Patriot Play - Don Pendleton

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with relish. He was finding his shadowy participation with the Brethren to be paying off handsomely. His covert activity was bringing his day closer. That time was not due yet. Not until the voice of America demanded a change. When the great mass of the people became overwhelming, then he would put into motion the second strategy.

      CHAPTER SIX

      Clear of Tyler Bay, Bolan headed for the interstate and picked up speed once he was on the highway. He estimated a four-to five-hour drive, depending on conditions.

      “Apart from the disturbance last night, that was a nice town,” Lyons observed.

      “You’ll tell me next you could live in a place like that.”

      “Why not?”

      “Too cozy for you, Carl. You need noise and color. A place where the action buzzes.”

      “Whoa, whoa, where do you come up with that profile?”

      “Carl, I know you too well.”

      “Yeah? Well there’s no need to spoil my illusions so early in the damn day.”

      “Okay.”

      “By the way, are we being politically correct today? Or are we going in hard?” Lyons asked.

      “The Brethren has already shown its disregard for law and order,” Bolan said. “How high does the body count need to go before we get the message?”

      “I’m getting the feeling it’s leveling out already, Mack.”

      “Carl, no illusions on this. We’re in a war situation here. Plain and simple. The Brethren has declared that, so we respond in kind. Search and destroy. Go for everything that has the Brethren written on it.”

      Bolan glanced at his partner. His expression told Lyons all he needed to know. The Able Team commander settled back and checked the Philadelphia city map he’d taken from the rack back at the hotel.

      “Pedal to the metal, Chief. Let’s go see a man about a boat rental.”

      Bolan handed Lyons the plastic bag holding the cell phone. “See if you can get anything from that. It’ll give you something to do and stop you from making funny remarks about my driving.”

      Lyons switched on the phone and began to go through the various functions. In the phone number list there were no more than half a dozen saved contacts. The recent call list only had three registered. Lyons used his own phone and contacted Stony Man. He spoke to Price and quoted the information from Gantz’s cell.

      “Have Aaron check these numbers. See if he comes up with any names for us.”

      “Will do. Anything else?”

      “Let you know. We’re on our way to Philly. Update when we make contact.”

      IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON. The sky over Philadelphia had a sullen, cloudy aspect. It didn’t promise a great deal, but then Bolan and Lyons weren’t in vacation mode. Both were aware that the Brethren could launch another attack anytime, anywhere within the United States. That very thought motivated them as Bolan drove into and through the city, Lyons guiding him from the Philadelphia map he had open.

      South Star Investments was painted on the door, directly above the name Arnold Petrie, CEO. The office suite was on the fourth floor of a building that housed a collection of business enterprises with less than exciting prospects in their immediate futures.

      “This place makes tacky look good,” Lyons muttered as he and Bolan emerged on the landing from their walk up the stairs.

      “You never learned that appearances don’t always tell the full story?”

      Bolan leaned on the handle and pushed the door open. There was an outer and an inner office. The outer office held a desk, chair and a row of filing cabinets that looked straight out of the showroom. On the desk a computer showed a dead screen. Papers were strewed across the desk, a pen dropped in a hurry lay on top of them. A nameplate sat at the front edge of the desk: Val Paxton, Assistant. The door to the inner office was ajar and hurried movements could be heard coming from the room beyond.

      Lyons closed the main door behind him and locked it. He took out his Colt Python and held it down by his side. Ahead of him Bolan, Beretta 93-R in hand, stood at the door to the inner office. He extended his right foot and nudged the door wide open.

      Arnold Petrie’s office was well furnished. Everything looked new: thick carpet on the floor, pale wood desk large enough to act as a dining table. The executive chair behind it was the best money could buy. A large-screen laptop sat on the desk beside two telephones.

      The lone man in the office was throwing files into a box. A wood filing cabinet against the wall had all its drawers pulled open.

      “We seem to have chosen the wrong day to make our investments, Mr. Petrie,” Bolan said conversationally.

      “Sorry, we’re closed for business,” the man said over his shoulder.

      “You are Arnold Petrie?”

      “No, I’m Homer fuckin’ Sim—”

      Lyons heeled the office door shut with a bang.

      Petrie spun, saw his visitors and the weapons they were carrying, and froze. The man was haggard, pale and unshaved, heavy dark rings beneath his eyes. His striped shirt was half unbuttoned, and the tie he wore hung askew. Arnold Petrie was displaying the symptoms of a man haunted by events and scared the aftermath was about to catch up with him.

      “Sleepless night, Petrie?” Bolan asked.

      “Must have something on his mind,” Lyons said.

      “Who the hell are you two? And what’s with the guns?”

      “We have business with you,” Bolan said.

      “And the guns,” Lyons continued, “are there because we might want to shoot you.”

      “Shoot me? You can’t just walk in and threaten…”

      “It might be a good idea if you sat down, Petrie. We could be here for a while.”

      “Is this a holdup? You guys after money? Hell, you’ll be disappointed if you are. This office is for investments. All done over the phone or Internet. No cash involved.”

      “I understand your kinds of investments, Petrie. Tell me, how are share prices in agricultural fertilizers doing at the moment? And nitromethane? Should be rising, the amount your people have been buying.”

      Petrie’s expression gave him away. He backed toward the desk, suddenly leaning across it to snatch up a handgun resting in an open drawer. As fast as he was, he looked slow when Lyons moved, crossing the space between himself and the desk in two long strides. His left hand swept around and slapped the pistol out of Petrie’s hand.

      “Miserable son of a bitch,” Lyons growled.

      He caught hold of Petrie’s shirt, hauling the man away from the desk and across the office. Unable to control himself Petrie slammed into the filing cabinet. The unit toppled under his weight and the man rode it to the floor where his head snapped forward and impacted against the side, breaking his nose. Petrie rolled off the cabinet, blood streaming from his nose.

      “Easy,” Bolan cautioned. “Right now we need him conscious.”

      Lyons backed off, expending his energy by going through the box Petrie had been packing.

      “Broke my fuckin’ nose,” Petrie mumbled.

      Bolan rounded on the man. “You want him to break something else?” Petrie’s wide-eyed stare was answer enough. “Talk to me, Petrie, I’m all that’s between you and my partner.”

      “Tell you what?”

      “You hired the boat that delivered the thugs who attacked Gantz. Why was the Brethren angry with him? He can’t tell

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