Blind Justice

by Don Pendleton

  “You’ll get no complaints from me,” she said. “These people have done nothing but threaten our lives from the moment Ray got the goods on them. He’s been shot. Our son has been forced into hiding and then made to go on the run. It hasn’t been my best few days, either. So you do what you have to do, Matt Cooper, and we’ll worry about the consequences later.”

  Bolan reached to pick up his MP-5. He hung it around his neck so it would be ready for a fast retrieval.

  The lead pursuit car powered up close. Bolan saw it grow larger in his mirror. The crackle of auto fire could be heard above the roar of engines. Slugs embedded in the rear panel. And then the tailgate window shattered, glass fragments imploding.

  “The other one is trying to move in,” Rachel said. “My side.”

  Bolan scanned the mirrors and identified the second chase car as it powered by, accelerating along the opposite lane. More gunfire came from the lead car, slugs thudding into the rear of the SUV. He threw a glance out of Rachel’s window and saw the nose of the other car as it drew level with her door.

  “Hang on,” he said and yanked on the wheel.

  The heavy bulk of the big Chevy struck the car just ahead of the front wheel, the solid impact pushing the vehicle to one side. Bolan held on tight, letting the maneuver gather momentum. Tires burned the road, smoke streaming as the car lost its grip. Bolan kept his foot on the gas, not letting up, and without warning the sliding car struck the rocky edge of the road. Metal screeched. Broken fragments flew into the air. Bolan caught a blurred glimpse of the driver wrestling with a steering wheel that was not responding. The front of the car rose as it hit a large chunk of rock edging the road. Bolan quickly spun his wheel and took the Chevy away from the stricken car as it dropped again, the front dipping, gouging the road. Then it rolled, starting to flip over on its side. Sheer weight and forward motion increased the spin and the car hung in the air for seconds before crashing down on its roof. Sparks flew from beneath the overturned bulk as the car continued forward. The driver of the other car had to swerve violently to avoid being hit and the rear end of his vehicle slid on protesting tires before he pulled it back under control. The upturned car began to spin on its roof, shedding pieces, and then one of the rear doors sprang open and a flailing body was flung out onto the road. Arms and legs thrashed as the victim tumbled along the blacktop, clothing and flesh shredded by contact with the coarse tarmac.

  In his mirror Bolan saw the lead car right itself, starting to speed up and regain its close contact with the SUV. He reached down and freed his seat belt.

  “Matt?”

  “Stay down below the window line,” he said.

  Bolan eased off the gas, hit the brake and sent the Chevy into a long skid, off the road and along the dusty strip. He released the door catch as the SUV slithered to a stop, kicking it wide and exiting the car. He hit the ground, crouching, and moved quickly along the side of the SUV, never once taking his eyes off the lead car as it braked, turning broadside on as it slowed. He was ready as the vehicle came to a stop partway on the verge, and brought the MP-5 into play, triggering a long burst that blew 9 mm slugs through the windshield and the side windows. His relentless volley continued as Bolan moved forward, raking the Russians’ car unmercifully. The slugs found human targets as well as steel and glass. Bolan was ready as the MP-5 clicked on empty, his fingers ejecting the spent magazine and replenishing the weapon in a practiced move. The SMG crackled again as he closed in on the car, firing down into the passenger compartment. The far-side rear door was pushed open and a bloodied figure tumbled to the ground. Bolan skirted the front of the car, catching the guy as he staggered upright, shoulder and face bloody where he had been hit. The Russian carried a customized AK-74 and he was already raising the weapon when Bolan confronted him, tracked in the MP-5 and hit the guy in the torso and chest with a hot burst. The Russian went backward, losing his balance and hit the ground hard.

  Bolan checked out the interior. The three men inside were dead. There were scattered weapons among the blood and shattered window glass.

  Looking back up the road Bolan studied the overturned car. Nothing moved around or inside the wreck. Smoke was trailing from beneath the crumpled hood and he saw the first flicker of flame showing.

  Rachel was standing beside the SUV, inspecting the damage to the bodywork where Bolan had used the car as a battering ram.

  “We still drivable?” he asked.

  She looked at him, then over his shoulder at the two cars. “More than they are,” she said.

  “I warned you,” Bolan said.

  “I know and it had to be done. Matt, how did they find us so easily?”

  Bolan had been wondering about that himself. He knew no one had tampered with the SUV because of time and the fact he had it hidden before he went inside Koretski’s house. That only left one alternative.

  “They must have planted a bug on you,” he said. “After they took your clothes away.”

  “I don’t understand. They already had me prisoner. They were going to try and force me to tell them where the data had been hidden. So why plant a bug?”

  “Insurance. In case you got away and ran. Someone was hedging his bets. Let’s say you did escape. Where would you go? Back to Ray.”

  “But I still don’t know where he is.”

  “They might not have known that. So they gambled. Koretski is no fool. He was playing the odds. Taking no chances.”

  It took them almost twenty minutes to locate the miniature transmitter clipped inside the flap that covered the zip of Rachel’s jeans. It was a small, button-shaped device that had sharp prongs on the underside and it had been hooked into the denim.

  “All they had to do once it came online was watch our progress on a monitor screen and relay the information to the chase cars.”

  “That’s just sneaky,” Rachel said and Bolan couldn’t help but grin.

  Bolan threw the bug away and turned back to the SUV. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Hey, you don’t think they might have planted any more?” Rachel asked. “I’m damned if I’m taking my clothes off any more. It was bad enough back there with that Stone guy leering at me.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bolan said.

  They were pulling back onto the road when the overturned car blossomed into flame, sending a pall of thick smoke into the clear air.

  Chapter 23

  “That’s it,” Grisov said. “The SUV with the damaged front corner. Plate number the same.”

  His partner, Tajik, took out his sat phone and made contact with home base. When Koretski came on the line Tajik relayed the information.

  “What are they doing?” the Russian asked.

  “It looks like they are going into a café. Yes. They have gone inside. What do you want us to do?”

  “For now, just watch them. There isn’t much else we can do while they are in the town. Keep a close eye on them. Wait until they are somewhere alone. Away from any witnesses. Just keep me informed. And do not lose them. Help is on the way. It will be there in minutes.”

  Tajik put away the phone. “He doesn’t expect much,” he said. “We have to wait until we can take them when they are alone.”

  “Two cars followed them along a deserted road and still couldn’t stop them,” Grisov said. “Are we expected to work a miracle here?”

  Tajik shrugged. “If we hadn’t received that call from Berin on his car phone we wouldn’t have been able to identify that damned SUV. He must have known things were going wrong. I could hear shooting in the background. Now the matter is in our hands.”

  “Are you trying to cheer me up? If that’s your intention it isn’t working.”

  Tajik slipped his hand inside the leather jacket he wore, easing his fingers around the butt of the auto pistol in
its shoulder rig. The move was to give himself a little assurance—it didn’t work.

  “YOU THINK PEOPLE are looking at us?” Rachel asked.

  “Why would they?”

  “We have enough bruises between us to suggest I’m a battered wife and you’re a falling-down drunk. And you’re checking everyone out like you expect trouble any minute. I think we look suspicious.”

  She hunched against the corner of the booth they had taken by the window after entering the café.

  “Get you anything?” the waitress asked when she came to their table.

  “Two coffees,” Bolan said, looking the woman directly in the eyes. “And two of the specials off the board.”

  The waitress stared at Rachel, who abruptly turned to stare back at the woman. “Sorry,” she said. “I thought you were going to say something.”

  The waitress backed off and went to the counter to place the order.

  Bolan grinned. “I thought you were going to snap her head off.”

  “Did I look that angry?” Rachel asked Bolan.

  Their coffee arrived—hot and black and fresh. It helped. The food came on large plates, necessary because of the large portions. Steak, mashed potatoes and greens, and hot biscuits, served with rich gravy.

  “These two steaks represent almost a whole cow,” Rachel said.

  They ate, aware of how hungry they actually were. For a while conversation dried up until Rachel noticed Bolan kept staring out the window.

  “What is it, Matt?”

  “Two guys across the street. Outside the shoe store. They were around when we drove in and they’re still there.”

  “Locals watching the world go by?”

  “Those clothes they’re wearing look a little out of place for a small town like this. They look like Armani models.”

  Rachel resisted the urge to stare. “Is this one of those intuitive moments you seem to have on a regular basis?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Great. Just as I’m enjoying my first decent meal in days.”

  “They’re not going to do anything as long as we’re in a crowd. So eat your steak.”

  “Well, at least I’ll die on a full stomach,” she grumbled.

  Bolan watched a uniformed figure crossing the street in their direction. He wore a full belt and holster around his solid waist, a baton on his other hip, the microphone of his comset clipped to his shirt, a badge over his left pocket, and a wide-brimmed hat on his head. The man looked to be in his late forties, tall and with a good physique. He stepped up onto the sidewalk and pushed open the café door, removing his hat as he entered. Bolan watched the lawman’s reflection in the window and saw him cross to the counter and speak to the waitress. She nodded in the direction of their booth, then poured a mug of coffee for the man. The lawman left his hat on the counter, turned and walked across the café. He approached steadily, his right hand well clear of his holstered sidearm, his coffee in his left hand. He stopped at the table.

  “Afternoon, folks,” he said pleasantly.

  “Sheriff,” Bolan said.

  “Mind if I join you for a moment.” It was less a request and more of an assertion—he wasn’t about to be refused. He slid onto the seat alongside Rachel. “Ma’am.” Polite. Nonaggressive.

  “You have some civic-minded people in your town,” Bolan said. “Concerned about the condition of the lady’s face. She called and you responded.”

  The sheriff sipped at the hot coffee. “They make a nice brew in here.” He placed the mug on the table. “Name’s Tetrow. I like to think we have a nice attitude here. Braxton’s Halt is a small town—everyone knows each other. So newcomers tend to stand out and get noticed. Now, Nan, the waitress who called me, was concerned.”

  “And you being the town peacekeeper came to see for yourself,” Rachel said.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.”

  “Sheriff Tetrow,” Bolan said, “I’m going to reach into my back pocket. I have something I need to show you.”

  Tetrow nodded briefly, his eyes fixed on Bolan. He watched the wallet emerge, saw it flip open and saw the plastic ID card Bolan carried for just this kind of situation. It identified one Matt Cooper as an agent of the Justice Department. The phone number, if called, would connect with Stony Man Farm, where Bolan would be verified as genuine. He took out the card and slid it across the table so that Tetrow could study it in detail.

  Bolan unzipped his leather jacket and showed the sheriff he was carrying. The lawman took a long look at the holstered Beretta auto pistol, then looked up at Bolan.

  “They let you fellers carry nonregulation sidearms?” he asked.

  “Kind of goes with the nonregulation operations.”

  Bolan closed his jacket. He took a sidelong glance out the window. The pair of observers were still in place.

  “I’ve been keeping my eye on that pair myself,” Tetrow said without looking away from Bolan. “Like I said, newcomers get noticed.”

  “They’re watching us,” Bolan said. “My guess is waiting to catch us alone.”

  “This to do with the lady?”

  “Rachel Logan. Her husband is a cop in Seattle. He worked undercover and gathered evidence certain parties don’t want airing. He was on the run before I became involved. Got himself shot and wounded.” Bolan glanced at Rachel.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Since then we’ve been trying to keep one step ahead of trouble.”

  “What he’s playing down is the fact that he’s put his life on the line to keep me and my son alive. We drove down from the Cascades area after he rescued me from a nasty situation. But we were followed by some kind of hit team and nearly didn’t make it.”

  “I did hear on the radio about some kind of fracas on the road some sixty miles back. A burned-out wreck and another with a mess of dead bodies in it. That to do with you?”

  Bolan nodded. “They forced the issue. It was them or us.”

  “These people do that to your face, Mrs. Logan?”

  Rachel said, “Yes. They want me to tell them where my husband is and where his evidence is hidden.”

  “And there I was thinking another quiet day in town,” Tetrow said. “Cooper, what can I do to help?”

  “Rachel needs some medical attention. She has a knife wound to her shoulder and some bad bruising to her ribs. There a doctor in town?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Rachel said.

  Bolan and Tetrow ignored her.

  “Ganging up now,” she said.

  “Doc Malachi’s office is across the street. Finish your meal and I’ll walk you over there.”

  Tetrow picked up his mug and returned to the counter where he spoke to the waitress. Nan picked up the coffeepot and followed Tetrow back to the table.

  “I owe you folks an apology,” she said. “Seems I read the signs wrong.”

  “You keep reading those signs,” Bolan said. “Not enough people who care these days.”

  “Goes for me, too, Nan,” Rachel said. “And that steak was the best I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Honey, you visit any time you want.”

  “Talking of visitors,” Tetrow said, “what about our boys over there?”

  “They’ve seen us talking to the local law,” Bolan said. “That might be stirring up trouble. You got any backup?”

  “Not on hand,” the sheriff said. “Both my deputies are out on patrol. We cover the county and it spreads us somewhat thin at times. Today being one of those times.”

  TAJIK WAS BACK ON THE PHONE to Koretski.

  “Cooper and the woman are in the café talking to the local lawman. He joined them a little while ago. I don’t like it, boss. Maybe they will call in reinfor
cements to take the cop’s wife away. If that happens and she talks to them, we lose our advantage.”

  “Then she becomes a liability instead of an asset,” Koretski said. He didn’t even pause to think about it. “That must not be allowed to happen. Kill her. Kill them both.”

  “How soon can we expect backup?”

  “The helicopter will be with you in moments according to the pilot. He can see you.”

  Grisov said, “They are coming out of the café.”

  “We have to move, boss. They will be out on the street in a moment. They may have already called in for assistance. We have to move.”

  “Do it,” Koretski said.

  Grisov crossed to their parked car and popped the trunk, reaching inside to get at the weapons they carried there. He hauled out a pair of loaded AK-47s, each holding taped double magazines, and as Tajik dropped his phone into his pocket Grisov tossed him one of the assault rifles.

  BOLAN SAW THE COMING ATTACK as he followed Tetrow out of the café. The sheriff had picked up on the Russians arming themselves and he yelled a warning to Bolan. As he unleathered his 93-R Bolan half-turned, his left hand grasping Rachel’s shoulder. He forced her back inside the café with an order for her to drop to the floor.

  “Everybody down,” Bolan added for the benefit of the rest of the customers, then turned his attention to the Russians powering across the street, AK-47s coming to firing positions.

  Bolan leveled the Beretta, gripped double-handed, and tracked the closest guy. He was already squeezing back on the trigger when the familiar, hard crackle of AK-47 auto fire filled the air. The first burst of 7.62 mm bullets scorched the air above Bolan’s head, slamming into the awning above the café windows, tearing at the wood. Bolan heard the chunk of slugs hammering into the timber.

  Then his Beretta fired, a 3-round burst delivered with measured accuracy. The 9 mm slugs caught the running target in the chest, dropping him to his knees. The AK-47 kept firing, jacking more slugs into the surface of the street, before the guy went facedown. Bolan delivered a follow-up burst that took the shooter out of the action.