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“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.
