“Liam, move the fuck away.”
Seeger ignored the command. He was focusing on Bolan. His single eye stared at the black-clad intruder. “You broke into my house. Do you know who I am?”
“Nobody important. Just a piece of dirt who murders innocent Americans because he doesn’t have the guts to face them himself.”
“Do you really believe that? I’m Liam Seeger. The Brethren is mine. We’re going to make this country—”
“Not on your best day, Seeger. Sentence has been passed and delivered.”
The M-16 crackled, the slugs ripping into Seeger’s body. He gave a stunned cry as the bullets slammed him back against the door frame, then slithered to the tiled floor, his blood running red across them.
“No more,” Bolan said, stepping by the body. “Your club is disbanded. For good.”
Ribak saw Seeger go down, his lean body torn and bloody from the intruder’s shots. He raised his hand and fired his own weapon, the shot clipping the wall just beyond.
Bolan dropped, the M-16 sweeping around at Ribak. He pulled the trigger and sent a burst that missed as his target twisted and ran, taking cover behind the angle of the wall. The soldier fired again, his slugs tearing out chunks of plaster from the edge of the wall.
There was no return fire. Bolan moved along the passage and reached the end of the wall. Ribak had gone. Up ahead the Executioner saw a door swinging shut behind someone.
Ribak was making a run for freedom.
FOREMOST IN BOLAN’S MIND was Ribak’s knowledge of Clair Valens’s location. The man was Stahl and Carson’s spy in the camp, feeding them information of the Brethren and its plans. That might be over but the Stahl-Carson conspiracy was far from ended. They could still engineer their threat against the President and the administration. Stahl’s desire for taking control was not going to fade away with a weakening of Brethren strength. Senator Randolph’s intelligent summation of the alliance between Stahl and Carson had made it clear they were going to make their strike while the American public was still in a nervous state concerning the attacks by the militia. There were still isolated Brethren cells capable of causing more confusion and suffering. News of Liam Seeger’s death would not reach those cells for some time, and as long as they remained committed, the strikes would carry on.
Bolan had a need to take Stahl and Carson out of the equation. He had allowed Stahl to live the last time they had clashed. He admitted now that that had been a mistake. Stahl had learned nothing from it. He had grasped his freedom with both hands, retreating into the background where he simply made a new alliance and drew plans for another round of deception and betrayal of his country. Clair Valens, harboring her own mistrust of the man, had embarked on a low-key mission of her own to expose Stahl for what he was. Bolan would not condemn her for that. She had courage and determination. Neither of those qualities was going to help her if she was in the hands of Eric Stahl.
Bolan needed Ribak alive—at least until he could tell where Stahl and Carson were, and what had happened to Valens.
The former soldier was not going to give in without a fight. And he had the advantage over Bolan. He knew the layout of the house, making it easier for him to move around.
Bolan had to think like Ribak. Would the man choose to stay and settle matters between himself and Bolan? Or would he get out, making a quiet escape so he could return to Stahl and Carson? He would have accepted his role as undercover man for his true employers to be over now. So why remain where he might get himself killed? His place would be with the people he worked for.
There was no way he could fly out. The only aircraft available was no longer in Brethren control. Bud Casper would see to it that no one commandeered the Cessna. So that left a ground vehicle. There had to be some of them around the place. Most likely at the front of the building.
Bolan headed for the door.
In the background the sounds of autofire had lessened. There were still intermittent shots. Lyons, the one-man hell-raiser, had done exactly what Bolan had asked—engaged the enemy and kept them off Bolan’s back while he went looking for Seeger and Ribak.
It was one down, one to go, and the Executioner had no intention of failing in his part of the campaign.
Bolan reached the door and pulled it open. He saw a wide, paved driveway and the hard-packed strip of a road running away from the house along a gradual incline. It would run for some ten or so miles before it connected with the regular highway running through this section of the territory.
His eye caught a moving figure, just darting out of sight around an extension jutting from the side of the house. A flat roof. No windows in the stone wall Bolan could see.
Garage?
There was only one way to find out. Bolan turned toward the garage and was close when he heard the sudden surge of a powerful engine. Tires burned on concrete and as Bolan rounded the end of the garage, its doors opened and a big red SUV burst from the building. Deacon Ribak was at the wheel. It hit the paved strip, swerved across it, then threw up reddish dust as the deep-treaded tires dug into the compacted earth.
Bolan barely managed to pull himself back as the SUV cruised by him. He snapped the M-16 to his shoulder and triggered a triburst that cored in through the rear corner. The SUV maintained its course, thick dust obscuring its shape as it accelerated with surprising speed.
Ejecting the magazine, Bolan rammed a fresh one home and cocked the M-16. He turned to the open garage and saw a number of parked vehicles. The closest was a twin of the one Ribak had driven off in, identical model and color. Its license plate read LS/2. Bolan yanked the door open and peered inside. The SUV was ready to roll, the key in the ignition.
It was no hardship to keep track of Ribak. The dust trail left by his vehicle was clear to see. Bolan pushed the pedal to the floor, feeling the sheer power of the massive vehicle expend itself. As he closed in behind Ribak, the dense dust cloud hid the man’s vehicle at times. It crossed Bolan’s mind that Ribak might not even be able to see his pursuer. The obscuring dust cloud might work both ways. Bolan decided he might use that to his advantage. He pulled the seat belt in place, locking it securely, then swung the nose of his SUV out to the side so he could draw alongside Ribak, intending to sideswipe the other vehicle. He knew he was taking a risk that might easily backfire. Once he was alongside Ribak the man would have the same opportunity Bolan had. Regardless of that risk, Bolan nudged a little more speed out of his SUV.
Now he was directly alongside. Ribak’s head turned and he stared at Bolan. Without warning, Bolan turned the wheel and slammed his vehicle into Ribak’s. The impact shook both SUVs. Ribak clutched his wheel and struggled for a moment until he brought his vehicle back under control. Bolan repeated his maneuver again, sending Ribak off the road and onto the rutted ground alongside.
Bolan went after him, not allowing Ribak to recover. Again and again the soldier slammed into the SUV, battering the vehicle. He could see Ribak cursing as he fought the shuddering steering wheel. His front wheels hit a half-buried slab of rock. The SUV rose, the wheels leaving the ground for a moment, which coincided with Bolan hitting Ribak’s vehicle yet again. The collision this time jarred Bolan’s steering wheel from his hands and he felt his control go. He angled away from Ribak, fighting to bring the bouncing, shuddering SUV back on line. When he had succeeded he glanced around. Ribak was no longer in sight. There was a huge dust cloud behind Bolan. He stepped on his brake, slowing and swinging the SUV around to face the way it had come, touching the gas pedal to search for Ribak’s vehicle.
As the dust cloud drifted aside, he saw Ribak’s SUV on its right side, wheels turning, the engine still going. Bolan stopped at a safe distance, unclipped his belt and picked up the M-16. He stepped out of the SUV and stood checking out the overturned vehicle. The engine died suddenly. Steam seeped from under the hood. The turning wheels slowed and ceased moving. Bolan searched the SUV but saw nothing.
Until the tailgate door of Ribak’s vehicle was forcibl
y kicked open. Bolan twisted in that direction, saw the blur of movement as Ribak rolled out and scrambled to cover behind the SUV.
“I want that SUV,” Ribak called from his cover. “I’m going to have it sooner or later, so save yourself a lot of trouble and step away.”
“Not going to happen, Ribak. Game’s over. Accept it.”
“I don’t think I can, so I’ll just have to kill you.”
“It won’t be as easy as killing Gantz. Or those civilians you and your Brethren buddies murdered.”
“Hell, don’t use that crap. We’re in a war situation here. Ever heard of collateral damage?”
“Those deaths were no accidental overlap. You bastards knew exactly what you were doing.”
“It’s done. No advantage crying about it now.”
Bolan, all the while he had been conversing with Ribak, had been moving toward the overturned SUV, a plan forming in his mind that might offer him a way out. He had pinpointed Ribak’s location behind the SUV, his M-16 already lined up. He had a full, 30-round magazine in place. Thirty rounds he would be able to deliver in 3-round bursts. He stopped three feet from the exposed underside of the SUV, aimed and began to fire, moving the M-16’s muzzle no more than a few inches either side of his target point. His finger worked the trigger in firm strokes, the rifle jacking out the entire contents of the magazine. Empty cartridge cases sprang from the ejection port in an almost continuous rain, gathering at Bolan’s feet. He saw the 5.56 mm slugs penetrate the SUV’s underside, visualizing them going on through to tear out through the roof panel.
The M-16 stopped firing. Bolan ejected the spent magazine and clicked in a fresh one, cocking the weapon and waiting.
He heard a low groan, the sound of a body slumping to the ground on the other side of the SUV. He walked around the front of the vehicle, his M-16 up and ready.
Deacon Ribak was slumped against the SUV, clutching at his bullet-riddled legs. Bolan’s shots had ripped into his thighs and lower hips, the 5.56 mm slugs deformed by their passage through the two layers of metal sheeting. The malformed slugs had retained enough of their force to inflict ragged, bloody wounds. Bolan had deliberately fired low, not wanting to kill Ribak outright. Wounding had been his intention. He needed to get Ribak to tell him Clair Valens’s location.
Ribak raised his head to stare up at the tall man in black. He didn’t fail to notice the dried blood and the bruises on Bolan’s face. Or the condition of his clothing.
“Busy day?” he asked, his face already pale from pain and the shock of the numerous wounds in his limbs.
“Clearing out rats’ nests always takes time.”
Ribak’s hands were glistening with blood pulsing from the jagged wounds. “That was a smart move,” he said. “Fuckin’ sneaky, but smart.”
“Dealing with people like you and Stahl tends to make me sneaky.”
“I can see that.”
“Ribak, where’s the girl? Is she still here?”
“She’ll be with him by now. Tell me something. Why was she so set on finding Stahl?”
“Old score to settle. Plus, she didn’t trust him.”
“I figured something like that. Jesus, she was a tough little gal.” Ribak bent forward, gripping his legs. “Carson has a house in Maine. It’s where he and Stahl are running their empire-building from. That’s where she is. Stahl sent his own plane for her.”
Bolan didn’t reply.
When Ribak lifted his head, he saw that his adversary had shouldered the M-16 and had a 93-R in his hand.
“What the hell,” Ribak said. “Damned if I wanted to end up in a wheelchair anyhow.”
He fell silent as Bolan moved out of his line of vision.
The 9 mm triburst hit Ribak in the back of his head. He toppled on his side.
“That was from your collateral victims,” Bolan said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Can’t raise him,” Stahl said. He stared at his cell phone, turning it over in his hand as if it would tell him why he couldn’t get through to Ribak.
Carson picked up one of the phones on his desk and punched in a number. He waited as it rang out. “That’s not like Ribak.”
“You think something is wrong?”
Carson replaced his phone on the cradle. “I’ll go find Brent. Get him to check it out.”
Carson left the room.
“Things not running as smoothly as planned?”
Eric Stahl turned to face the speaker.
Clair Valens.
Seated in a large leather armchair, she regarded Stahl with a mocking expression on her face, despite the large, discolored bruise across her left cheek.
“It might be wise for you to consider your position,” Stahl said.
“I don’t worry about my position, Stahl. I do concern myself over what you and that lunatic general are planning. I include you in the lunatic reference, by the way.”
Stahl leaned against the edge of the desk. “Why? Because we want to liberate this country from the incompetents currently running it?”
“To replace it with what? Stahl and Carson? Sounds like a cheap comedy duo. Or are you going to get out your manifesto and tell me how everything will be A-OK once you take charge? That all the ills plaguing the U.S.A. will vanish overnight? Bring home our troops and suddenly Iraq will become a peaceful democracy? That all those people out there who hate the U.S. will put away their bombs and guns? Take a breath, Stahl. It isn’t going to happen. Right or wrong, those conditions have already been set. There isn’t an instant fix.”
“You fail to see the bigger picture, Clair. It’s because of the way the administration has handled—actually mishandled—matters that we are in this situation. They have made terrible mistakes. Mistakes they refuse to admit to, and worst of all, mistakes they are making no attempt to rectify. It isn’t simply international blunders. The country is under siege. We need to redress the wrongs done to the American people here, never mind abroad. This used to be a great place to live. The best country in the world. Now we have crime and unemployment. A loss of identity. Indecisive leadership drifting without purpose. The problems are in plain sight but no one will do a damn thing about them.”
“So General Carson and ex-Senator Eric Stahl will set all this right? By stealing the presidency and imposing their kind of administration? Remember me? I’ve had a taste of you once before and I still haven’t got rid of the bitterness.”
Stahl pushed away from the desk. He strode over to hover above Valens, his face white with anger. “Bitch.” He hit her across the face, the sound of the slap loud in the quiet of the room. “If we didn’t need to keep you alive for the moment…”
Valens raised her head. The mark from his blow was livid on her cheek. “I don’t expect to live through this, so there’s nothing to lose.”
She lunged up out of the chair, lowering her body and driving her left shoulder into Stahl’s midsection. The impact pushed him back, and Valens maintained her forward motion until he slammed up against the desk. Stahl was sucking breath into his lungs, momentarily defenseless. He saw Valens’s move coming but was too slow to stop it. Her fist slammed against his jaw, the blow solid, snapping his head to the side. She launched a second punch that struck Stahl over the same spot. Blood spurted from a torn lip. The former senator felt himself sliding along the desk, his hands scrabbling to get a grip on the edge to stop himself from falling. Before he could steady himself Valens was on him, circling his neck with her left arm and closing her grip. She pressed the heel of her right hand against the back of his skull, shoving hard. The pressure closed his windpipe and Stahl began to choke for breath. He was in pain from the solid blow she had landed, panicking through the loss of oxygen. He thrashed as they slid from the desk to the floor, with Valens curling her body against his. The strange thing was he could smell the perfume she wore. He sensed it through the gray veil that enveloped him.
“COME ON, ERIC, snap out of it. You’re not dead—yet.”
S
tahl cracked an eye and Carson’s face swam into focus. He realized he was in one of the armchairs, sprawled back, staring up at Carson. He felt sick. His face and throat hurt, and the taste of blood was in his mouth.
“Hey, get this down you,” Carson instructed. He was holding a thick tumbler in his hand. “Go on.”
Stahl took the glass in a hand that was trembling. He raised the tumbler and took a small swallow. The whiskey stung his cut lip and slid roughly down his bruised throat.
Harry Brent’s face moved into view. He was studying Stahl’s bruised jaw. “Packs a punch, doesn’t she? What the fuck did you say to piss her off?”
“You think this is funny?” Stahl’s words came out in a hoarse growl. It hurt to speak. “Where is she? I hope you killed the bitch.”
“Now, Eric, you need to calm down,” Carson advised.
“She nearly strangled me. Calm down?”
“We have more pressing matters to attend to,” Carson said. “Just to let you know, she is not dead. We still need to find out if she passed on anything that might alert the authorities first. Right now she is locked away, nursing a headache. You listen to me, Eric. Brent tried to raise Seeger’s residence. Nothing. He even tried the Brethren’s Colorado base. That’s dead, too. Until we find out what’s going on and whether any of it’s down to Valens, we keep her breathing. Not to say we won’t hurt her. One way or the other we need to get a handle on all this.”
Stahl sat up slowly, touching his sore throat. “The strikes against the Brethren. Remember me saying I might have an idea who could have carried them out? It occurs to me it could be the same man who interfered in the Zero Project. He and Valens worked together then. Could be he’s liaising with her again.”
“Who was he? An agency man?”
“It was never made clear. Mike Belasko. He was well trained. Capable. Appeared to work independently. Just like now.”
“From what Ribak told me,” Brent said, “this guy seems to have some good backup intel-wise. He knew where and when on Brethren targets.”
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