Patriot Strike

by Don Pendleton

  “All clear,” she answered back.

  Up close, the buckshot had been merciless, and Bolan saw she’d winged the third man, too, before he had crashed the door. Now Granger stood above them, frowning at her handiwork.

  “Sorry you won’t get anything from these guys,” she apologized.

  “I’ve got a live one in the kitchen,” Bolan told her. “Is there anything you want to pack before we go?”

  “Could use some clothes,” she said. “I won’t be long.”

  Moments later, she was back, lugging the shotgun in her right hand, with a smallish suitcase in her left. “I always keep a go-bag ready,” she explained, “for callouts in the middle of the night.”

  “Good thinking,” Bolan said. “Where are we parked?”

  “Straight out and to the right.”

  “Go on ahead and get it running,” he instructed. “I’ll bring Otto down.”

  “Hope he won’t miss his friends,” said Granger.

  “Not for long,” the Executioner replied.

  Chapter 9

  Highway Spur 412, McLennan County

  The Shady Rest Motel had once been something special, patronized by visitors to Speegleville Park and Lake Waco, but time and the Texas Department of Transportation had passed it by. Business had slumped severely in the early 1990s, and petered out entirely by the time of Y2K. The place stood empty now, its fourteen individual cabins forever unoccupied, except by mice, insects and the occasional squatter.

  Adlene Granger knew the Shady Rest from her patrols around McLennan County. Back in ’04 there had been an ugly scene in Cabin No. One, involving teenage hitchhikers. “It was like something from a slasher movie,” she told Bolan, while directing him to the motel. “Worst part, we never caught the guy—or guys—responsible. Kids say it’s haunted now. Keeps most of them away.”

  Perfect.

  He bypassed No. One and drove on to the end of the line, at Cabin No. Fourteen, parking the SUV behind it, where the vehicle could not be seen by any passing motorists. Their prisoner had floundered back to consciousness, moaning and cursing in the RAV4’s rear compartment by the time Bolan had switched the engine off. They hauled him out and marched him to the cabin’s door on wobbly legs.

  “You want to pick it?” Granger asked him.

  “Rather kick it,” Bolan said, and snapped the cheap lock with a single application of his heel.

  Inside the place was musty and smelled of rodents. Spiders had been busy decorating in the corners, and a lizard blinked in Bolan’s flashlight beam before it skittered off the nightstand, racing toward the bathroom.

  “When you’ve gotta go,” Granger said.

  “Lights?” he asked her, standing in the doorway.

  “Not for years. Kids used to bring candles or lamps. I’m half surprised they didn’t burn the whole place down.”

  “Okay. Dark works for me.”

  He walked their hostage to the bed and sat him down. “You have a last name, Otto?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “If you plan on coming out of this alive, you need to work on your rapport. Strike one was when you planned to kill my friend here. Strike two would be your attitude right now. Strike three...you’re out.”

  “How will I know when I’ve got three?”

  Bolan produced the silenced pistol he had taken from their prisoner. “You’ll know,” he said.

  “Okay. My last name’s Franks.”

  “You work for Lone Star?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How about today?”

  A grudging nod.

  “Some of your people took George Roth his from home today, in Dallas.”

  Now a shrug. “Don’t know him,” Franks replied.

  Bolan tapped his shoulder lightly with the muzzle of the XD’s silencer. “You really want to go for strike three?”

  “Hey, man, I’m just a grunt, okay? You think I hang out with the Lone Star brass? I’ve never even seen the Big Man. Simon handles everything.”

  “That’s Coetzee?” Granger asked him.

  “Bingo. He’s the one you should be talking to, if you want to know where they’ve got people stashed.”

  It sounded reasonable. “And we’d find him...where?” asked Bolan.

  “Mostly he’s with Ridgway. Has a pad in Dallas somewhere, but I’ve never seen it. He’s on call 24/7. Anything comes up, he’s on it.”

  “You know how to reach him,” Bolan said, not asking.

  “I’ve got his cell number. We all do. Not supposed to use it though, unless it’s an emergency.”

  “You think this qualifies?” asked Bolan.

  “All depends,” said Franks.

  “On what?”

  “Your point of view. To me, okay. To Simon, not so much.”

  “Because you’re just a grunt,” said Granger.

  “Facts of life,” the prisoner replied. “A deal like this, you get jacked up, you’re on your own.”

  Familiar rules. “Suppose you make the call and let me do the talking,” Bolan said.

  “You won’t get anything from Simon.”

  “That’s my problem.”

  “Not if he thinks I’ve been helping you,” said Franks.

  “I’ll make it clear you haven’t.”

  “What the hell. It’s not like I can stop you anyway. Cell’s in the inside pocket of my blazer.”

  Granger fished it out, a common model, handing it to Bolan. “Number?” Bolan asked their prisoner.

  “Hit Speed Dial. Simon’s first up on the list.”

  Bolan’s thumb was on the button when Franks said, “You’re killing me. You know that, right?”

  “Right. But this is your lucky day.” Bolan drove the butt of the XD into his prisoner’s temple, rendering him unconscious. Franks would have to be put on ice until the end of the mission. The soldier would have to call in a marker.

  Rivercrest, Fort Worth

  THE NEWS WAS BAD. Again. On top of the two he had lost in the helicopter crash, another three of his men were dead in Waco, and a fourth was missing, presumed killed, as well; still no sign of the Texas Ranger or the other target they’d been sent out to eliminate. It was the kind of cluster-fuck that Simon Coetzee hated, since it would reflect on him.

  His men. His plan. His failure.

  He could not recall another run of luck this bad since...well, forever. He could blame the men he’d chosen, but that still came back to him, since every member of his team was handpicked for his training and experience. If they were failures, so was Coetzee, by extension, for selecting them.

  Blaming the targets wasn’t working for him, either. Taking out a Texas Ranger shouldn’t have been difficult for any one of Coetzee’s soldiers, much less six and counting. Granted, he had no idea who Adlene Granger’s sidekick was, but who could she have possibly recruited on short notice with the skills required to fight his way through two of Coetzee’s hit teams, plus the squad fielded by Crockett down in San Antonio?

  The bottom line: it didn’t matter. Ridgway was expecting him to solve the problem, and the only thing that Coetzee had to show for it so far was five dead men for sure and one who’d disappeared.

  Which was a problem in itself. If Otto Franks was still alive, if he was talking...

  His cell phone came alive, playing the first three bars of Die Stem van Suid-Afrika, his homeland’s national anthem from 1957 to 1994, but then the communists took over and spoiled everything. Coetzee checked the LED display and recognized Franks’s number.

  “Franks, where are you?”

  “Otto’s indisposed right now,” an unfamiliar voice replied. It raised the hairs on Coetzee’s nape.

  “I see. Who am I speaking to?”

/>   “A name won’t help you find me.”

  “Then you won’t mind sharing it.”

  Cold laughter came from the other end. “You sound like Cape Town,” said the caller. “Or is it Johannesburg?”

  “Neither these days,” Coetzee replied. “I’m an American, like you.”

  The truth, in fact. Coetzee had passed the silly tests and had the paperwork to prove it.

  “We’re not the same,” the stranger contradicted him. “I have no plans to start a half-baked country of my own.”

  Coetzee could feel a flush of angry color rising in his cheeks, but kept his voice under control. “I have no idea—”

  “Cut the crap, all right? Why do you think I’m down here, playing tag with your toy soldiers?”

  Swallowing the first response that came to mind, Coetzee said, “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “One on one, you mean? I wouldn’t mind,” the caller said, “but that still leaves us with the bigger problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “What to do about your crazy boss, his rocket men and private army, the whole ball of wax.”

  “If I knew what you were referring to, but—”

  “I can see why you’d eliminate Walraven,” said the caller. “Once he made delivery on the fissile material, you might regard him as a liability. Roth, now, I’d say you still have use for him. But how much pressure do you think he’ll take, before he cracks? Honestly, once he starts squealing, it’ll be a toss-up whether old Lamar winds up in prison or a rubber room.”

  “You have a rich fantasy life,” said Coetzee, nearly choking on the words.

  “A fantasy you’re killing people to protect and losing flunkies in the process. If anybody’s keeping score, your side is ten men down so far.”

  “If you’re convinced of what you’re saying, you should speak to the authorities,” Coetzee advised.

  “I hate red tape, don’t you? It’s better to eliminate the middleman.”

  “Which means you have no case.”

  “And that would be a problem,” said the caller, “if I was applying for a warrant. As it is, I’m doing fine, just whittling down your side.”

  In case the call was being taped, Coetzee inquired, “Are you confessing to the crime of murder?”

  “Call it pest control.”

  “This has been amusing,” Coetzee said, “but I’m a busy man. Unless you have some useful information for me...”

  “Tell your boss he’ll never have a country of his own to play with. If he’s smarter than I give him credit for, he has a one-time-only opportunity to pull the plug. He can surrender and confess. Maybe he’s got a shrink on tap who can convince the court he’s just a senile lunatic.”

  “I really must be going now.”

  “You won’t get far,” the stranger said. And cut the link.

  Coetzee’s first impulse was to smash his cell phone, but he mastered that emotion and put the phone away.

  It was a challenge then. And he intended to accept.

  But first, the Big Man must be told.

  Waco

  “YOU THINK HE’LL CRACK?” Granger asked.

  “No,” Bolan replied. “But he’ll report to Ridgway. Stir the old boy up a little anyway.”

  “If he’s as crazy as I think he is, that may not be a good thing.”

  Bolan had considered that, but in his prior experience, pressing an enemy to act before he was fully prepared had frequently paid dividends. “We’ll have to wait and see,” he said.

  “And in the meantime?”

  “We have four potential targets. I’d prefer to leave Lone Star Petroleum alone for now,” he said. “It seems to be legitimate—at least, as much as any other big oil company—and its facilities are widely scattered. Taking out refineries does nothing but pollute the landscape, and the corporation’s office likely wouldn’t give us much of anything.”

  “That’s one.”

  “We could try the Lone Star Aerospace compound,” he offered next. “Might stumble over Roth or knock their shuttle project off the rails. Against that, there’ll be tight security with ready access to police, and not much chance of finding anything that would incriminate Ridgway.”

  “What’s number three?”

  “Go after Ridgway at his home, if he’s still there. Try shaking something out of him or simply put him down.”

  “The down side being...what?”

  “A man his age, if he’s committed to this whole secession thing, he must have backup plans in place, to kick in if he doesn’t cross the finish line. Crazy or not, he’s old enough to know his time is running out. Who keeps the operation running if he dies or has a stroke, whatever? If he’s thought through this at all, there’ll be machinery in place to keep the oil and money flowing while his New Texas Republic gets up on its own two feet and learns to walk.”

  “You’re talking like it’s even possible,” said Granger.

  “To the men who’ve made the plans, it is,” Bolan replied. “Let’s grant that they’re delusional. That doesn’t mean they haven’t drawn up chains of command, contingencies.”

  “So, picking Ridgway off—”

  “Would be like taking out the president. It’s shocking, but it doesn’t stop the government from operating or the military going off to war.”

  “Hands off the Big Man then?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Bolan replied. “Save him for later in the game.”

  “And what does that leave?” Granger asked him.

  “Waylon Crockett and the NTR. We know Ridgway’s been keeping them afloat financially, so he must have some use for them. Smart money says the leaders have an idea of what he’s planning, maybe even how it’s going down. And unlike Coetzee’s men, the compound-dwellers won’t be trained in methods of resisting an interrogation.”

  “We’d be going to their settlement outside San Angelo?”

  “Is that a problem?” Bolan asked.

  “Could be. You know it’s not all goons with guns in there. Crockett has families, including wives and children.”

  “It’s still doable,” Bolan assured her. “Stealth, discretion, target acquisition.”

  “And if somebody starts shooting?”

  “Take the shooters down. Limit the risk to bystanders.”

  “I notice you didn’t say innocent bystanders.”

  “I’m not their judge,” Bolan replied. “Let’s say a wife adopts her husband’s personal extreme agenda. Maybe it’s the other way around. Espousing a belief is one thing. Acting on it bumps the ante. There’s no race or gender to a finger on a trigger.”

  “What about the age?” she pressed him.

  “I’ll be going after Crockett and Luttrell, specifically,” he answered. “If their bodyguards are children, then I’ll make allowances. Beyond that, since I’m fresh out of explosives and your basic WMDs, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Oh? With children running all over the place?”

  “Timing,” he said. “We’ve got a good four-hour drive ahead of us, before we hit San Angelo. Say half an hour more to reach the NTR compound. I plan to stretch that out till nightfall, do my scouting in the dark, and let the kiddies go to bed before I make a move.”

  “Before we make a move,” Granger corrected Bolan.

  “Don’t commit unless you’re sure.”

  “Crockett may know who killed my brother,” she replied. “I’m goddamned sure.”

  Preston Hollow, Dallas

  “THIS IS A MAJOR disappointment, Simon. You do realize that, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lamar Ridgway was pacing as they talked, the cell phone pressed against his ear. Walking helped dissipate the nervous energy that filled him when he was frustr
ated, angry or depressed.

  “What is your plan to remedy the situation, may I ask?”

  “Sir, as we speak, four of my men are driving Dr. Roth to the facility. They’ll have him under guard all day and bring him back again this evening.”

  “I would expect no less,” said Ridgway. “But that isn’t a solution.”

  “No, sir. I’ve increased security on Lone Star properties, and you’ll have extra men around your home within the hour. Also our other friend.”

  A cryptic reference to Malcolm Barnhart, Simon taking extra care, even when they’d engaged the scrambler.

  “Stop-gap measures,” Ridgway said. “Still no solution.”

  “I’m continuing efforts to find the Ranger, sir. As for the man who called, presumably her backup, we have no I.D., and the cell phone he stole has been deactivated, which prevents using its GPS to track him.”

  “I want this problem settled, Simon. Lame excuses make me doubt the wisdom of employing you,” Ridgway told his chief of security. “I’ve advanced the schedule. We announce tomorrow. Let the chips fall where they may.”

  Dead silence ensued for a moment, on the far end of the line, before Coetzee replied, “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Nothing must interfere with the arrangements. Do you hear me, Simon? Nothing.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Act as if your life depends on our success,” Ridgway advised. “Because it does.”

  He cut the link and left the cell phone on the bar, pouring himself a triple shot of Jameson’s. The whiskey worked its magic on his jangling nerves but could not dampen the driving sense of urgency he felt.

  Against his will and better judgment, Ridgway’s plan had been advanced by action of his enemies—or, more precisely, through the failure of his soldiers in the field. He was not sorry for their deaths, per se. Ridgway believed that fools should suffer for their own mistakes, and he’d been spared the trouble of devising proper punishment. The public nature of the incidents, however, was a major inconvenience and had forced his hand before all aspects of his scheme were perfectly in place.

  No matter.

  They were close enough, he thought. The rockets and their shuttles—make that warheads—were as ready as they’d ever be. First thing tomorrow he would send his ultimatum out to Austin and to Washington, D.C. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn whether or not the White House recognized the New Texas Republic. That would come in time, he reckoned, when the lower forty-seven states were starved for gasoline. Right now it was enough for Ridgway’s enemies to know that he could rain unholy hell upon them with the mere flip of a switch.