Damn the man.
“Senator, Mr. Koretski’s helicopter is coming in for a landing,” Tony said, appearing in the living room.
“Thank you, Tony. See to his arrival. And help Simon and Linda gather their paperwork and make sure all their luggage is placed on board.”
Daggett and his assistant were taking the helicopter back to Seattle to continue with the defense preparation. There was little more they could do at the house. Kendal had signed numerous documents, made statements. Next the work would take on a more complex set of procedures and Daggett would need his firm’s experienced advisors to look into the D.A.’s charges.
“Thanks for your hospitality, Tyrone,” Daggett said. “This is far from over. However the D.A. wants to play, there are weeks, maybe even months, of preparation ahead. The more time we can spend, the better our chances. You leave it in our hands. The D.A. wants a fight, he’s going to get one.”
Koretski walked into the room, nodding briefly to the lawyer and his assistant as they left. He crossed and shook Kendal’s hand.
“Why so down in the mouth, tovarich? Things are looking up. I spoke with my people before we left. In a few days we will be able to sign the final papers, and then the field is ours. We will have joint ownership of that potential pot of gold. You and I are about to become even more wealthy than we already are.”
Two solidly built Russians in well-fitting and expensive suits were standing across the rear of the room. Koretski noticed Kendal looking them over, his smile widening.
“I took what you said seriously. These are new men who came in from Moscow a few days ago. I have used them many times before.”
“We both felt the same about all our other men,” Kendal said dryly. “Cooper showed us just how good they were. I have three around the house and two outside. And do you know what, Max, I still don’t feel safe.”
“I admit this Cooper has dealt us some hard lessons, but do we fold our tents and crawl into the darkness? I think not, Tyrone. We continue to fight. This man cannot survive forever. Yes, I agree that he is skilled. Very adaptable. But he is still only one man. Human like you and I. It will take only one bullet to stop him.” Koretski tapped the side of his head. “Cooper likes to play on our fears. To get inside our skulls. He wants us to be afraid of him. I will not let that happen.” He clapped a hand on Kendal’s shoulder. “Now, where do you keep your drink? That helicopter flight has left me thirsty.”
Twenty minutes later the helicopter took off, taking Daggett and Linda away. Kendal watched it swoop over the house and recede into the distance. For a fleeting moment he wished he was on board himself, but then he wondered where he could go to get away from all his problems—and Cooper? Something inside whispered that no matter where he went the man would eventually show up.
Tony had gotten Koretski’s two bodyguards settled. With their belongings squared away they were in the large kitchen eating. Kendal usually had a part-time staff when he was in residence, but this time he had not brought anyone in, so his own crew and Koretski’s would be looking after their own needs. The chillers and fridges were well stocked with food, so feeding his visitors would not pose a problem.
Seated in front of the fire, with fresh drinks and coffee, food brought to them by Tony, Kendal and Koretski allowed themselves some time to discuss matters.
“Logan and his family have been hidden away where I can’t find them,” Kendal said. “Whoever Cooper works with, they have damned good security. We haven’t even come close to locating them.”
“Do you have people looking?”
“Damn right. I’m not giving up on that fucking cop. The trouble he’s caused us I have an open-ended contract on him. Permanently open-ended. Someday, somewhere, he’ll be found. When he is, the bastard is dead. So are his wife and kid.”
“You do not forgive very easily, Tyrone.”
“Damn right I don’t. Nobody screws with Tyrone Kendal and walks away.”
“I received word this morning that most of the heavy equipment has reached Seattle docks. It’s housed in my warehouse complex. The drilling rig should dock in a day or so. My crew chief is assembling the manual crew. In a few days we will be ready to ship out and head for the field. Once the final contracts and permits have been issued we can move.”
“Is Binder cooperating?”
Koretski laughed. “Oh, yes. He will make sure nothing official stands in our way. Every so often I send him photographs showing his relatives going about their daily business, just to remind him I have not forgotten what I promised.”
The heat from the fire, the drink and food, lulled Kendal’s senses. He began to relax a little as he and Koretski discussed what lay ahead. Time slipped by and it was only when Tony came into the room to switch on the lights that Kendal realized it was already getting dark outside. A light fall of snow was drifting down from the higher slopes. The outside floodlights came on, throwing a wide spread of illumination around the house. Kendal stood up and crossed to stand at the big window, watching the snow fall. The sky darkened rapidly and beyond the circle of light the landscape looked like a black void.
“Senator, I’m going to prepare the evening meal,” Tony said. “Steaks be okay?”
Kendal nodded absently. “Sounds good, Tony. You go ahead. Are the men on standby?”
“Yes, sir. We have it all buttoned down.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
We have it all buttoned down.
Kendal stared out the window, clutching his tumbler of whiskey.
Would Cooper understand?
That the house was all buttoned down?
That voice was whispering inside Kendal’s head again, and it was asking if Cooper did understand, would it make any difference?
Senator Tyrone Kendal found it hard to believe it would.
Chapter 31
Bolan had been in place since midafternoon. He had seen the helicopter arrive and deliver Koretski and his security crew. He had watched as Kendal’s lawyer and assistant boarded the helicopter and left. And from that moment it had become a waiting game. Bolan lay in a shallow depression that allowed him to watch the house and make his preparations. He was waiting for the darkness to drop. It would provide cover for him. It would allow him to choose his moment.
He had checked out the weather forecast and knew there would be a snowfall. It would reduce his field of vision, but would also do the same for Kendal’s security crew. Bolan had already seen the two-man outside patrol. Kendal and Koretski would have the bulk of their people inside. Bolan’s first strike would be against the armed patrol moving around the house when the floodlights came on as darkness fell. The wide cast of light, despite the snow, pinpointed the patrolling security men for him.
Bolan was clad warmly against the rapidly dropping temperature. The weatherproof suit, hooded, was worn over thermal clothing. Bolan was also wearing a pair of thermal gloves. He would remove them when he was ready to use the sniper rifle, protected for the moment inside the canvas bag that also held his other weapons.
The M-40 A-1 sniper rifle was an old model in some respects, but was still a dependable, rugged weapon. It had served the U.S. military for a long time. Chambered for 7.62 mm NATO rounds, the M-40 A-1 bolt action held five rounds in the integrated magazine. This wasn’t the first time Bolan had carried the superbly accurate rifle. He knew it well, trusted it, and where matters of life and death were concerned he held it in great esteem. He screwed the bulky sound suppressor to the end of the threaded barrel. A Scout Sniper Day Scope was already fixed to the Picatinny rail, with the addition of a supplementary Simrad KN200 fitted to accommodate night vision.
Bolan judged the range to be less than 800 yards. He knew the M-40 A-1 had an effective range of 1,000 yards, expending a bullet at 2,550 feet per second. That gave him a formidable
and deadly weapon. Despite the falling snow there was little wind motion, so he was not going to be presented with much in the way of drift. Bolan checked the weapon, worked the bolt to chamber the first round, then placed it on the canvas bag beside him while he made a similar check of his two handguns. The Beretta 93-R snug in its shoulder rig, and the big Israeli .357 Magnum Desert Eagle in a high-ride holster belted against his right hip. A Cold Steel Tanto knife was sheathed on his left side. Bolan wore a combat harness over his clothing, with extra magazines for both his hand guns. In one of the pouches were five-round clips of 7.62 mm loads for the M-40 A-1 in case he needed extra.
For Bolan this was going to be a fast in-and-out hit. That was how he had planned it. He had no desire to allow it to drag on. His intention was to deliver Executioner judgment on the men inside the house.
Both Kendal and Koretski were guilty on counts of murder. In Bolan’s eyes that condemned them out of hand. The methods they used to intimidate and terrorize victims simply stacked up the chips.
In a session with Ray Logan and the Seattle D.A., Bolan had remained a silent observer. Bolan listened without saying a word as the D.A. spoke to Logan, and saw the pained expression in the cop’s eyes as he began to accept the possibility that Tyrone Kendal might yet wriggle out from under the threat of prosecution. The D.A. made it clear the battle was far from over and every avenue would be explored, with the intention of bringing Kendal to justice.
Logan was shaking his head as he realized the sacrifice he and his family had made. The even greater one that had ended with Marty Keegan losing his life. The deaths of Arthur and Sarah Kenner at the store. The D.A. explained these were separate issues that had to be dealt with on their own merits. Kendal’s behavior in regards to bribery and blackmail had to be handled with care because his defense team would be throwing counter pleas in Logan’s direction.
When the D.A. had gone, assuring Logan his efforts would not go to waste, the cop had sunk back on his pillow, exhaustion creasing his face.
“That son of a bitch is going to walk,” he said. “After everything he’s done, he’s going to walk away a free man. I put my life on the line and his lawyers will get him off. My wife, my son, went through hell because of that bastard. I lost my best friend on Kendal’s orders. Innocent people died. Jesus, Cooper, maybe I should just throw in my shield and go get an easier job.”
“No. You’re a cop, Ray. A damn good one. I don’t see you quitting.”
Bolan walked to the door.
“You leaving, Cooper?”
“Something I need to do, Ray. But you rest easy. Kendal and his partner, Koretski, are not about to walk free. Take it from me, that’s a given.”
Which brought him here, to the snowy slopes of Montana, overlooking the senator’s isolated safe house.
The current pair of security men, clad in cold-weather gear and carrying automatic weapons, made their predictable rounds, prowling the exterior of the house, checking the separate stone-built generator building standing some yards clear of the main property. They also inspected the pair of 4x4 SUVs parked alongside each other, standing close to the east side of the house.
He watched the activity of the guards.
With his ordnance checked and at hand, Bolan picked up the solid weight of the sniper rifle. He slipped off his right-hand glove, flexing his fingers to keep them supple. He studied the pacing guards, chose his first target and set himself. He was flat down, legs spread to brace himself. His left arm held the weight of the rifle, elbow supporting against the ground as he followed the movement of the man through the night scope. The full beam of the lights was projected away from the base of the house wall, so there were still shadows for Bolan to deal with. So he watched.
Waiting and waiting until he had the target where he wanted, then a slow, progressive easing back on the trigger. Feeling the pressure as the rifle’s inner mechanism responded to his light touch.
Bolan felt the trigger snick back all the way. Felt the almost flat sound as the firing pin snapped forward.
Then the dulled sound of the shot. The solid kick of recoil against his shoulder.
Through the scope Bolan saw the target react as the 7.62 mm slug hit. The guard twisted, head spurting blood and brains and snapping to one side as the impact bounced him off the wall of the house. He went down on his knees, then toppled facedown on the ground, body jerking in dying spasms.
Bolan worked the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge and jacking a second into the chamber. He pulled the rifle around to lock on to the second guy, watching him move in the direction of the rear of the building, unaware his partner was down.
As the guy rounded the corner he saw the first guard on the ground. He reacted fast, snapping his own weapon up, scanning the open ground beyond the house.
Bolan caught him full face on, the scope settling, steadying.
The M-40 A-1 bucked in Bolan’s grip as he fired. The guard’s head blew apart as the 7.62 mm slug cored in above his right eye. It blew out the back of his skull, spattering a glistening mess on the pale stone behind him. The guy stepped back, contacted the wall and slid down until he sat motionless in death. His auto weapon slipped from nerveless fingers. Then his bloody head dropped forward until his chin rested on his chest and his weight dragged him away from the wall.
Bolan saw none of this. With the two-man security detail out of the picture he was on his feet and moving downslope, heading for the house. He had placed the rifle back inside the canvas bag. Once he was inside, the need for a long-distance sniper weapon would be superfluous. His handguns were the only tools he would need for what lay ahead.
Bolan knew that Koretski had brought a two-man crew, but he hadn’t been able to assess how many Senator Kendal would have around him. Knowing the man’s propensity for excess it would probably at least equal, or even double the number the Russian had with him.
Bolan reached the house, skirting around the base until he located the rear door leading to the ground floor. He slid the big Desert Eagle from its holster and eased off the safety. Bolan checked the timber door—it opened at his touch. He eased through into a basement storage area, with a set of wooden steps leading to the house proper. A light showed beneath the door and, pausing briefly, Bolan picked up the murmur of voices. The smells of brewed coffee and cooking food told him he would be emerging into the kitchen area.
Bolan was about to open the door when it was done for him and he came face-to-face with a tall, broad-shouldered figure, sleeves rolled up and shirt open at the collar. The guy wore a shoulder rig holding a SIG P-226 and the moment he confronted Bolan he let out a warning yell and reached for the holstered auto pistol.
The Desert Eagle only moved a fraction, Bolan triggered a single .357 mm round that blasted its way through the man’s torso, emerging through his spine and blowing a mushroom of blood and tissue across the kitchen.
As the stricken guard went back, Bolan went through the door, taking in the generous dimensions of the wood-and-stainless-steel kitchen. He saw at least three occupants, all dropping whatever they were holding and going for the weapons they carried. Shots rang out, slugs clanging against hanging utensils and shattering glass in cupboard doors.
Bolan had already taken a headlong dive to the tiled floor, rolling tight against a floor unit, feeling the shower of debris that filled the air from the initial fusillade of shots.
Men were shouting to each other. Shoes clattered on the tiles and shadows danced on the walls above where Bolan lay, his pistol searching for targets.
He saw a pair of shoes appear around the end of a unit and angled the Desert Eagle up, firing on instinct. His pair of .357 mm slugs ripped into the lower torso of his target and the man went down with a stunned cry, falling across the floor only a couple of feet from Bolan. The Executioner used another shot to the guy’s skull, ending hi
s suffering, then rolled away from where he was sprawled and gained his feet. He stayed below the level of the worktops, saw the head and shoulders of a figure. Bolan tracked him, then triggered the big handgun. The heavy slug tore into the man’s left shoulder, the impact sending him reeling along the edge of the kitchen unit. The power of the .357 mm slug had shredded his muscle, severing a blood vessel, and the guy was bleeding massively. Blood spurted across the marble work surface, pooling dramatically. The hit man was losing blood quickly. He was effectively out of the game, his only interest in stopping his blood loss, a struggle he lost quickly.
Bolan had moved back, edging around the far end of the kitchen units, knowing that he needed to deal with the third guard before he became trapped in the kitchen. He could already hear distant calls from deeper in the house, and knew that the scant seconds that he had left would fall away with frightening speed.
The crack of a close shot pinpointed the third man. His bullet ripped a large chunk of marble from the work surface above Bolan’s head. Having located the guy, Bolan crouch-walked around the end of the unit. He spotted his target farther along, at an intersection between two floor units. The man had his back to Bolan, appearing to be concentrating his attention on the far side of the kitchen. He only became aware of his error when the rising bulk of the Executioner flickered in the corner of his eye. He was already too late when he swung his gun arm around. Bolan’s Desert Eagle spat flame twice and the slugs slammed into the base of the guard’s skull, taking a large chunk of his face away as they emerged through his left cheek. The man crashed down hard on the kitchen floor, his blood spreading in a wide fan across the tiles.
Blind Justice Page 17