Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  Then, for the first time, Randolph said something. The man who had been gesturing at him turned, transferred the Uzi to his left hand and without warning backhanded Randolph across the side of the head. The force of the blow threw Randolph back in his chair. It rocked and toppled over, taking Randolph with it.

  Best chance you’re going to get, Lyons told himself.

  In his mind he was aware he had only seconds to act. Once Randolph was picked up off the floor, he would be in harm’s way again. There was no time to get to the main door, which might be locked. Lyons used the only access close at hand.

  He rose to his feet, backed off a couple of steps, then powered forward and smashed his way through the lodge’s front window, head down and arms thrust forward to protect his face. He felt the glass and the frame shatter, sending debris into the room. In the rush of the moment he had no idea if he had cut himself on the glass, and it didn’t matter as he landed awkwardly on his feet, struggling to maintain his balance. He almost remained fully on his feet but one boot slid on the smooth varnished floor and he went to his knees. The slip saved him as the guy who had slapped Randolph spun and opened up with the Uzi when he saw Lyons burst through the glass.

  In the scant seconds between seeing Lyons and pulling the trigger, the shooter lost his target as Lyons stumbled. The 9 mm burst went over his head and out through the shattered window.

  Lyons brought his own weapon on line, picking his target and loosing a burst that ripped into his adversary’s chest. The guy reeled under the onslaught. Lyons hit him with a second burst, the final 9 mm volley tearing into his throat and lower face. The guy gave a strangled cry and fell. The second shooter had moved toward cover, searching for a spot to protect himself. He was still searching when Lyons’s next burst hit him between the shoulders, coring in and enough of them finding his heart to put him down. He made an ungraceful forward tumble, crashing facedown on the hardwood floor.

  It became very quiet.

  A final piece of glass fell from the window frame.

  Randolph slowly eased himself to a sitting position, favoring his left shoulder where he had slammed into the floor.

  Carl Lyons let the Uzi drop to the floor and took out his Python. Only now did he notice the bleeding gash across the back of his right hand. He could feel blood sliding down his face from another cut.

  “Dramatic as it was, son, next time try the door,” Randolph said as he climbed to his feet. He could feel himself shaking and it didn’t help his condition when he saw the bloody results of his visitor’s handiwork. “You have to be Cooper’s friend. Doug Benning?”

  “Were there any more of them? Or just the three?”

  “I saw the vehicle arrive. Only three of them in it. Son, you are bleeding. Let’s go through to the kitchen. There’s a first-aid box in there and a third of very respectable scotch. And before you ask the scotch is for me.”

  Lyons followed the man to the kitchen. While Randolph looked for the first-aid box the Able Team leader went to the sink and turned on the faucet, running cold water across the back of his hand. It washed away the blood but it stung like hell. Randolph handed out antiseptic wipes and sterile pads. Despite Lyons’s grumbling, the senator cleaned the gash on his cheek and when he’d stopped the bleeding he fixed an adhesive strip in place to keep it clean.

  “You won’t win this year’s Miss Vermont beauty pageant, son, but you’ll live.”

  Randolph helped himself to a large tumbler of the whiskey, pushing one across to Lyons, who declined and asked if there was any fruit juice. Randolph located a carton of orange juice in the refrigerator and handed it to Lyons.

  “We need to move out,” Lyons said. “In case they send backup.”

  “You think that’s possible?”

  “Everything is possible,” Lyons said. He took out his cell phone and speed-dialed Bolan. “I had some house cleaning to do first. The senator is okay. Shaken but not enough to put him off his liquor.”

  “You leaving soon?”

  “Very soon.”

  “I’ll be at the Stony Man safehouse.”

  “Fine for some. Feet up watching TV.”

  “What I’m watching is no picnic. Just check it out.”

  Lyons clicked off. “You got a TV?”

  “Small one over there,” Randolph said. “Why?”

  “Cooper said to check it out.”

  Randolph switched on the fourteen-inch flat screen and flicked through channels until he found a news channel. What they saw forced them into silence.

  There had been four more unexpected explosions on the streets of America. They’d been smaller than the original outrages, but still large enough to cause damage to property, and worse, to bystanders caught in the blasts. Then at least eight random attacks on police stations around the country, carried out by masked men. Overall eight police officers had been killed and as many wounded. The TV news anchor read out a statement from the America the Free group. In it the President and the administration were directly accused of being so out of touch with internal problems they were unable to combat what was happening. The statement openly accused the President as being criminally responsible for the attacks. It demanded he be removed from office. The report then went on to reveal there was already a public reaction and showed images of street protests in three major cities. People were scared and angry, the anchor quoted. Interviews with politicians presented a mix of opinion. There were those who stood by the President and others who were less than charitable. The overall mood was one of confusion, in some instances ill-concealed rage at the escalating violence and the current refusal of the government to force any action.

  “Damn that man Stahl,” Randolph said. “Don’t you see, this is his doing?”

  “You think so, Senator?”

  “All part of his scheme. The Brethren do the dirty work. Kill and maim to get the public worked up. Stahl sits back until the right moment and then he’ll manipulate those idiots on the Hill to reject the President and do what they can to force his resignation.”

  “Can’t be as easy as that.”

  “Son, I didn’t say it would be easy, but with a man like Eric Stahl holding the strings…well. Don’t forget he has General Carson on his side and that man has considerable control of a damn large slice of our military. Remember we have too big of a percentage of our armed forces operating halfway around the world. If Carson could organize a military takeover, aided by Stahl and his political cronies, it would be over. The forces abroad couldn’t do a damn thing to oppose it. They would be stuck out in Iran and Afghanistan at the mercy of whoever controls the military complex stateside. Those boys depend on home to send them equipment and supplies and reinforcements. Think about it, son. What’s that old saying—between a rock and a hard place. My God, Stahl and that man Carson would have the President just where they want him.”

  “Senator, do what you need to and do it fast, we need to get you out of here.”

  Ten minutes was all it took for Randolph to make contact and advise what had happened. He spoke to the local sheriff’s office, detailing the attack on his lodge and the result. The fact he needed his window repaired and his SUV taken care of. He apologized to the sheriff, who he appeared to know very well, that he had to return to Washington on urgent government business, but that he would be in touch ASAP.

  “I’m all yours, son. Shall we go?” he said to Lyons.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The safehouse Bolan had mentioned was situated fifteen miles from Stony Man. A two-story house standing in enclosed grounds had been recently purchased via the SOG, giving them a secure environment when they needed people close, without bringing them to Stony Man itself. Bolan and a two-man blacksuit team were already installed when Lyons and the senator arrived. Randolph took a quick look around the furnished living room and nodded in satisfaction.

  “This is starting to become a habit,” he said. “Not that I’m making a fuss, son. I recall last time. That involved some shooting
and general mayhem, too. You always bring surprises to the party?”

  Bolan had to smile. The senator might have been advanced in years but his mind was still sharp. “We have Stahl to thank for that. And it looks like he’s up to his old tricks again. Your digging must have unnerved him. That’s why he sent that snatch team after you.”

  Randolph’s lips pursed at the mention of Stahl’s name. “That son of a bitch might have been stripped of most of his political clout after the Zero affair, but he still managed to wriggle out from under. With his industrial-military contacts and his wealth, he came out a little tarnished but not a tad weaker. He retreated back into his Stahl Industries shell and, damn me, within six months he was operating like nothing happened.”

  “Persistent?”

  “More like a man with a mission. One that he won’t let go. And that makes him even more of a threat. As I mentioned when we talked on the phone, I found out that the man who has been compiling my evidence for the last months, Rick Berkly, was found dead the other day. He was a good man. Too good to die because of Stahl.”

  They made themselves comfortable in armchairs. Lyons, ever restless, had wandered off to make his own check of the area outside the house. A pot of coffee was produced and Bolan poured a cup for himself and Randolph.

  “Power and money, Senator, they go together too well. Enough of both and a man can pretty well get away with anything.”

  Randolph reflected for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. “The Brethren,” he said. Nothing more. He simply waited for Bolan’s reaction.

  “Okay, Senator, tell me what you know.”

  “I have some documented evidence and a deal of speculation. What I know for certain is the Brethren is not what it presents itself to be.”

  “An independent group representing the American people and standing up to the repressive actions of the federal government?”

  “You’ve been reading their pamphlets.”

  “It’s gone much further than that, Senator.”

  Randolph frowned at that until he realized what Bolan meant.

  “I should have figured that for myself. Tell me, Matt, are there any left standing?”

  “Too many,” Bolan answered. “But I’m not done with them yet.”

  “So how can I help?”

  “Fill me in with what you know.”

  Randolph opened his case and took out a thick file. He laid it on the coffee table and opened it, spreading papers and photographs out for Bolan. He picked up a number of printed sheets.

  “This is Rick’s final report. He couriered it to me the day before he died. His earlier suspicions are all confirmed, and they tally with information my other sources have fed me over the past few weeks.”

  Randolph pointed out a series of photographs for Bolan.

  “You want to run me through these, Senator.”

  “Of course. This is Juan Amenta, an attorney who has advised and defended a number of individuals with less that honest leanings. He has also been active aiding members of radical militia members. Rick found he has done a great deal of work for the Brethren.”

  “We have a definite connection here?” Bolan asked.

  “Rick found out about a discreet meeting between Amenta and a man who was later linked to Eric Stahl.” Randolph indicated a number of the photographs. “Here we have Amenta with Stahl’s man—who we now identified as Harry Brent—and a third individual, Deacon Ribak, all sharing a cozy coffee at a restaurant in New York.”

  Bolan had no trouble recognizing the third man as Deacon Ribak. “I know him, Senator. He’s a member of the Brethren. We came close to exchanging shots a while back.”

  “Mmm.” Randolph tapped the photo. “I’m not surprised at that revelation. Our Mr. Ribak is late of the military. Fort Benning. His background information told me he left the service under a cloud. But did you know he was a member of a special unit under the command of General William Carson?”

  “Bull Carson?”

  “The very same. We all know his stance on the way the military and the country is going. An open opponent of U.S. policy at home and abroad.”

  “Where does he fit, Senator?”

  “Carson is a longtime crony of Eric Stahl. They’ve worked on military contracts over the years. They hold similar radical views and would love to change the leadership. With the shaky situation within the administration at the present, they must be rubbing their hands together.” Randolph picked up one photograph. “Now I don’t know how Rick got this one, but it says a great deal to me.”

  The image showed Stahl and Carson walking together in a secluded country setting. Walking alongside them was Deacon Ribak.

  “That was taken near Carson’s home in Maine. Rick’s final report told me some pertinent facts. Amenta and Liam Seeger’s lawyer and Brethren second in command, Zac Lorens, had a meeting some months ago. An African named only as Kesawayo also attended that meeting. My other researchers found out that this Kesawayo was the personal representative of a General Jo seph M’Tusi. M’Tusi is a bloodthirsty warlord brutalizing a region of West Africa mainly for his own enrichment. It is reported he—”

  “Trades illegal diamonds for cash and buys arms from a man named Regan. The Brethren had been using this to fund their operations.”

  Randolph smiled. “Matt, I get the feeling this is where our facts come together. Perhaps it’s my turn to hear what you have to tell.”

  “That little pipeline has been shut down permanently. M’Tusi is dead and the connection with the Brethren severed. Lorens is dead, too. He decided to make an independent move and steal a consignment of the diamonds coming in from Africa. He worked it with the late Jerome Gantz, the guy who built Seeger’s bombs.”

  Bolan detailed the lead up to the West African mission. Randolph listened with interest.

  “The loss of so much finance will hit the Brethren hard, Matt.”

  “It might also push them to commit even more reckless acts than they already have. Put a man’s back to the wall and it often makes him kick back even harder.”

  Randolph gave Bolan a concise rundown on the information remaining in his files. He didn’t waste time with long words or complicated descriptions. Bolan listened and absorbed the fine detail Randolph had extracted from gossip on the hill, to information provided by his long-established personal grapevine, including the late Rick Berkly. What Bolan heard tied in with his own intel, a spiderweb of connections that provided clear proof of alliances. Clear indications that a definite plan was being drawn together with the intention of causing unrest and mistrust among the population and destabilizing the administration, leaving the way open for a possible takeover of power with Eric Stahl at the head.

  “And military backup, Senator?”

  “You can count on that, son. As I said, Stahl has always been in deep with the military. When you’re in the arms manufacturing industry, the military is the one customer you keep close. Not just the goods. It’s the big money that passes from hand to hand when contracts are up for grabs. Right now Stahl’s bosom buddy is our General William Carson. Tough man. Good commander. A respected soldier. His people are loyal, so in any delicate situation he could call on a lot of military backup. He and Stahl have been conducting a great many one-to-one meetings lately. Away from prying eyes.”

  “Not enough to avoid you, Senator.”

  “My sources are some of the best. I’ve used them for years. They do their work efficiently and without question they are loyal to me. Too loyal in Rick’s case, and it got him killed.” Randolph cleared his throat. “Another thing. Stahl’s involvement with the communications business. I found that out when I was running some background checks on him. Stahl has a number of small nationwide TV and radio stations tucked away in his portfolio. Quietly bought out over a few years by one of his umbrella companies. I’m sure you understand how useful they could be.”

  “Senator, you’re quite the investigator.”

  “Son, I always knew reading those
Mike Hammer paperbacks in my youth would pay off one day.”

  Randolph observed Bolan leaning back in his chair, his face thoughtful as he absorbed the information. He imagined the man assimilating everything he had heard and trying to make sense of it all.

  “Could it be done, Senator?” Bolan asked as he refilled their coffee cups.

  “Anything is possible, given the right conditions. Take the inescapable fact there is a strong discontent for the way the government handles certain policies. Now that isn’t fantasy. It’s why antigovernment groups exist. It’s why militia groups were formed. They earnestly believe the government is against them and doesn’t represent the citizens of the U.S.A. They hear and see what they want, and make their own interpretation. The Brethren has gone further. The group is actually already waging their war of attrition. I believe they intend to maintain their erosion principles against the administration. Strike here, there, making headway slowly by constantly refreshing their attacks on easy targets. What they do is make the government look helpless, unable to fight back, and in doing that they create the situation where the population loses faith in the administration. Matt, it could happen. The Brethren has no consistency when it comes to targets. I see that remaining their main thrust. No one will know what the next target is. Or where. The only constant will be the body count—and it’s that the population will see.”

  Randolph’s reasoning rang true in Bolan’s mind. It was a surefire way of focusing the American public’s attention.

  “Senator, have you had any personal contact with Stahl over this?” Bolan asked.

  “After last time, I’m keeping a low profile,” Randolph said, “but after what’s happened today it may not be low enough.”

  “We’ll keep you here for a while and keep you informed of developments.”

  “Hiding me off stage? Matt, they do not frighten me.”