Patriot Acts

His prints had been run and had come back as those of a dead man. He suddenly realized that Bolan and the LAPD had a list of paperwork on him. Photos, prints, and even if it all led to a dead end, the Rose Initiative wasn’t going to take a breach of operational security lightly.

The big man turned and opened the door. Dozier looked past him and saw a row of grim-faced lawmen, some tightening grips on batons, others flexing their fingers through gleaming brass knuckles.

“So what’s that?” Dozier asked.

“You’re dead. You shouldn’t worry about that,” Bolan said. “Now blow.”

Dozier knew the cops were waiting for their chance to give him some payback for the attack on their crime lab. “Why didn’t you ask anything?” he said.

“Frankly, I don’t have the time,” Bolan answered. “You’re obviously inured to interrogation techniques. Torture, drugs, sensory deprivation.”

“But everyone breaks eventually,” Dozier said.

“And while I’m doing that, the rest of your organization continues its operation, killing innocent American citizens,” Bolan countered. “I’d spend the time to break you at the cost of what, thirty? A hundred? A thousand lives? Nah. I’ll just let you go as a goat. When your friends pop up to eliminate you, I pounce on them. I work up the food chain. A worm to catch a small fish. A small fish to catch a big fish. A big fish to catch the shark.”

Dozier shook his head. “They’ll know I didn’t talk.”

“Like you just said—everyone breaks. Especially after the beating you’ll take from my friends,” the Executioner said.

Dozier frowned. He reached for the handcuffs. “I’ve got rights.”

Dozier’s head bounced from the force of Bolan’s fist, and he sprawled across the floor.

“I told you, you have no rights. You’re a dead man,” Bolan stated. “Now get out of here.”

Dozier looked at the gauntlet he’d have to run. He knew the big man was right. There was someone out there who would eliminate him. He struggled to sit in the chair, holding on to the restraint bar. “I’m staying,” he said quietly.

Bolan’s next punch rocked Dozier’s head.

“Ask something!” Dozier snapped, thick, blood-filled spittle spraying all over Bolan’s pants.

“It’ll be a dead end,” Bolan replied. “Now go.”

Blood dripped from Dozier’s mouth. “We’re government. Not Treasury. We’re called the Rose Initiative,” he said.

“Never heard of it,” Bolan said.

“Rose Initiative,” Dozier repeated.

He regarded the Executioner. This was a man used to violence. He could see the hardness in his expression, the streaks of scar tissue on his skin. His very stance was one of restrained, explosive violence. But except for a few love taps, Dozier was unharmed.

“I told you, that name means nothing to me,” Bolan replied. “Maybe if you make it mean something, I won’t hang you out on the street as bait.”

“The Rose Initiative is a semiofficial entity. We’ve had the blessing of various administrations since the fifties,” Dozier said. “But we don’t officially exist. Not on paper. Any sanction we get is merely implied.”

“This way if you get caught, you can be denied—operating outside of government policy,” Bolan surmised.

Dozier nodded.

“Who do you report to?” Bolan asked.

“Nobody official,” Dozier said. “We’re in the cold.”

Bolan frowned. “But still close enough to the warmth to get legitimate T-man badges.”

Dozier shrugged. He winced at the simple motion, remembering how the big man had used enough leverage to almost pop his shoulder out of shape.

“Who told you about the money at the crime lab?” Bolan asked.

“It came up on a computer watch,” Dozier answered.

Bolan nodded.

Dozier wiped blood from his mouth. “I don’t have anything on the upper levels of management. I’m just a grunt.”

“Who’s your immediate superior?”

“Winslow Spelling’s about the only one I can assume is still out and around. He came with us as our driver, and the man’s a snake,” Dozier said.

“Where does this snake have his nest?” Bolan asked.

Dozier rattled off the name of a hotel and room number. “If he’s still there.”

“So why did you come after the money?” Bolan pressed.

“To cover up our involvement with the renegade,” Dozier admitted.

“The assassin went rogue?” Bolan asked.

“Killed his handler at LAX. He’s officially off the reservation,” Dozier said. “We’re trying to burn any leads back to us.”

“So who’s your rogue?” Bolan asked.

Dozier winced. “Cameron Richards.”

“Identifying features?”

Dozier shook his head. “The man’s a complete chameleon. It’s why we picked him, because he can disappear in a crowd.”

“He didn’t disappear yesterday. He went through the crowd like a chain saw,” Bolan growled.

“He might be off his medication,” Dozier mused.

Bolan tilted his head.

“Mood suppressants keep him malleable enough for our purposes, yet leave him lucid enough to be a top line operative,” Dozier explained. “Richards was a washout from special operations. His whole team is. Too violent, too ready to buy into whatever holy crusade. Richards was a true believer, and we milked his psyche to take advantage of that.”

“So why Amanijad?” Bolan asked.