“What the fuck has been going on here? Who the hell are you asswipes?” His deep voice held a harsh tone.
“Which question do I answer first?” Bolan asked, leaning forward to check the badge on the man’s jacket. “Sheriff?
“A comic, as well.” The man took his hand off the Beretta, transferring it to the shotgun as he swung it to cover Bolan and Lyons. “See if you find this funny. Boys, you got one thing right. Hereabouts I’m the law.”
“So, Sheriff, are you going to charge us with something?” Lyons asked. His tone was low, even, and hearing it Bolan sensed his partner’s rising frustration.
“Boy, it’s likely I might just put you down right where you stand.”
“Without reading me my rights?”
“Right here and now, sonny, you don’t have any rights. I see dead people and caught you on the property. And I don’t know you from squat.”
“They say education is an enlightening thing,” Lyons said.
“Meaning?” the sheriff demanded.
“Right now you are about to receive some.”
“What in hell are you goin’ on about?”
“Right now, Sheriff,” Bolan said, “you are in deep and getting deeper every time you open your mouth. So I suggest you listen.”
“Son, you don’t know who you are messing with. One phone call and I can make you vanish.”
“This tub of lard has been watching too many cheap movies,” Lyons said. “Let me slap his fat head.”
“Okay, enough of this shit.” Over his shoulder the sheriff called to his driver. “Boyd, call our friends. Let them know what’s gone down here.”
“Before you do that,” Bolan said, “it might pay to understand what you’ve got yourself into.”
Lyons laughed, enjoying the moment. “I said it was going to be educational.”
“You’re already down for using your weapon in a threatening manner. Also stating you might kill us,” Bolan explained. “And consorting with a criminal organization.”
“Say what?”
“Your driver was about to call the Brethren to tell them you have us.”
Bolan’s comment had the desired effect. Reference to the Brethren hit the sheriff hard. His face paled for an instant, then flushed heavily at being caught out. Bolan’s call had been a calculated risk, but he had been right. Local law was running interference for the Brethren.
The heat had just been notched up to a dangerous level.
Boyd, leaning out the cruiser door, had a look on his face that warned Bolan the man was dangerous. His eyes betrayed his self-assured cockiness. In his own mind he was untouchable. And that made him doubly dangerous.
“Hell, Kyle, why don’t you just put some shots in this pair and be done with it.”
“Boyd, I’ll decide what to do.”
“You’re the sheriff,” Lyons said evenly, his eyes fixed on Boyd’s smirking face.
“That’s right,” Boyd said. “Say, bub, you never did say who you are.”
Bolan faced the sheriff. “Did I add resisting federal agents to my list?”
Sheriff Kyle’s face flushed with barely contained rage. “Feds? Well, my day just keeps getting better and better. Hear that, Boyd? We caught us a pair of the real mothers. Government fuckin’ hired guns.”
“Seeger should give us a bonus,” Boyd crowed. “I’ll take the blond one.”
He pushed open his door and started to climb out, his hand reaching for his holstered handgun. For a few seconds his body was blocked by the cruiser’s door.
Lyons slid his right hand out of sight, a move that caught Kyle and Boyd wanting. As Lyons’s hand reappeared, holding the big Colt, he sidestepped. His hand swung the weapon up, finger already over the trigger and he snap aimed and fired before Boyd could complete his response. The .357 boomed, and Boyd gave a screech of pain as the big slug thudded into the fleshy part of his left shoulder, spinning him and bouncing him off the side of the cruiser. He fell, blood pulsing from the hole in his shoulder.
Sheriff Kyle was shocked into inaction by the loud crack of the Python. His eyes flicked in Lyons’s direction, almost as if he expected the next shot to be aimed at him. The moment his eyes moved from him, Bolan lunged forward. His left hand batted the Mossberg aside, then he slammed into Kyle with enough force to throw the big man across the hood of the cruiser. The sheriff recovered quick enough to swing a booted foot as Bolan moved in. The kick glanced off the Executioner’s shoulder. Kyle rolled and got his feet under him, making an attempt to bring the shotgun back on line. Bolan launched his right fist in a powerful swing that crunched against Kyle’s meaty jaw. The blow spun the sheriff over the hood again, Bolan following through to plant his open palm against the back of Kyle’s skull and slam him facedown against the car. Kyle grunted and collapsed, the shotgun slipping from his fingers. Picking up the Mossberg, Bolan also took the man’s Beretta from his holster.
“Let’s hope it isn’t a large sheriff’s department,” Lyons said, bending over the moaning Boyd to disarm him.
“If you don’t want Boyd to bleed to death, Carl, you’d better do something about that hole in his shoulder.”
“Who said anything about not wanting him to bleed to death?”
Lyons moved to the cruiser and located the first-aid box stowed in the trunk. He hauled Boyd into a sitting position and started to apply a pressure pad and bandage.
Using Kyle’s own issue handcuffs, Bolan secured the man to the grille of the cruiser. He stood back and took out his cell, calling Stony Man once again to report what had happened. Brognola listened in impatient silence.
“I’ll make sure there’s a medic in the team and Aaron can run a make on Sheriff Kyle.”
“No way of knowing how deep the Brethren is in Kyle’s department.”
“I’m getting so I don’t want to hear that damn name anymore.”
“One thing’s for sure. These people are reaching out. Local law enforcement now. What next, Hal?”
“I figure it’s time for you to come in as soon as reinforcements arrive and take charge. We need to reassess what intel we have and decide where to move next. I know one thing. It won’t be a vacation. I’ll try to be there when you arrive,” Brognola advised. “First I have to make a meeting with an old friend. If it works out, it might be to our advantage.”
CHAPTER TEN
Lewis Bradshaw, special agent from the FBI’s Office of International Operations, was a man who exuded authority. Tall, fit-looking and in his late forties, he wore his mid-gray suit as if he had been born to it. He took Brognola’s outstretched hand, then sat facing him across a low table. Around them the busy lounge of the InterContinental Hotel buzzed with the comings and goings of guests and friends, unaware of the presence of two of Washington’s premier law officials.
“Still take your coffee black?” Brognola asked.
“Too old to change now,” Bradshaw said. He took the filled cup, leaning back in the leather seat. “How’s that family of yours, Hal?”
Brognola smiled. “Fine the last time I saw them.”
“Busy days in uncertain times.”
The conversation halted for a few moments while Brognola cleared his thoughts.
“Lew, we’ve never been the type to bullshit each other. I’ll say it straight-out. I know about your two dead agents in West Africa. Their investigation overlaps something my department is involved with. Off the record, talk to me about your case and I’ll do my damnedest to get closure for your people because I know you can’t.”
Bradshaw’s face remained expressionless as he mulled over the offer. He drained his coffee and poured himself a second cup. “You know what it’s like working with your hands tied behind you, Hal? They say go out there and stop the perps. The terrorists. The people doing what they can to destroy us. In the same action they handcuff us and put a bag over our heads, telling us not to upset this cause. Don’t tread on any toes. Beware of litigation. Oh, and by the way don’t forget the first instr
uction to stop the bad guys, will you.”
“I’ve been there, Lew. Right now I don’t have that problem, so it lets me sleep at night.” Brognola smiled. “That’s when I actually get home to sleep.”
“Does this current assignment have anything to do with the recent bombings?”
Brognola nodded, albeit briefly. “Yes. Lew, I know all about lines of demarcation, interagency boundaries and all that crap. Here and now, I just want to stop what’s happening, and treading on a few toes isn’t about to slow me down.”
Bradshaw gave a genuine smile this time. “One thing never changes, Hal. You always did enjoy giving the finger to anything that prevented you doing what was right.”
“Right is taking down the bastards killing Americans on their own streets. Blowing up young children. And murdering your agents in Africa. Our intel has pinpointed the Brethren, and my operational brief is to stop them any way I can. Lew, I need help to achieve that, so if you have anything that will give me that help, it will stay between the two of us. That’s a promise, and you know I don’t bullshit on promises.”
Lewis Bradshaw knew only a few people he could really trust. His friend from the Justice Department was at the top of that list. Bradshaw, like any number of people in law enforcement, was up to his neck in red tape and need-to-know, frustrated by the sneering complacency of criminals and terrorists who quoted legal restrictions and their human rights while they still had the blood of their victims on their hands. He was thinking about two of his agents. Dead agents, left in the dirt of an African slum, bodies hacked almost beyond recognition. It had been Bradshaw’s job to inform the families and to see the shock and disbelief on the faces of the dead agents’ wives. He also understood how futile it would be trying to bring the killers to justice. His West African local contact had informed him he knew who the killers were but retribution for the crimes would be near impossible to guarantee.
Unless he accepted Hal Brognola’s offer.
Bradshaw looked across at his friend. Brognola understood the predicament. He was part of the community in which they both served, and making things right was one of the most elusive matters to have to deal with.
“Can you do this?” he asked.
“They won’t get away with it this time.”
Bradshaw looked into the chasm that lay between the law he served and a need for punishment. For once the gap didn’t seem all that wide.
“Give me an hour.” Bradshaw stood. “Remember, Hal, I was never here. This discussion didn’t happen.”
Brognola nodded. “This time we get it done.”
THE WAR ROOM conference table was partly covered by documentation, photographs and as much hard copy dealing with the mission they could gather. Wall monitors displayed more data. One, on its own, was tuned into a 24/7 dedicated news channel.
The group consisted of Bolan, Lyons, Brognola, who had returned from his meeting a short while back, Price and Kurtzman.
They were discussing an aspect of the situation that Kurtzman had been giving some deep thought.
“Diamonds. It’s been bugging me since the subject cropped up, and I believe I figured it out.”
“You going to share, or spend the day telling us how smart you are?” Lyons said.
Kurtzman ignored him. “The only use diamonds would be to the Brethren would be for finance. On a buy-low, sell-high basis. A few years ago this was happening with al Qaeda. They were funding their operations by taking cheap diamonds from a West African source, selling them on the black market and pushing the profits into buying weapons. The market grew until there was a clamp on illegal diamond trading. Currently there isn’t the same amount of dealing, but it hasn’t dried up fully.”
“You found a source?” Price asked.
“Yes. And it links to our new best friends the Brethren.”
Kurtzman turned his wheelchair, working a remote to clear one of the monitors. He brought up fresh images, maps and document downloads.
“I was running traces on all of the Brethren. The guy there is Max Belmont. Details of Belmont’s recent travels came up. He’s been making visits to West Africa over the past four, five months. Notably to this area near the coast. It’s no tourist destination. Had nothing but civil unrest, number of coups over the last few years. The current administration is no better or worse than the last few. The real government is in exile, waiting its chance. While that’s on the back burner the area is going downhill. Famine. Starvation. The region under siege. Mainly due to this delightful character. General Joseph M’Tusi. Local butcher, homicidal maniac cum warlord. His army roams the region doing just whatever it wants, when it wants. Any aid comes in, M’Tusi vets it first and skims off what he wants—not what he needs—what he wants. The man is a walking nightmare. The region has a diamond-mining capability. Produces good quantities of stones for cosmetic and industrial use. M’Tusi appears to have a tight rein on the production, and he doesn’t seem to be making deals with the legitimate markets. Before you ask, a diamond representative paid a visit to talk with M’Tusi. The guy barely got out with his head intact. Since then M’Tusi has been left alone.”
Kurtzman riffled through more paperwork and slid it across the table. “But he deals with certain individuals. Look at the one I circled.”
Lyons checked the name. “Son of a bitch. Jack Regan.”
“It’s not the first time Regan has been involved in shady deals the SOG has locked on to. We tagged him in Santa Lorca. And running weapons over the border into Mexico. Both times he moved on before anyone could stop him.”
“So where does he come in on this?”
“Maybe he’s just working his usual deal supplying weapons to the Brethren. Here’s intel on Regan being spotted in West Africa. In M’Tusi’s region. With Belmont. I’m thinking he did some introductions for the Brethren,” Kurtzman said. “Rumor has it M’Tusi’s ordnance buying list has been getting bigger over the last six, seven months. He has ideas about deposing the current ruling party and needs the weapons to back his play. The area M’Tusi controls is desolate, and it doesn’t have much going for it except the fact it has a rich diamond field running through it. No one has tried to move on that because M’Tusi has the region bottled up. Nothing moves in his territory without his say-so.”
“I thought the diamond business was pretty well tied down,” Lyons said. “All controlled by international combines.”
“Tell M’Tusi that. He plays by his own rules.”
“What do we figure? M’Tusi is trading diamonds for the weapons he wants, and the Brethren is cashing in with stones they got cheap?”
“There’s always a market for good quality diamonds, on or off the market,” Bolan said.
Bolan and Lyons studied the data. It made for interesting reading, but even Bolan was caught off guard when he viewed the images of M’Tusi’s atrocities against the people of his region. His kill squads stopped for nothing. Women and children had been slaughtered indiscriminately. The photographs told Bolan everything he needed to know about the man.
“This all ties in with the intel I brought in from my meeting this morning,” Brognola said. “Two FBI agents from the Legal Attaché Office were murdered a few days ago because they apparently got too close to M’Tusi and his association with illegal diamond trading. Before they were killed they sent a coded message back to their boss at home, providing information about an upcoming deal between M’Tusi and his U.S. client.”
Brognola slid a folder across the table to Bolan. He picked it up. The folder and the data inside were all anonymous. Printed on plain paper. No agency titles. No hints as to where it had come from.
“Take what you need from that data,” Brognola said. “The folder does not leave this room except with me. No copies. No questions. The source is reliable. That’s all I can say on the subject. Make sure you get what you need. As soon as I get back to my office, that file will be destroyed.”
Bolan nodded. “Understood.” He did not ask any more. Brogno
la had his reasons. It was obvious that the intel had come from someone within the security community.
“Something else,” Kurtzman said. “That cell from Gantz? We checked his call list and ran traces on the numbers. Had to break into the cell phone provider to get hold of Gantz’s account. Modesty prevents me explaining how tricky that is, but we did it. Carmen followed it through and tracked the numbers. The one that got our interest turned out to be a personal landline phone. The address was for a house owned by a certain Zac Lorens, Ojai, California.” Kurtzman smiled when he saw the look on Bolan’s face. “That Zac Lorens. Seeger’s right-hand man in the Brethren.”
“Those calls went direct to Lorens? Could be Brethren business,” Bolan said.
“Could be,” Lyons said. “But it’s unusual to broadcast militia business that way. I would have expected it to be done direct to Seeger’s base of operations. Or are we just being suspicious today?”
“Suspicion comes with the job,” Brognola said. “In this instance you guys can be as paranoid as you want.”
“We can check it out later,” Bolan said. “There’s something else we have to do concerning diamonds first.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN he’s disappeared?”
“No other way to say it, Deke. Petrie has vanished. So has the girl he had working at his office. The team has been taken down, too. Last call we got they were following some guy who snatched her from our team at her apartment.”
“It has to be the same ones who crossed us at Gantz’s place.”
“Who are these fucks?”
“I wish I knew. They’ve got some good intel whoever they are.”
“Seeger is going to be—”
“He already is. And now with the farm getting hit, as well.”
“How’s that going to be replaced?”
“We haven’t got around to figuring that part yet. Seeger’s got steam coming out of his ears so I’m laying low until he calms down.”
Patriot Play Page 11