Enemy agents, p.17
Enemy Agents, page 17
Small comfort, there, considering the action that was going to unfold this morning, with severe risk to the President, the town of Lancaster and her career.
Matt Cooper had been up and out while she was still asleep, deliciously exhausted, blessedly without a vestige of remembered dreams. The growling of his bike had roused her, cursing when she saw the time, recalled the urgency of her “debriefing” overnight, and realized that he had left her in the lurch.
That he was going through with it.
The previous night, she’d argued long and hard in favor of a quick call to the Secret Service or the FBI. They could arrest Stern as a fugitive from justice, jail his ass until one of the countries standing by to prosecute him for a range of major felonies could send a pickup team.
Meanwhile, the guys and gals employed to guarantee the President’s security could fall on Halsey and his playmates like the wrath of God, kill anybody who resisted and arraign the rest. A simple threat against the President was worth five years in federal prison. Assaulting the President doubled that time, while an actual attempt to kill him carried a life sentence. Lethal injection awaited successful assassins, assuming they weren’t shot to shreds at the scene of the crime.
So, then, why not sit back and drop a dime? Let justice take its course?
Because Matt Cooper wasn’t wired that way. He was part of the system, and yet stood outside it. Someone had handpicked him to handle the dirtiest jobs that came down, and he did it with style.
No matter who died in the process.
“Not fair,” Corwin muttered, chastising herself as she steered her Crown Vic from the parking lot and onto the street.
Corwin knew Cooper wasn’t some crazy cowboy who would shoot first and ask questions later. From what she had seen, he resolved any questions well in advance, then did the shooting and never looked back.
She wondered if he ever regretted any choices he’d made, any shots that he’d taken—or missed. Corwin knew he was human. The previous night had proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt. Cooper was human, and then some, but all of that killing had to do something.
What it didn’t do, Corwin realized, was make the guy infallible. God knew he was professional, well trained and highly skilled, supremely confident. But he wasn’t invincible, immune to accidents, coincidence, or plain bad luck.
Something might still go wrong in Lancaster.
And if it did, Corwin planned to be there.
The previous night, she had agreed to stay away, at Cooper’s urging. Under the circumstances, Corwin supposed that she’d have happily agreed to anything. She hadn’t had her fingers crossed, both hands being preoccupied, but long years had elapsed since she’d felt bound by children’s rules.
She would be on the scene in Lancaster, with badge and gun, prepared to help in any way she could if Cooper’s plan went south. As for how much she might contribute to the effort, Corwin had no idea. It was pathetically unlikely that she’d “save the day,” but she might drop someone from Halsey’s secondstring. Or maybe just distract them long enough for someone else to drop them.
One way or another, she would be there, damn it. No exemption, no excuses. And if it went badly, if she managed to survive the worst scenario, then Corwin would live with any heat that followed as a consequence of having broken several hundred rules and regulations.
Never mind promotion. She’d be lucky not to land in the federal prison for women at Alderson, West Virginia. Lucky to die, some might say, under the circumstances.
But Corwin disagreed.
She still had her badge. She still had her gun.
And she still had some high-powered living to do.
16
Bolan arrived at the NMM headquarters as Halsey and his men were loading gear into their SUVs. Four vehicles with five men each put nineteen in support of Ubel Stern, their great white hope for taking down the Man. For the occasion, they’d avoided all-black rides and the appearance of a motorcade, the better to blend in with normal traffic on the streets of Lancaster.
Halsey approached Bolan as he dismounted from the Nightster. “I was just about to call you, Matt,” he said.
“What’s up?” Bolan asked.
“Getting worried,” Halsey said.
Bolan glanced at his watch and said, “I’m still five minutes early, Clay.”
“Cutting it fine, regardless.”
“That’s the only kind of cut that counts,” Bolan replied.
“I guess that’s right. Okay. You’re here, now.”
“And I’ve checked the route, at least through Apple Valley,” Bolan said. “Nothing unusual, as far as uniformed patrols or anything that smells like federales.”
“Glad to hear it. What we don’t need is a hassle going in.”
“Agreed. How’s Stone?”
“Professional. He doesn’t miss a beat.”
“Must be expensive,” Bolan said.
“You kidding me? He volunteered. For an Aryan fighter, this job’s a labor of love.”
Or hate, Bolan thought, while he nodded, unsmiling.
“And if he gets caught—”
“God forbid!”
“—will he squeal?” Bolan asked.
“Not a chance. He’s old school. No surrender in battle.”
“Surrender and capture are two different things. It can’t always be avoided.”
“There’s a backup in place,” Halsey said. “One of ours on the sheriff’s department. If Stone takes a hit or whatever and winds up in custody, Deputy Walsh makes sure that he can’t spill his guts.”
“And here’s the man himself,” Bolan said, turning to greet Ubel Stern with a nod.
“The new chief of security. Greetings. And are we secure?”
“For the moment,” Bolan said. “In Lancaster, it’s up for grabs.”
“And danger is the spice of life,” Stern said.
“We ought to have a spicy morning, then,” Bolan replied.
“So, let’s get started,” Halsey interjected, “since everybody’s here.”
“I’ll trail you,” Bolan said, “and watch for any shadows.”
“Good. See you on-target,” Halsey answered, turning toward the Blazer that would carry him, with Stern and two support troops. Steve Webb was driving.
“That’s the plan,” Bolan agreed.
Or part of it.
The bike gave him mobility, without depending on another member of the team to drive him anywhere or drop him off. Once they reached Lancaster, if nothing happened to obstruct them in the fifty miles that lay ahead, he would be free to follow Stern and spoil his long-range shot.
Assuming that the Secret Service, state police, or local lawmen didn’t stop the German first. If that should happen, Bolan’s Plan B was eradication of Halsey’s backup team before they had a chance to close within range of the President.
And there were still the Comancheros to be reckoned with, if Winegart took the bait, another harsh ingredient for the unpalatable stew of violence that would be coming to a boil that afternoon.
How many lives would it consume?
Bolan’s concern focused primarily on one. As for the rest, some combination of experience and fortune would decide. Only one thing was guaranteed.
There would be blood.
Lancaster Performing Arts Center
CORWIN CIRCLED THE Lancaster Performing Arts Center on foot, boxing the block at a casual pace. She started on West Lancaster Boulevard, strolled east to reach Fig Avenue, then wandered south from there past spacious parking lots, to West Milling Street, then westward to Fern Avenue, and back north to the point where she’d started.
The place was crawling the law, from locals to Feds, but no one stopped Corwin to demand her ID. The President wouldn’t arrive for several hours yet, which meant no roadblocks in place, but she’d spotted the snipers already set up, triangulating fields of fire from rooftops of the High Desert Medical College, a Wells Fargo bank and a Bank of America.
There’d been none on the roof Ubel Stern had selected for his shooting stand, considered too far out of range by the powers that be. Corwin longed to buttonhole one of the Secret Service people, flash her badge and spill her secrets, but she understood the mind-set that would make them stall, first verifying her credentials, then insisting that she give them everything in triplicate before they’d drive a few blocks farther out and take a look.
Screw it.
No one, no matter how committed, could protect a President—much less a country—if every move they made was put up for a vote by a committee. Sometimes action was required, without approval from the brass or Congress or the media.
Jesus, she thought. I’m turning into Cooper.
For a fleeting microsecond, Corwin considered chucking her career at ATF and signing on with Cooper’s team, but then reality kicked in. She didn’t even know the name of Cooper’s outfit, much less whether they would welcome her. And if they did, what would her life be like, from that point on?
Like this, she answered silently.
But was that good, or bad?
She’d know the answer to that when the smoke cleared, depending on who was alive and who was in handcuffs. Corwin worried that her deviation from the plan she’d hatched with Cooper—or the plan she had agreed to, rather, when he’d hatched it—might have some effect on the intended outcome.
Positive or negative? She couldn’t say.
But Corwin knew that she couldn’t sit it out, waiting at home or at her L.A. office for the news to filter back over police scanners, or “analyzed” by TV’s talking heads. She’d been tracking Halsey’s private army before Cooper knew it existed. It was her right and her duty to help with the grim mopping up.
Special Agent Corwin checked her watch, then started on another circuit of the block.
TWELVE MILES NORTH of Lancaster, on Highway 58, the Comancheros held formation, claiming one lane for themselves. Ace Winegart led the pack, holding his Harley at a steady sixty-five, feeling the hard sun on his back. Strung out behind him, two abreast, rode twenty-four of the club’s toughest members, all certified killers with two or more skull-and-bones tattoos to prove it.
They had passed the Rosamond exit, nothing but desert now between them and the men who thought they could steal from the club, kill its members and skate without any reprisal. Before long, Halsey’s toy soldiers would find themselves locked in a war to the death, fighting for survival when they least expected it. And if they were distracted by their plans for the big guy from Washington, so much the better, Winegart figured.
He didn’t care what Halsey had in mind for the nation’s commander in chief. His own presidency in the Comancheros was the only one that counted, and Winegart knew that some of the boys had been grumbling over the hits they’d taken recently, with no righteous payback to show for it.
That ends this day, he promised himself, and tried not to think about all the cops who’d be thronging Lancaster, keeping watch over the Man. They wouldn’t know Winegart was doing his bit for the cause, cracking down on a bunch of fanatics who hated their boss, and most of them wouldn’t care if they did know. Cops and bikers were like cats and dogs. Mix them up, and you’re guaranteed trouble.
So, what else was new?
The cops would be a challenge, but Winegart still meant to finish with Halsey’s toy soldiers once and for all. If he wound up doing time for it—or cooling on a slab, for that matter—he was prepared for that. Winegart reasoned that at least he’d go out on a high, boosting his rep, and wouldn’t be remembered as the loser who sat back and let a bunch of assholes from the suburbs treat his club like shit.
This day, Winegart thought, would be one for the history books. When one-percenters got together after this, no matter where they were or whose colors they wore, someone would say, “Hey, did you hear about the Comancheros taking care of business with the goddamn President?”
Or words to that effect.
Winegart knew how stories traveled, growing in the process, through the outlaw underground. The echoes from a deal like this would last for years. Hell, decades. And if he survived the next couple of hours, Winegart might do his bit to boost the tale himself.
One day a loser, and the next a hero.
Only in America.
Hell, if he played his cards right, Winegart thought, he might even get a medal from The Man.
“THAT CORNER,” UBEL STERN directed. “By the library. I’ll get out there.”
“Okay,” the driver said. His tone and posture reeked of nervous energy. The man was weak, but Stern was not in a position to dictate Halsey’s choice of personnel.
A horn blared at them, as the driver changed lanes without signaling. This time, Halsey spoke up from the backseat. “For Christ’s sake, Steve, watch out! Last thing we need is a goddamned traffic ticket.”
“Sorry,” said the driver.
When the other angry motorist had passed them, middle finger raised on high, Seven Webb made his turn from West Lancaster Boulevard into the northbound lane of Cedar Avenue and pulled into a loading zone outside the Lancaster Public Library. Stern picked up the duffel bag that held his disassembled weapon, with the rolled-up sheet of tar paper that would conceal him, stepped from the SUV to the curb, then turned back and leaned into the car.
“For victory,” he told Halsey.
“We’ll be here to pick you up,” Halsey replied.
“Of course.”
It was the kind of moment spoiled by mundane details, but Stern sensed that Halsey—or Americans in general, for that matter—had only minimal appreciation for life’s crucial moments. It explained why they were constantly surprised by failure of their military exploits overseas, and how they missed the changes in their own backyards and bedrooms that would ultimately doom their way of life.
Stern’s early recon of the library had shown him all that he needed to know. A public facility built for comfort in the middle of a desert required air-conditioning units, which were situated on the library’s roof. Maintenance demanded easy access, and he’d found the staircase tucked away behind a door labeled Staff Only.
Stern wore a denim jumpsuit with a false name stitched across his left breast, while a patch on the back advertised a local air-conditioning firm. His heavy duffel bag would pass inspection as a toolbox of sorts, unless it was opened. And for anyone who tried to open it, Stern had a .40-caliber surprise tucked in a shoulder holster underneath the jumpsuit.
Entering the library, he shivered at the first blast of refrigerated air. A young librarian behind the checkout counter glanced up from her work and offered Stern a sunny smile, receiving one of his in exchange. Later, he knew, she would recall this moment, horrified, and wonder what she could have done to dam the tide of history.
Nothing.
No one challenged Stern on his way to the STAFF ONLY doorway. By virtue of disguise, he had become invisible. It pleased him to imagine how the several dozen people who ignored him would spin the story later, when they told it to police, their families and friends.
All would “remember” him in retrospect, of course. Some might insist that they’d suspected him of “something,” citing an expression or an attitude, then fumbling for a reason why they hadn’t bothered to alert a member of the staff. Each, in his or her own way, would lay claim to a fraction of national tragedy, clueless bystanders inserting themselves into epic events.
The service stairwell was not air-conditioned. Stern felt his chill ebb away as he started to climb.
CLAY HALSEY HAD ASSIGNED a two-man team to cover Stern in case something went wrong before H hour at the library. They weren’t in place to pick him up when he was finished, but to watch the place and deal with anyone who might appear to interrupt Stern’s shot. After the deed was done, their vehicle would be the crash car, covering Stern’s getaway in Halsey’s SUV.
Or so they thought.
The Executioner had other plans.
The Harley Nightster granted Bolan the mobility he needed to complete his task in Lancaster, without sparking a firefight that would stall him and defeat his purpose at the outset.
Stern was well inside the library, and Halsey’s ride had pulled away, when Bolan stopped his bike behind the lookout car, dismounted and approached the spotters from behind. The shotgun rider swung around to face him as Bolan slid into the backseat, relaxing as he recognized the militia’s new chief of security.
“Man, you surprised me,” the young man said.
“That’s not good,” Bolan said. “Watch your mirrors, as well as the street.”
“Right. Okay.”
“Everybody in place?” the driver asked, his eyes meeting Bolan’s in the rearview.
“Pretty much,” Bolan replied.
“Stone’s really going through with it,” the driver said.
“He thinks so, anyway,” Bolan stated, starting to draw his Beretta Model 92 with its suppressor already in place. “Say what?”
Both men half turned in their seats, quickly drawing their weapons, but Bolan was too fast. He fired, his pistol chugging twice, its Parabellum manglers clipping spines and shredding hearts. The shotgun rider slumped against his door, as if asleep. The driver toppled forward, but Bolan caught his collar and pulled him back before he reached the steering wheel to sound the horn.
When both corpses were settled into postures of repose, Bolan holstered his weapon and stepped from the car. He exhaled once, strongly, clearing his nostrils of unwanted odors: gunpowder, scorched upholstery and sudden death.
The Harley came alive on his first try, and Bolan left the dead lookouts behind, reversed directions on Date Avenue and rolled into the library’s parking lot. A moment later, he was inside and moving toward the service stairs, ignored by patrons and staffers alike.
Stern would be settled in above him, on the roof, ready to make his shot when the target arrived. Bolan had time, but every second counted. He was depending on surprise, but knew that it could cut both ways.
