Patriot Acts

“Discrediting the hard-core factions. We wanted it to look like one of the radical right decided to begin the second Civil War early,” Dozier said.

“Second Civil War?” Bolan asked.

Dozier nodded. “From the ashes of modern corrupt society, a new phoenix will rise. That’s the joke of the Initiative’s name. We’ve already risen.”

Bolan’s eyes narrowed.

“Richards has taken on real threats as well. But he’s still convinced that the union will shatter again. And this time, the rift won’t be healed,” Dozier said.

“You’re cultivating this?” Bolan asked.

“No. A little tension is good. It keeps the attention off us while we do what we have to,” Dozier explained. “The problem is that some of the hard right have been…examining some of our roots. Conspiracy theorists who in their quest to find the New World Order were sniffing too close to our home.”

“And for that, dozens of innocent people had to be killed and wounded?” Bolan asked.

Dozier nodded. “Corpses made by our enemies create excellent distractions.”

“Then you’re going to love this, Dozier,” Bolan said. He turned toward the open the door.

“What are you doing?” Dozier asked.

“Walking out. You can go run to the Rose Initiative, and you can tell them I’m on their trail,” Bolan explained.

“What?”

“You think I’m going to give my word of honor to a liar and a murderer? Get real. I’ve got what I wanted,” Bolan told him. “You are the purest form of scum I’ve dedicated my life to destroying.”

“The Rose Initiative will kill me!” Dozier cried.

“Someone should,” Bolan said. He closed and locked the door behind him.

Brognola would have someone take care of the venomous thug.

ALLISON CALLAHAN WAS a classically beautiful woman. She had thick, lustrous strawberry-blond hair and a curvaceous figure, and Bolan could see a keen, calculating intellect behind her sparkling hazel eyes. She examined Bolan as if he were a slide subject under a microscope. She held out her hand and he took it. Her grip was firm.

It made sense. As a forensic scientist, Callahan had developed a handshake that was cop-proof. She had to have expected Bolan to come forward with a knuckle-grinding grasp. Her smile was all the evidence the Executioner needed to ascertain the truth of his suspicion.

“You must be Agent Matt Cooper,” Callahan said. She eyed his knuckles. “Been having a rough day.”

“Chasing down the thugs who attacked the crime lab,” Bolan said.

Callahan looked him in the eyes. She wasn’t convinced by Bolan’s explanation. The bruises on his strong, callused hands were too livid to be anything other than fresh.

“Having a talk with one of them,” Bolan added.

Callahan nodded. “He most likely deserved everything you gave him.”

“He’ll be regretting his decision for a while,” Bolan said.

She looked questioningly at him, but the Executioner’s cold gaze informed her that the subject was closed.

“What have you got for me on the three you got to see?” Bolan asked.

“We’re running checks on them now,” Callahan stated. “The coroner examined their stomach contents, thinking we could narrow down where they were before they launched the raid.”

“Any luck with that?” Bolan asked.

“I was going down to trace to check it out. Feel up to looking through vomit?” Callahan asked.

Bolan shrugged. “I’ve done worse.”

The corner of Callahan’s mouth rose slightly. Bolan could tell she was feeling him out, to see if he was worth working with. He knew that too often, when a cop was hooked up with a federal agent, there was a quick contest of wills.

Sifting through the partially digested last meals of three men he’d killed was undoubtedly a test of Bolan’s mettle.

As they entered the trace lab, Bolan looked at the three pans filled with bile and chunks of food. Callahan handed Bolan a box of latex gloves, and he donned a pair.

“Looks like Mexican food at first blush,” Bolan said. He leaned forward and took a whiff of the contents of one tray. “Hard to pin down the exact kind, though. The stomach acid’s altered the smell. Might be El Salvadoran or even something farther south.”

Callahan nodded in approval. “Some of the spices we’ve found are indicative of Honduran cuisine. It narrows things down significantly, as the Honduran community is fairly compact.”

Bolan took his note with the hotel listing given to him by Dozier and compared it with a map that Callahan had placed on the light table. “This last known address also fits with the area. We might not have an exact restaurant, but we do have someplace to look.”

“I’ve also had some of the other crime-lab staff go over the tires of the vehicle left in the alley. We’ve got soil samples, and signs of fresh tar in some of the treads,” Callahan added.

“Repaving? Or was it just loose pellets dropped in a pothole that didn’t melt together?” Bolan inquired.

Callahan’s smile widened. “So the super Fed knows his way around an investigation.”

“Not my specialty, but observation has always been a skill of mine,” Bolan answered. “I pass your test?”

Callahan nodded. “Yeah. You’re in my cool book. And yes, unlike most people, I really do have a book of cool people.”

Bolan nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll take a trip over to the neighborhood and see if anything’s popped up.”

“By yourself?” Callahan asked.

Bolan nodded.

“You’ll at least need backup,” Callahan offered.

“Jo Wolfe got shot today hanging out too close to me,” Bolan countered. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back. I want to see if you manage to pick up anything else about these men.”

Callahan looked skeptical.

“These men were part of a supposedly top-secret project. Look close to see if they have any special immunizations or radioactive trace elements in their bloodstream,” Bolan said. “The sooner I spread this investigation out of the Los Angeles area, the better chance I have of finding out where my quarry’s off to.”

“The Hondurans aren’t going to just roll over for you,” Callahan warned.