Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  “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 me because he’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “See how it’s getting bigger? Now you’re an accessory to one more murder.”

  “Look, all I did was arrange the boat rental.”

  “Copping 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 spott
ed 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.

  He holstered the Python, crossed to the door and closed it. He knew someone would be reporting the shooting, so time was running on a short string. Lyons bent over the young woman and eased her to her feet. As she came upright, the blond hair fell away from her face and Carl Lyons found himself staring at one of the most beautiful women he had ever come across. The hair framed a pair of blue eyes and a mouth of exquisite loveliness. Thin, arching brows drew attention to the eyes that were scrutinizing Lyons with an intensity the Able Team leader found disturbing. The only distraction he noted was the bruise on her left cheek and a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth.

  “Val Paxton?” He received a nod. “No time now. Just listen. Do you have a coat?”

  “Well…yes…Why?”

  “Go get it. Fast.”

  Lyons gave her no time to question him. He turned and checked each of the men on the floor, searching for keys for the Suburban parked below. He found them on the second attempt. As he stood he heard a shocked gasp from the woman. She had taken her first clear look at the bodies.

  “Oh my God.”

  “You want to end up like them?” Lyons asked bluntly.

  “No.”

  “Then do what I tell you. They didn’t drop by to sell you life insurance. Now get that damn coat and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The harshness of his words seemed to have an effect on the woman and she turned, breaking into a run, and vanished into what Lyons assumed was her bedroom. He spotted a large shoulder bag lying on the floor and snatched it up. When Paxton reappeared, dragging a knee-length, all-weather coat over her torn blouse, Lyons thrust the shoulder bag into her hands.

  “What the hell do women put in these that makes them so heavy?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, just caught her arm and propelled her to the door. The hall was still empty but Lyons heard raised voices, especially the shrill cry of a woman demanding her husband phone the police. They took the stairs fast, and it was only Lyons’s iron grip that kept Paxton on her feet. They reached the door.

  “Dark blue SUV at the curb to the right. We go straight to it and get in.”

  On the sidewalk Lyons walked her to the Suburban and used the remote to unlock it. He opened the passenger door and helped her in. Slamming the door, he walked to the driver’s side. The powerful engine caught on the first try. Lyons dropped the transmission into Drive, released the hand brake and edged away from the curb. Beside him Paxton sat hunched over, clutching her bag as if it were a life preserver. Her head was down and her long blond hair had fallen to cover her face again. Lyons concentrated on getting them as far from her apartment as possible. He figured she needed some time to absorb what had happened, so he left her to it. He drove steadily, observing the speed limits and watching the traffic lights. The last thing he needed was to be stopped because he’d jumped a red light.

  Lyons took his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed Bolan. His call was answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Matt, how’s it going?”

  “Petrie’s not playing the game. He decided he has nothing more to say. So I’m sending him away with a couple of marshals. See how he likes a nice, quiet isolation cell. You?”

  “I walked into some opposition. They played hardball but they won’t anymore.”

  “The woman?”

  “Alive. Right now I’m cruising Philly in a borrowed four-by-four, looking for a spot where we can catch our breath.”

  “Keep in contact.”

  “Will do.”

  Lyons broke the connection and slid the cell back into his pocket. He sensed movement beside him.

  “Who are you?” Paxton asked. “Police? FBI?”

  Lyons fished out his ID and showed her. “Somewhere in between,” he said.

  “Justice Department? Mr. Benning—or should I call you Agent Benning? What is going on? Who were those men in my apartment? The men you shot, by the way.”

  “First you can call me Doug. And those men I shot were about to shoot me. Hey, are you okay? Looks like they were giving you a hard time.”

  She nodded. “It hurts, but I’ll survive, and thanks for what you did. I wasn’t being ungrateful. It isn’t every day I get roughed up and then witness an OK Corral gunfight in my apartment.” She pulled her coat around her and Lyons could see she was shivering from delayed reaction.

  “You know the city well?” Lyons asked.

  “What?”

  “Val, I am lost. Can you get us somewhere where we can sit and talk?”

  She stared through the windshield, acquainting herself with their surroundings. “Take a left at the next intersection. Stay on it until I tell you where to go.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER they were seated in a fast-food restaurant off Island Avenue. They sat at a table, drinking coffee, watching the rain stream down the window. It had started to pour as they’d left the vehicle.

  “I can see why Pennsylvania is so green,” Lyons commented. He was finding it hard to say anything serious, since Paxton had spent a little time in the restroom, tidying herself up. The long hair and makeup hid the bruise on her cheek and she had cleaned the blood from her lips. He figured she had to have been carrying a complete makeover kit in the shoulder bag. I can see why Pennsylvania is so green. Carl, you’re babbling like a teenager on his first date. He cleared his throat and took a swallow of his coffee.

  “That’s a new line,” Paxton said. She was smiling at him, and he was pleased to see it reached her eyes. Then she got serious. “Agent—Doug—please tell me what’s been happening. I don’t underst
and any of it and to be honest I am scared.”

  “How long have you worked for Petrie?”

  “Arnold? Around four months. Why? Is he in some kind of trouble? I never saw him like he was this morning. I hardly had time to start work before he rushed in and told me to go home. Not to come back and not to contact him. When I asked why, he got really upset. He said that when I got home I wasn’t to answer the phone if it rang. Under no circumstances. It was important I did what he said and not ask questions. To be honest he scared the sh—I mean…”

  “Yeah, I get your meaning. Listen, Val, did he take any calls while you were in the office?”

  “One, just before he sent me away. He sounded a little scared. I don’t know who it was calling because he transferred my phone to his so any calls went directly to him.”

  “And when you got home?”

  “I couldn’t understand any of it. I sat around trying to figure out what to do. Arnold had frightened me. And confused me. In the end I thought I’d better leave the city for a while. Go and stay with my sister in Portland. I mean, Oregon is a long way away from Philly.” She paused. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  Lyons nodded. “I need to ask you about the men who came to your apartment.”

  “Oh, those men. They knocked and, like an idiot, I opened the door. I know it was a stupid thing to do, but I guess by that time I wasn’t thinking clearly. No excuse, I know, but…”

  “Forget that. Just think back. What did they ask?”

  “They came in, looked around. Asked if I was alone. The one who had the gun in his hand when you showed up—I guess he was in charge—started to ask me questions about South Star Investments. Who visited Arnold. What they talked about. As if I knew. There were people he took into his office and closed the door. I just got on with my work. I told him I had no idea what was talked about behind a closed door. Then he started asking me about diamonds. I mean diamonds. I guess I got a little annoyed then and told him I had no idea what he was talking about and maybe he should go shove his questions. That seemed to make him mad. I realized I shouldn’t have said that. And that…that was when he started to slap me around.” She tugged her coat tighter around her as she was reminded about her rough treatment.