Patriot Acts. Don Pendleton

Executioner’s handguns blazed out thunderbolts of Magnum firepower and sputtering lightning jolts of 9 mm bursts, ripping a dozen slugs into the charging beast. Then he whirled and jammed himself in the walkway between two structures.

      The sedan bulldozed past, hurtling the garbage bin onto its side with a thunderous crash.

      “Luke! Don’t stop shooting!” a voice cried from the dark car. The rear passenger door was visible to Bolan in the walkway, and he could see an Uzi-toting man kneeling on the backseat. Bolan raised his Desert Eagle and fired twice. The second bullet was insurance in case the window deflected the first shot, but both Magnum slugs detonated gory holes through the gunner’s back, sprawling him across his wounded partner.

      “Stop the car!” Bolan shouted.

      The driver leaned back to the rear of the car, leveled a pistol and opened fire. Bolan hit the sidewalk as slugs ripped into the brick around him, knocking loose explosions of stone splinters that rained down on him.

      The sedan lurched forward, mangled metal chewing at the front tire, but the driver managed to wrestle some speed out of the damaged car.

      Bolan burst into the alley and continued the chase as the enemy driver urged his wheels along. Wrecked as it was by impacts and tire-shredding bullets, the automotive dinosaur finally slowed enough to make foot pursuit possible.

      But the driver suddenly jammed the car crosswise at the end of the alley, forming a barrier. The two survivors got out. One was hobbled by a bullet wound that had torn a chunk of muscle out of his thigh. The driver hooked his arm under the wounded man’s and lurched into the street, aiming his handgun at the windshield of a passing SUV.

      Bolan reached the alley’s end and vaulted over the car, just as the driver deposited his wounded partner into the SUV. On the ground a woman, her chest bloody, gasped as she clutched the spreading dark smear. The Executioner stopped long enough to see if there was anyone else in the vehicle who could be a hostage. Bolan’s pause to ensure the safety of innocents provided time for the fleeing driver to swing his pistol around and open fire. The driver blazed away at the Executioner and forced him to race in a serpentine charge for the nearest available cover. Bullets smashed the concrete at Bolan’s heels.

      The Executioner fired at the grille of the stolen SUV, hoping his Desert Eagle would have enough punch to render the massive V-8 engine useless to the escaping murderers. If he could force the pair into retreat, he could check on the woman and apply emergency first aid.

      The driver was a wily, quick snake, however, diving into the seat well and jamming on the gas with his hand. The SUV lurched and rocketed down the street.

      Bolan raced to the wounded woman.

      “Can you talk?” he asked.

      She winced, and blood trickled from her nose. The right side of her chest showed a ragged laceration, indicative of a glancing wound through her upper chest. The bullet went in, but had deflected off a rib bone and exited the side of her chest, slashing across her biceps. It was a grisly injury, but survivable. A closer examination showed that her nose was swollen from a brutal impact. Bolan was relieved to see that the nasal trickle wasn’t bright red as if from an injured lung.

      Bolan looked at the SUV as it disappeared into the distance.

      A trio of LAPD squad cars screeched to a halt. The Executioner had his Justice Department badge around his neck, but he still held his hands up as the cops got out.

      “Agent Cooper, FBI!” he announced. “Get this woman an ambulance.”

      HENRY COSTELL PICKED UP Cameron Richards in a nondescript, rusted old van. Richards didn’t have to ask if his pilot and wheelman made certain that the vehicle was clean of any tracers or identifying features.

      “Los Angeles was a screw job, Hank,” Richards explained. “I think I was set up for a fall.”

      “It means they’ll want to retire me and the others, too,” Costell said. His close-cropped blond hair was a fuzz on top of his round, big-eared head.

      “I can’t believe that after all we’ve given them…” Richards said. He took a deep breath, putting the frustration away for later. “I’ve saved this country from countless threats.”

      “You’ve saved the whole world,” Costell explained. “It doesn’t matter. The weaklings in government aren’t strong enough to do what has to be done against the hordes hemorrhaging through our southern border, or the maniacs in the Middle East.”

      “Don’t even get me started on some of the shit we’ve seen in China,” Richards whispered. “Hell, we’ve seen so many things that could destroy the world that we wouldn’t have to look far.” He paused for a moment.

      “Why not?” Richards asked.

      “Why not what?” Costell asked. “Destroy everything we’ve worked for?”

      “We know enough to destroy the puppet masters,” Richards said. “The ones who’ve been pulling our strings, the ones who’ve been pulling the strings of our enemies. We could take out the whole set of them, maybe give this world another chance.”

      Costell pulled into a parking lot and turned off the engine. “They’ll kill us, no matter what we do,” he admitted.

      “This way, we not only give ourselves a measure of vengeance, but we create a new world. A world where people can live like they were meant to, by their own wits and courage,” Richards said.

      “There’d be battles across the country, not to mention international conflicts. And all we have is Weist and his men on our side,” Costell countered.

      “Not just him. We’ve got tabs on dozens of groups who would jump at the chance to play with the toys we’re going to pull out of the chest,” Richards stated. “We could build an army.”

      Costell stared, unfocused, out of the windshield. He didn’t see the storefronts before him, but instead he saw a world that could be forged in the fires of a single act of apocalyptic revenge. He glanced back to Richards. “What would we use?”

      “We’ve got everything from the Rage Pulse to Blue Fire,” Richards answered.

      “That stuff is under lock and key. The Initiative wouldn’t let us touch it when we still were their trusted soldiers,” Costell said.

      “So what?” Richards asked. “We know where we can get it. They might have had contingencies for us, but we’ve got our own ideas.”

      “You’re not really paranoid if they are out to get you,” Costell agreed. “So we bust in, and pop off some doomsday weaponry.”

      “And if we’re lucky, we can survive,” Richards said. “But if not, we at least hit the real bastards.”

      “We’ll need transportation,” Costell noted.

      “First we call up Weist and his boys,” Richards said. “I’ve got some ideas for a ride that will get us exactly where we want to be.”

      4

      Arnold Dozier didn’t speak as Bolan entered the interrogation room. The Executioner simply stood there staring at the man he’d captured in the crime lab raid.

      “So, what’s your plan?” Dozier asked. “How’re you going to break me?”

      Bolan leaned over the table and opened the handcuffs connecting Dozier to the mooring pipe on the table. Dozier looked at the loosened fetters, then rubbed his wrist. He’d received some bruising from the LAPD cops who’d walked him in there, but nothing that couldn’t be put down to Dozier’s own clumsiness.

      “I’ve got nothing on you,” Bolan said. “You’re a free man.”

      “Really?” Dozier asked.

      “Apparently you don’t exist,” Bolan replied. He tossed the fingerprint chart on