Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  That situation changed fast, as circumstances were apt to do in combat scenarios.

  As Lyons conversed with Bolan, the pair of SMG-carrying men who appeared in Lyons’s line of sight swiveled their weapons in his direction.

  Lyons reacted with the speed and deadliness that had become second nature and let go with the first shot from the big shotgun. The target caught it chest-high, his body ripped open from waist to sternum, a bloody eruption of flesh and organs ripped from his body as he went down. His partner, shock etched across his face, triggered his own weapon, the crackle of autofire followed by twin booms as Lyons fired again. His shots almost ripped the other guy’s left arm off just above the elbow, the final one placing its charge full in the target’s face. With his head torn apart, the guy fell back without a sound and lay on the bloody earth.

  Angry at the way his stealthy approach had been disturbed, Lyons pushed out from behind his cover and ran in the direction of Bolan’s position, his ears picking up the crackle of autofire as his comrade in arms also joined the battle. As he ran, the Able Team leader thumbed in fresh shells to replace the ones he had used, his eyes searching for further enemy presence.

  He was rewarded for his diligence as an open Jeep swept around the side of a large shed, raising dust as it turned in his direction. Apart from the driver there were two others in the vehicle. One on the passenger seat, the other braced in a standing position in the rear. He was staying upright by hanging on to the roll bar set behind the seats and bringing an SMG into play. The weapon chattered, the line of slugs coming uncomfortably close to Lyons, who took a reckless dive to the ground, rolling onto his front as the Jeep angled in his direction, the standing gunner turning to get a clearer shot.

  The man in the passenger seat came on line as if someone had pressed his start button, bringing his own autoweapon off his lap and aiming it at Lyons. Propped up on his arms, the big ex-cop raised the SPAS and began to pull the trigger, jacking out the full eight-load capacity of the shotgun, raking the Jeep and passengers. The continuous roar of the SPAS 12 drowned out the sound of the Jeep’s engine. As the muzzle tracked the vehicle and the powerful impact of the shots took their toll, the Jeep lurched drunkenly. The bloodied driver slumped sideways, the passenger clutched his mangled side and the upright gunner was thrown across the open rear of the vehicle. He fell across the tailgate, then out and down onto the ground. The vehicle stalled, the engine dying.

  Lyons climbed to his feet, sucking breath into his lungs from the hard dive to the ground. He heard a moaning sound coming from the hit passenger. The guy was slumped loosely in his bloody seat, his right side showing a gaping hole that was pulsing blood through shattered ribs and punctured organs. He stared at Lyons, his face pale under the streaked blood. His breath came in rattling, sodden gasps. There was no hesitation in Lyons’s actions as he drew the Python and put a mercy round through the man’s skull. The driver and the rear gunner were both dead when Lyons checked them.

  He reloaded the SPAS, cocked it, then moved on to join Bolan.

  CHAPTER NINE

  As he closed in on the panel truck, aware of the continuing presence of the Brethren, Bolan realized they were not about to quit. None of them appeared to have anything but fierce determination to keep up the struggle. Under other circumstances he might have given them credit for their loyalty to their cause, but in this instance the Brethren was waging war against their own kind, their own society and their own country, and for that Bolan could not forgive. He had memories etched in his mind of the results of what the Brethren had already done. Torn and twisted bodies. The bleak aftermath of cold and calculated strikes against federal buildings that had not simply left behind shattered concrete, but human wreckage, too, ordinary members of the public who had been caught up in the brutal destruction, swept up in the terror of the moment a child and mother, life ripped from them in the horror of the explosion. That image and others would stay with Bolan for a long time after this was all over.

  The Brethren deserved no better treatment than any terrorist striking the United States. Bolan could see no saving graces in their manifesto. They were neither patriot nor loyalist. This secretive organization was simply out to destabilize the America that had nurtured and empowered them. Bolan would have been among the first to hold up his hand and accept that even America had its faults. No nation on Earth could put hand on heart and claim to be perfect, though some might try by concealing their true intent. America struggled to satisfy all calls from its people. Sometimes it fell short and rightly so, because in the end the country was governed by human beings who tried to keep the balance while also attempting to please all groups. America was no different. She had her shortcomings despite all that the administration attempted, but there was an ongoing drive to eradicate the failures. Adding to the internal difficulties, the nation still shouldered global responsibilities, reaching out to aid those in need, and they drank greedily from America’s well.

  The Brethren used negativity as its basis, pushing its agenda by highlighting the nation’s woes and employing indiscriminate violence and destruction to throw the population into panic. The group strove to alienate people from government, and seized any opportunity to use that fragmenting to further its own twisted cause, regardless of how many fellow Americans they killed.

  That alone would have been enough to bring Bolan down on the Brethren. His struggle was in part always based on protecting innocents, those who were unable to fight back, or drawn into a conflict simply by being there. The lines had already been drawn. Now the Brethren had stepped over, disregarding who became drawn into their line of fire, and that brought them into Mack Bolan’s sights.

  Moving shapes revealed themselves behind the bulk of the panel truck and Bolan switched his line of approach, moving quickly to the front of the vehicle even as he picked up the scuffle of sound. He dropped to a crouch close by the front wheel, the M-16 up and ready as he took a swift look beneath the vehicle and saw two pairs of booted feet. Bolan lowered the rifle and sent a couple of bursts the length of the truck, the 5.56 mm projectiles tearing into ankles, breaking bone. The moment he fired, Bolan pushed to a crouch and moved around the front end of the truck, sensing a presence as he rounded the hood. One of the armed Brethren loomed large, taken by surprise at Bolan’s sudden appearance. He raised his SMG a fraction too slowly, and the Executioner hit him with a burst from the M-16.

  The slugs blew out between the guy’s shoulders, leaving him gasping against the stunning impact. He stumbled away from Bolan, his eyes wide with shock and the dawning realization that he was not going to survive. He was dying even as Bolan stepped by him.

  One of the wounded Brethren, leaning against the truck body, shattered ankles leaking blood, saw the black-clad figure as Bolan came into view. It was the last thing he saw just before the M-16 crackled and delivered his exit from life. There was one more man facing Bolan, his face twisted against the pain in his lower limbs, but still able to drag his handgun from the hip holster. He felt a stunning blow to his chest and the next moment he was on the ground, coughing up blood in his final moments.

  Bolan took a glance around. The loading crew had vanished inside the open shed, and he spotted movement in the shadows. Taking a moment, Bolan checked out the contents of the panel truck. He was not surprised when he saw the partly loaded packs of high explosives. It seemed that the information he had gained had been accurate. The Brethren had been preparing for yet another bombing.

  “Ironman, bomb confirmed. In the truck outside shed.”

  “Got you, Striker. Heading in your direction.”

  “Take a look at the farmhouse.”

  “Will do.”

  The crackle of weapons fire from the storage shed, fired too close to the truck, made Bolan vacate his position and swing away from the shed’s open doors. As he ran, he plucked a flash-bang grenade from his harness. He yanked the pin, turned and over-armed the grenade at the opening in the front of the shed. The grenade land
ed a foot short, then rolled. Before it detonated Bolan threw a second, this time with better results. He turned away from the shed, head down, and heard the harsh crack of the grenades going off. The flash-bang had an effect on the men inside the shed, most of whom had been clustered just inside the open doors. Despite not being cloistered in a perfect confined space, they caught a degree of the grenades’ power. It left them temporarily stunned, eyes hazed, and when Bolan swung back and breached the opening he had the advantage. His M-16 cut back and forth, taking on the hardmen with ruthless efficiency. He left them sprawled on the shed floor, kicking weapons aside from outstretched hands that were never going to lift them again.

  The storage shed held a large amount of explosives, blocky square packs of Gantz’s explosive compound, sealed in thick plastic wrap. There were also crates of contraband weapons, some still bearing U.S. military insignia. On a wooden workbench Bolan saw timers and detonators. Farther back he saw cutting and welding equipment, as well as the remains of stripped-down panel trucks. This was where the vehicles for carrying the bombs had been adapted for the Brethren’s use.

  Bolan paused at the opening, checking out the area between his position and the main farmhouse. He saw Lyons cutting across in the direction of the house, and in typical Ironman fashion the Able Team leader hit the side door with his booted foot and barreled inside. Bolan sprinted in the same direction, his destination the front entrance. It wasn’t out of politeness, simple expedience. If Lyons had gone in at the rear of the house, the rats he flushed out would make the front their intended escape route.

  Keeping an eye out for any more combatants, Bolan centered on the front of the white-painted farmhouse. It had an upper story, the windows appearing clear, but Mack Bolan never took stock of first impressions. His apprehension proved to be correct when a dark figure moved in one of the windows. The barrel of a weapon appeared, the muzzle drawing down to pick up Bolan’s moving figure. He ran a zigzag pattern for several steps, then dropped to one knee, the M-16 snug against his shoulder. The window shooter triggered fast, his shot kicking up dust to the soldier’s right. Then Bolan’s finger stroked the trigger, sending a burst of 5.56 mm slugs in the shooter’s direction. The dark shape windmilled backward as the rounds struck him. The moment he fired, Bolan pushed forward, closing on the house’s front wall, taking him out of any other shooter’s angle of fire. He flattened against the boards and almost immediately heard the crackle of autofire coming from inside the building. Bolan didn’t hesitate. He turned in the direction of the stoop and main door, keeping close to the wall. He reached the steps, where a covered veranda ran to the far side. The front door was flung open and a squad of gunners tumbled onto the stoop, shouting and firing into the house. The steady boom of Lyons’s SPAS 12 could be heard, with the shattering of glass and hard footsteps in the background.

  The lead figure erupting from the house saw Bolan and swiveled to engage him. The gunner wielded a heavy autopistol, and he opened fire more in panic than controlled resistance. Of the three shots fired only one came close enough to tug at Bolan’s left sleeve. The soldier drilled three rounds into the guy’s side, spinning him off his feet and dumping him hard onto the porch. Hitting him with a follow-up head shot, Bolan turned his weapon on the other figures crowding the stoop who now found themselves caught between two fires. Bolan took out one, the sole survivor catching a blast from Lyons that kicked him clear off the stoop to crash to the ground on his back, his body opened like an overripe melon.

  Lyons appeared in the doorway, still wielding the SPAS. He caught sight of Bolan.

  “We clear?”

  Bolan didn’t answer, indicating the upper story. Lyons spoke softly into his throat mike so his words were only audible through Bolan’s earphones.

  “More than one?”

  “Hard to tell. Only one showed himself.”

  “You stay there and catch them when they jump,” Lyons said, and silently backtracked into the house.

  Easing away from the stoop, Bolan stepped out a little so he could see the upstairs windows. Apart from curtains gently moving in the breeze he could see nothing. He could hear Lyons breathing in his earphones as he slowly mounted the stairs. It went quiet after that. Bolan kept his eyes on the windows.

  Then there was a frantic explosion of sound: Lyons’s boots crashing against the floorboards; the splintering of a door kicked wide; distant voices; the crackle of autofire and the heavier boom from Lyons’s shotgun. The window Bolan had been observing became the center of attention as a figure burst through, taking a leap onto the side roof. The guy was carrying an SMG, struggling to keep himself upright. He had momentarily forgotten about Bolan. When he remembered, he was already an acquired target. Bolan’s burst caught him in the chest. The shooter toppled back against the window, dropping his weapon as he clawed at the new pain in his chest. His legs folded and he fell, rolling down the roof angle, clearing the edge and dropping to the ground. He landed hard, raising thin puffs of dust and snapping his spine.

  “THIS IS JUST A BASE for their bomb cache,” Lyons said. “I checked upstairs. Nothing suggests they stay here on a permanent basis. Probably just had a small squad to keep an eye on things between strikes.”

  Bolan took a look around himself, agreeing with Lyons’s observations. The lack of furniture, and even kitchen utensils, seemed to confirm that the Brethren only used the place when they needed to. He was disappointed initially—until he walked into a small room at the front of the house and found a computer station. There was a top-of-the-line laptop sitting on a plain wooden desk. It was switched on, the screen showing a data configuration comprising dates, locations and times. Bolan sat at the desk and ran through the list. The majority of the locations were the sites where the Brethren had already detonated their bombs, but at the end of the list was a collection of similar places that had not yet been hit.

  “Carl, you should take a look at this,” Bolan said as Lyons appeared in the doorway.

  The Able Team leader stood at Bolan’s side, scanning the data, and was suitably impressed at what he saw. “Appears we got lucky.”

  Bolan checked the contents of the hard drive, opening a list of files. He held back from opening any of them in case they were protected and possibly rigged to erase if a password was not used.

  “This is where we need Aaron’s magic,” he said.

  He used the Internet connection and got Kurtzman to download the laptop’s contents. Using his cell phone, he had a brief conversation with the man and waited until he had confirmation everything had arrived at Stony Man. Kurtzman requested Bolan return the laptop to Stony Man so his team could dig into the hard drive.

  While Bolan was engaged with Kurtzman, Lyons took off to pick up their transport. Bolan had his call transferred to Brognola and gave him a full rundown on what had transpired at the farm site.

  “Hal, there’s enough explosives here to separate California from the mainland. It needs to be moved ASAP.”

  “The ATF is going to love you,” Brognola said. “Let me take care of it. Give me the time to get this into motion and you’ll have suits crawling all over that place. And before you ask, you and Ironman will be cleared so once the troops arrive you can leave.”

  “Hal, don’t mention the computer we located. I need to get it to Aaron. We need every piece of information we can get.”

  “Will do, buddy. You two okay?”

  “We got a little dusty is all. To be honest, Hal, I think the Brethren on site here were caught cold. We took them by surprise. Like they didn’t expect to be disturbed.”

  “Complacent maybe. They had it easy for so long it started to get too cozy?”

  “After Philly? I would have expected a little more resistance. Maybe we moved too fast for them. Or maybe they had local backup. Someone watching the area for them and keeping things covered. Our covert visit could have left them with their hats in their hands.”

  “If that’s the case the Brethren didn’t get their money’
s worth today.”

  “Hal, we went in by the back door, so to speak.”

  “Fine. But talking of backs, I suggest you and Carl watch yours. Just in case.”

  “Point taken.”

  BOLAN STEPPED OUT of the farmhouse, the laptop held under one arm. He watched the Crown Vic dusting up the approach to the house. As Lyons swung the big car around and braked, Bolan saw two sheriff’s department cruisers appear at the entrance to the road.

  “Carl, open the trunk.” At the rear of the car they took off their combat gear, stowing it and their weapons in the trunk, along with the laptop. Both men retained their handguns. Bolan kept his hands in plain sight. Lyons stood casually relaxed, hands on his hips, his Python tucked in his belt at the small of his back.

  “Local cops,” Lyons said, slamming the trunk shut. He leaned against the side of the vehicle and watched as one of the cruisers, its roof lights flashing, barreled up the road, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.

  Bolan stood watching the black-and-white roll to a stop some ten feet away. There were two occupants. The driver, lean and wary, made eye contact with Bolan and held it as the man in the passenger seat pushed open his door and climbed out. He was a big man. Not overweight, simply a big man, carrying himself tall and broad. He wore a tan uniform and a leather jacket that had a silver badge pinned to it. Around his waist he wore a belt and holster. The handgun was a 9 mm Beretta and the man rested his right hand on the butt. Dangling from his large left hand was a Mossberg pump-action shotgun. He stood for a while surveying the scene, his expression changing from shocked surprise to anger. His eyes were everywhere, not missing a thing. Finally he set his gaze on Bolan, who had remained still and silent.