Patriot Play - Don Pendleton Gold Eagle Superbolan

Скачать книгу

home knowing Gantz was inside and helpless proved that thought.

      The hellish beat of the .50-caliber machine gun ceased abruptly. As Bolan raised his head, he heard the rumble of a powerful engine, the throbbing pulse of the screws as they pushed the cruiser away from the shore. He shoved to his feet and grabbed for the monocular, taking a hurried scan of the departing boat. He saw its stern as it disappeared into the fog, and picked out the shape of a man leaning against the stern rail. He was tall, the pale oval of his face indistinct. Bolan did see the cap of white-blond hair above the face. Short cut, almost spiky. It was an image he wasn’t about to forget.

      The image was lost in the fog, as was the beat of the engine.

      Damn. Bolan lowered the monocular and turned to see Lyons impatiently brushing damp sand from his clothing.

      The twin beams of powerful spotlights penetrated the shadows, pinpointing the two men. A hard voice broke through the gloom.

      “Put down the weapons and raise your hands. I’ve got a 12-gauge Winchester. Don’t do anything that will cause it to go off.”

      Bolan caught Lyons’s stare. His Able Team partner had a look on his face that said it all.

      CHIEF HARPER MOVED across the beach, staying to one side of the light coming from his cruiser. He could clearly see the two men facing him. They fit the description of the guests from the hotel he’d received earlier in the afternoon. He kept the shotgun on them as he closed in. It was with some relief he saw them drop their weapons to the sand, keeping their hands in clear sight.

      “There more weapons under those jackets? Just in case, open them.”

      Bolan exposed his Beretta. “We’re not going to make any trouble here. Check our IDs and you’ll understand.”

      “IDs for what?”

      “Let me pass mine across,” Bolan said. “No tricks, Officer.”

      “It’s chief of police. Now what about the ID?”

      Bolan used his left hand to unzip the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He fished out the small ID wallet and held it for Harper to see.

      “Toss it over.”

      Bolan did as he was instructed and Harper crouched to pick it up, his eyes never moving from his suspects. He scanned the plastic-coated ID inside. He checked the photo against Bolan. Then he glanced at Lyons. “You got the same?”

      “Yes, Chief. I’m Benning. My partner is Cooper.”

      “Justice Department? Special agents?”

      Bolan nodded. “We’re working undercover and came here to talk with Jerome Gantz, but it looks like we were a little late.”

      “Where is Gantz?”

      “Inside the house and in a bad way. We interrupted his visitors, who were beating him. Soon as they saw us all hell broke loose.”

      “That’s what I heard?”

      “There were more on a boat anchored off the beach,” Lyons said. “They hit the house with a .50-caliber machine gun.”

      “Thought I recognized the sound. It’s something you don’t forget.”

      “Chief, we should check to see if Gantz is still alive,” Bolan said.

      Harper hesitated for a few seconds, then lowered the shotgun. “Go ahead. I need to call for assistance.” He held out the wallet for Bolan to take. “I think we need to talk, Special Agent Cooper.”

      Bolan retrieved the guns he and Lyons had dropped on the beach. He nodded to Harper as he walked by and headed for the bullet-riddled house, Lyons alongside.

      “Hell of a start,” Lyons muttered.

      As soon as they were inside, stepping across the littered floor, they saw Gantz. The man and the chair he was bound to had toppled over. Bolan crouched beside Gantz and checked him out. He had caught a couple of the .50-caliber shells. The large projectiles had ripped his left side open, leaving large and bloody wounds. Blood had already formed a large pool across the wood floor.

      “Is he dead?” Lyons asked.

      Bolan, checking for vital signs, shook his head. “Still breathing.”

      “I’ll get Harper to call for medical help.”

      Bolan nodded. He stayed beside the unconscious Gantz for a while, aware that there was little he could do for the man. The bullet wounds had caused severe damage. Even if he was admitted to hospital it was going to take a miracle to keep him alive.

      He wandered around the rooms, not even certain what he was looking for. His search failed to turn up a cell phone. Also Gantz wasn’t going to leave quantities of his bomb-making ingredients lying around the house. Or even manufacture them on the premises. Vehicles arriving and departing from the area would have been noticed in a quiet town like Tyler Bay, which would explain the hit team coming in from the water.

      Gantz would have built his bombs somewhere else, at a spot where regular traffic would be expected. Maybe some kind of industrial site. A place where there would have to be the kind of equipment the panel trucks could be adapted for their intended use. It wouldn’t be an easy place to find, considering the number of such sites there were across the country.

      Bolan took out his cell phone and contacted the Farm, asking for Kurtzman.

      “What’s the miracle I’m expected to perform tonight?”

      “We’re at Gantz’s house outside Tyler Bay. He already had visitors, but not the kind who bring a bottle of wine to accompany a meal.”

      “Understood. Gantz?”

      “He’d been tortured when we arrived. We mixed it with the visitors. The upshot is they hit the house with a .50-caliber mounted on that boat you spotted in the bay. They used it to get to Gantz’s house. Must have been waiting for dark and the fog to cover their approach. Gantz took a couple of shells. He’s still alive but critical.”

      “Where do I come in?”

      “Gantz couldn’t have made his bombs here. There has to be a manufacturing site somewhere.”

      Bolan heard the big man’s deep sigh.

      “Haystacks and needles just registered,” Kurtzman said. “That’s a hell of a request.”

      “I realize that. I’ll go through the place here to see if I can turn anything up that might help.”

      “How about a confession written down and personally signed by Gantz?”

      “If I find it, you’ll be the first to know. Aaron, patch me through to Hal. And thanks.”

      “For what? I haven’t done anything yet.”

      “I have faith in you, buddy.”

      Brognola came on the line. “Is Massachusetts in flames yet?”

      “A small part of it is smoking.”

      “I knew it. Tell me the worst.”

      Bolan gave a detailed report of the Tyler Bay episode. He made it clear to Brognola that they were attempting to gain further information so he and Lyons could make their next move against the Brethren.

      “Gantz name them?”

      “He named them. I got the feeling the affair between them is over.”

      “A .50-caliber round or two is a hell of a way to end a romance.”

      “Hal, these people weren’t about to do it easy.”

      “So why were they working the guy over if he was with them?” Brognola’s tone became irritable.

      “A fallout? Maybe he had a change of heart after the bombings. The number of dead and injured might have hit home. He could have been

Скачать книгу