopter to get all of the splinters and shards out of the cuts. Flyright bit his tongue continually through the flushing process, blinked away tears and maintained a stern, expressionless face. Dabney would, of course, know that any stoicism was merely a façade. Flyright hated to have someone know so many details about him, but he also knew that Dabney was a man who moved mountains and helped him build his empire.
“Are the men gathered?” Flyright asked.
Dabney frowned. “The police want to ask questions about what happened at the university.”
“Are my men ready to protect Dolphin Island?” Flyright pressed.
“We’ve got them coming out on boats,” Dabney said. “But our lawyers can only keep the cops at bay so long. You need to make a statement to the police.”
“They don’t have authority over God’s chosen voice,” Flyright growled.
Dabney swallowed hard. He looked away from Flyright’s angered gaze. “Sir...”
“I gave them their orders,” Flyright said. “And they failed to bring down Lemmon.”
“Lemmon said you tried to shoot him yourself,” Dabney stated.
“Whining to you, was he? Bart took a side and he deserved the proper punishment for it,” Flyright decreed.
“Jesus Christ,” Dabney cursed. He winced, expecting an admonishment from the evangelist. Instead, Flyright ignored his assistant. He squeezed his fist around his bandage.
“Sir, you’ll hurt—”
“I’ll kill him,” Flyright said. “How many are coming out to the island?”
“I’ve got about thirty, with your usual security staff,” Dabney told him.
Flyright nodded. “We can’t get any more?”
“He said he was coming alone?” Dabney asked.
“I don’t know,” Flyright said. He continued to flex his hand inside the bandage. “I want another gun.”
“We’ll get you one,” Dabney said. “We’ll hold off the police questioning for a few more days.”
“I do not care about them.” F
lyright sighed.
“They will inconvenience you if they don’t get answers about the shooting,” Dabney reminded him.
“Lemmon accuses me of trying to kill him? I accuse him of standing in the way of Divine Providence.”
“Sir,” Dabney pleaded.
“Tell the police that I wrestled the gun away from Lemmon. He smuggled it into my office in his briefcase,” Flyright said. “He wanted to threaten me into signing his contracts under duress.”
Dabney frowned. How would that explain his security guards firing into a crowd of citizens with no regard for whomever they hit? How would it explain the mysterious sniper who’d cut them down as they’d endangered the citizens of Mobile? He put aside his thoughts and doubts. Flyright was teetering on the edge of madness, and any hesitation might bring fatal fury on his own head.
The helicopter pilot could hear their conversation, as they all wore headsets. The pilot glanced back at them, but the scowl on his face was intended for Dabney. The assistant knew that there were people in Flyright’s flock who were devoted to him, but devoted past the point of law?
“Lemmon would have known that any such threat would nullify a contract,” Dabney replied. “We need a better story.”
Flyright grabbed Dabney by the chin and wrenched his head so that their eyes met. “Then the lawyers will do what I pay them for! I did not hire you or them so that I would have to micromanage everything you do! Show some initiative!”
Dabney nodded.
“Take this idiot back to the University tower to do his job,” Flyright said to the pilot. “Nothing personal, but you’ll be useless when it come to this fight.”
Dabney nodded. “I understand, sir.”
“Well, finally,” Flyright grumbled.
* * *
The addition of a helicopter taking Flyright out of the city and to his personal island was interesting. Mack Bolan was glad the evangelist had a quick and easy route to his mansion and its grounds.
Stony Man Farm had studied Flyright’s home, going over architectural plans and satellite photographs. Barbara Price had mentioned that several boats had been hired for the specific purpose of ferrying thirty passengers and baggage to Dolphin Island.
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