Blind Justice. Don Pendleton

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