LITMIR.BIZ

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a plea already,” Lyons said. “Same song you dirtbags sing when you get caught. It isn’t going to wash this time, Petrie.”

      “Gantz is dead because the Brethren sent a bunch of hard-asses after him,” Bolan said. “You’re included in anything they did. Just the same as being involved with the bombings. It puts you right in the frame, Petrie. Multiple deaths. Attacks on federal property. That means a long, long stretch. Even if they could keep you alive permanently, you’d never be let out of prison. No parole. Just a single cell where you’d be lucky to even see daylight.” Lyons turned from the box and showed Bolan a leather-bound personal organizer he’d located. “If it was left to me I’d make it quick for you and do everyone a favor.”

      “You can’t pin this one on me. All I did was act as middleman. Gantz sent me a list of what he wanted and I filled it. Arranged delivery. That’s all. I didn’t know what he was going to do with that stuff…”

      “The hell you didn’t,” Bolan said. “Petrie, you knew about Gantz. What he did. You’re in up to your neck.”

      Petrie wiped blood from his face, glanced from Bolan to Lyons and back. “I want my lawyer. I have my rights. This is harassment.”

      Lyons smiled. “Dirtbag, you have got this so wrong. We’re not even cops. Don’t play by their rules. With us you get no favors.”

      “So why should I cooperate?”

      “Because right now you are on panic street,” Bolan said. “Ready to skip town and hide. Tell me I’m wrong, Petrie. Tell me your business partners have decided to move on and they don’t want to leave any loose ends around.”

      “Jesus, you don’t know. One prick upsets their arrangements, and they figure the best thing is to close down here and move somewhere else. You don’t know what these people are like.”

      “Bombings, indiscriminate slaughter. I think I know exactly what they’re like. Killing you isn’t about to make them lose any sleep.”

      “Look, all I understood was that Gantz had stolen something from the Brethren. Something they wanted back. Whatever it was had pissed them off. That’s why they went after Gantz. But things didn’t work out the way they wanted. They got hit, and Gantz was taken out of their hands. Why am I telling you when you already know?”

      Petrie slumped against the wall, silent, not even making any more attempts at stemming the flow of blood from his nose.

      Lyons wandered into the outer office. When he returned he asked, “Where’s your assistant? Val Paxton. I get the feeling she left in a hurry.”

      “Val? What about her?” Petrie refused to meet Lyons’s eyes.

      Bolan leaned in close, his voice hard. “Where is she, Petrie. Quit stalling.”

      “I told her to get out. Go home and stay clear until she hears from me.”

      “Son of a bitch,” Lyons said. “You knew the Brethren might come calling so you threw her out on the street to look after herself? Nice move, Petrie. This isn’t going away and you damn well know it,” Lyons snapped.

      Bolan had a bad feeling about the woman. “You called them. The Brethren. Laid it on them that Val knew about Gantz’s double cross. You gave them some story that would put them on her trail and leave you with enough time to skip town.”

      Whatever else he was, Petrie had no chance as an actor. He tried and failed to conceal his guilt. “It was her or me,” he said.

      “I’d say you just bombed out of Philadelphia’s Employer of the Year award,” Bolan said.

      Lyons began to thumb through the personal organizer until he located the page with Val Paxton’s employment information. “This is where she lives? And her phone number?”

      “Yeah. She won’t answer. I told her whatever she does, not to answer the phone. She trusts me. She’ll do what I told her.”

      “Going to be one hell of a shock when she finds out what you’ve been up to here. Or does she already know?”

      “She has no idea. I hired her because she has experience in the investment business. I worked this office as a genuine agency and that’s all Val knew it as.”

      “Your Brethren associates won’t be taking any chances,” Bolan said. “If they’re putting a hold on their dealings in this town, they’ll make a clean sweep. And that will include you. Once they deal with Val, you’ll be next. I guess you already figured that by the packing you’re doing.”

      “You handle things here,” Lyons said. “I’ll grab a cab and get across to Val’s address. I spotted a cab rank just around the block when we drove in.”

      Bolan nodded. “Stay in touch.”

      Lyons holstered his revolver and left the office without another word, leaving Arnold Petrie alone with Bolan.

      THE APARTMENT BUILDING where Val Paxton lived was thirty years old, well maintained and five stories high. The cars parked at the curb fitted the area—except for the large, dark blue SUV wedged in between a Honda and a three-year-old Buick. Lyons’s cabdriver established that when they drove by and he spotted the Suburban.

      “That’s something you don’t see around this neighborhood every day. Somebody won the lottery, or else the pushers are marking new territory.”

      Lyons asked to be dropped at the far corner of the block, paid the cabbie and started walking back to Val Paxton’s building. He went up the steps, then took the stairs to the second floor and checked out numbers on doors. When he came to Paxton’s door, he reached inside his jacket and loosened the Colt Python.

      That was when he picked up a scuffle of sound from inside the apartment—a man’s demanding voice, followed by the unmistakable protest from a female seconds before the sound of a slap.

      Lyons hit the door with his foot, just below the lock, and it flew open and banged against the wall. The Python was in Lyons’s hand as he dived into the apartment, landing on one shoulder and rolling, coming up on one knee. The .357’s muzzle tracked across the room, Lyons making his scan of who was there: three men, one young woman on her hands and knees, long ash-blond hair hanging over her face, her clothing disheveled and torn.

      The Able Team leader leveled his revolver, swinging around to cover the trio of men. One guy had an autopistol in his left hand and he aimed it toward Lyons.

      The room echoed to the heavy thunder of the Python as Lyons triggered a 180-grain slug. It hit the pistol man in the chest, coring through to puncture his heart before exiting through his back. The brute force of the shot kicked the guy backward. He struck the edge of a chair and went down hard.

      The man’s partners went for their own handguns in the space of a couple of seconds, but their actions did nothing to save them from Lyons’s second and third shots. He took one guy in the left shoulder and the third in the throat. He went down instantly, making a bloody mess on the carpet.

      The guy with the shoulder wound started to yell. Lyons, his mood ugly, pushed to his feet and slammed the Python’s steel barrel across the guy’s skull, dropping him to his knees where he collapsed facedown on the floor. If he had been conscious he would have seen Lyons standing over him, the Python aimed at the back of his skull, a wildness in his eyes that only faded when his finger eased off the trigger. The rage inside had almost made him pull that trigger. Lyons knew his limitations. One of them was his short fuse. It was liable to land him in trouble unless he managed to control it. Most times he did, but the temptation was always there, lurking, waiting to push him into the abyss.

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