Enemy Agents

The phony biker rounded on him, growling like a junkyard dog, and swung a big, ring-studded fist toward Bolan’s face. The soldier dodged most of it, felt something tear his cheek. He gripped the hurtling arm and twisted it, cranking the elbow to an angle that evoked a squeal and let him spin the Diablero like an awkward dancing partner.

When he hit the Fed a second time—same ear, same elbow—Bolan put his weight behind it, making sure he got the job done.

There was no time for self-congratulation, as the last three Diableros rushed him, coming on as one. Bolan had time to wonder if their briefing had included orders not to cripple him, then he was lashing out to slam a kneecap with his steel-toed boot, rewarded by a stream of high-octane profanity.

He followed with a stiffened knife hand to the hopping biker’s abdomen, an inch or so below the sternum. Not a killing blow, although it could have been, but but Bolan’s target might believe that he was dying for a few tense moments, while his lungs remembered how to work.

He was turning toward the last two Diableros when they hit him, slamming Bolan with a fist, a knee, maybe a forehead, as they drove him back against the nearest wall with stunning force. The pair of them, together, weighed at least four hundred pounds, and the soldier’s ribs felt every ounce of that on impact, registering pain even before the bikers started pounding him.

No pulling punches here. These two had seen their friends laid out, and they were getting in their licks, regardless of their marching orders.

Payback was a bitch.

Bolan fought back with everything he had—fists, elbows, knees, a head butt for the biker on his left—but they ducked some of it, absorbed the rest and hammered him with a determination that was almost gleeful in its sheer ferocity.

If this was what they called taking a dive, Bolan was glad he didn’t have to fight the pair of them for real.

Or, then again, maybe he was.

A right hand to his forehead dimmed the lights for just a second, left him vulnerable, but before his two opponents had a chance to take advantage of it, someone grabbed the guy on Bolan’s left and dragged him backward, fingers tangled in his salt-and-pepper ponytail. Squinting through his pain, Bolan saw Halsey throwing hard right hands into the reeling biker’s face, then it was time to deal with number two.

A knee slashed toward his groin, but Bolan blocked it with his thigh, taking the hit, rebounding with a straight-arm shot into his adversary’s throat. Again, Bolan pulled the killing blow and left his opposition gagging, trying to remember how he’d breathed for all the years before this night.

While he was working on it, Bolan hooked a fist into the man’s ribs—once, twice—and thought he felt one give. It was time to wrap this up and get the hell away from Scoots before the next wave hit, with badges, clubs and guns.

Halsey was moving toward him through a crimson haze. Bolan wiped blood out of his eye and braced himself, fists clenched.

“Hey, I’m not one of them,” Halsey said, raising open hands. “You jumped in on my side, remember?”

“Yeah,” Bolan replied. “Okay.”

“You want to tell me why you did that, stranger?”

“I didn’t like the odds,” Bolan said. “Looking back, it didn’t seem like such a great idea.”

“I owe you, anyway,” Halsey said. “How about a drink, somewhere without the riffraff.”

Bolan used a precious second, feigning doubt, then nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

“Okay.” Surveying his companions, Halsey added, “All I have to do is get these guys back on their feet.”

“We’d better hurry up,” Bolan replied, “before the riot squad gets here.”

THEY MADE IT TO THE parking lot with sirens wailing in the middle distance, drawing closer by the second. Bolan helped the bruised and bloodied into their vehicles, reflecting that it would be simple enough to let a pistol do his talking for him, leave them where they sat for the police to find.

Another desert mystery.

But Brognola needed evidence that Halsey and his men were up to “something big,” not simply one more group of weekend warriors with an ax to grind against big government, vague threats of socialism, or a black person in the Oval Office.

For his own sake, Bolan needed proof, as well. He hadn’t signed with Brognola and Stony Man to be a troubleshooter for the thought police. In fact, he’d fought and killed halfway around the world from home to guarantee that all Americans retained the right to curse their government in a variety of languages, for any reason they could think of.

That was freedom.

But when dissent turned into terrorism, it was time to draw a line. And when the local, state, or federal authorities were faced with clear and present dangers that defied all rules and regulations in the book, then Bolan was prepared to try a more aggressive strategy.

Illegal? Absolutely. And if there were consequences for his actions, either here or on the other side, he’d face them as they came.

On this night, the Executioner had work to do.

“Your bike?” Halsey asked, as he gunned the Hummer’s engine, shifting it into reverse.

“It gets me where I need to go,” Bolan replied.

“We’re heading east, a ways,” Halsey informed him. “Keep up if you can.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They passed the first police car moments later, racing in from somewhere in the vast, dark desert that surrounded Apple Valley. If the driver noticed them, he gave no sign of it.

Bolan felt wobbly on two wheels for a half mile or so, then got it back and kept up with the SUVs, not crowding them, but keeping pace. Some kinds of desert wildlife liked the blacktop after dark, claiming the day’s leftover heat, and Bolan didn’t want to hit a tortoise, maybe drop the Nightster in the middle of the highway—maybe finish what the biker-Feds had started back at Scoots.

He also didn’t want to tailgate Halsey’s two-car motorcade in case his target had some kind of treachery in mind. It seemed unlikely, but he hadn’t stayed alive this long by taking stupid risks.

Only the calculated kind. When there was time to calculate.

Scoots was ten miles or so behind them when the Hummer signaled a left turn and swung onto a northbound access road. The Ford Explorer followed, Bolan bringing up the rear. Another mile and change brought them to a tin-roofed structure built from cinder blocks, painted some kind of beige that almost matched the desert soil.

Bolan pulled in and parked beside the Hummer, switched off the Nightster and waited for Halsey to exit his vehicle. The militia chief was favoring his left leg just a little, watching while the others dragged themselves out of their seats, some grimacing with pain.

“I didn’t get your name back there in the excitement,” Halsey said.

“Matt Cooper.”

Halsey’s grip on Bolan’s hand was firm, but not a bone crusher. Maybe he’d seen enough to let the schoolyard challenge slide.

“This is our home away from home,” Halsey explained, jangling a ring of keys as he approached the building’s plain front door. “I guarantee we won’t be interrupted here by any kind of trash.”

Inside, the place was sparsely decorated, with a table in the center of its main room, half-a-dozen metal folding chairs lined up along each side and more stacked against one wall. No signs or posters on the wall to give it any character. A line of plain black filing cabinets stood along the room’s south wall. Two other doors faced Bolan from a wall directly opposite the entrance. Both were closed, blocking his view of any other rooms beyond.

“About that drink,” Halsey said, moving toward the filing cabinets and opening one of the drawers. “Is single malt all right?”

“Perfect,” Bolan replied.

Halsey produced a bottle, while another of his men ducked into one of the backrooms, returning with three glasses in each hand.

“Matt Cooper, meet the boys you helped to rescue from humiliation. Bryan Doolan, Steve Webb, Larry Mosier, Tommy Gruber.”

Bolan matched the names to faces and shook their hands, refraining from displays of camaraderie that might ring false. While Halsey poured the single malt, he asked, “So, did you know those clowns back there? Some kind of feud?”