Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  “Military infiltrators are among the best operatives around, Mr. Seeger. Their training sees to that.”

  “This man is decimating us, Deke, tearing my militia apart. Every time he comes after us, he wins. Look what he’s already done. I truly believe he’ll be knocking on my front door next.” Seeger gave a choking laugh. “I mean, why not? He’s already in the neighborhood.”

  Ribak had no answer this time.

  TEN MINUTES LATER Ribak stood in his own office, surveying the identical scenery Seeger had been watching. He had lit a cigarette, smoke curling in front of his face. He was angry. Not so much with himself, though he was smarting at what had happened. Seeger had been right. The son of a bitch was knocking the Brethren on its ass.

  It had started at Gantz’s house.

  And now the Colorado base.

  And each time the guy had walked away unscathed. Ribak was convinced it was the same man on each occasion. He hadn’t seen him clearly at Gantz’s and not at all during the other incidents. An inner sense warned him it was the same guy. He’d had help in Pennsylvania and Chicago, but the Colorado strike had been carried out by a single man.

  Who the hell was he?

  Ribak hadn’t been joking when he told Kemp the wrong men had been hired. Give him a dozen like this elusive guy and Ribak could have turned things around without breaking a sweat.

  As much as he admired the stranger’s skill, Ribak had to have him stopped. Too much of this kind of damage could have serious effects on morale. Seeger wanted his militia to be involved in major conflicts. If he was going to achieve that, Ribak needed damage control. He was going to have to pull out all the stops and not worry too much about the aftereffects.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lyons had parked a distance away from a hangar, watching the place for a while as the day brightened around him. The field was small, housing only a few hangars and outbuildings. From the background details Kurtzman had pulled, Beller’s Charter was the only outfit operating from the place at the present time. Mort Beller owned and ran the charter service bearing his name. Kurtzman had even provided a photograph of Beller from his pilot’s license application—a heavyset man, medium height. It was enough for Carl Lyons.

  Outside it was raining, cold. Lyons was protected inside the rental car. The situation reminded him of his time on the force when he had spent long hours on stakeouts. It had been mind-numbing, waiting for something to happen, consuming fast food and drinking lukewarm coffee, the air inside the vehicle stale and the conversation staler. There were many occasions when those tedious surveillances had resulted in nothing. Lyons hoped this particular session would not be like that.

  He heard the rumble of an engine and saw an expensive BMW roll in from the direction of the road beyond the field. It turned in toward the main hangar and stopped. The driver’s door opened and the man who climbed out was Mort Beller. He made a dash for the small door set in the hangar, unlocked it and went inside. A light came on.

  Lyons started the rental car and drove across the concrete apron, coming to a stop alongside Beller’s BMW. He studied the layout for a while, familiarizing himself with the area before he opened his door and made for the office entrance. Pushing the door open he stepped inside, unzipping his leather jacket so he could get to the holstered Python if he needed it. As he closed the door behind him, he heard someone call out.

  “If you want a charter today, no chance. I’m on standby.” Movement in the office behind the counter preceded Beller’s appearance.

  His words trailed off when he saw Lyons. The Able Team leader had a good physique that showed, and his expression informed Beller he was in no mood to be brushed off lightly.

  “Mort Beller.”

  “That a question or a statement of fact? You sound like you’re here to hand me a warrant or somethin’. Should I be worried?”

  Lyons slid a photograph from his pocket and laid it on the counter.

  Clair Valens.

  As he completed his move, Lyons kept his eyes on Beller’s face. The moment he scanned the photograph Beller’s expression changed. Only for an instant before he regained control but it was enough to alert Lyons.

  “Who is she?”

  “How the hell should I know? Maybe she’s your sister.”

  “Considering why I’m looking for her, that could be a wrong answer.”

  “Hey, I was joking.”

  “I’m not.”

  The inflection in Lyons’s tone alerted Beller. He might have bluffed his way out if he had possessed a stronger character. Instead he turned and headed for his office.

  Lyons shook his head at the stupidity of the move. He stepped back, then vaulted over the counter and went after the bulky figure. As he went through the office door, he saw Beller reach a cluttered desk and yank open a drawer, light gleaming on the outline of a gun. Lyons crossed the office, raised his right foot and booted the drawer shut on Beller’s hand. The man yelled in pain, wrenching his hand from the drawer. Blood welled from a gash. Lyons reached out and hauled the pilot around and hit him on his beefy jaw. The blow spun Beller and he sprawled across the desk, scattering the contents. He gave a groan, sliding off the desk and dropping to the floor.

  BELLER OPENED HIS EYES, realized he was restrained and immediately went into a panic, struggling against whatever held his wrists to the arms of his office chair. His legs were bound, too. When he found he couldn’t free himself he calmed a little, chest pumping from his exertions, and decided to look around.

  He was still in his office.

  His visitor was seated on the edge of the desk, watching him. Lyons had Beller’s revolver in his left hand, casually swinging it back and forth.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Beller demanded. He tugged at the restraints on his wrists again. Glancing down, he saw they were plastic ties and knew he wasn’t about to break free. Already the skin under the ties was raw and sore.

  “This should be easy for both of us,” Lyons said. “I ask the questions, you answer.”

  Beller stared at him as if Lyons was making a joke. “Yeah, right.”

  “I hope so. First question. Was the woman hurt at all?”

  “What the fuck kind of question is that? I don’t know about any woman. Okay?”

  “A problem already. Apparently you didn’t get the idea.”

  Lyons put Beller’s gun aside, then reached out to pick up the Cold Steel Tanto knife he had placed there, letting Beller get a clear look at the gleaming blade before he walked slowly around the man. Standing behind Beller, he remained silent. Waiting. Beller turned his head, trying to see what Lyons was doing. He tugged at the plastic restraints pinning his wrists to the chair arms. It wasn’t long before thin beads of sweat began to form on the back of his neck, and Lyons could hear his ragged breathing. Beller finally gave up twisting his head because he was unable to see anything.

  “Hey, where the fuck are you? What’re you doing back there?”

  Lyons leaned forward and allowed the razor edge of the knife to stroke across the back of Beller’s neck. He kept the caress featherlight but it was enough for the blade to make a thin cut in the outer skin. Beller let out a startled yell, jerking wildly again, panic making him lunge against his bonds.

  “Crazy son of a bitch, what the hell are you doing? Did you cut me? Fuck, you cut me. Mother…what the fuck do you want?”

  Lyons moved back to face him, holding the knife in full view so that Beller could see the thin beads of bright blood on the blade edge.

  “Was the woman hurt?”

  Beller glared, his eyes fixed on the knife. Like the majority of people, he had an innate fear of a cold knife blade. “You bastard.” He blew a hard breath from his lips. “Okay. Okay, enough with the knife. No, she wasn’t hurt. But she didn’t look too happy at being taken for a ride.”

  “Who was with her? And don’t give me fake names. I know the Brethren players.”

  Beller realized his mouth was dry and he was ready to co
mplain, then thought better of it when he actually took note of Lyons’s steady gaze. He realized he had never looked into such uncompromising, ice-cold eyes. And he suddenly, shockingly, realized that this man was in deadly earnest.

  Mort Beller had never been close to violent death in his life. His only contact was through TV newscasts. Death shown on-screen did not have the same impact and relieved the viewer of any personal involvement. Here, now, with his own mortality on the edge, Beller was experiencing the sheer terror of his own suffering in real time, and it scared him more than he might ever admit. What was even more unsettling was the fact that this blond man terrified him, standing over him with a knife he was obviously not afraid to use.

  Death had never been closer to Beller than right then. Closer than Beller ever wanted it to be.

  “Deacon Ribak. Joseph Amenta.”

  “Where did you take them?”

  “Seeger’s place in Colorado.”

  “And then?”

  “Refueled and came back here. Like I always do.”

  “Did you go inside the house?”

  “No. I never do.”

  “So you have no idea who else was there?”

  Beller shook his head. His beefy face was dripping sweat. The cut on the back of his neck was stinging, reminding him what that knife could do. He found it hard to tear his eyes from it.

  “Seeger. Does he have security outside the house?”

  “There are always a few walking the grounds. Sometimes more. Hard to tell. I don’t get invited in for coffee. Seeger pays me good money to fly people in or out. That’s it.”

  “House in the open?”

  “There’s a wide area he had cleared same time he built the landing strip. Then it’s all timber and the hills north of the property.”

  “What else?”

  “What else? Jesus, is my name Google? I don’t know. All I do is fly people in and out, like I said. I don’t ask questions because Seeger doesn’t like nosy people. Get curious, and he starts getting paranoid. Understand?”

  “In his position I’m not surprised.” Lyons paced back and forth, working things over in his mind. “Beller, have you been out there since you dropped them off?”

  “No.”

  “So the woman could still be there?”

  Beller shrugged. “How do I know? She might have been flown out by someone else.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  The words had a chilling finality to them.

  Beller was not the only one with a difficult situation to resolve. Lyons had realized using Beller as pilot to reach Seeger’s home base was not a good idea. He needed someone else. That was clear. But who? Jack Grimaldi wasn’t available. A solution presented itself even as Lyons was thinking about Grimaldi’s lack of availability. He stepped out of the office, out of Beller’s hearing, and used his cell to contact Stony Man. He was hoping the person he was considering was available.

  Downright reckless?

  He decided that was closer to the truth, which was pretty normal by his own standards.

  He glanced across the office to where Beller sat slumped in his chair, still restrained. Lyons didn’t trust the man at all. And especially not since he had made a call to Stony Man some time earlier, giving Kurtzman details he had taken from Beller’s pilot’s license.

  Kurtzman had come back within ten minutes, giving Lyons the lowdown on Mort Beller. The man had led an interesting life. Mostly on the edge. The single item that interested Lyons was the revelation that Beller was on a list as a member of the Brethren. Said fact didn’t surprise Lyons. He would have been disappointed if Beller had not been a member.

  “Thanks for that,” he’d said, and signed off.

  Now he was calling Stony Man back again, asking for Brognola and ready to make his request. The conversation was short and by Lyons’s standards reasonable.

  “I’ll get back to you,” Brognola said.

  Lyons wandered into the office and stirred Beller with the toe of his shoe. The man raised his head and returned Lyons’s stare. “What now?”

  “When I first came in you said you were on standby today.”

  “So?”

  “For the Brethren?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I figured so. They yell, you jump.”

  “And if I do? It’s no damn crime.”

  “Aggression now. You should learn to control your feelings, pal. Bad vibes only generate hostility.”

  “Yeah? You got that fuckin’ right. Hostile is just how I feel about you.”

  Lyons grinned. “And I thought we were getting along just fine.”

  “Look, what do you want from me?”

  “This call you’re waiting for? To fly to Seeger’s place?”

  “Most likely…” Beller’s mouth stayed open. “Crazy bastard. You want to go there?” He saw by the expression on Lyons’s face that was exactly what the man wanted. “Walk in unexpected and they’ll shoot you straight off. Christ, me, too, if they figure I brought you.”

  “You could call ahead and let them know I’m on my way to deliver the latest edition of The Watch Tower.”

  Beller shook his head. “This is the Brethren we’re talking about. They’re not in this for laughs. You know what they’re capable of.”

  “Tell me about it, Mort. Slaughter on the streets. Plain murder of noncombatants. Property destruction. Hell of a bunch you’re tied in with.”

  “We do what needs to be done. This country is being flushed down the fuckin’ toilet by the federal authorities. We’re losing constitutional rights all the damn time while the government turns this nation into a fascist state. They are screwing with our constitution…”

  Lyons was suddenly right in Beller’s face, the muzzle of his pistol grinding hard into the man’s cheek. “Those people you killed. Women and kids included. Were they screwing with your rights? Tell me, Beller, did a ten-year-old girl deny you constitutional freedom? Because you sure did deny hers.”

  Out the corner of his eye Beller saw Lyons’s trigger finger go white at the knuckle as he applied pressure. He stared into Lyons’s face and saw a murderous gleam in his eyes. He stayed silent because he didn’t know what to say and felt sure the man was that close to pulling the trigger.

  Lyons pulled back, stepped away from Beller and lowered the Python. He let go the breath he had been holding, tension releasing with it. He moved across to the desk and perched on the corner, letting the big gun hang loose in his hand.

  “We came close there, Mort.”

  Beller still refrained from speaking. He was trembling. Sweat glistened on his skin as he realized just how close he had come to dying.

  Lyons’s cell phone rang. He answered and took Brognola’s message, a smile crossing his face. “How long? On his way? Okay.” He put the phone away. “Looks like you’re off the hook, Mort. If you do one thing for me.”

  The phone rang twenty minutes later. Lyons picked it up and put it to Beller’s mouth. His right hand held the cocked Python, the muzzle pressed hard against the man’s head.

  “It’s me,” Beller said. “I’m all gassed up and ready. Yeah. I’ll be taking off shortly. See you there, Ribak.”

  Lyons took the phone and placed it back on the cradle.

  “Wasn’t difficult, was it?”

  “Now what?”

  “We wait.”

  They waited for just under an hour, until the buzz of an incoming aircraft drew Lyons outside. He watched as a blue-and-white Cessna circled the field then came in to land, taxiing up to come to a stop alongside Beller’s craft. The engines died and a familiar figure climbed out and crossed to where Lyons stood.

  “Benning.”

  Lyons nodded. “Bud Casper?”

  Bud Casper, a fair-haired, lean, good-looking man in his thirties, followed Lyons inside. To his credit, Casper made no comment when he saw Beller secured to his chair, or the bruise on his jaw where Lyons had hit him.

  “Have to say I kind of expected so
mething like this. My trip with Cooper kind of set me up not to be surprised.”

  “Did they tell you where we’re heading?”

  Casper grinned. “Don’t tell me it’s Colorado again. Damn me, what is it about that place?”

  “Don’t know what to tell you, Bud.”

  “Least this time of year there shouldn’t be any snow.”

  Lyons had heard about Bud Casper’s first involvement with Bolan in Colorado. As well as record snowfalls, there had been an attempt to kill Casper during the mission. He had ended up badly wounded, surviving through his stubborn nature and a refusal to quit. The incidents in Colorado had been life threatening to all concerned. A longtime friend of Jack Grimaldi, the charter pilot had equipped himself well and Brognola had kept him on the books as a possible future backup pilot.

  “Maybe no snow, but this could be just as dangerous.”

  “I told Coop last time ’round. The charter business gets to be a little quiet at times.”

  “You’ll be sorry if you get mixed up in this,” Beller said. “He tell you who we are?”

  “His chief told me,” Casper said. “Some sorry-ass bunch of militiamen setting off bombs in the streets. No guts to stand up and face real men, I hear. You get off on killing women and kids. Really scary.”

  “Mort here has showed me the course settings for our trip.” Lyons picked up the clipboard Beller had previously prepared for his flight to the Seeger location. “That okay?”

  Casper nodded. “Not hard to find.” He traced a finger across the aerial map, nodding to himself. “I’ve flown over that way plenty of times. Mind, folk weren’t shooting at me then.”

  He looked across at Beller. “That plane of yours. She all fueled up and prepped?”

  “I can tell you she is,” Lyons said. “I checked.”

  “Then we’re ready to go, partner. Hey, what about him?”

  “He’s waiting for a trip, too. With a couple of federal marshals. They should be here any minute. Lockdown time for Mort.”

  Beller kept his mouth closed.

  Thirty minutes later Beller’s Cessna, with Casper at the controls, taxied across the field to the runway. He increased the power and cleared the strip with yards to spare, bringing the aircraft around on its heading for Colorado. Lyons spent some time in the passenger section, going through the heavy carryall he’d brought on board from the trunk of his rental car. The bag held the ordnance he had brought along from Stony Man. Lyons wanted time to check it all over and make sure the weapons were loaded and ready for use. He already had a feeling that everything else aside, his welcome at Seeger’s residence would not be a peaceful affair.