Bolan put his file back where he got it, in the wrong slot. He turned around, shining his penlight on the other drawers, deciding which file to investigate next. His light flickered across the large photocopier that stood in the middle of the room. He brought his light back to the machine, examining it quickly. He lifted the flap where material to be copied would be placed. Empty.
He clicked off the penlight. Now he was certain something was wrong. He silently crept back out the door and out of the offices. In the corridor he waited, peering around the edge of the frosted glass for some sign of movement inside. He knew it would come.
It did.
He stared through the glass. He could make out the black-clad figure, ghostly in its movements as it slid out from behind the metal supply cabinet. A penlight flared up and the figure walked to the file drawers and pulled open the one labeled C.
Bolan hunched his back, coiling his body into attack position. For a moment he was aware that his body had shifted into that position without any conscious command from him. It just knew what to do. In sports they called that "muscle memory." Bolan called it surviving. He yanked the door open and charged into the room, diving at the figure reading the Philip Cummings file.
They both slammed into the file cabinets, the impact shutting the open drawer. His opponent's face was hidden under a black ski mask, but Bolan could see the surprise in the eyes. Not fear, just surprise. He saw no weapon, no guns or knives, but he didn't want to take any chances. He punched the masked face with a right cross that snapped the whole head back with a crackle of neck bones. The body sagged momentarily against the file drawers and Bolan unleashed another punch.
Remarkably, the opponent ducked under the swing and in passing dug a sharp elbow into Bolan's ribs hard enough to knock him aside a few feet. Ski Mask immediately dashed for the door, but Bolan leaped through the air and tackled the running feet. Ski Mask tripped, sprawling headfirst into the metal supply cabinet. The doors to the cabinet sprang open and boxes of staples, rulers, pens, notebooks and scissors tumbled down on top of both of them. With a gloved hand, the figure in the mask grabbed a pair of scissors, gesturing threateningly at Bolan to back away.
The Executioner's hand flicked out and grabbed the small wrist and held it fast, bending it backward while he punched the masked face once again. The body slumped.
Bolan straddled the body and jerked the ski mask off. He flicked on his penlight and directed the beam at the face beneath him. Denise Portland stared back.
Her eyes locked onto his, though the eyelids fluttered a little from dizziness.
"Nice punch," she said.
"Nice elbow." He offered her a hand.
She waved it away. "Thanks, I think I'll just sit here a moment and wait for the ice crystals in front of my eyes to melt."
He sat beside her. "Let me guess. Nothing on TV tonight, so you decided to take a night stroll. Imagine your surprise when you ended up here. That it?"
"Something like that. You forgot the ski mask."
"Right. Your skin is sensitive to the night air."
She laughed. "Sounds like you've had your hands caught in a couple of cookie jars yourself, Cummings."
"A couple."
"What tipped you?"
Bolan shone his penlight on the photocopier. Attached to the top of it was a gray metal box with a flap door labeled, Insert Key Here. Bolan stood up, unplugged the small rectangular box from the slot. Every department at school had its own key that counted the number of copies each department used. Without one, the machine would not turn on. "You'd returned my file and shut the machine off, but you left the key in the machine."
She shook her head. "Well, mother was right, neatness counts." Her eyes narrowed as she studied Bolan carefully with the scrutiny of a professional. "So tell me, Cummings, what are you doing here?"
Bolan didn't answer. He went to the door, listened. He didn't hear anything. "I'm not sure this is the best place to discuss what either of us is doing here. Those guards seem a little itchy tonight."
"Okay." Denise climbed slowly to her feet, rubbing her bruised jaw. "I'll finish making a few more copies, then we split." She took the box from Bolan and plugged it back into the photocopier, flipping the switch on. She reached behind the supply cabinet and pulled out a thick stack of photocopied files.
"Let me see those," Bolan said.
"Let's get out of here first."
Bolan kept a watch at the door, but still couldn't help but admire the speed and efficiency with which Denise Portland worked. She selected files, slapped them into the machine and copied them without hesitation. After a few minutes, she slid the final file drawer shut, tidied up the spilled supplies and stood next to Bolan, the copies of the files tucked under her arm.
"Let's go," she said.
Bolan led the way, his AutoMag held at the ready position.
Denise frowned at the huge gun. "You expecting a tank attack?"
Bolan ignored her. They sneaked down the stairwell, stopping once to wait for the slow clicking of footsteps to pass by below them. When it was quiet again, Denise tugged on Bolan's arm and whispered, "Which way did you come in?"
"Fence by the dorm."
"I'm parked in the opposite direction. Let's split up, meet somewhere outside."
Bolan's smile was cold. "We'll stay together. Unless you want to give me those copies and meet me later."
She sighed. "We'll stay together."
They started across the corridor toward the side door. So far everything had gone pretty smoothly, if he didn't count finding Denise Portland snooping through the files. But even that turned out okay, because now he had copies of the files to study more closely. All they had to do now was get off the grounds.
Bolan pushed the door open. It was the same door he'd unlocked earlier to get in. But when he pushed the bar opening the door this time, a loud alarm screamed.
Dogs started barking and they heard guards running toward them, shouting for both of them to put their hands up or die.
13
"What now, coach?" Denise asked.
Two guards came running from between the dorms. Four more were swarming around the life-size statue of «General» Ridgemont in a Civil War uniform, staring stiffly and holding a sword in one hand and a stack of books in the other. Bolan dropped to one knee and lifted his AutoMag at the charging group of guards.
The first shot blasted the sword hand and saber off the statue. The second shot pulverized the head into a cloud of gray powder.
The guards scattered for cover. The dogs kept coming.
Bolan didn't see any point in shooting the guards or the dogs. They were only doing their jobs. But neither did he see any point in getting arrested or having his face chewed into rags. He looked at Denise.
"Split up and meet outside?" she said.
"Right."
She took off immediately, the photocopied files tucked under her arm like a football. He was impressed with her speed and agility as she hopped parked cars and dodged bullets from guards. She merged into the darkness as cleanly as a diver entering splashlessly into a black pool.
Bolan wondered if he'd really see her outside, or if she'd be long gone. He knew nothing about her, why she'd been snooping around here, what she was after. But he knew she handled herself like a pro. The rest he'd find out later.
Meantime, Bolan had a pack of charging Dobermans to worry about. They came at him with wild eyes and saliva spraying from their slavering jaws.
* * *
"There," Fowley said, pointing. "Down there."
Dysert opened the window of the chemistry lab and looked down four stories at the ruckus. The siren still pulsed out a loud bleating sound. Some guards were running with their guns drawn. Others were taking up their positions at the dorm entrances and exits to keep the students inside.
"Campbell!" Fowley shouted down, cupping hands around his mouth.
One of the guards looked up. It took him a moment to recognize the two colon
els leaning out the window. They were both wearing rubber gloves and lab aprons. He waved up to them.
"Turn the fucking siren off!" Fowley hollered.
"What?" Campbell asked, cupping a hand around his ear.
"You believe this moron?" Fowley asked Dysert. Then to Campbell he shouted, "What's going on?"
Campbell couldn't make out the words, but he figured the colonels probably wanted to know whom they were chasing. Since he didn't yet know, he just gave an elaborate shrug.
Fowley waved him on and Campbell ran off to catch up with the others.
"Assholes," Fowley said.
Two gunshots exploded, their echo so loud that they momentarily drowned even the siren. Fowley and Dysert saw the hand and sword of the statue of that old fraud Ridgemont disappear. Then the head vaporized.
"What the hell's going on down there?" Fowley demanded. "Some son of a bitch has a bazooka."
Dysert watched the guards scatter for cover. The dogs hesitated a moment, confused by the loud sound and their masters running away. But with no other command, they continued their attack.
"He's in the administration building," Dysert said.
Fowley went pale. "It better be some thief looking to steal typewriters, because if they got into our files…"
Dysert walked briskly away, crossing the lab where they'd been working all night, leaving the room and marching down the hall.
"Where are you going?" Fowley asked, running after him.
Dysert unlocked the office of Ben Little, the geometry teacher. It was a small office, uncommonly neat. On the wall were various geometric shapes made by students using colored yarn tied between nails, the straight lines merging to form colorful curves. Dysert marched in and went to the window, drawing up the blinds. From this vantage point, he could see the administration building, though still not who was doing the shooting.
"Damn," he said.
Fowley came up from behind him. "Anything?"
"No. Looks like they've got him or them pinned down. Let's see what the dogs can do."
* * *
Bolan fired two more rounds, each two feet in front of the attacking dogs. Cement chipped up into their faces and they stopped their charge for a moment.
Bolan used the time to pull Denise's ski mask out of his pocket and rip it in two. He opened the door behind him, wedged both pieces halfway in the jamb and closed the door tightly. He gave each piece of cloth a yank, but they were firmly held by the door.
One of the dogs had regained his composure and started walking toward the administration building. When he encountered no more explosions or flying cement, he began trotting, then running full speed. The other dogs quickly followed.
Bolan pulled the tear gas canister from his pack. He took a few deep breaths, forcing as much air into his lungs as he could, then pulled the pin. Tear gas began escaping from the container immediately. Using the haze as a cover, Bolan dashed down the steps, vaulted some hedges and dropped behind the school's minibus to wait for his opportunity.
Someone had shut off the siren, though Bolan still heard the faint echo of the sound deep inside his ears. He watched from under the minibus as the yelping Dobermans ran fearlessly into the spreading tear gas.
A slight breeze from the ocean was lifting the gas upward faster than Bolan had anticipated. The guards were now cautiously advancing on the scene, guns clutched in one hand, the other hand fanning away the tear gas from their faces.
Up in the dorms, windows were open and kids were hanging out shouting at each other with excited voices.
"You kids close those windows right now!" one of the guards yelled up, a handkerchief covering his nose and mouth. "This is dangerous."
The guards finally made their way through the tendrils of gas, coughing and hacking and rubbing their eyes, only to find their dogs tenaciously chewing on the scraps of clothing that were wedged into the door. The dogs' mouths were clamped, their back legs skittering on cement as they tried to dig in, pulling and tugging as if convinced their prey was on the other side of that door attached to the piece of cloth. They whimpered and shook their heads from the gas, but they would not let go.
Bolan used the confusion to slip along the fence until he found his opening. He crawled under and ran along the sandy dunes toward his hidden motorcycle. Now, if only Denise Portland hadn't double-crossed him, he could finally figure out what was going on in that school.
* * *
"Well, well," Dysert said. A slow smiled worked its way across his face. A leering smile. "Look who's playing hide-and-seek with our guards."
Fowley turned to follow Dysert's gaze. "Where?"
"There. By the cafeteria. You couldn't miss those fresh buns."
Fowley's eyes strafed the grounds until he saw Denise Portland climbing the fence. "Hell! I knew it. I knew there was something fishy about that bitch. Her hotshot lawyer was too goddamn anxious to force her on us. Damn it!" He stroked his pockmarked face with his fingers in a sanding motion. "A cop, you think?"
"Probably." Dysert kept his eyes locked on her.
"What do we do?" Fowley asked.
"Maybe she didn't find anything."
"You want to take that chance?"
Dysert shook his head. "No."
Fowley watched Dysert stare at Denise Portland's agile figure clambering nimbly over the fence and down the other side. He felt another one of his pangs of hatred for Dysert's unbearably handsome face. If Fowley had those looks he'd know what to do with them. He'd be in bed with some gorgeous broad every goddamn night. But Dysert preferred little girls. In fact, Dysert seemed to resent his own looks, like one of those glamorous movie starlets who complains that no one takes her seriously because she's so beautiful. That she wants to be appreciated for her brains, too. Maybe that was Dysert's problem. He was a brilliant chemist who had turned down several offers from large corporations so he could stay near the objects of his passion and obsession. Little girls.
Dysert turned away from the window and walked out of the office. Fowley followed.
"There's only one thing we can do about her," Dysert said.
Fowley smiled. "I'll set up the lab."
14
"What kept you?" Denise Portland asked, munching on a pear. "Want one?"
Bolan entered her sparse apartment, looked around, saw the pile of photocopied files on the kitchen counter and relaxed.
"You think I'd hold out on you?" she said, watching his eyes. "After all we've been through together."
"I'll take that pear now," Bolan said.
She tossed him one from the bowl next to her breadbox. "I don't know about you, but every time I do one of these black bag jobs I get ravenous. I've already eaten two peaches and a banana." She finished off her pear in two more bites and tossed the core into the trash. She opened the refrigerator, rooted around, moving cans and jars back and forth, closed the door empty-handed, then opened the freezer. "Aha," she said, pulling out a pint container of ice cream.
Bolan walked across the room toward the counter. He leafed through the files. "You get a chance to read any of these yet?"
"Nope." She grabbed a spoon from a drawer, bumped the drawer closed with her hips and dug into the ice cream. "Priorities, my dear Cummings," she said, shoveling the spoon into her mouth.
"You a cop?" Bolan asked.
"Cops don't do black bag anymore, Cummings. Didn't you hear?"
"Yeah, I heard. Only I know a few cops who haven't heard yet."
She ate another spoonful. "No, I'm not a cop."
"And not FBI?"
She shook her head. She wiped a dab of ice cream from the tip of her nose with her sleeve.
"That means CIA. You're the in-house investigator on Colonel Danby's murder?"
She shook her head, concentrating on scraping the ice cream out of the container. "CIA doesn't do black bag jobs, either. Domestic espionage is the jurisdiction of the FBI."
"Right," Bolan said with a harsh laugh.
"Okay. Maybe we do a
little self-policing."
"This whole Danby thing looks fishy to you guys, too, huh?"
"Not necessarily. We routinely investigate any member of our staff who dies, even if it's in their sleep from a heart attack."
"Especially if it's in their sleep from a heart attack."
She nodded, licking her spoon. "True. That's the most suspicious death of all." She licked the ice cream from her fingers, then held her hand out to Bolan. "Christopher's my name. Special Agent Christopher."
Bolan didn't take her hand. Instead he gave her a hard look. "I've heard of you."
She sighed wearily. "Let me guess. You heard I wiped out an entire section at Langley because I couldn't locate the security leak. Killed two innocent people. Right?"
"Yeah."
"It's true." She crushed the empty ice cream container, hooked it over her head. It plopped into the trash. "Except for the part about killing innocent people. Oh, people were killed, all right. Innocent ones. Bill Teasdale and Ginny Lawson. They were taken hostage by a double agent working at Langley, who they'd caught taking photos. He killed both of them."
"And you got credit for it."
She shrugged. "It's good publicity. You'd be surprised how much more willing people are to talk to me knowing the kind of trigger-happy broad I am."
Bolan believed her. Not because she was attractive or a woman or young. He believed her because it was just the kind of thing her superiors would do. Take the deaths of two of their operatives and turn it into a «scenario» that made them look good. Instead of seeming like incompetents for being infiltrated by a double agent, they appear ruthlessly efficient in disposing of him.
"What have you found out about Colonel Danby and his son?"
"Well, now, Cummings, that brings us to an interesting point. Just who the hell are you and why should I tell you anything?"
Bolan studied her for a moment. Her face was expressionless, except for the debutante smile meant to distract him. "I'm a friend of the family. Went to high school with Maria. She asked me to look into it."
Fire Eaters Page 10