“Why do I feel there’s going to be more shooting?”
The guy in the SUV was getting his range now, which wasn’t good news.
“Brakes,” Lyons said, and stepped hard on the pedal. He felt the Suburban shudder as the tires skidded on the damp track. Glancing up, he saw the SUV behind looming large. Lyons bared his teeth in a tight grin as the vehicle dipped and lurched. He stomped on the gas pedal and took his own vehicle away again.
Behind him Lyons heard Paxton muttering, “I’m regretting having that second coffee now.”
Ahead the track opened up, widening into a two-lane strip. Some distance away he saw that the tree line was thinned and open, and grass and shrubs leveled it out. The wider track would enable the pursuit vehicle to close in and even pass.
“No damn way,” Lyons said.
“Say what?”
Lyons ignored Paxton’s question. He did some rapid calculations in his head. He wanted to lead the SUV in close, then hit the brake again and give himself enough time to get out of the Suburban before they could recover. It was not going to be a precise operation, more catching his pursuers off guard and hitting them hard and fast.
The rattle of autofire and slugs hitting home prompted Lyons into action.
He stomped on the gas, feeling the heavy SUV surge forward, hoping that the driver behind could be caught out by the same maneuver. The pursuit vehicle picked up speed, the shooter leaning out even more as he loosed another burst at Lyons. The driver had moved his vehicle as close to the edge of the track as he could, giving his shooter a better angle. Another window shattered, and glass fell into the floor well where Paxton lay. Her choice of expletives made Lyons grin despite the gravity of the situation.
“Okay, sucker, try this for size. Braking,” he yelled for Paxton’s benefit.
He stood on the brakes, fighting the wheel as the Suburban slithered and bounced, its speed dropping rapidly. The pursuit vehicle grew uncomfortably large in the rearview mirror.
Lyons resisted the urge to take his foot off the brake pedal. He stayed with the vehicle until it had become almost immobile, then yanked on the handbrake, snatched up the P-90 and opened his door, rolling out onto the ground, moving quickly to the rear corner.
The pursuit SUV had fared slightly worse. Being on the edge of the track, it dropped over when the driver braked. The big wheels hit the soft grass and spun for a few seconds before the driver regained control and hit the brakes again.
The guy leaned out the window, his SMG jerking wildly as he attempted to line up on Lyons. Then he realized what was happening and swung his muzzle across the hood, firing off a burst that went wide. The slugs chopped at shrubs beyond Lyons. The Able Team commander, on one knee, raised his own weapon and laid down a steady burst that cleared the hood of the sliding SUV and shattered the windshield. The driver caught a shower of fragmented glass full in the face and eyes. He lost all interest in his driving, flinging both hands to his glass-peppered face, gasping at the sudden pain. Lyons triggered another burst directly into the passenger compartment. He took out the driver before turning the P-90 on the shooter, putting shots into his chest and throat. The shooter twisted in agony, feeling blood rush from his lacerated throat before he began to choke on it.
Seeing frantic movement in the rear of the SUV, Lyons changed position, crouching as he circled to come around on the far side of the vehicle as it came to a final, jerky stall. He saw the rear door swing open and an armed figure scramble out. The guy moved fast, dodging around the rear of the vehicle. Lyons dropped prone, searching beneath the high chassis of the SUV, and saw the guy’s legs as he moved around the rear and down the side of the vehicle. He dropped the muzzle of the P-90 and laid a burst beneath the SUV, saw the geysers of bloody debris erupt from the target’s ankles. The guy screamed and fell to his knees. He was struggling to raise himself as Lyons stepped around the front of the SUV and hit him with a burst that cored in through his chest to blow out between his shoulders. The guy uttered a hoarse gasp and toppled onto his back.
Lyons checked each body, moving fallen weapons out of reach. He searched the dead men for identification, but found nothing. They were like soldiers on a mission into enemy territory, carrying nothing that could give anything away.
He used his cell phone and called Bolan.
“Situation resolved,” Lyons reported. “Three dead. No identification on any of them. These guys were well armed with P-90 assault weapons. Somebody is handing them sophisticated ordnance here, Matt.”
“The P-90 is only supplied to police and agency sources. Civilians aren’t supposed to be able to get hold of them. Hey, is your lady friend okay?”
“Apart from being slightly mad at what’s happened she’s fine. Time to get her to somewhere safe before we follow up on that farm lead.”
“I’ll get Hal to arrange something. Petrie has already been taken into federal custody. He’ll be kept in total isolation until this is all resolved.”
“I need to dump this SUV as soon as I can. It has an internal tracking device. Last thing I need is another hostile vehicle picking me up again.”
“Give me your location. I’ll come and get you and your lady friend.”
“Make it fast.”
Lyons returned to his vehicle. As he leaned inside a disheveled blond head raised itself, piercing blue eyes fixing on him.
“Hey, Benning, you could have told me I could sit up again.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pelman’s Farm and the possibility of a further clash with the Brethren lay ahead. Bolan and Lyons were more than prepared. Since Tyler Bay and, more recently Philadelphia, they had accepted the inevitability of conflict with the militia group, which had already demonstrated its propensity for unrestrained violence against anyone who defied them or stood in their way.
The identification of Deacon Ribak had shown the Brethren had taken time to employ a man with military experience in addition to the ranks of the bigoted rank and file. Ribak would make sure that the militia’s “soldiers” were given a degree of training intended to equip them for the battles ahead.
Bolan was not making light of the Brethren and Liam Seeger’s manifesto. He saw the group as a real threat, willing to wage a savage war within America’s borders. By its actions the group had become terrorists. Seeger was using the tools of terrorism, intimidation and overt violent acts, to push his intentions into the public eye. A total disregard for life and property and defiance against the legally elected administration.
Now Bolan was behind the wheel of the Crown Vic again, the car pointed in the direction of the sprawling Pennsylvania heartland. Lyons sat beside him saying little, but ready for what they might have to confront.
The city lay behind them. Val Paxton, in the protective custody of a Stony Man escort, was on her way to Oregon, bags packed, and not too happy at having to abandon her apartment. Lyons had been disappointed at her departure. Their brief and hectic time together had left him with a degree of respect for the young woman that could easily have developed into stronger feelings given time. From the way she reacted Paxton was harboring similar feelings. That had been demonstrated in the way she had held him and kissed him just before she left. And she had made certain Lyons had a contact number for her. Whether anything would develop was for another place and another time.
Bolan and Lyons had booked into a motel outside Philadelphia. They spent the night there, moving out by dawn and hitting the road.
They were waiting for final information on Pelman’s Farm from Stony Man. Electronic intel was helpful, but it only went so far. In the end it was down to the operatives on the ground to deal with any situation and to make on-the-spot decisions.
Which, Bolan had thought, was what it was all about.
BOLAN REVERSED the car until it was hidden by the thick shrubbery and trees a quarter mile from the farm entrance. While Lyons went to open the trunk and offload their hardware, Bolan made a call to Stony Man.
“We’re g
earing up now,” he told Barbara Price when she came on the line.
“You both still okay?”
“You sound worried.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“Just nice to hear you admit it.”
“Now you’re teasing.”
“Any updated intel I need to know about?”
“I’ll put Aaron on. He has some information he wants to download to your laptop. Take care, both of you.”
Price handed over her phone and Kurtzman’s gruff tones came on.
“I’m downloading now,” he said. “While that comes through, I’ve got background for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“America the Free is nothing but a smoke screen,” Kurtzman said over Bolan’s cell. “Carmen has run the name every which way from sundown. Nothing. Doesn’t exist. I think they created it to draw attention away from the Brethren and let them operate in the clear. I’ll let Carmen run on it, see if she can extract anything that might have a scrap of truth in it.
“In the meantime, Striker, you have my word—and would I lie to you?—that your genuine, undiluted target is Pelman’s Farm. If that place has grown or even planted anything since it was rented out, I will give up my famous coffee recipe without a protest. The place stood empty for nine months after the original owner died. He had no family to take it over, just some distant relative on the other side of the country who had no interest. The place was put up for lease. No takers until our friend Petrie, acting on behalf of one of his investors, took up the lease. Ideal situation for what the Brethren wanted. It stands well off the main highway, along a feeder road surrounded by a lot of pastureland. It’s genuine rural territory out there. Closest neighbor is another farm eight miles away. Farm delivery vehicles would not be suspect, nor other traffic going back and forth. I’m sending through digital scan images of the place taken just an hour ago. Look at the close-up of the vehicle parked outside the storage shed. Familiar? Same configuration as the vehicles used in the previous attacks.”
Bolan studied the laptop display as it came on-screen. The sharp images from the orbiting satellite would allow him and Lyons to work out their strategy.
“You guys need anything else?” Kurtzman asked in Bolan’s ear. “I do have other work, you know.”
Bolan smiled. “Thanks, Aaron. This is good stuff.”
“Only good?” Kurtzman asked, sounding aggrieved. “What’s wrong with superb? Excellent? Earth-shattering?”
“I know how modest you are. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
“You’re a funny man. Talk later.”
Bolan cut the call without any further delay. The sound of a friendly voice could easily become a distraction, and the last thing he needed right now was anything pulling his thoughts away from what lay ahead.
Lyons had opened their bags. They spent the next few minutes changing into their combat gear, Bolan, as usual, choosing his blacksuit. Lyons pulled on a set of camou fatigues. They moved to ordnance: Beretta 93-R and the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle for Bolan, the big .357 Colt Python and a backup SIG P-226 for Lyons. Their lead weapon was the M-16 with 30-round magazines. A 9 mm Uzi hung from a sling around Bolan’s neck. John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man’s armorer, had also sent along a 12-gauge Franchi SPAS shotgun for Lyons. Kissinger understood Lyons’s preferences for the weapon and had removed the folding metal buttstock for easier handling. There was a satisfied smile on the Able Team leader’s face as he thumbed shells into the underbarrel tube magazine. Spare ammunition for their weapons went into the pouches on their combat harnesses. Fragmentation and stun grenades were clipped to their harnesses, while Cold Steel Tanto combat knives were sheathed on their belts.
Bolan showed his partner the image detail on the laptop screen. Lyons absorbed the images, pointing out several positions and suggesting where they might begin their assault. His strategy mirrored Bolan’s. With everything fixed in their minds, the Executioner powered down the laptop and placed it in the trunk. He closed it and used the remote to secure the car.
Lyons watched him zip the keys in one of his blacksuit’s pockets. “I hope they’re secure,” he said. “It’s one hell of a walk back to town. Especially dressed like this.”
“I’ll keep them safe for you, Mom.”
The final piece of equipment they donned were compact com-links. Once they had the headsets and microphones in place, they ran a swift check.
“Let’s do it,” Bolan said.
They parted company.
Bolan headed for the west perimeter, Lyons the east. They had a distance to go and needed to move carefully in case there were lookouts. They cut a wide swath across the lush Pennsylvania landscape before closing in on the fenced property.
Easing up to the high wooden fencing, Bolan dropped flat in the thick grass and peered through the gaps in the white-painted planks. He had come in at the side of the largest of the storage sheds some thirty feet away. He noticed the heavy activity centered around the building. Parked about ten feet away from the open doors was a panel truck.
The one Kurtzman had picked up on his sat scan? he wondered.
Bolan checked out the rest of the open complex and failed to see any other trucks. Okay, he admitted, they could be inside one or more of the sheds. Or the house.
He spoke into his com-link. “Ironman, this is Striker. You seen any other panel trucks your location?”
“None,” came the reply. “Few cars. SUVs. No trucks.”
“I see the truck Bear picked up on his sat scan in front of my position. We need to check it out when we get inside the perimeter. There’s a lot of activity around it.”
“Okay.”
“If it starts to move out before we reach it…”
“Got the message, Striker.”
BOLAN CRAWLED ALONG the base of the fence until he reached one of the support posts. The planks were nailed to the post. Brown stains ran from the heads of the nails down the white paint, evidence the planks had been in place for some time. Bolan placed his M-16 on the ground and gripped the plank closest to him. He tested the grip of the nails. They were sound but not embedded in hard wood. Time and exposure had reduced the grip of the nails in the post where moisture had soaked in. Bolan exerted considerable muscle power, gently rocking the plank until the nails started to give. He paused, then started to pull again. This time the nails slid gradually from the soft wood, allowing him to pry the long plank clear of the post. Bolan pulled it back enough to enable him to work his way through, reaching out to bring his M-16 with him. He eased the plank back into position, guiding the nails into their original holes. He brushed away telltale flecks of white paint that had fallen from the post so there was no immediate obvious sign of entry.
The grass near the fence line was thick and uncut, concealing Bolan’s presence. He didn’t allow complacency to weaken him. He needed better cover than blades of grass. Raising his head, he picked out a timber stack laid out alongside a small shed. He took a longer scan of the immediate area. No one in sight. The panel truck was still the center of attention, and Bolan saw that a number of the men around the vehicle were not helping with the loading. Now that he was closer he could see they were all armed. Some carried their weapons, others had them slung. Even from where he was positioned he recognized the P-90s, which confirmed his suspicions. It was the first time he had seen farmworkers armed like these men. There was something in their manner, the way they carried themselves, that suggested these men were far removed from manual agricultural workers. If he was right, and from what he was seeing he didn’t doubt it, the only harvest these men would be gathering was death.
“Ironman, I’m inside and eyeing the panel truck being loaded. There’s a squad guarding it. All armed.”
“Be making my way in your direction any time now, Striker. Whoa! Eyeballed a couple of armed patrollers myself. Local farm boys my ass—”
As Lyons cut off abruptly, Bolan picked up the heavy boom that could only have come from the Able
Team leader’s SPAS shotgun. The stuttering crackle of autofire followed almost immediately, chased by two more shotgun blasts.
Good or bad, the assault was under way, and it could only be resolved by immediate action.
Bolan forgot about temporary cover. He pushed to his feet and broke in the direction of the panel truck, its loaders and the armed squad gathered around it.
The Brethren activists spotted him before he was halfway to the truck. One of the armed men yelled a warning and immediately went for his slung weapon. A second man, yards away, already had his P-90 in his hands and he swung around to pinpoint Bolan and open fire. If he had taken time to aim and lock, he might have achieved his objective, but he failed on both counts. His instant fire was way off target, and he didn’t get a second chance. Bolan raised his M-16, sighted and laid a 3-round burst into the guy’s chest, kicking him back against the side of the panel truck and then to the ground. The sight of one of their own going down caused a general scattering of the loaders and the armed crew, though the first man who had raised the warning shout stood his ground, sweeping his weapon on target. He was no seasoned combat veteran and stood little chance against the honed skills of Mack Bolan. He had already dropped to one knee, settling his M-16 firm to his shoulder, and loosed a second triburst that spun the gunner off his feet. Out the corner of his eye Bolan spotted another shooter leaning out from the rear of the truck, weapon rising. The Executioner swiveled at the hip and fired. The 5.56 mm slugs punched through the thin metal of the corner panel, flattening and ripping into the would-be shooter’s face and neck, slivers of auto metal piercing his flesh. The man stumbled away from the rear of the truck, dropping his weapon and clamping hands to his bloody face, screaming in pain. The second he was in full view Bolan hit him in the chest with a burst that ended his pain and his life.
LYONS HAD CLEARED HIS FENCE in a fashion similar to Bolan’s. He had gained his feet, covered by a piece of farm machinery that looked as if it had been in the same spot for years. Long grass grew up around the faded paintwork and had started to sprout between section of the chassis. Aware that time was not on his side, Lyons moved toward the far end of the machine, his SPAS cocked and ready for use. He checked out the area, seeing nothing except more abandoned farm equipment and outbuildings.
Patriot Play Page 9
