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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.”
