Patriot Strike. Don Pendleton
seem to see where he was going with it, firing back at Bolan for the sake of making noise, the nearest of their shots missing him by two feet or more. Meanwhile he concentrated on the Yukon’s right-rear wheel. He flattened its tire with one shot, then directed three more at the rim, trying to strike a spark.
He was rewarded by a puff of flame, the gas fumes catching, then the spilled gas on the blacktop came alight and sent its head back to the leaking fuel tank. Bolan waited for combustion, heard one of his hidden enemies growl out a warning to the others, but it came too late. The gas tank blew, lifting the Yukon’s rear end on a bright cushion of fire, some six to eight feet off the ground.
That sent them running. One man, in flames, broke out to his left with staggered steps, wailing, then dropped to hands and knees, trying to roll the fire out as it bit into his flesh. His two companions ran the other way, toward the silo stacks, firing in Bolan’s general direction as they fled.
A pistol cracked from somewhere to his right, distracting Bolan for a split second before he made it out as a .45. Granger was pitching in to help, her second shot dropping the forward runner in a boneless sprawl. His sidekick skidded to a halt, couldn’t decide which way to turn his automatic rifle, so he swept the parking lot at large with crackling fire, hoping to score a lucky hit. He drew more fire from Granger, off the mark this time, and ran toward the stacks again.
They’d lose him there, and Bolan couldn’t have that, even if he gave up the chance for an interrogation. Lining up his shot, be put a round between the shooter’s shoulder blades, the impact lifting Bolan’s target and propelling him some six or seven feet, shoes churning empty air. He landed facedown on the asphalt, rifle skittering away from lifeless fingers, and lay still.
All done...except that one of them was still alive and whimpering.
Bolan crossed to stand by the shooter who had been on fire a moment earlier. Reached down to pluck a pistol from the burned man’s belt and to toss it out of reach, into the shadows. Crouching down beside him, breathing through his mouth to minimize the stench of roasted flesh, Bolan asked, “Who sent you after us?”
“You...get...nothin’...from...me.”
“A name, that’s all,” Bolan replied. “You don’t owe them a thing.”
“What the hell...do you...know?” Wheezing smoke came from the man’s mouth and nose.
“I’m guessing Crockett,” Bolan said.
“Screw...you.”
“Or maybe Ridgway?”
One eye widened slightly, or the other might have narrowed. With the scorching on the shooter’s face, Bolan couldn’t be sure. A wink? He doubted it. More likely pain, sending a tremor through seared flesh.
“So, nothing?”
“Uh...uh.”
“Okay then.”
He rose, backed off a pace and plugged a mercy round into the shooter’s blackened forehead.
“Jesus God!”
And turned to find the Ranger watching him, a grim expression on her face.
“We’re done here,” Bolan told her. “Time to go.”
Chapter 4
“You blew that guy away like it was nothing,” Adlene Granger said.
“You saw him,” Bolan answered. “He was suffering.”
“So that was mercy?”
“Partly.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll agree we couldn’t help him, right? And who knows when the first responders might arrive.”
“We could have called it in anonymously.”
“Then what? If they saved him, what comes next? You want him talking to police, or to whoever sent him and his buddies after you?”
“How do I know that they weren’t after you?” she challenged.
Bolan ticked the points off on his fingers. “First, nobody knows me here. Second, there’s no way they could know who was specifically coming to meet with you. Third, the Yukon had a set of Texas plates and wasn’t rented. Fourth—”
“All right, I get it.”
They were rolling north on Dwyer Avenue, circling back toward Alamo Plaza and Granger’s car, left in the parking lot when they had ducked the shooters there. Taking their time, they might have been returning from a late date, taking in a movie.
Or a massacre.
“Okay, so someone set me up.” Her voice was grim.
“Not necessarily,” Bolan replied.
“How’s that?”
“Did you tell anyone about our meeting?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then no one could have leaked it. They’ve been trailing you. You missed it. These things happen.”
“Trailing me. Damn it!”
“They obviously knew your brother. Maybe they had time to check his cell phone after he was—”
“Killed. Go on.”
“But even if they didn’t, you’re a logical connection. Sister, law enforcement, who else would he talk to?”
“No one.”
“What’s your next move?” Bolan asked her.
“Try to stay alive, I guess. How’s that?”
“When are you back on duty?”
“After Jerod’s funeral. I’m on bereavement leave.”
“About the funeral...”
“Oh, God. Don’t tell me.”
“It’s the first place that they’d look for you, after your home.”
“God damn it! So, I can’t go home and can’t bury my brother? That’s just frickin’ great!”
“You can report what’s happened. See about protective custody.”
“For life? Get serious. You’re only here because I couldn’t trust the locals or my own department.”
“What, then?” Bolan asked.
“Looks like I’ll be a fugitive.”
“I hate to mention this,” said Bolan, “but you dropped one of those guys back there.”
“He was escaping. Sue me.”
“I was thinking of ballistics.”
Granger thought about that for a moment, then replied, “No problem. Texas doesn’t have a database of cartridges or slugs from law enforcement weapons. Maryland tried that, a few years back, and ditched it. Said the deal was too expensive and had never solved a crime.”
“So, what’s your next move?”
After more thought, then she said, “How ’bout I stick with you?”
Now it was Bolan’s turn to think. He hadn’t come to Texas looking for a sidekick, only information that would clarify the situation and, if need be, point him toward potential targets. Granted, local expertise might come in handy, but he didn’t want to take responsibility for Adlene Granger’s safety.
Or was it too late to make that call?
“You’ve seen the way I work,” he said. “It just gets worse from here.”
“You’re not a normal Fed, I take it,” almost smiling as she spoke.
“Not