Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  “Liam, I’m sure this man, whoever he is, can’t keep this up indefinitely,” Lorens said. “And we have at least gained our objectives with regard to public unrest and dissatisfaction with the government. If we keep up what we’re doing I’m convinced we can still win the day.”

  Seeger turned on the man, his face taut with anger and frustration. “To carry on, we need all our resources intact. The diamond deal will lose us millions, and money is what we need to maintain a steady flow of weapons and equipment. Don’t forget we lost four million because of Gantz and his partner. With the Africa deal lost, that’s at least an equal amount. A lot of money, Zac. You don’t make that up by snapping your fingers. You’re a lawyer. You understand these things.”

  He looked across at Ribak. “Suggestions.”

  “We ship some of the reserve ordnance from New Mexico. And before you say anything, Mr. Seeger, I know we were going to keep that intact. Right now we don’t have any choice. Without weapons and explosives we can’t push ahead with any major strikes. We can’t depend on another weapons buy because it will take too long to set up and transport. Use the ordnance from the New Mexico stockpile, and when we replenish, put back what we’ve taken. That’s my advice, sir.”

  Seeger considered the option, knowing it was the only way forward for the present. “All right, Deke. Set it up. Make the first drop Chicago. The group there has the biggest shortfall.”

  “I’m on it,” Ribak said, and left the room.

  Lorens waited until the door closed behind Ribak. “Is it wise, Liam? To carry on with all this happening?”

  “What do you expect me to do, Zac? Simply roll over and quit? Haven’t we agreed this is the time? The wheels are in motion, and we have to do it now. We’ll never get another chance if we allow it all to slip out of our hands. We have the reaction we wanted from the public. Protests. Action on the streets. The government not knowing what to do. Come on, Zac, this has been my vision for too many years. If we back off and let the momentum die down we’ve let them win. There’s no way I’m going to let that happen.”

  “If that’s how you feel, then we carry on.” Lorens hesitated. “Look, I need to get back to the West Coast for a while. There are matters I need to attend to.”

  “Right now? Can’t they wait?”

  “Liam, right now is why they need attending to. I have to do these things. It’s Brethren business. There are people I have to see. Things to coordinate. Make sure they don’t become alarmed by what’s been happening. The news will get around. We both know that. So the sooner I deal with the questions, the better. A day and a half will see it done, then I’m back here for the next phase.”

  Seeger was facing the window behind his desk, caught up in thoughts that occupied his full attention. “Fine. You go and do what you have to.”

  After Lorens left, Seeger stared at the closed door for some time. He was turning things over in his mind, assessing the way Lorens had seemed to be acting, especially when it came to mentioning the missing diamonds. Seeger, even if everyone else had missed it, had spotted an uneasy look on Lorens’s face, some strange expression in his eyes. The man had not been acting himself. As with any individual with a distrust of society, albeit tinged with a little paranoia, Liam Seeger sensed odd behavior better than most. And Lorens was acting oddly. He decided, right or wrong, that he needed to act on his feelings. If he was wrong, no harm would have been done.

  Seeger picked up one of his telephones. “Deke? I want you to do something else for me. Don’t talk, just listen. This could turn out to be important for us if I’m correct.”

  Ojai, California

  BOLAN PULLED OFF the highway and hidden his rental deep in the greenery that grew abundantly across the gently curving landscape. Zac Lorens’s house lay a few hundred yards ahead, bounded by trees and dense shrubbery. The soldier climbed out of the rental car and locked it, taking a slow look around the area.

  The location was idyllic. The weather made sure the Ojai valley lived up to its Mediterranean image, far removed from where he and Lyons had been a few days earlier. It was lush and green, nothing like the arid West African landscape and, at the moment, peaceful.

  Clad in dark slacks, a light shirt and sport coat, Bolan presented an unthreatening figure. If anyone had looked closer, the person might have noticed the shoulder rig that carried the holstered Beretta 93-R. There were a couple of spare magazines for the 9 mm pistol in a Velcro pocket on the inside of his coat.

  The Executioner moved toward the house, his mind going over the details Kurtzman had provided. Lorens’s home was a spacious, ranch-style, stone-and-timber construction with Spanish influence evident in the tiled courtyard and pale stone arches that were festooned with flowers and vines. There was even a swimming pool surrounded by tended shrubs to maintain privacy, though each property in the area stood at least a quarter mile from its neighbor. Seclusion was the requirement.

  Crouching behind the last barrier of shrubbery, Bolan was able to check out the way ahead. He was looking at the rear of the house, with the calm surface of the swimming pool between him and the property. The scene was silent. No movement. It was possible Lorens was not at home. He could have been anywhere. At his law office in L.A., or in court. Maybe even with his Brethren partners.

  Satisfied he had not been observed, Bolan broke cover and moved quickly around the pool, heading for the expansive terrace that preceded the rear of the property. As he reached the far side of the pool, something caught his eye.

  The tiled surround at the corner of the pool was wet. The pool water was fresh. And Bolan’s curiosity was roused by the footprints leading away from the pool, across the terrace and to the door that led inside the house.

  Footprints left by shoes, not the bare feet normally seen when someone emerges from a pool.

  Odd, unless Lorens and his company enjoyed swimming while fully dressed. There was something else to wonder about. Lying on the tiles was a long pole with a metal hook on the end. It looked like the type of instrument used to hook a ceiling trapdoor for access to an attic ladder. Not the sort of thing used in a swimming pool.

  Bolan dismissed the puzzle for the moment as he closed on the house. He was beginning to sense that the house was not as deserted as he had initially thought. He paused by one of the stone arches, easing the Beretta from its holster and making sure it was ready for use. He pushed the selector to 3-round bursts.

  Keeping in the shadows thrown by the arch, Bolan reached the wall and flattened against it. He peered in through the side of the French doors set in the stone wall and saw a spacious lounge area, furnished with expensive fittings, tiled floor and colorful rugs.

  His interest focused on the four men occupying the room. Three were armed, the pistols they carried fitted with sound suppressors, and they were grouped loosely around the fourth who was facing them.

  Zac Lorens.

  One side of his face was discolored by heavy bruising. His left eye had already swollen shut. His light shirt and slacks were spattered with blood from his bleeding mouth and nose.

  One of the men was saying something to Lorens. The lawyer refused to look at him, and his refusal angered the man who swung the gun he was holding and clubbed Lorens across the side of the head with it. The blow drove the man to his knees, protecting his head with his arms. The brute who had hit him said something else, then drove the toe of his shoe into Lorens’s side, sending him to the floor. The attacker reached into his pocket and took out a cell phone. He punched in a number and waited until his call was picked up. He began to speak. Bolan was unable to hear what was being said, the French doors effectively acting as soundproofing.

  Lorens had to have heard the conversation. He made a desperate effort to gain his feet, lunging at the man closest to him and pushing him aside. Bolan saw the look of terror on his bloody face as he stumbled away from the group.

  The man on the cell phone turned and raised his pistol, firing twice, the muffled pop of the weapon barely registe
ring where Bolan stood. Both shots hit Lorens in the head. His skull split, blood fountained from the wounds as the man went down, sprawling across the tiled floor, his body going into spasm.

  Bolan had found Zac Lorens, not the way he had intended, but reality tended to ignore wishful thinking.

  The shooter said something to his two partners and they moved, one heading for a low coffee table, reaching for something stacked on the top. The other swung around and headed directly for the French doors, and spotted Bolan before he was able to pull back.

  The guy’s pistol came up and he fired three fast shots that shattered glass. Bolan felt shards tug at his sleeve as he flattened against the wall, dropping to a crouch, then leaning out again. His Beretta tracked the advancing shooter, his finger stroking the trigger to send a triburst into the room. Two of the 9 mm slugs hit the shooter in the chest, spinning him aside so that Bolan’s second burst hit high between his shoulders. He went down without a sound.

  More silenced shots burst through the French doors, breaking more glass and tearing strips of wood from the frame.

  Bolan flicked the selector to single-shot. He picked up the hard thump of running feet, saw a shadow fall across the terrace through the French doors then move to the side. One of the remaining pair had positioned himself against the wall to the right of the doors. Leaning out, Bolan could see the tips of his shoes protruding. Small offerings, Bolan thought, but not to be ignored. He dropped the muzzle of the 93-R and aimed and fired. The end of the exposed shoe blew apart, shredded leather mingled with chunks of bone and flesh erupting from the targeted area. The hit man screamed and, wrapped in his own moment of pain, moved away from the wall, leaning forward to stare down at his bloody foot. Bolan was ready. The instant the guy’s head came into view he drilled two 9 mm slugs into it. The slugs cored in and through, exiting in a shower of bloody debris.

  Bolan powered to his feet, spun in at the French doors and drove his shoulder at them. The bullet-weakened frame gave under the soldier’s bulk and he crashed into the room beyond. He let himself go to the floor, one hand thrown out to break his fall as he landed, rolling, hearing the subdued bark of the waiting pistol. Two 9 mm slugs plowed into the tiled floor close to his moving body. Bolan gripped the Beretta in both hands, steadying himself on his side and tracked in on the shooter as the guy swung his own weapon around for a further shot. Bolan held for a fraction longer, then stroked the trigger. The Beretta fired, twice, then a third time, each shot finding a target. The shooter came to a full stop as the slugs hit. He toppled backward, arms flailing, and fell in an untidy sprawl against the wall.

  Bolan pushed to his feet. He ejected the magazine and clicked in a fresh one, cocking the 93-R as he moved around the room, clearing abandoned weapons from outstretched, still hands. No question his adversaries were dead, but Bolan was never one to push his luck.

  He checked Zac Lorens. The Brethren second in command and lawyer was dead.

  Bolan turned and crossed to the coffee table. He stared down at the pile of plastic bags that lay there. Water had run from the outside of the eight bags to pool on the table. Bolan reached down and picked one up. Heavy. Inside the bag were gleaming, uncut diamonds. Bolan realized where they had come from. Zac Lorens had divided the bulk of the diamonds into smaller weights, placed them in the plastic bags and dropped them into his swimming pool. Under the water the bags and their contents would have been rendered invisible. Even someone standing on the edge of the pool would have been unable to see them. Unfortunately for Lorens, his partnership with Jerome Gantz had been exposed and the Brethren had sent the three enforcers along to locate the whereabouts out of Lorens’s diamonds.

  Lorens’s betrayal of his militia friends had resulted in his death.

  The price of the illegal diamonds was rising.

  Bolan picked up a muted voice. He glanced around for the source and saw the cell phone Lorens’s killer had been using. He picked it up. The recipient’s ID was displayed on the screen.

  Ribak.

  The man Bolan had seen on the boat off the beach at Gantz’s house.

  “Curran, what the hell is going on?” Ribak was saying.

  “Ribak? Curran and his Brethren buddies can’t speak. Now or ever.”

  “Who the hell are you? What the fuck have you done?”

  “I gave them the same treatment they gave Lorens and Gantz.”

  “You. The fuck who showed up at Gantz’s place and screwed my deal.”

  “Nice to be recognized.”

  “Son of a bitch, I am going to rip your head off your shoulders.”

  “Save your energy, Ribak, because this is not over yet. The farm. West Africa. You bastards wanted war, well, you’ve got one. This is just for starters. Tell your boss, Seeger, there’s more to come. Remember what Al Johnson said. You ain’t seen nothing yet. I’m coming, Ribak. The Brethren is about to become history.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Waiting to rip out your throat.”

  “Just to make your day, Ribak, thanks for the diamonds. At least you were right about Lorens. He did have them. Your boys tracked him down and found the diamonds. Now I’ve got them.”

  Bolan shut off the cell phone and dropped it in a pocket. He spent some time going through the house. In a well-appointed study he found Lorens’s laptop, open and switched on. He took it with him, along with a leather attaché case. Back in the lounge he dumped the still-wet plastic bags of diamonds in the case, walked out through the broken French doors and made his way to where he had parked his rental car and the drive back to the Air Force base and his flight back to Virginia.

  RIBAK WAS OUTSIDE the house, away from anyone hearing his call to Stahl.

  “How did it go, Deke?”

  “Not our lucky day.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The team got to Lorens’s place. He was persuaded to admit his part in the theft of the diamonds. Lorens and Gantz knew about Moshe Bera, the man who was fencing the diamonds. They showed up at Bera’s place in New York. Lorens went inside and did the deed. Killed Bera to make sure he wouldn’t talk and took the bag of diamonds. Gantz was outside in the car. What they didn’t know was that Gantz had been seen. When our search team asked around, someone came forward and provided a description of the man they had seen. After the realization that the description fitted Jerome Gantz, a photograph was shown to the guy. He identified Gantz as the man behind the wheel of the car. The man with Gantz had not been identifiable.

  “Seeger figured it right. He couldn’t understand why Lorens needed to go to California so urgently when he did. The guy wasn’t having meetings on Brethren business. The team found him in his house packing bags, ready to skip. Got to say Lorens surprised me when he admitted killing Bera. I didn’t think the little creep had it in him. When the boys started to get physical, he gave up the diamonds. Curran was on the phone, telling me. I suggested he retire Lorens on the spot. Next thing I hear all hell has broken loose. I hear gunfire. Then he comes on the phone. Tells me he was responsible for taking down the farm and the hit in Africa.”

  “Damn. So we lose those diamonds, too?”

  “I’m not expecting them to be delivered by FedEx in the next ten minutes.”

  “How did Seeger take it?”

  “He’s no happy camper. Closest I’ve seen him to going ape shit. When I left him I heard weird noises from his office. He was swallowing his tongue and chewing the fuckin’ rug. I’ll leave him to cool off before I go back and calm him down. This guy is seriously out of luck right now.”

  “Deke, do what you can to salvage this operation. We have to keep the Brethren up and running until we have enough public outrage and political unrest to justify our intervention. If the Brethren falters, it doesn’t do our cause any favors.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  STAHL PICKED UP the phone and instructed his pilot to take off. He glanced across at General Carson. “What do you think, Bill? The new plane? I thought it was time for something
more up-to-date.” He paused at Carson’s less than appreciative expression. “Bill, is your seat belt too tight?”

  “You haven’t forgotten what’s been happening lately, have you? The entire operation is under attack. The Brethren have lost men and weapons. The farm has been compromised. They can’t manufacture bombs anymore until we find a replacement site and people. Gantz is dead, not that anyone is going to grieve over that because the son of a bitch was stealing from us. And now we’ve lost the fucking African diamond pipeline.”

  “So what do you propose, Bill? Pack up and call it a day? Abandon everything we’ve been planning for months?”

  Carson stared out of the port beside his seat as the plane moved along the runway, picking up speed. “Of course not, Eric. You know my dedication to the cause. There’s no way we can give up. Especially not at this stage.”

  “Then where’s the problem? Bill, this is a war we are involved in. Not a weekend rally. There are bound to be setbacks. We have to ride them out and come back stronger. We lose weapons—we buy more. The same with lost men. Hire more. There are plenty out there who want to be involved in our kind of struggle. I agree that losing the bomb-making site is serious. I suggest we put that on standby until we can relocate. There are other ways of getting the public’s attention.”

  “There is the matter of the diamonds, Eric.”

  “I’m hardly likely to forget that,” Stahl said. “I’ll have to think on that one. Come up with some other way of raising cash for Seeger.”

  “Good. Keep me updated.” Stahl buzzed for the cabin attendant. “My usual. Bill?”

  “Malt. Straight. No ice.”

  When the drinks arrived Stahl took his and swirled the contents around in the glass. “You had a productive meeting with your military friends yesterday.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Are they still solid?”