“Missed what?” Price asked.
“The pattern,” the big Fed said with a frown. “Larry Kearney is a contact of mine, used to be a reporter here in D.C. He runs a think tank in central New York now and has his hands in a local alternative paper. He spends his time doing what got him run out of Wonderland in the first place—pissing off politicians and raking muck.”
Price laughed. “He sounds like your kind of person.”
“More or less.” Brognola managed a faint grin. “It was Larry who put me on the trail. The murder victims—those who weren’t collateral damage—were all connected to the local methamphetamine trade. At least, that’s what Larry believes. He didn’t have much more to go on.”
“Why involve Justice?” Price asked. “Wouldn’t this be a matter for the local police?”
“It might be,” Brognola said grimly, “if not for Larry’s nose for corruption. He suspects collusion with local law enforcement. This isn’t simply drug dealers taking shots at the competition, either. He tells me, and I believe him, that there’s something more methodical at work.”
“A vigilante?” Price raised an eyebrow.
“That’s Larry’s theory. Given the brutality of the crimes and the alphabet soup of government agencies in which Syracuse is now swimming, it’s a circus. He called me to call in a favor. He said he thought I could cut through some of the red tape and produce results.”
“That’s a lot to ask of a man in your position.”
“Not if you know Larry,” Brognola said. “He was one of the best sources of insider information I had here. He knew where all the bodies were buried. That’s what made him enemies here—powerful enemies. I owe him. So I asked Striker to investigate.”
Price nodded. Who better to track a vigilante than Mack Bolan? Bolan had what was at times an arm’s-length relationship with the Farm, but the staff’s commitment to him, and his to them individually, was unwavering. She considered the man for a moment. Where was he? What was he doing? Price had an off-again, on-again relationship with the soldier. Neither of them asked for more than the other could give. It was enough. Still, she worried for him, when she let herself.
“What can we do?” Price asked. If the Farm could assist Bolan, she’d see to it.
“I’m relaying specifications he transmitted to me through his scrambled phone,” Brognola said, typing at his computer beyond the view of the sat link. “He needs a care package from you guys.”
“We’ll do our best to fill his wish list,” Price nodded.
“I also need Bear and his team to dig up anything and everything they can find on a biker gang called the CNY Purists. I’m sending a digital shot Striker took during a raid on one of their facilities last night that might help. You can send the data directly to him through his wireless.”
“We’ll get on it, Hal.”
“Thanks.” He moved to cut the connection.
“Hal?” Price asked.
Brognola paused.
“When you talk to him, tell him to look after himself.”
“I will,” Brognola promised. He cut the feed.
Price stared at the blank screen for a moment before turning to examine the incoming data. There was work to be done.
Camillus, New York
T HE E XECUTIONER LEANED against the black-and-white Syracuse police car, his arms folded across his chest. He’d spent a long night telling and retelling his story, doing his best to wear out the Justice credentials Brognola had provided in the name of Agent Matt Cooper. Now he was simply waiting for the all clear so he could resume his work.
The delay was annoying, but necessary. He would need the cooperation of local law enforcement, and he needed to know who the federal players were. In addition, making himself known might shake loose whomever Brognola’s source believed was cooperating with the murderer or murderers Bolan sought. If he made a big enough target of himself, it was a sure bet someone would take a crack at him to get him out of the way.
At least three government agencies were represented—DEA, FBI and ATF—while the county sheriff’s office and two neighboring police districts had sent units, as well. Bolan had waited patiently while they worked through their histrionics and exaggerated outrage at his presence. One of the ATF agents had held the Beretta 93-R by two fingers as if examining a venomous snake; the FBI duo had threatened to haul him in for interrogation if his ID and story didn’t hold up. The city and suburban police had steered clear of him but shot him suspicious looks. About the only one of them Bolan didn’t immediately dislike was a rookie named Paglia, who watched him carefully but expressed no emotion. That one had the look of a decent lawman who, if he stayed on the force and kept his wits about him, would go far, Bolan thought. He’d seen the type. He’d seen the opposite, too.
When their phone calls and computer queries came back verifying Cooper’s affiliation with the Justice Department, the squawking had largely stopped. Bolan was, however, obliged to stick around until cleared to leave, if he didn’t want to burn any bridges. The mobile home had long since burned itself out, and the agents and police were busily picking through the smoldering debris.
Officer Paglia, who looked impossibly young to Bolan despite his air of competence, returned to his car to drop off several evidence bags. They contained shell casings and a few other odds and ends. Bolan did not expect any of the departments involved to turn up much of use from the burned wreckage, but there was always a chance.
Paglia also carried with him Bolan’s leather shoulder harness, in which was slung the 93-R and its spare magazines. He handed the harness to Bolan and then, from behind his belt, produced the Desert Eagle. “They say you can have your roscoes back,” Paglia chuckled. “They weren’t too happy about it.”
“I’m surprised they let you take any of the evidence,” Bolan commented, nodding at the agents in their variously lettered windbreakers.
“There’s enough to go around,” Paglia told him. Something caught his eye as he turned from his vehicle. He bent to retrieve a singed and empty cardboard carton. Several more just like it were scattered across the field, hurled there by the explosion. The agents and police officers had been walking on them for most of the night.
“Cold medicine,” he said.
“Pseudoephedrine,” Bolan told him. “It’s a precursor chemical, cooked from the over-the-counter drugs in order to manufacture methamphetamine.”
“Crystal meth,” the cop said. “This is a drug house?”
“It used to be,” Bolan said.
F ROM THE TREE LINE ACROSS the snow-covered field, Gary Rook watched the big man in black collect his things and return to the unmarked Chevy Blazer in which he’d arrived the previous night. Through the powerful scope of the Remington 700, the dark-haired man’s face was clearly visible. Rook did his best to memorize the intruder’s features. He had a feeling they would meet again, soon.
Rook had watched as the commando rolled up and entered the
