Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  “He ripped my blouse and said if I didn’t tell the truth he could do more than just hit me. He started asking about diamonds again. Who I was working with. He kept going on about diamonds. When I told him I had nothing to do with any diamonds, he really hit me.” Paxton touched her fingers unconsciously to her bruised cheek, her eyes moist. “I fell down. The next thing I knew guns were going off and you were there.” She reached across and touched Lyons’s hand. “I just realized I haven’t thanked you properly for what you did for me.”

  “You already did.”

  “I did? When?”

  “After we left your place.”

  “I guess I must have been really shook up. Even so, it needs saying again.”

  “No need.”

  “Yes, there is. I hate to even think what might have happened if you hadn’t come through that door when you did. Doug, do you understand all this? What’s all this thing about diamonds? If you do, tell me.”

  Lyons made the decision to bring her into the loop. Explaining Petrie’s involvement might jog her memory and revive some dormant memory of something she had seen or heard. She had shown herself to be a bright young woman. Maybe she was even smarter than Lyons imagined. It was worth the risk, knowing what could happen if the Brethren started the bombings again.

  “Petrie has got himself involved with some bad company. He operated the investment business purely as a cover to hide his real business.”

  “Okay, I’ll put the fake business on hold for later. So what was the real reason he was there?”

  “He is part of a militia group operating outside the law. They were behind the recent bombings across the country. Petrie assisted in the operation. From what we’ve learned so far it appears he could have been behind the purchase of the raw materials that went into making the bombs.”

  Paxton became very quiet, staring out the window. It was some time before she spoke. “But all those people were killed. So many of them.” She turned to look Lyons directly in the eye. “Are you telling me I worked for a man who was part of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even after what happened to me today, it’s hard to believe Arnold was part of those terrible acts. Doug, why are they doing it? Murdering Americans? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It does to these people. They want to prove a point. Val, they have grievances against the government. They see conspiracies in every corner. So they create panic and unrest and show that the government can’t even protect its own. Then it justifies their manifesto.”

  “Since those bombings, people are certainly nervous. You can sense it sometimes out in the streets. A car backfiring can make them stop and wonder if they should run for cover.”

  “Exactly what the bombers want.”

  Paxton was shaking her head. “Then why doesn’t the President do something about them?”

  “Because we’re only just rooting out who is at the back of all this. There’s more than just a bunch of redneck militia involved. We have to drag them all into the light or they’ll disappear and simply regroup at another time.”

  “This is like something out of a movie. A dream. No, a nightmare.”

  “No, Val, it’s real. We’re trying to cut these people off from organizing more bombings. I need anything you can tell me.”

  She took a breath and reached for her coffee. “I wish I did have something to give you.” She stared into her empty cup. “Could I have some fresh coffee?”

  Lyons went to the counter and bought two more cups of coffee, then returned to the table. He slid Paxton’s over to her.

  “How are diamonds involved?”

  “A man named Gantz was attacked and later died from his injuries. That was in a little town on the coast. Gantz was the guy who built the bombs for the Brethren. They found out that Gantz had stolen something that belonged to them. From what you say it sounds as if Gantz stole the diamonds.”

  “What do diamonds have to do with an organization like the Brethren?”

  “It’s too early to figure that one out, and not really why I’m here right now.”

  The woman tasted her coffee, stared into the cup for a moment. “There is something I want to tell you. Something I just recalled. It might not have anything to do with what you’re looking for.”

  “Right now I’d listen to someone quoting from the weather forecast.”

  “I recalled something I overheard some weeks back. I was passing Arnold’s office and he’d forgotten to close the door fully. I’m not in the habit of listening in on his telephone conversations, but this time I couldn’t avoid hearing. He was agitated, almost arguing with someone. Arnold said something about a delay with the next delivery to the farm.” She sipped at her coffee, wincing when the hot liquid touched her bruised lip. “It means something—doesn’t it?”

  Lyons nodded. “It might. Did you pick up anything else?”

  “I heard the name Lorens. Then a reference to a Pelman’s Farm. That was it, Doug, I’m sorry.”

  “No need. You maybe just handed me the piece I’ve been looking for.”

  Lyons took out his cell phone and called Bolan.

  BOLAN FINISHED HIS CALL and experienced a genuine moment of satisfaction as he turned to Arnold Petrie, who sat in sullen silence behind his desk. Right at that moment he looked like a man who had suddenly lost everything. It may have been the fact he had been caught in a conspiracy. Or it could have been the steel manacles and chains tethering his wrists and ankles, and the presence of the two federal marshals standing watch over him.

  Hal Brognola had put the federal machine into top gear following Bolan’s call. He had contacted the Philadelphia U.S. Marshals Department and arranged for Petrie to be taken into immediate custody. The marshals had arrived quietly, entering by the rear of the building after parking in the adjoining ally. Once they had restrained him, Petrie slumped into a sullen silence.

  “No fun anymore?” Bolan asked.

  “It never was supposed to be,” Petrie said. “We have a real agenda.” For a moment his bravado returned. “It won’t stop.”

  “It has for you and Gantz.” Bolan ignored the sneer that curled Petrie’s lips. He had been holding back what Lyons had told him, but decided it was time to play his holdout card. “We have Lorens and Pelman’s Farm. And let’s not forget the diamonds.”

  This time Petrie’s face did go pale. His surprise was genuine. “How did you…” He stopped himself but knew he had just confirmed Bolan’s expectations.

  “You figured you were the only one with good intelligence? By the time the marshals here have you processed and tucked away in your new home, we’ll be moving on the farm.”

  Petrie lost it, lunging up out of the chair and stumbling to his knees as the manacles and chains toppled him. He was screaming wild obscenities at Bolan as the marshals moved in. They handled him with practiced efficiency.

  Petrie stared wild-eyed at Bolan. “I’ll be back on the streets before you can spit. Then we’ll see who comes out on top.”

  “You want us to take him now?” one of the marshals asked.

  “Yes. Just remember. He has no communication with anyone. No phone calls. No lawyers. Nothing. Keep him isolated until further notice.”

  “As of now he doesn’t exist.”

  “You can’t do that,” Petrie said. “I have my rights, goddamn you.”

  “So did those children you blew into pieces in Atlanta, Petrie. They had rights. They were just starting to live their lives. You took everything from them. Think yourself lucky all you lose at the moment is the ability to shout your garbage to the world.”

  It was a relief when the doors closed and Petrie’s demands faded.

  Activating his cell phone, Bolan got through to Kurtzman at Stony Man. “See what you can pick out from Petrie’s telephone accounts.” He gave the office number to Kurtzman. “We have a lead to why the Brethren were mad at Gantz. No full details yet but the buzzword is diamonds.”

  “Let me run that
around the office, see if it generates any ideas.”

  “Run a search for a Pelman’s Farm in the Pennsylvania area. I’m certain it’s around here somewhere. If not, extend the search. Most likely it will be a leased property and you might even link it back to Stahl.”

  “That’s interesting,” Kurtzman said. “We’ve been running down Gantz’s credit-card purchases. Came across a number going back a few months. For gasoline. He filled his tank a few times at a gas station on the fringes of Lancaster County. So I’ve already punched that information into Petrie’s file and it came up with a possible just before you called. Ties in nicely. Petrie took a yearlong lease on a farm just inside Lancaster County. Pelman’s Farm.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lyons had pulled back into traffic when he and Paxton left the diner. He had been half listening to her instructions on how they could get back to meet up with Bolan when his instincts warned him to keep watch on an SUV two cars behind. Same model as the one he was driving, black instead of dark blue, but with plates that had a similar number sequence.

  “Sit tight, Val. I’m going to do some bobbing and weaving, just to convince myself of something.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  For the next few minutes Lyons made several turns, keeping them casual, but in his own mind testing for the driver in the black SUV. The guy, staying back, made exactly the same turns and after the fourth deviation Lyons didn’t need any further convincing.

  They were being tailed.

  “How did they find us so fast?” Paxton asked when he explained his maneuvers.

  Lyons didn’t answer immediately. He was watching the tail vehicle. “Only thing I can figure is they must have onboard tracking devices so they can coordinate positions car to car. Which isn’t good news for us.”

  Paxton swayed as Lyons cut around a red Ford. “You mean, they’ll be able to find us wherever we go?” She made an angry gesture. “Even all the way to Oregon?”

  “I wasn’t planning on driving you there myself,” Lyons snapped, then caught the wry smile edging the woman’s mouth. He felt a surge of anger that surprisingly mellowed and he was forced to grin himself. “I need a pathfinder to get me out of the city and instead I get a comedienne.”

  “So what can I tell you?”

  “I’d be happy with the quickest way out of town.”

  “I’m thinking, I’m thinking. Hey, are they liable to shoot at us?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m thinking I must have done something bad to get into a fix like this. And all you have is that gun you used earlier?”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t make any comment at that, but it did remind Lyons that he was slightly under-armed if it did come to a shootout. “Val, take a look in the rear. There may be other weapons they had with them when they came to your place.”

  With some struggling, accompanied by muttering, Paxton climbed over and onto the rear seat. She checked around and Lyons heard her give a pleased sound. “I think there’s something here,” she said. “Holdall on the floor. Let me look inside.” Lyons heard the sound of a heavy-duty zip being opened. “My God, who are these people, The A-Team?”

  “I wish,” Lyons said. “All those guns being fired and they never hit squat in five seasons. Bunch of clowns.”

  “I don’t think your TV viewing habits are going to be much use to us, Doug.” She took a look out through the window. “Okay, two blocks down take a left, then first right.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lyons said.

  Lyons was sharply aware that no matter where Paxton directed him, their pursuer would stick with them and it was not beyond a possibility of other vehicles joining the chase if they were also equipped with the tracking devices. He followed his companion’s direction and thirty minutes later the city had shrunk behind them and the residential tracts were starting to thin out. In the distance Lyons could see the green swathes of Pennsylvania rolling by on either side of the freeway.

  Greenery meant countryside, and countryside meant fewer people and the distinct likelihood of a hostile attack.

  Paxton pointed ahead. “Take the next off-ramp. We can hit a back road that goes through forested terrain.”

  “You sure?”

  “Trust me, I know my own backyard.”

  “So we leave the freeway and innocent drivers in the clear, but it’s more than likely our tail will shoot at us.”

  “What’s the alternative, Agent Benning?”

  Lyons didn’t have an immediate answer. The thought of engaging in a shooting match on the busy freeway was not something he found appealing. At least away from those distractions he could fight on his own terms.

  He saw the off-ramp and took a calculated run across two lanes of traffic for it, leaving behind screeching tires and raucous horns.

  “The rain’s stopped,” Paxton said.

  “Must be my lucky day.”

  “Nice that someone is having one.”

  From the off-ramp the woman directed him along a minor highway for a few miles, the tail car in sight way behind them. Then she indicated a hard-packed dirt road that almost immediately engulfed them in a spread of thick timber and shrubbery. Foliage slapped at the sides of the SUV as Lyons followed the track.

  “You know much about guns, Val?” Lyons asked.

  “Apart from not being very nice, they make loud noises and hurt people. That said, I’m glad you had one when you came to my apartment.”

  Lyons took that as a no. “Tell me what’s in that bag?”

  “Couple of handguns and I guess magazines. And a longer one. A machine gun?”

  “Put it over on your front seat.”

  The machine gun was an FN P-90. Lyons had done some target work with the 5.7 mm weapon. It had taken a short space of time for him to get used to the different configuration of the assault rifle with its 50-round top-loading translucent magazine, but once he had absorbed that, Lyons had found the weapon’s handling better than he’d expected. The P-90 had less recoil and could be fired with either hand comfortably. The empty casing, ejected from the underside, meant no problems with them getting too close to the shooter’s face and Lyons had taken to the weapon with ease. On the firing range at Stony Man he had spent some long sessions with the P-90, memorizing its setup in case he found one in his hands during a combat situation, such as the one he was in right now.

  “Any extra mags for it? Long plastic ones?”

  “Two.”

  “Okay.” Lyons took out his cell phone and passed it over. “Hit number two. It’s a speed dial. The guy who answers should be Cooper. Ask him what Striker means? Understand?”

  Lyons concentrated on negotiating the back road, gripping the Suburban’s wheel hard as the rutted road threatened to wrench it from his hands. He saw a wooden bridge ahead, spanning a wide stream. A glance in his mirror showed the other SUV had dropped back a few yards, so Lyons trod on the gas and sent the vehicle hurtling at the bridge. When the front wheels struck the heavy wooden slats, the SUV bounced a few feet in the air, the rear following suit. Powerful vibrations rippled through the SUV before it settled back on the road on the bridge’s far side.

  Behind him Lyons heard Paxton’s voice demanding her call be correctly verified.

  “Just give me you and your partner’s names.” She paused to confirm. “He also wants to know what Striker means to you. Really? You guys have weird jobs.” She tapped Lyons on the shoulder. “He says it’s his code name.”

  “Okay, now tell him we have a hostile on our tail and I’ll get back to him when we’re clear.”

  “Look, there’s a bunch of jerks in a big black SUV chasing us, and any minute they’re going to shoot at us. Okay? Doug will call you back.”

  “Not word for word,” Lyons said, grinning, “but I figure he got the message.”

  “He sounded nice.”

  Lyons’s grin widened as he tried to visualize Bolan’s face when he told him that. He peered ahead and saw the narrow road curving to
the right, vanishing in an overhanging canopy of branches from the trees lining either side. He took the bend, then pushed down hard on the pedal, feeling the powerful engine surge and throw the SUV into a headlong race along the rutted track.

  “How is it you speed up every time you should be slowing down?”

  “Doing the opposite of what I should? Confuses the enemy.”

  “Mmm, well I can understand how they must be feeling. It’s the one thing I have in common with them.”

  The pursuing SUV fell in behind them once again. Glancing in his side mirrors, Lyons caught the blurred image of someone leaning out from a passenger window. No doubt about what was about to happen. Lyons floored the gas pedal a second before he heard the chatter of a submachine gun. The Suburban shuddered as slugs peppered the tailgate, then the rear window shattered, spraying glass fragments the length of the vehicle.

  Paxton screamed.

  “Flat on the floor,” Lyons yelled.

  She rolled off the seat and lay still.

  The SMG crackled again, more slugs whining off the tough steel bodywork. Lyons didn’t want them to get too close in case they scored a severe hit. He had few options. Keep driving hard forward, or cut off the road and into the dense foliage and maybe hit a fallen tree or drop into a concealed dip.

  His remaining, and possibly most risky option, was to slam on the brakes, drawing the chase vehicle up close, which might end in a collision if the driver behind failed to react fast enough. Lyons glanced at the P-90 on the seat next to him. It was loaded and ready for use. He reached over and picked it up, dropping it across his lap, his left hand clamping hard on the steering wheel to keep the Suburban on line. He slid his fingers across the P-90 and flicked the safety to full-auto.

  “Val, brace yourself, I’m going to hit the brakes in a while.”

  “Why?”

  Autofire sent more slugs into the body of the SUV. A side window shattered.

  “That’s why,” Lyons told her. “I’m tired of being used as a target.”