Fatal Combat. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ might be,” Bolan said. “Time for a decision, kid.”

      “Sir?”

      “The department has been instructed to cooperate with me,” Bolan said. “There’s going to come a moment, not very long from now, when you’ll be tempted not to do that.”

      “I don’t understand, Agent Cooper.”

      Bolan didn’t have time for a lengthy argument. He drew the Beretta 93-R from his shoulder holster and placed it in his lap. Davis glanced at it and then did an almost comical double-take. What he had taken for a simple Beretta 92-F pistol was instead a select-fire automatic weapon, and he recognized it as such.

      Bolan gave Davis mental points for that.

      Next he produced the Desert Eagle, watched Davis’s eyes widen at the massive weapon and replaced it. He reholstered the Beretta.

      “Sir?”

      “Many officers, especially those in smaller cities, go their entire lives without firing their weapons,” Bolan said. “In a big, violent city like Detroit, those chances are lower, but still good. Before we’re through, there’s a very good chance you’ll see me fire both of these. And you will fire your own weapon. Show me.”

      Davis hesitated only the barest fraction of a second. He reached into his jacket and then, carefully, withdrew his pistol. He ejected the magazine of the Glock 19 and racked the slide, dropping the ejected round. He hit his head on the dash diving for it, but he got it.

      “Spare magazines?” Bolan asked.

      “Two, Agent Cooper.”

      “Well, swing by the station and pick up some spares. That’s issue?”

      “Department approved list,” Davis said.

      “All right,” Bolan said. “Now. Are you in or out, Davis?”

      “Uh… Well, in, of course, sir. I mean, the department assigned.”

      “No, Davis. You. You personally. We’re about to walk down a dark hallway. If you’re going to do it, you need to know that it’s coming. That it might get bad. That it almost certainly will. Think carefully. I don’t want a quick answer. I want to know if you’ll stick this out.”

      Davis looked away. Bolan watched him swallow, hard. He was thinking about it. The subtle change to the set of the younger man’s shoulders told the soldier what Davis’s answer would be…and that he meant it.

      Davis turned to meet Bolan’s gaze. “I’m in.”

      “Good,” Bolan said.

      “So who are you, Cooper? Really?”

      “Like the card says,” Bolan said. He reached into his pocket and produced a business card. The front of the card was blank except for the engraved words, Matt Cooper, Justice Department.

      Davis turned the card over and ran a hand through his thick, close-cropped hair. “These contact numbers?”

      “They’ll forward to my wireless,” Bolan said. “If we get separated, call any of them. You’ll reach me no matter what.”

      Davis nodded. He reached into his jacket. “I have the list your supervisor said you wanted.”

      Bolan almost smiled at that. The idea of Brognola as anyone’s mere “supervisor,” perhaps fighting with the photocopier or drinking coffee in a break room, struck him as laughable. He knew precisely what Davis was talking about, however. He had sent the request to the Farm by text message while reviewing the files transmitted to his phone. He needed a place to start, and the murder victims were it.

      Innocent people had died, their blood on the knife of some psycho killer…or killers. Government profilers would look for patterns in victims in order to find serial killers. If this was a serial killer, a group of them—it was rare, but it had happened before—the common thread among the victims would tell Bolan where to look next. If there truly was no thread, and the victims were chosen merely for convenience, then looking deeper into the circumstances of their murders would likewise give him something to go on.

      Bolan was no detective; he was a battle-hardened, experience-trained soldier. But he understood predators. After witnessing the aftermath of the latest killing, he had no doubt that he was dealing with at least one truly deadly bipedal monster.

      The Executioner was going hunting.

      “Every victim so far,” Davis said, handing over the list, “as tabulated by the folks at the department. You’ll find current addresses and, where possible, some notes from the files that seemed relevant. You realize, though, sir, that the killings are apparently random. It’s not likely we’ll find anything.”

      “These notes are handwritten,” Bolan said, ignoring Davis’s other remarks.

      “The notes? Yes, sir, Agent Cooper.” Davis nodded. “I made them.”

      Bolan nodded. Initiative even though he thought Agent Cooper was barking up the wrong tree. That was good. It meant Davis wasn’t afraid to speak his mind.

      He would, however, have to be careful. Brognola hadn’t said it out loud; it hadn’t been necessary. A group of killers operating for this long, under these conditions, the killings until recently covered up—it reeked of police corruption. Brognola wasn’t normally so down on local law enforcement. The fact that he’d spoken so harshly of the men and women on the ground here was a coded message to Bolan, just in case Brognola’s words ever went beyond the walls of his office. The man was smart, and he hadn’t stayed where he was in the Justice Department for so long without having a few tricks up his sleeves. Assuming the walls had ears was one of these.

      “So where do we start, Agent Cooper?”

      “At the beginning,” Bolan said. “First name on the list. We’ll shake the tree and sees what falls loose.” There was, of course, the possibility that going back over the territory trod by the killers would make them nervous, bring them out. Depending on how professional they were—a well-financed and trained terrorist cell, for example—this might make little difference. But it might cause something to break. Bolan could feel it; he could see it in the pavement; he could smell it in the air. Things were going to get bloody before it was over.

      “I know that neighborhood,” Davis said. “It’s not exactly one of Detroit’s more affluent ones.”

      “Good thing I’ve got a cop to go with me,” Bolan said. He put the car into gear and looked up to check the rearview mirror.

      He heard the gunshot just as the mirror exploded, pelting him with sharp fragments of plastic and glass.

      2

      “Down!” Bolan shouted. He stomped the accelerator to the floor, whipping the steering wheel hard over. The powerful engine growled in response, and the Charger burned rubber as it heeled around, pushing Bolan and Davis back in their seats. The detective crouched behind the dash and Bolan did his best to slide, fractionally, into his bucket seat as he urged the car forward, toward the danger. Bullet holes starred the windshield, joining the one that had taken the mirror with it. Bolan ignored them, his СКАЧАТЬ