Off the grid

An undercover Seattle cop is in hot water after discovering that a U.S. senator and a Russian mob boss are in business together. But with his fellow officers on the senator’s payroll, the detective has no one to trust and nowhere to hide—until he runs into Mack Bolan.

While fleeing dirty cops who want to silence him, the police officer is nearly hit by Bolan’s SUV. The desperate detective is shot and collapses. Bolan rescues the injured man and takes up his fight. But the killers are relentless and the warrior may be too late to save the two people who can tell him where the evidence has been hidden: the officer’s wife and young son. Fired on at each turn and with the body count growing, the Executioner knows he must stop the corruption at the source—before more innocent lives are lost.

Slugs slapped the ground around Bolan

He kept moving, increasing his pace. Bullets zipped into the grass behind him, a couple even closer than the first volley—and then he was surrounded by trees. The trunks and low branches shielded him as shots slammed into the timber, chewing bark and ripping at the foliage.

Overhead, the dark bulk of the hovering helicopter appeared. The men on the ground were waving it away, but the pilot ignored their pleas.

Bolan shouldered the MP-5, tracked the ground team and gave them a couple of short bursts—two went down, three others scattered.

As the chopper swung in toward the edge of the forest, Bolan edged around a tree, steadied his aim and let go with a long burst, concentrating on the helicopter’s engine. The rounds hammered at the aluminum panels, punching ragged holes in the metal, as the Executioner held his finger on the trigger and cleared the magazine.

The chopper’s power faltered, the smooth beating becoming ragged.

Bolan turned and ran deeper into the forest. The advantage was his, but he knew it wouldn’t last. There were still the surviving members of the ground team, plus however many had been in the helicopter—an unknown figure at the moment.

The Executioner had a feeling that wouldn’t remain a mystery for long.

Game on.

Blind Justice

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The moral arc of the universe bends at the elbow of justice.

—Martin Luther King, Jr.

1929–1968

Without justice, this world would be lost. And when law and order is unable to establish it, I will be there to fight for those who have been wronged. Injustice will never go unpunished on my watch.

—Mack Bolan

The Mack Bolan Legend

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 1

Seattle, Washington

“Okay, I know we can’t kill him,” Ken Brenner said. “Doesn’t mean we can’t make the bastard suffer. Put a bullet in him to slow him down. He’s got something the senator wants and Kendal is a mean son of a bitch to say no to.”

“Yeah? You know what pisses me off? That hard-faced mother he keeps at his side all the time. Stone.” Steve Dunn hawked and spat with deliberate force. “Follows Kendal around like a fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Well, that’s what he is. Senator Kendal’s pet rottweiler.”

Dunn folded his arms across his chest, hunching his shoulders against the chill rain sweeping in across the city. He was cold and he was wet, despite the supposed all-weather coat he was wearing. They had been waiting for almost an hour, watching the seedy hotel where their quarry was said to be staying. Brenner’s informants had come up with the location earlier that afternoon, so he and Dunn had staked out the place and were waiting for their man to show.

“Jesus, Ken,” Dunn complained, “why couldn’t we have waited in the car?”

“We’ve been through this. If Logan sees our wheels parked on this street he’s just liable to turn around and leave. He’s a cop, Steve. A fucking good cop. He’d spot a car like ours with his eyes shut. Wrong vehicle for a deadbeat street like this.”

“Yeah. Well, if I get a chill from this rain I’ll send Kendal a bill for my medicine.”

Brenner chuckled. “Good luck with that,” he said.

“Hey, Ken, isn’t that Logan?”

A man was walking along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Brenner recognized him instantly. He watched Ray Logan as the cop headed for the hotel entrance. He tapped his partner and they crossed the street, coming up behind Logan.

The cop must have sensed them behind him. He turned, fixing his gaze on them. Brenner was shocked at Logan’s appearance. His unshaven face was pale, cheeks sunken, his hair in need of a trim.

“Hey, Ray, where you been hiding?” Brenner asked. “You never call. You don’t write.”

“What the hell do you want, Brenner?”

“Isn’t so much what we want, Ray,” Brenner said. “It’s Kendal who wants to have a talk with you.”

The moment he heard the senator’s name, Ray Logan threw himself at Brenner and Dunn. His move caught them off guard. They had expected him to run, not attack. His left shoulder rammed into Brenner’s chest, taking his breath and knocking him off balance. Logan’s right foot lashed out, catching Dunn in the groin, drawing a howl of agony from the man. As Dunn clutched at himself, Logan drove his fist into his face, drawing blood from Dunn’s mouth.

“Get that bastard,” Dunn said.

Logan had turned and now broke away from them, cutting across the street and making it to the dark mouth of an alley.

“Let’s go,” Brenner yelled, taking off after Logan, yanking his handgun from its holster.

Dunn followed, pawing at the blood oozing from his torn lip. He pounded after his partner, splashing through standing pools of water.

“Don’t you fucking lose him,” he called.

Up ahead he could see the dark outline of Logan, framed at the far end of the alley. There was a moment when it looked as if he had stopped running, half turning to look back at his pursuers.

Then he broke into motion, plunging out of the alley and into the street beyond.

THE MAN CAME OUT of the alley, cutting directly across the rain-swept street and was caught in the glare of the SUV’s headlights. Tires squealed as the heavy vehicle violently braked, the forward motion arrested briefly as the rear end cycled around, the driver working the wheel with strong hands. It came to a rocking halt, the driver’s-side window level with the fleeing man. There was a frozen millisecond where the two men held face-to-face.

The sharp crack of an auto pistol was followed by a blinking muzzle flash, a second shot was fired, and the fleeing man was slammed against the SUV’s door. He tumbled away, going to his knees as the driver shoved open the door and exited the vehicle. He stood over the fallen man, a weapon filling his hands, and he returned fire in the direction of the two shadowed figures at the mouth of the alley. Whatever they might have expected, someone shooting back at them was not it. The shooter’s slug slammed into the brickwork at the mouth of the ally, splinters peppering them, and without continuing the attack the men fell back into the dark maw of the gap between buildings.

Wind gusted in the deserted street, driving the rain forward in chilled sheets. It was close to 1:00 a.m. and the backstreet area of the city, never heavily congested even in daylight, was devoid of pedestrians in the early hours.

The SUV’s driver leaned over and helped the wounded man to his feet. He opened the rear door and eased him inside the vehicle. He climbed back behind the wheel, dropped the lever into Drive and took the SUV away from the alley, making a fast turn, and headed for the city center.

“You okay back there?”

The wounded man had pulled himself to a sitting position. Pain from his wounds was starting to make itself known and it took him a moment to speak.

“Been better,” he said.

His rescuer glanced into the rearview mirror. He saw a gaunt face, eyes deep-set and dark-ringed. The hair plastered to the skull. Whatever had happened to the man had started well before the shooting. The problem was of long-standing.

“You need a hospital?”

“No hospital.”

“You’ve got a couple of bullets in you,” the driver said.

“Can’t risk a hospital. They have to report gunshot wounds and details go on computers.”

“You wanted by the police?”

The hoarse laugh from the rear seat held a cynical undertone. “Not in the way you might believe.”

“How do I interpret that?”

There was a silence as the man reached inside his rain-soaked jacket. He held an object the driver could see in the mirror.

It was a black leather badge holder, and the streetlamps reflected off the metal of a shield that identified the Seattle Police Department.

“I’m a cop,” the guy said. “The pair trying to bring me down were cops, too. Dunn and Brenner. I have something they want. My own squad captain, Fitch, is in on it, too. I was working undercover, on my own, and gathered one hell of a package of incriminating evidence against a guy named Kendal. Tyrone Kendal. And get this. He’s a U.S. senator. Powerful man. Ruthless bastard. All started with a few rumors I got from one of my informants. Tied in with a case I was already working. So I turned my attention to Kendal and some of the lowlifes on his payroll. Didn’t realize what I was into until I’d worked myself in deep. Spent a couple of months on it. Started to get results. Pictures. Video. Telephone voice recordings. Even managed to get into some of Kendal’s computer files. The guy is into real nasty stuff. Blackmail. Bribery. He has a number of influential people by the balls. Other politicians. Business executives. Those three cops are banking payoff money—big bucks, too. One of my informants calls and tells me to get the hell out. Said I was blown. Next day they pulled his body out of the water. He’d been cut to pieces. I put my information together and checked into a hotel. Called my wife and told her to lie low until I had things sorted. I tried to bring one of the squad heads in on what I had. He reacted weird. I got the feeling he was working me. That was Fitch. Proved out when I found I was being followed. I managed to lose the tail, then realized the son of a bitch was working for the people I’d fingered. So I went off the grid. I’m trying to stay one step ahead while I try to figure out what to do. Who to trust now. When I called Rachel she warned me to stay away from the house. It was being watched.”

There was a soft sound as the guy passed out and slumped across the rear seat. The driver decided his next move in seconds, turning the SUV at the upcoming junction and heading across town. He had made a swift decision, knew where he had to go, even though at that moment he had no idea where his choice would take him.

Be it by chance.

Fate.

A coming together of the two of them. He didn’t know. All he was aware of was the wounded man in his vehicle. The guy carried a problem on his shoulders. And by stepping in he was now involved.

His commitment was dictated by his nature. The unspoken trait that seemed to bring him by time and place into direct contact with those in need of help.

And no one in such circumstances would ever be ignored by the driver of the SUV.

His name was Mack Bolan.

In a past time, in another place, due to his actions, he had been called Sergeant Mercy.

On that rain-swept night in Seattle that was the persona he was channeling. But within a short time the twists and turns of life would click him into his other alter ego.

The Executioner.

Chapter 2

Marty Keegan felt the cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He didn’t need to check who was calling him because there was only one person who knew the number. The cell was a burn phone, purchased ten days ago when Ray Logan had taken himself off the grid and vanished. Keegan eased out of his seat, walking away from his desk and out of the squad room. As he reached the corridor outside he eased the phone from his pocket and keyed the button to accept the call.

“Hey, Ray,” he said.

Logan’s voice sounded tired. “I was ready to switch off,” he said.

“Sorry, buddy. I had to get out of the squad room before I answered.”

“You got anything for me?”

“Brenner and Dunn are acting like a couple of nervous old ladies. I’d be surprised if they’re not in with Fitch. They’re just standing around in a huddle and they break off if anyone goes near them. They came into the squad room last night looking like drowned rats. Dunn had a fat lip, like someone had punched him out. Don’t know what they’d been up to.”

“They were laying in wait for me near my hotel,” Logan said. “Damn near let them take me, too. I slugged Dunn and managed to break away and run through an alley. Thought I was clear until I almost got myself run down. One of those bastards put a couple of slugs in me and I would have been finished if the driver of the SUV I ran into hadn’t fired back at them, thrown me into his car and drove off.”

“You hurt bad?”

“I’ve been in better health.”

“Where the hell are you, Ray?”

“Not quite sure. Out of the city. I’m not being vague, buddy. I just don’t know. I passed out a few times. When I came round the last time I was in a bed, bandaged up, hurting like crazy. The guy from the SUV told me the bullets had been removed. Racked up my shoulder some and one had cracked a couple of ribs. When I asked him he told me a doctor had dealt with me. Gave me blood. Pumped painkillers into me and left instructions that I wasn’t to be moved for a few days. Said I had some kind of infection.”

“Ray, you listen to yourself. This all sounds weird.”

Keegan wasn’t sure how to interpret what his partner was telling him. He had known Ray Logan for a long time—enough time to understand the man was not given to flights of fancy. If he heeded Logan’s story it was because the man was straight down the line.

“It’s true. On my life, Marty. It’s all true.”

“So who is this guy, Ray?”

“He doesn’t give much away,” Logan said. His voice was becoming softer, the words almost whispered. He paused to take a breath. “All I know, buddy, is he saved my life. He’s in the kitchen making coffee right now.”

“I got to ask, Ray. You trust this guy? I mean you…”

“Yeah, I trust him. Hard to explain but he makes it so you can’t do anything but trust him. Something about the way he talks. I know I only met him a few hours ago, but…what the hell, Marty, the guy pulled my ass out of the grinder.”

“You say he had a piece? Took a shot at Brenner and Dunn? I got to give him full marks for that. So what is he? Another cop? Some kind of Fed? Ray, he isn’t setting you up is he? Playing games while he’s really working for Senator Kendal?”

“Marty, if he worked for Kendal I wouldn’t be calling you like I am. I’d be tied to a chair while Kendal’s lowlifes beat the shit out of me. This guy told me he works special assignments for some agency. Operates on his own. Marty, there was no way he knew I would show up when I did. Hell, I didn’t know where I was going when I took off. I’m just grateful it happened.” Logan went quiet for a minute. “You heard anything from Rachel and Tommy?”

“Sorry, pal. Nothing since I got them relocated. You know the way we played it. Out of the city. Way up country where she feels comfortable. No contact unless she makes it. I keep the location secret. Even from you.”

“Damn.”

“We have to keep this in play. You don’t know where she is, so you can’t spill. Until I can figure out how to get your evidence into the right hands we need to keep this way deep.”

“I know. You realize what this is doing to me, Marty? If anything happens to them…”

“I’ll keep Rachel and Tommy out of harm’s way. Promise.”

“Hell, I know you’ll look after them…”

Logan’s voice faltered, dying to a whisper. His body was forcing a shutdown. Weakness from his wounds and the effects of the painkillers.

“I won’t give up on this, Ray. Look at it this way. Rachel is a smart girl. You told her to lose herself. That’s what she’s done. As long as she stays out of sight so does your evidence.”

Keegan heard a low, mumbled whisper, then the phone cut off. He stared at his cell, then dropped it back in his pocket. “You hang in there, buddy.”

Through the partition window of the squad room he could see that Dunn and Brenner were looking in his direction. He moved away down the corridor. The pair of cops were paying him too much attention. They knew he was not only Logan’s partner, but a longtime friend. He was going to need to stay alert. Return the favor and keep his eyes on them.

Chapter 3

“Marty is a good friend and partner. He was my backup when I was undercover. Rachel and I have known him a long time. You figure it out. Would I have trusted him with the safety of my wife and boy if I had doubts?”

“You make a good case,” Bolan said. “You believe he’s got your family safe?”

“Marty’s smart. He’ll have located them way out of the city.”

“And what about your evidence? Will Rachel have it with her?”

Logan didn’t reply immediately. Bolan saw he was fighting against the drugs and the infection. He let the cop have his time. It wasn’t going to get him anywhere if Logan became too weak to talk. So Bolan sat back and waited.

“Man, that really caught me. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. If you need to rest longer, Ray, just tell me. You need the doc? Want me to call him in?”

“I’m good. I can’t be sure what Rachel did with the evidence. She either took it with her, or hid it before she left. Maybe in our house.”

“I can start there,” Bolan said. “Eliminate that, then we can look at other options.”

Logan managed a brief nod. “Okay, Cooper, I’ll give you the address.”

Bolan saw him sink back against the pillow, eyes closing. The Executioner stood and quietly left the room to speak to the doctor before he left.

The medic was an old ally of Stony Man Farm. A man who understood Bolan’s enduring struggle. He had experienced his own epiphany during a personal trauma and Bolan had come to his aid. The life-affirming philosophy that Bolan expressed, in actions rather than words, formed a bond between them that never needed expressing. Eric Madsen responded any time Bolan showed up. It wasn’t the first time the Executioner had sought Madsen’s help, and when he’d shown up with the badly wounded Ray Logan in the rear of his SUV, there had been no questions. Madsen took the wounded cop into his home office, ushered Bolan out of the treatment room and went to work. Logan was currently recovering, slowly, housed in one of the doctor’s bedrooms and being tended by Madsen and his wife. When Bolan had explained the background and the possible threat to Logan, Madsen’s wife, Laura, had smiled at him.

“You’re trying to tell us this could put us in danger? Don’t worry. You know how we feel about you, Coop, and how we can never repay you for what you did. So you just go out there and do what you do best. Leave that boy to get well. Find his wife and son, because that will help him get better faster than all the medicine Eric can offer.”

THE LOGAN HOUSE stood back from the street. Timber and stone, well-maintained. A single garage attached to one side. Paved area for two cars. Bolan drove on by, passing three more homes before he took a right and parked out of sight. There was a wide alley running at the rear of the row. Bolan took it and made his way to the back fence of Logan’s property. He checked the high gate, found it unlocked and slipped through. This kind of probe was better suited to the dark, but time didn’t allow Bolan that luxury. He crossed the neat patio and reached the house. He saw immediately that the patio doors were breached—an inch gap told him someone had gotten inside.

Bolan unholstered the Beretta, easing off the safety. He slid the glass door open. The room inside had a wood-block floor. He noticed books disturbed on the shelves to his right. Furniture pushed out of place. A lampshade tilted. Moving quickly, avoiding any extraneous sound, Bolan reached the door, paused, listened. To his right, the open entrance hall and the front door. Directly across from the front door was the staircase leading to the upper floor.

He picked up a muffled voice. It came from upstairs. Bolan went up fast, the carpeted stairs deadening any sound. Movement on his left. A partly open door. A shadow disturbed the soft light. The same voice. Low, measured, not speaking English.

Bolan knew enough to recognize the language.

Russian.

Was the speaker talking to himself?

Or did he have a partner with him?

A thud as something was dropped to the floor.

This time a second voice. Remonstrating with the first man. This speaker was to the left of the door.

Whoever the men were they didn’t belong in the Logan house.

Bolan took a step closer, ready to go through the door.

His intention was preceded as the door was wrenched open and a dark-clad figure appeared, a stubby SMG slung from his left shoulder. The guy had his head turned away from Bolan as he said something to his partner.

So much for the stealth approach, Bolan thought.

Then used the clear moment to his own advantage. As the visible man stepped through the door, head swiveling to the front, seeing Bolan and reaching for the SMG, Bolan swept the Beretta round in a brutal, clubbing action. It slammed against the man’s skull with a sodden thud. The gunman uttered a shocked gasp, sagging against the door frame, and Bolan struck again—same place, even harder. Blood spouted, rushing down the man’s face and soaking into the sweater he was wearing. As he began to slump, Bolan shouldered him back into the room, already picking up the thump of footsteps as the second guy ran forward. He sensed the movement seconds before he saw the man. Big, his broad shoulders and barrel chest topped by a shaved, short-necked head, he moved with a solid gait. Bolan had no chance to raise his weapon. The large figure loomed close, muscular arms and wide hands reaching for him. Bolan lowered his own shoulders, turning slightly and hit the guy in his midsection, not to halt him, but to use the other’s forward momentum to propel him across Bolan’s back. Bolan thrust upward and the big Russian was hurled over his back, feet leaving the floor. The big man uttered a startled cry as he was launched through the air. Bolan turned about in time to see the Russian slammed against the wall, plaster shattering under the impact. Framed pictures were shaken from the wall as the man crashed to the floor in an ungainly tangle. Bolan stepped in close, ready as the Russian started to rise. He timed it so that as the man swayed on his legs, Bolan drove his right knee in hard. It caught the guy under the thick jaw. The Russian grunted, blood spurting from between his lips as his teeth snapped together and sliced into his tongue. He toppled back, eyes glazing, as he bounced off the wall and into Bolan’s knee a second time. The brutal impact put him down with a subdued crack as his neck and upper spine snapped. The big man dropped with the looseness of death.

Behind Bolan the first guy was struggling to recover himself, groping for the SMG hanging from his shoulder. The big American turned fully. He saw the SMG tracking in, the guy’s finger already on the trigger. No hesitation as Bolan brought the 93-R on line and punched a triple burst that took away the left side of the man’s skull in a glistening spray. The Russian toppled back, eyes wide from shock as he hit the carpeted floor on his back.

“Damn,” Bolan muttered at the way it had gone.

He was less concerned with the Russians’ deaths than he was with the probable outcome once their principals found out what had happened. The would-be shooter had placed himself in the firing line once he went for his weapon. He had gambled and lost. Rules of the game. But there was someone behind the pair who had invaded Logan’s house, plainly looking for something, and that someone was not going to be pleased to learn his men had been discovered and taken out.

As he frisked the two men Bolan was questioning the presence of Russian heavies in the equation. How did they fit into what Ray Logan had unearthed?

A U.S. senator involved with Russians? Bolan let the question lie as he discovered two wallets, a pair of Russian passports and a vehicle key with a rental fob attached. The fob had the license-plate number on it. Bolan pocketed the items.

Neither of the Russians had a cell. Unusual, but not unheard of. Perhaps they had a phone installed in their vehicle.

Bolan called Stony Man Farm on his cell, connected with Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman.

“Hey, we figured you were on your way home. Didn’t you finish your mission?”

“Yeah. But something new came up and I need your help.”

“Can’t get along without me, can you, Striker?” Kurtzman grumbled amiably.

“It would be a struggle,” Bolan said.

“Give me the details.”

Bolan gave Kurtzman the number from the key fob and the passports. “See what you can come up with.”

“Be in touch,” Kurtzman said.

Bolan took a tour of the house. Checked it thoroughly, including all the places Logan had suggested. He found nothing, figuring that as the Russians had still been looking they hadn’t unearthed anything themselves. The more he searched, the less he believed Rachel Logan had used her own home to hide her husband’s evidence, and the more convinced he became that she had taken it with her when she left for her secret location.

He exited the house after a half hour, closing the patio doors behind him and returned to his own rental. He fired up the motor and drove on, cruising the back lane until he was able to rejoin the main road. Bolan headed back in the general direction of the city center, spotted a diner and drove in and parked. He went inside and ordered a coffee. He took his cell out and called Logan’s burn phone, indentifying himself to the cop.

“You had visitors. They were looking for something in your house, too. There was nothing to find. Place is clean.”

“Trying to get a line on my evidence and my family. Rachel wouldn’t leave any trace. You get an ID on them?”

“Work on this, Logan. They were Russian. Had passports to prove it.”

“Russian? What were Russians doing in my house?”

“I’m having that checked out now.”

“Where are the perps?”

“Still at your house, but not in a position to leave on their own two feet. They didn’t take too well to being interrupted.”

“I’m trying to figure out how a pair of Russians are involved.” Logan paused, his thoughts slowed by the effects of the sedatives and his weakness. “Hey, Cooper, I’m getting some recall here. I almost lost it. I did come up with a Russian connection during my investigation. A guy Kendal had contact with. Can’t make it any clearer at the moment. Hell, why did I forget that?”

“When we get some identification maybe we’ll get an answer to that,” Bolan said. “In the meantime, don’t beat yourself up if you can’t pull all the details into the open. Ray, you just let me know if you hear anything about or from Rachel.”

“I will. Cooper, she’s gone to ground so it’s not going to be easy finding her. Rachel knows how to survive. Before we were married she did three years as a Park Ranger upstate. It was how we met. I was following up on a murder inquiry that took me out of the city. Rachel had found a body that had the earmarks of the perp we were after. Her intel helped us track the guy down.”

“Now that’s a romantic way to meet your future wife,” Bolan said.

“Tell me about it. Happened between us before we knew what hit us. I figure that’s what Keegan has done. Sent her somewhere up country. And Rachel hasn’t lost any of her outdoor instincts, Cooper. She’s at home out there.”

“So she can handle herself?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What about weapons?”

“That girl can shoot. Just don’t ever get her mad if there’s a 9 mm in the same room.”

“Would she favor the part of the country she patrolled when she was a Ranger?”

“Maybe, but Keegan isn’t about to let on where. It’s a big piece of freehold, Cooper. Runs all the way up to the Canadian border.”

After ending the call, Bolan ordered fresh coffee, then decided he might as well eat, given this enforced downtime. The old military maxim.

Eat when the opportunity presents itself.

Sleep on the same premise.

The combat soldier’s credo. Never waste free time. Use it like it’s going out of fashion. Grab it with both hands. Make the most of this day and let tomorrow catch up when it can.

He turned his thoughts to the man who seemed to be the driving force behind Ray Logan’s problems.

Senator Tyrone Kendal.

Bolan tried to imagine what was behind the man’s desperate actions. Why did he want so badly to get hold of Logan and the evidence that the cop claimed to have gathered?

Must have been something damning. Something that had pushed the senator into such a flurry of activity.

Armed teams searching for Logan.

Bad cops shooting at him.

And Russian heavies invading the man’s home.

KURTZMAN’S CALL CAME just as Bolan got back in his vehicle. He put the cell on speaker and listened to the rundown on the Russians.

“Couple of heavy hitters. Ivan Tupelov and Mako Sheranova. Suspected of a number of crimes but never proved. They showed up on U.S. and international databases. They work for a dubious character named Maxim Koretski. If it’s illegal this lovely guy has his hands in it. Trafficker in everything murky. Runs a number of clubs here and in Russia—guy gets around. But he’s so lawyered-up he’s bulletproof. We dredged up a few articles from newspapers and magazines. This guy is seriously into big-time crime. Suggestion is he wants to be Mister Big. In the past a couple of his near rivals have been mysteriously eliminated. No proof, but the finger points Koretski’s way.”

“Any connection at all to a Senator Tyrone Kendal?”

“He in this deal, as well?”

“I think so, but right now I can’t figure the why. I’m just trying to connect the dots.”

“I’ll keep checking. The car detail panned out. A rental paid for through one of Koretski’s legitimate businesses.”

“Thanks, Bear. Come back anytime you dig up anything.”

“You got it, Striker. What’s next for you on this?”

“Collateral damage. I need to cut away some of the trash.”

Chapter 4

It was no secret that Senator Tyrone Kendal enjoyed the good things in life, and he made sure everyone around him understood that. Kendal tolerated no deviation from his desires or his expensive lifestyle. Only the best was good enough—home, possessions, his cars. It helped that he was a wealthy man. He had inherited the Kendal fortune on the death of his father, a man who had worked his way up from a menial job as a dirt farmer to become the head of a multinational company encompassing oil, copper-mining and a manufacturing base providing products as diverse as home appliances to electronics for the IT industry. Tyrone Kendal the younger inherited the companies and the money, but unfortunately he lacked the people skills. He assumed the mantle of top dog, but in doing so he became arrogant, self-important and unfeeling.

So it was a surprise when he entered politics. He abandoned his commercial interest in the slew of companies, handing over the reins to his previous second-in-command, and presented himself as a man free of business connections. But that was for public consumption only. The truth was that Kendal still maintained control of the businesses. It was all done through a layered facade of shell companies, corporate subterfuge and a legion of lawyers. As far as the world in general understood, Kendal had stepped down, distanced himself from the business enterprises and had become a man of the people. He devoted himself to his new calling, and with the skill that had created his business empire, he entered politics and surprised everyone with his early successes. That surprise was compounded when he eventually became a U.S. senator, due in great part to the unstinting efforts of the team he built around him. They portrayed him as a caring, honest man who represented the people. He spent lavishly on the things that mattered, not sparing himself during the rallies and the election hustings. He travelled the state of Washington, where his main dwelling was situated, enduring the long days and nights of meeting his constituents. He listened to their needs, promised them whatever they asked for, smiling and waving, then returned to his home and wiped the smile away, downed expensive whiskey and swore if he ever had to listen to another request for help he would take out his shotgun and blow the bastards’ heads off.

Kendal won his election by a landslide. Two days later he left for D.C. to take up his seat and became a thorn in the opposition party’s side. He understood how to play the game. He cultivated the right friends using his dominant personality. He made enemies, too, but that was something Kendal thrived on. He fought his corner, quickly learning to make the cards fall the way he wanted.

That had been eight years ago. These days he was a major player in the political circle, able to take on anyone who stepped into the ring. His reputation as a tough, uncompromising opponent had won him few friends. His hard-edged stance distanced him from many. Kendal maintained his arm’s-length persona. He had his own agenda to pursue and keeping people at bay allowed him to concentrate on that. He did not like to be faced with anything that might harm his career.

Over and above all else was Kendal’s driving force, the one thing that mattered to him. Greed. Plain and simple. No amount of financial success was ever enough. He needed more. Much more. Because immense wealth also brought its own agenda. Wealth begat power, and limitless power was Kendal’s desire. Power, control, the narcotic that demanded endless feeding. He had reached that stage where the craving had become almost self-sustaining. But Kendal would never consciously admit, even to himself, that his need was unstoppable.

And after all this hard work, it frustrated him that a lowly Seattle cop was making an attempt to thwart him.

“This Seattle cop, he’s still causing us problems?” he asked. He was like a headmaster interrogating a failing pupil. “Why hasn’t he been dealt with?”

“He’s disappeared.”

Kendal cleared his throat. “Disappeared? Penn and Teller style, in a puff of smoke? Levitated into an alien saucer?”

Eddie Bishop, the man facing Kendal across the senator’s expansive desk, looked uncomfortable. In fact, he was uncomfortable. Confronting Kendal with bad news was never a pleasant experience. Kendal did not like to be delivered bad news. It meant someone was not doing his job right. If you took the senator’s money you damn well better earn it.

“He’s just dropped out of sight.”

“What about the wife and kid? They magically vanished, too?”

Bishop winced inwardly. At that moment he was wishing he could drop out of sight.

“Logan must have got to her before our people. She’s gone, as well. But we’re working on it.”

“Right. Working on it. That’s a great comfort to me.” Kendal slammed his clenched fist down on the desk, his handsome face flushing with anger. Objects on the desk jumped in the air. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this crap. You understand what’s riding on this? I’ll fucking tell you. The whole goddam operation is riding on this. If that white-knight cop gets someone to listen to him and we get investigated, we all go down the crapper—Koretski included. And the last thing we want is Maxim Koretski pissed off. You think I’m a bastard—think on.”

“Senator, we’re doing our…”

“Do not say your best, because if you were, Logan would be down in my basement begging for a bullet in the back of his skull. If you were doing your best, his wife and kid would be strung up in front of him dripping blood on the floor. Now, is that what’s happening?”

“No, sir.”

“At least we agree on that. So get off your butt and call your people. Make them understand that money and people are not a problem. Use those things to get me results. I want Seattle searched top to bottom. Use your street informers. Dig that bastard out of whatever hole he’s crawled into and get that information from him before he uses it. Close the city down for him. Shut off communication. I want you to beg, borrow, blackmail everyone you can think of. You understand, Bishop? Ray Logan doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already a dead man.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

As Bishop made for the door Kendal said, “Tell Stone I want to speak to him as soon as he arrives.”

Bishop experienced an involuntary shiver at the name. If Kendal was sending for Vigo Stone then someone was in major trouble. Kendal only used Stone when he had a special assignment that needed handling. Bishop hoped his name didn’t come up in the conversation.

Chapter 5

His name was Vigo Stone. He worked for Senator Tyrone Kendal. His job demanded he be available 24/7. Kendal had a direct cell-phone line to the man if they were not in hailing distance of each other—which happened from time to time when Stone was working a special assignment. Those around Kendal viewed Stone with caution. The man was not the kind who would be termed sociable. He displayed a remoteness that kept men at a distance and females feeling uneasy. None of that had the slightest effect on Stone. He worked for the senator, but not for his official position.

Stone was around forty. A man of medium height, lean and with the presence of a prowling big cat. His quiet demeanor matched his looks. A hollow-cheeked face with a slim, slightly hooked nose and wide, thin lips. His eyes never rested. They moved constantly, seeing everything, probing, curious. His smooth skull was shaved, the skin showing a faint sheen. He dressed well. Always in a suit, tie and immaculate shirt.

He entered Kendal’s office and sat facing the senator’s desk. No words were exchanged until Stone had fully read the slim file Kendal passed to him.

“I take it there has been no success finding Logan? Or his wife and brat?”

“Nothing. Bishop and his people have found nothing.”

“Bishop? The man’s a dinosaur. He has no idea.”

“Which is why I want you to handle this. Do what you do best, Vigo. You take charge. Run it however you damn well want. Bishop will take orders from you directly. Hire who you need. Pay off who you want. I want this to go away before it bites us all in the ass. I’ll do what I can to keep Koretski at arm’s length.”

“Koretski has dealt himself in?”

“He has a vested interest. He is my partner in this venture. Hell, more than a partner. If Logan’s information falls into the wrong hands we’re all going down the toilet, Vigo. And there are a lot of important people in the mix. So we need to suppress anything that damn cop has dredged up.”

“You know how I work, Senator. No interference. No directives. I run my own show.”

Kendal smiled. “Vigo, I don’t need reminding, and I have no worries on how you do your job. Never have in the past, so why should things be different this time? You will have access to the open-ended account as usual and we will settle up when it’s all over.”

“Is there any current information not in the file?”

“Our pet cop, Captain Fitch, informed me his two bloodhounds, Brenner and Dunn, passed along something that might be useful.”

“Brenner and Dunn—the pair that let Logan run?”

“Not their finest hour,” Kendal said.

“I’m surprised they can stand up and walk without the need of an instruction book. So what was their information?”

“One of the cops in the squad is a close friend of Logan. He’s also Logan’s partner. Name of Marty Keegan. Dunn and Brenner have a feeling he’s been in contact. Couple of times he’s taken cell-phone calls and been cagey about anyone listening in. Could be nothing, but on the other hand maybe not.”

“It’s a start,” Stone said. “I’ll need details. Keegan’s home address. Anything that might help.”

Kendal nodded. “No problem,” he said. “Give it a half hour and I’ll have all there is to know about Lieutenant Marty Keegan.”

“Good.” Stone stood, adjusting his jacket. “I’ll need a vehicle.”

Kendal picked up the internal phone. He spoke to one of his assistants. “Bring it around to the front in half an hour,” he said finally. He nodded at Stone. “Fixed. Anything else?”

“I’ll wait for the Keegan information in the library.”

“You want tea?” Kendal asked.

“Why not,” Stone said and left the office.

Kendal picked up the phone again and instructed refreshments be sent to Stone. The man only ever drank tea. He never touched coffee or alcohol. Come to think of it, Kendal mused, the man didn’t smoke, rarely smiled and only spoke when it really mattered. He wondered how Stone related to women and sex. What the hell, Kendal decided. The man was good at his job. That was all he was concerned about.

TWO HOURS LATER Stone was on the road behind the wheel of a high-spec Chevy Impala, sitting in quiet comfort as he negotiated the traffic. The satnav system was directing him to Marty Keegan’s address as he was already planning his course of action. He understood what needed doing. The senator had a crisis on his hands. One that had the potential of destroying his world and himself. As far as he was able, Stone would take steps to prevent that from happening. His association with Kendal went back a number of years and over those years Stone had engineered a number of what he termed rescues on behalf of the man.

Tyrone Kendal was a powerful man. A good friend, in the loosest sense of the word. He expected total loyalty from his people and in return he looked after them and paid generously. On the other hand he was not a man to cross or threaten. When that happened, Kendal struck out with considerable force. He would not tolerate any kind of attack on himself personally, or on the grandiose plans he involved himself in. To help in reducing threats to a minimum, Kendal had a tight group around him—advisors, lawyers and specialists in a number of skills, many of them with dubious pedigrees.

And his ultimate weapon.

Vigo Stone.

In his ethereal world, Stone’s rivals referred to him as The Enforcer. His reputation preceded him. Hard men, no beginners themselves, walked around Stone. They measured their words in his presence. He was not given to loose talk, especially about himself. There was no need. Those in the know were fully aware of his past deeds, and none of them had any desire to find they were under his eye. As much as possible they stayed well clear.

MARTY KEEGAN LIVED near Seattle’s waterfront in one of a number of older buildings converted into separate residences. Rolling the Chevy along the street, Stone passed the address, then turned down a side street that let him view the rear of Keegan’s building. Easy access and exit from the place. At the end of the block Stone spotted a parking lot and drove in. He paid for the maximum stay and displayed the ticket on the dashboard of the Chevy before lifting his laptop computer bag off the rear seat. He locked the Chevy, slung the bag from his left shoulder and casually walked out of the parking lot, turning down the sidewalk that would eventually return him to the front of Keegan’s place.

He shifted the computer bag on his shoulder. There was no laptop in the bag. It held Stone’s work kit, as he called it. The tools of his trade.

The information Kendal had supplied detailed, among other things, Keegan’s current shift timetable. The cop was due to finish in a half hour and unless he had other plans he would drive home. Stone acknowledged that fact was one he could not plan for. He was going to have to wing that part. But he had great faith in human nature, accepting the predictable and understanding the regular routine of peoples’ lives.

He strolled along the street, eyeing the building he was heading for. At this time in the afternoon the majority of people were still at work, so there were only a few around. Stone had been banking on that. He needed to get into the building and then Keegan’s apartment. He knew the location—ground floor, just along from the front entrance. There were two other ground-floor apartments. The one immediately adjacent to Stone’s was occupied by an elderly woman who lived on her own and rarely left the building. The other, across the hall from the Keegan apartment, belonged to a young single businesswoman who worked long hours and seldom came home before seven in the evening. Stone had no idea how Kendal had obtained such detail, but he admired the man’s thoroughness and professionalism. The details made Stone’s entrance a little less hazardous. When he reached the building he walked calmly along the short path, up onto the porch and in through the open front door. It was quiet inside the shaded lobby. Stone didn’t waste time surveying the scene. He went directly to Keegan’s door, pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket, took a set of expensive lock picks from another pocket in his jacket and had the door open within twenty seconds. Inside he closed the door again and stood for a few moments absorbing the apartment setup. Once he had it fixed in his mind he stepped into the kitchen, laid his bag on the counter and opened it.

The kitchen window was shaded with slatted blinds and looked out on the street. Stone made sure he was not silhouetted on the window as he laid out his implements on a towel he unrolled across the counter. That done, he filled a hypo syringe from a bottle.

Then he stood to one side of the kitchen window where he could see the street.

And patiently waited for his victim.

Marty Keegan.

Seattle cop.

Partner and good friend of Ray Logan.

The man who was going to tell Stone everything he might know, imagined he knew, about the runaway cop and his family.

It might take a half hour. It might take longer. But in the end Keegan would give it all up.

They always did.

It was not arrogance on Stone’s part. It was fact. He had worked interrogations many times before, and of one thing he was sure. They always gave up the information.

No one could withstand interrogation indefinitely. There would come a point when human tolerance to pain in its infinitely varied forms became too much. Then the victim would tell Stone whatever he needed to know simply to make it all stop. It had to happen. There was nothing surer. Just like sunrise and sunset—no deviation.

It would happen.

There was a phrase from a well-known TV series that Stone liked for its simple, crystal clarity.

Resistance is futile.

That was how it would be for Lieutenant Marty Keegan.

Chapter 6

Stone heard the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. He moved quickly to stand behind the door, the syringe in his right hand, his left ready to clamp over Keegan’s mouth. He was calm, as always, his control absolute. The door clicked and swung inward, briefly obscuring Stone’s view. He’d expected it so it didn’t faze him. Keegan stepped inside, turning to close the door, and his gaze settled on Stone’s waiting form. Stone nudged the door shut, heard the latch click into place, and in the same movement he stepped in close to the startled cop, left hand coming down on the man’s partly open mouth. His right brought the hypo forward, his swift jab driving the needle into the soft part of Keegan’s neck just below his jawline. The plunger depressed and the hypo’s contents were injected into Keegan. Stone used his bulk to push Keegan against the wall, holding the man immobile for the few seconds it took for the syringe’s contents to spread and take effect. Keegan’s eyes widened, rolling in their sockets. He made a breathy sound and Stone took his hand from the cop’s mouth. Keegan began to go down, his limbs losing all control. Stone held him by his jacket, letting the man slump to the floor. Safe in the knowledge the cop would be unconscious for some time, Stone went back into the kitchen and put the hypo back in its case.

Stone went through Keegan’s pockets, placing everything he found on the kitchen counter, including Keegan’s badge and Beretta auto pistol. The cop’s phone was turned off and placed in the computer bag. Stone emptied Keegan’s wallet—nothing unusual except for $150 in cash. Stone pocketed that. Returning to the sprawled form, Stone dragged Keegan across the living room and into the bedroom. Using a thin-bladed scalpel from his bag, Stone cut away Keegan’s clothing, took off his shoes and socks, then hoisted the naked cop on top of the bed. Using plastic ties he tethered Keegan’s ankles and wrists to the head and foot posts, completing his task by sticking a strip of duct tape over the man’s mouth.

Then he waited. He knew the strength of the injection and was rewarded when Keegan started to come round within three minutes of his estimated time. Still groggy, Keegan struggled against his bonds, mouthing from beneath the duct tape. After a few minutes, exhausted, Keegan became still, his eyes fixed on the patiently waiting Stone.

“All done? I could have told you struggling would only tire you out, but you decided to find out for yourself.” Stone allowed himself a rare smile. “I have no idea what your sexual preferences are, Marty. Maybe you’ve already tried bondage, maybe not. In any case, being restrained can be quite a unique experience—but I’m sure you never expected it to turn out like this.

“We have ourselves a problem, Marty. Your good friend Ray Logan has something my principal wants very badly, which I’m sure you realize. Ray has gone undercover. His wife, Rachel, and his son, Tommy, have also vanished. My job is to locate Logan’s wife. I don’t contemplate failing to do that. To be truthful I have never failed and don’t expect to start now. As Logan is not immediately available, I need to get my hands on Rachel and Tommy, and that is where you come in, Marty. I have reliable information that you may have been talking to Logan on your cell phone. Not very smart to do that in the precinct. But it places you in the position of being Logan’s confidant. So, I think you may have the information I’m looking for.”

Keegan’s head shook from side to side, his eyes giving away his thoughts.

“My problem, Marty, is an inability to accept things on face value. Your denial doesn’t convince me. So we are going to have to rectify that. As you don’t seem to be in an obliging mood it’s going to have to be messy.” Stone moved away from the bed, pausing at the door. “How is your pain threshold, Marty?”

When Stone returned from his visit to the kitchen he held a fine-edged scalpel in one hand and a pair of metal pincers in the other. He stood over Keegan and displayed the instruments.

“One cuts, one tears, Marty. Let’s see which has the greater effect on you.”

It took less than twenty minutes for Marty Keegan to give up what he knew. Within that time period he passed out twice and Stone had to wait until he came round. Stone was not surprised at how quickly the man submitted. The scalpel and the pincers were crude, simple tools. They performed well though. By the time a sweating, shivering Keegan capitulated, his naked body was bloody and cut open. The bed sheets where he lay were sodden with blood.

“Ready to talk?” Stone asked.

A frantic nod.

Stone put aside the instruments he had been using. He produced a Cold Steel Tanto knife and showed it to Keegan.

“Let me explain how this will go. I remove the tape from your mouth so you can tell me what I need to know.” He took a compact digital recorder from his pocket and held it for Keegan to see. “You speak into this. I will have this knife on your throat. If you even attempt to yell a warning I will simply cut your throat wide open, and believe me, this knife is sharp enough to sever your head. The decision is yours, Marty. Give me what I want and you could survive this. Trick me and you die. No screaming sirens will get here in time to save you. Make your choice.”

Keegan nodded.

The recorder was switched on. The knife blade was placed against Keegan’s throat. Lightly, but even the gentle pressure was enough to cut the skin. Keegan felt the duct tape peel away, exposing his mouth. He stared up into the cold, expressionless eyes of his tormentor.

“Are we good, Marty?”

“Yes.” His words came out in a raspy whisper.

“Tell me where they are.”

Keegan made his confession, the words tumbling over one another in his desperation to get it all out.

“Better be right, Marty. Or it’s going to be more of the same.”

“It’s the truth. For God’s sake, I’m telling you the truth.”

Stone nodded as he pocketed the recorder. “I believe you, Marty.”

“You’ll let me go? You said…”

“Marty, understand me, this is best for both of us.”

The Tanto’s blade cut down and across. The stroke was delivered with intense force, cutting off any sound Keegan was about to make. His body arched up off the bed, bending bowlike against his tethered limbs. In the instant before blood started to spurt Stone stepped away from the side of the bed, distancing himself from the arcing fountain of red. He watched for a few seconds, turned and made his way to the kitchen where he placed his instruments back in the computer bag and zipped it closed.

He opened the apartment door and peered out into the lobby, seeing no one. Somewhere in the building he picked up the sound of a radio playing music. He closed and secured the door, then turned down the passage that led to the rear of the residence and let himself out into the yard. He walked by the line of trash cans, slipped out through the rear gate and walked along the quiet access road. Stone returned to the parking lot and unlocked his car. He placed the computer bag on the seat beside him, started the Impala and reversed out of his spot. He drove out of the lot and back to the road that would take him away from the area. He had only been driving for a few minutes when it started to rain again. Stone settled in his seat. The rain drummed on the roof of the car, making a comforting sound. Stone had always liked that sound. Today he enjoyed it more than usual.

Chapter 7

Eddie Bishop was not pleased with the way the chain of command had changed. Until Vigo Stone showed up, Bishop had been Kendal’s main man. He had been demoted to second place. He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He wasn’t about to go whining to the senator, and he was for sure not going to let his feelings show in front of Stone. The man had a reputation no one would stand up and challenge. Anyone and everyone who knew about Stone was aware of his past—what he had done, what he was supposed to have done. There were some stories that edged on the fanciful. Bishop’s contact with the man was minimal, but even that had been enough to convince him of the truth behind the tales. He believed Stone capable of any atrocity. Stone brought something to the party that was less than human. There was an aura following him around. The man had little personality. He silenced a room when he walked in. His manner struck Bishop as creepy. It was the only word to describe the man.

When Bishop was summoned to Kendal’s office, following Stone’s return from Seattle, it was to be told where to send his team.

Kendal told the assembly that Stone had been to talk with Marty Keegan, one of Logan’s cop friends, and he had divulged the whereabouts of Logan’s wife and son. The senator was obviously pleased with the results of Stone’s mission. He sat back as Stone gave the orders on what they would do to retrieve Rachel and Tommy Logan.

“We need them alive,” Stone said. “The woman might know where Logan has hidden the information he collected. Let’s make sure we find her.”

Kendal tapped his desktop with his knuckles, drawing attention to himself. He leaned forward, stroking one lean hand through his thick mane of silver hair.

“Vigo has made up for our lack of intel. Let us not screw this up. Take this to heart, gentlemen—Vigo Stone runs the operation as of now. Listen to him. Follow his orders. It’s time we brought this situation back under our control. We need to find Logan. We need to find his wife and son. And most of all we need to get our hands on that damn file of information, because if we let it get into the wrong hands we are all, and I mean all, heading for the dumper.”

The senator sat back, raising a hand in Stone’s direction so he could carry on with his briefing.

“Rubin, Madden, Burdett. I want you to make the run to the cabin. Take Lohman as your wheelman. Don’t make the mistake of thinking this will be easy. Logan’s wife used to be a Park Ranger. That means she knows the forest. She was trained to handle a gun. Step out of line and she will shoot you. Most likely in the balls. She has her kid with her and she’ll fight to protect him. A mother protecting her young is a hell of an animal. Make sure you wear comsets so you can stay in contact with each other once you’re in the forest. Try and make a silent approach. Surround the cabin and spot your target before you move in. This might sound like overkill to some of you hotshots. Don’t be fooled—it’s not. Once something starts it can go from zero to shit in a heartbeat. If it does, you can lose the advantage so fast it’ll make your head spin. That’s when you get casualties. We do not want the Logan woman harmed. If she ends up badly hurt or dead, then we are back where we started. And then I am not going to be a happy man.”

When are you ever a happy man? Bishop thought, but he kept it to himself because he knew Stone meant every word.

“We will back up the ground team with extra men who will follow from the air. A helicopter is being prepared as we speak. The rest of you cover the city streets—find Logan. Use every source available. Bishop, talk to those Keystone Cops we have on the payroll. Remind them what they’re being paid for. And make it doubly understood they are as deep in this as any of us.”

Bishop spotted Kendal watching him out of the corner of his eye. Wanting to see how his lieutenant was handling his demotion, he supposed. He maintained a neutral expression, nodding in Stone’s direction.

“I’m on it,” he said.

“Don’t be on it,” Stone said. “Be ahead of it.”

Bastard, Bishop thought. The man couldn’t resist getting in the last word.

The meeting broke up, everyone filing from the office.

The last to follow, Bishop closed the door. The group ahead of him were less than enthusiastic about Stone having been placed over Bishop.

“Eddie, it sucks,” Jack O’Leary said. He turned to look at Bishop. “You been running things around here awhile now. Bringing Stone in like that is a kick in the balls.”

“Don’t sweat it, Jack,” Bishop said. “The senator is the man. He pays the bills, so he gets to choose.”

“I know you, Jack. You’re as pissed as we are.”

“But right now I have to suck it up. No choice.” Bishop smiled. “Game isn’t over yet, just don’t you forget that.” He slapped O’Leary on his broad shoulder. “Don’t ever forget it.”

Bishop took out his cell and called Captain Fitch. The cop’s phone went on to the message service. The same thing happened when Bishop tried Brenner and Dunn. Neither of them were on line. He tried a couple of more times then gave up. He’d left messages. He couldn’t do anything more, and had his own business to handle anyhow. Let the cops deal with Stone. Maybe he could get them off their collective ass.

Chapter 8

Henry Fitch, Captain, Seattle PD, was the first to arrive. He parked his unmarked car and sat studying the deserted building. Rain marked the windshield, blurring the image. He was at a loss to understand why Senator Kendal had called this meeting at such a location. He knew that Kendal had a thing about secrecy, not wanting to be seen with too many people outside his close group, but this was extreme. Fitch wasn’t going to make too many waves. He was deep in with Kendal, taking his money and enjoying the privileges the man was able to bestow. So if Kendal called a meeting to discuss something important, Fitch had no real choice. He glanced again at his watch. At least he was on time. That was always important where Kendal was concerned. The senator had a thing about punctuality. It was one of his rules—and it didn’t do to break any of his rules. Fitch consoled himself by thinking about the bank accounts where he had his money squirreled away. Police pensions were one thing—Senator Kendal’s payoffs were another.

A car nosed into view between a couple of the deserted buildings, splashing its way across to pull up alongside Fitch’s. Despite the spattering of rain on the window, Fitch recognized Detective Steve Dunn as the man got out of the car, pulling on a waterproof coat. Dunn raised a quick hand. On the other side of the car Dunn’s partner, Ken Brenner, stepped out the passenger door. Dunn pointed at the building’s side door, then he and Brenner headed for it. Fitch dragged his own waterproof jacket from the rear seat and pulled it on. He shoved open his door and stepped out. Rain hit him with a cold hand and he legged it for the open side door.

Inside the building it was cold and dusty, shadows marking the floor. What light there was came from semi-transparent roof panels.

“How come you didn’t tell us you were coming, too?” Dunn said. He was shaking the collar of his coat, shedding rain.

“Because I didn’t know you were. Kendal’s text just said time and place.”

“That’s what ours said,” Brenner acknowledged.

Dunn said, “Must be important if he set up a meet this way.” He always stated the obvious.

“You don’t say,” Fitch said.

“Maybe something happened about Logan,” Brenner said.

“He wouldn’t want to broadcast that,” Dunn said.

“At least we’re on time,” Fitch said. “Jesus, it’s cold in here.”

“No heating on,” Dunn said.

Fitch stared at him. “He ever come up with anything startling?” he asked Brenner.

“No. Ken likes to keep things on level ground.”

Dunn said, “You talking about me?”

“Yes, I am, partner.”

“Well, don’t…”

Fitch raised a hand. “You hear that?” He reached inside his coat for his handgun.

“Not a wise move, Fitch.”

The voice came from their left, from deep shadow. A tall figure detached from the dark and stepped into light. Dressed in black street clothes, the man stood over six feet, with thick black hair framing a strong-boned face, and blue eyes that were fixed on the three cops.

The man held a big handgun that was easily recognizable as a .357 Magnum Desert Eagle. A serious weapon in any cop’s book—not to be ignored.

“All of you. Take out the guns and drop them on the floor. Use your left hands. I’m only saying it once. Choice is yours.”

Fitch, Dunn and Brenner exchanged glances, hopes swiftly dashed because the big man had them dead to rights. There was no way any of them could draw and fire while he had the .357 on them. The auto pistols were eased from holsters and dropped to the floor.

“Kick them in my direction,” Bolan said. He watched them comply.

“You know who we are?” Fitch said. “Cops.”

“Correction,” Bolan said. “Dirty cops. On Senator Kendal’s payroll.”

“Who the fuck says so?” Dunn said.

“Ray Logan.”

“That snitch,” Dunn said. “What does he know?”

“Enough to put you three behind bars for a long time.”

“If he stays alive long enough.”

Fitch punched Dunn on the arm. “Shut the fuck up, Steve.” He turned back to Bolan. “You really believe you can buck Kendal? Do you have any idea what he has behind him?”

Bolan allowed himself a thin smile. “Hired muscle. Backup from Maxim Koretski. Less you three.”

“You got nothing on us,” Brenner said.

“I have Logan’s evidence—photographs, tapes, documented data. That’s why you’ve been desperate to find him. So you can destroy what he’s gathered. And let’s not forget the bank accounts you jokers have been using to stash the money Kendal’s been paying you.”

“Son of a fucking bitch,” Dunn screamed, losing control and rushing Bolan.

The Executioner waited for the right moment as the cop came toward him. He might have had a non-termination policy as far as police officers were concerned, but it didn’t stretch as far as lesser punishment when he was faced with dirty cops. Bolan let Dunn get to within a few feet, then swung the heavy Desert Eagle around in a wide arc that terminated against Dunn’s left cheek and upper jaw. The steel bulk of the pistol landed with a meaty crunch and Dunn went down on the floor, bouncing against the filthy concrete. He twisted over on his side, blood pouring from the raw gash in his flesh.

The Desert Eagle was back on Fitch and Brenner before either of them could react. “Have I made my point?” Bolan said.

Fitch was having difficulty holding himself back. The unwavering muzzle of the Desert Eagle persuaded him it might be advisable. “Okay, okay,” he said. “So what happens now?”

Bolan pointed at an upended steel cabinet. “Everything in your pockets on there. And I mean everything. Including any backup weapons. And one of you do it for him,” he added, nodding in Dunn’s direction.

Bolan stepped well back and watched as the two cops turned out their pockets and placed the items on the cabinet.

“You going to steal our money, too?” Brenner said.

“Why would I need to do that when I can clear your bank accounts? Believe me, I have friends who can do that without even breaking into a sweat.”

“He’s just trying to rile you,” Fitch said.

Bolan instructed Brenner to collect the keys for the cars outside and also those for the sets of handcuffs, then he dropped them into one of his pockets.

“Get your pal on his feet,” Bolan said. “Move to that steel pillar and cuff yourselves together. Wrists to wrists. You know the drill.”

“This won’t be forgotten, son of a bitch,” Fitch said. “I’ll have the whole of Seattle PD on your fuckin’ tail.”

Bolan waited until the three were secured, then unloaded the weapons laid out on the cabinet. He stripped the pistols into their component parts, scattering them across the building.

“Nice backup guns,” he commented. “All unregistered? Of course they are. I’ll take the cell phones. Might be able to pull something interesting off the call registers. Unless you guys cleared everything?”

The looks on their faces told him they most likely hadn’t.

“I’m sure most of the cops in your precinct will be interested to find out what you fine officers have been up to. If there are any more on Kendal’s payroll I think we’ll be finding out soon enough.”

“Let us out of here,” Fitch yelled. His anger spilled over into almost incoherent rage as he began to scream and rant at Bolan. “You can’t do this. We’re cops, damn it. Cops.”

“I already corrected you on that,” Bolan said. “Dirty cops. The worst kind. If you were anything else you’d be dead by now. I’ve never fired on a cop, ever, clean or dirty. I won’t start now. But you’re not getting away from this. A call from a high up Fed to IA will start the ball rolling. After that…”

Bolan walked out of the building, collar up against the downpour and returned to where he had concealed his SUV. Once inside, door closed against the weather, he checked out the three cell phones he had acquired. He ran through the call lists on each one, checking them against each other until he isolated a single number they all had in common.

Bolan stared out through the windshield as he called the number on one of the phones. It rang out for a long time before someone picked up.

“Yeah?”

“Fitch, Dunn and Brenner—they’ve been talking to me. A lot. All about Kendal. Spilling their guts about how you people want to shut Ray Logan up. I was surprised how much they were willing to give away just to save themselves.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Let’s say I have a vested interest in you people. All the way up to Senator Kendal’s greasy neck. Word you can pass along to him is his day is coming. Soon. You’re all on my wish list. And if you want to discuss matters with Fitch and Dunn and Brenner, you’ll find them waiting for you.”

Bolan gave details of the location where he had left the trio of cops, then hung up. He fired up the SUV, turned it around and drove away from the derelict site. He had completed what he needed to do here. Whatever happened to the three cops was out of his hands. The severity of any punishment would depend on who came looking for them. As he hadn’t spoken to anyone from Seattle PD, and had only informed Kendal’s people, the options were thin on the ground.

It was time to move on to the next phase of his operation.

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