You know the way we played it. Out of the city. Way up country where she feels comfortable. No contact unless she makes it. I keep the location secret. Even from you.”
“Damn.”
“We have to keep this in play. You don’t know where she is, so you can’t spill. Until I can figure out how to get your evidence into the right hands we need to keep this way deep.”
“I know. You realize what this is doing to me, Marty? If anything happens to them…”
“I’ll keep Rachel and Tommy out of harm’s way. Promise.”
“Hell, I know you’ll look after them…”
Logan’s voice faltered, dying to a whisper. His body was forcing a shutdown. Weakness from his wounds and the effects of the painkillers.
“I won’t give up on this, Ray. Look at it this way. Rachel is a smart girl. You told her to lose herself. That’s what she’s done. As long as she stays out of sight so does your evidence.”
Keegan heard a low, mumbled whisper, then the phone cut off. He stared at his cell, then dropped it back in his pocket. “You hang in there, buddy.”
Through the partition window of the squad room he could see that Dunn and Brenner were looking in his direction. He moved away down the corridor. The pair of cops were paying him too much attention. They knew he was not only Logan’s partner, but a longtime friend. He was going to need to stay alert. Return the favor and keep his eyes on them.
Chapter 3
“Marty is a good friend and partner. He was my backup when I was undercover. Rachel and I have known him a long time. You figure it out. Would I have trusted him with the safety of my wife and boy if I had doubts?”
“You make a good case,” Bolan said. “You believe he’s got your family safe?”
“Marty’s smart. He’ll have located them way out of the city.”
“And what about your evidence? Will Rachel have it with her?”
Logan didn’t reply immediately. Bolan saw he was fighting against the drugs and the infection. He let the cop have his time. It wasn’t going to get him anywhere if Logan became too weak to talk. So Bolan sat back and waited.
“Man, that really caught me. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. If you need to rest longer, Ray, just tell me. You need the doc? Want me to call him in?”
“I’m good. I can’t be sure what Rachel did with the evidence. She either took it with her, or hid it before she left. Maybe in our house.”
“I can start there,” Bolan said. “Eliminate that, then we can look at other options.”
Logan managed a brief nod. “Okay, Cooper, I’ll give you the address.”
Bolan saw him sink back against the pillow, eyes closing. The Executioner stood and quietly left the room to speak to the doctor before he left.
The medic was an old ally of Stony Man Farm. A man who understood Bolan’s enduring struggle. He had experienced his own epiphany during a personal trauma and Bolan had come to his aid. The life-affirming philosophy that Bolan expressed, in actions rather than words, formed a bond between them that never needed expressing. Eric Madsen responded any time Bolan showed up. It wasn’t the first time the Executioner had sought Madsen’s help, and when he’d shown up with the badly wounded Ray Logan in the rear of his SUV, there had been no questions. Madsen took the wounded cop into his home office, ushered Bolan out of the treatment room and went to work. Logan was currently recovering, slowly, housed in one of the doctor’s bedrooms and being tended by Madsen and his wife. When Bolan had explained the background and the possible threat to Logan, Madsen’s wife, Laura, had smiled at him.
“You’re trying to tell us this could put us in danger? Don’t worry. You know how we feel about you, Coop, and how we can never repay you for what you did. So you just go out there and do what you do best. Leave that boy to get well. Find his wife and son, because that will help him get better faster than all the medicine Eric can offer.”
THE LOGAN HOUSE stood back from the street. Timber and stone, well-maintained. A single garage attached to one side. Paved area for two cars. Bolan drove on by, passing three more homes before he took a right and parked out of sight. There was a wide alley running at the rear of the row. Bolan took it and made his way to the back fence of Logan’s property. He checked the high gate, found it unlocked and slipped through. This kind of probe was better suited to the dark, but time didn’t allow Bolan that luxury. He crossed the neat patio and reached the house. He saw immediately that the patio doors were breached—an inch gap told him someone had gotten inside.
Bolan unholstered the Beretta, easing off the safety. He slid the glass door open. The room inside had a wood-block floor. He noticed books disturbed on the shelves to his right. Furniture pushed out of place. A lampshade tilted. Moving quickly, avoiding any extraneous sound, Bolan reached the door, paused, listened. To his right, the open entrance hall and the front door. Directly across from the front door was the staircase leading to the upper floor.
He picked up a muffled voice. It came from upstairs. Bolan went up fast, the carpeted stairs deadening any sound. Movement on his left. A partly open door. A shadow disturbed the soft light. The same voice. Low, measured, not speaking English.
Bolan knew enough to recognize the language.
Russian.
Was the speaker talking to himself?
Or did he have a partner with him?
A thud as something was dropped to the floor.
This time a second voice. Remonstrating with the first man. This speaker was to the left of the door.
Whoever the men were they didn’t belong in the Logan house.
Bolan took a step closer, ready to go through the door.
His intention was preceded as the door was wrenched open and a dark-clad figure appeared, a stubby SMG slung from his left shoulder. The guy had his head turned away from Bolan as he said something to his partner.
So much for the stealth approach, Bolan thought.
Then used the clear moment to his own advantage. As the visible man stepped through the door, head swiveling to the front, seeing Bolan and reaching for the SMG, Bolan swept the Beretta round in a brutal, clubbing action. It slammed against the man’s skull with a sodden thud. The gunman uttered a shocked gasp, sagging against the door frame, and Bolan struck again—same place, even harder. Blood spouted, rushing down the man’s face and soaking into the sweater he was wearing. As he began to slump, Bolan shouldered him back into the room, already picking up the thump of footsteps as the second guy ran forward. He sensed the movement seconds before he saw the man. Big, his broad shoulders and barrel chest topped by a shaved, short-necked head, he moved with a solid gait. Bolan had no chance to raise his weapon. The large figure loomed close, muscular arms and wide hands reaching for him. Bolan lowered his own shoulders, turning slightly and hit the guy in his midsection, not to halt him, but to use the other’s forward momentum to propel him across Bolan’s back. Bolan thrust upward and the big Russian was
