about this while he took the last bite of his hash browns, but his thoughts were interrupted by the ring of Agent Anderson’s cell phone.
“We’ll be right there,” Bolan heard Anderson say.
BOLAN CONTEMPLATED WHAT he’d learned on the ride to the cemetery. After they’d overseen the loading of the remains into the van that would transport them to the federal crime lab in Minneapolis, Anderson returned Bolan and Grimaldi to the airport. As soon as the plane was airborne, Bolan called Kurtzman to debrief.
“What have you learned about the supposed Haynes suicide?” Bolan asked.
“There was no autopsy,” Kurtzman stated. “The death certificate was signed by a general practitioner at the local clinic, a fellow named Lee Klancher who was eighty-eight years old at the time. A year later he was diagnosed with advanced Alzheimer’s disease, so the odds are good that he didn’t do the most thorough examination.”
“We can be certain of one thing,” Bolan said. “That headless corpse we pulled out of the ground just now wasn’t Theodore Haynes.”
“I think we’re one hundred percent on that one,” Kurtzman replied. “But that begs the question, who was it?”
“My guess is someone that the Satan’s Slaves wanted to eliminate,” Bolan stated, “or at least found expendable.”
“The Slaves are involved in this?”
“I think so. At least, they’re the only lead I have right now. See what you can find out about them.”
Washington, D.C.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK I should do, Hal?” the President asked.
“I think declaring martial law would be a mistake, sir,” Brognola told the man.
“I believe you’re right. Once we go down that road, nothing will ever be the same. But my national security adviser and the Joint Chiefs of Staff don’t believe we have any other option. People are screaming for us to do something. They’re afraid to leave their houses. People aren’t going to work. Food, fuel and medicine aren’t being delivered. The economy has nearly shut down.”
“We’re doing everything we can to solve this situation, sir.”
“Please, Hal, tell me that you’re close to finding the shooters.”
“I wish I could, sir, but I can’t lie to you.”
“Then I’m going to have to declare martial law.”
“Sir,” Brognola said, “once you’ve turned the United States into a police state, it will never again be a beacon of freedom. I know this is supposed to be a temporary state of affairs, but what guarantee do you have that bringing the military in will stop the shootings? You’re risking turning these terrorist attacks into something resembling an insurgency. I think recent history has shown us how long an insurgency can drag on.”
“My instincts tell me you’re right, Hal. But what do we do? If I don’t go along with the Joint Chiefs, I’m risking a low-grade insurgency in my own administration. They’re adamant about declaring martial law.”
“Well, sir, far be it from me to tell you what to do, but you are their boss. You are the commander in chief.”
The President pondered Brognola’s comments and said, “If I give you three more days, do you think you can wrap this thing up?”
“We’ll give it everything we’ve got.”
“Fair enough,” the man said. “We’ll meet in three days. I pray to God that the purpose of that meeting will be for you to debrief me on the capture of the terrorists. In the meantime, please keep me informed every step of the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Minneapolis, Minnesota
BOLAN DOWNSHIFTED THE black Mustang as he approached the Slaves’ north Minneapolis clubhouse, located in an industrial area along the west bank of the Mississippi River. The twin tailpipes barked with authority as the 412-horsepower V-8 picked up revs on the downshift. The soldier hadn’t wanted such a flashy car, but he needed something fast. The only cars the Farm had been able to line up that met his performance criteria were this Mustang, a red Corvette and a yellow Porsche 911 Turbo. Of the bunch, the Mustang was the slowest, but it was also the least conspicuous. At least it was black, and it had something resembling a backseat so the soldier could keep his war bag within easy reach.
It was almost noon and there was hardly another vehicle on the road. As expected, there’d been another wave of shootings up and down the eastern seaboard at noon eastern time, but this day’s kill rate was down somewhat. People weren’t moving around much, especially at the stroke of noon. Still, the body count was climbing. Most of the victims had been officers from various law-enforcement agencies, since they were pretty much the only people out at noon, but a few stray civilians had also been killed. Some were people who simply refused to succumb to the fear of the terrorists that was paralyzing the country, but several had been killed in their own homes, shot through windows and doorways. This new development was worrisome; taking out a target inside a building required much more skill than simply shooting someone out in the open and indicated that the skill level of the opponents Bolan faced was of the highest order.
It looked like Teddy Haynes wasn’t the only terrorist with military sniper training. It seemed inconceivable that military veterans could be behind this, but that appeared to be the case, and judging from the access needed to scrub the identities of the shooters this clean, there had to be military involvement at an extremely high level.
As hard as that fact was for the soldier to swallow, he found it even more unlikely that some sort of paramilitary operation could involve a group of people such as Satan’s Slaves. Bolan slowed even more as he rolled past the Slaves’ clubhouse.
The Slaves had taken over the building the Hellions had used as their clubhouse when they’d controlled this territory. It was an old garage that had once served as the headquarters for a taxicab company. Bolan had studied the layout of the place from photos and blueprints that Kurtzman had sent him and knew that getting in would be no easy task. The layout had been designed to keep the taxicabs and employees safe in what was one of the most crime-ridden neighborhoods in the entire Midwest. Several years earlier the city had earned the nickname “Murderapolis,” and it had earned that moniker because of killings that had, for the most part, occurred within twenty blocks of the clubhouse. The taxi company’s headquarters had been a virtual fort, with razor-wire fences, thick brick walls and entrances that were well-controlled and easily defensible.
Bolan didn’t expect any activity outside the clubhouse since it was almost noon and the city seemed virtually deserted, but when he drove past the clubhouse he saw a group of five men beating another man senseless in the vacant lot adjacent to the Slave’s property. The men doing the beating all wore Slave cuts—the sleeveless denim jackets on which club members displayed their colors or club patches.
So much for inconspicuous, Bolan thought. He flicked off the traction-control switch, downshifted again and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The rear tires broke loose in a cloud of smoke, and he power slid the Mustang onto a concrete slab that had to have been the driveway of whatever structure had once occupied the vacant lot. Before the car came to a complete stop, Bolan threw open the driver’s door and bolted toward the group of men, crossing the thirty-foot distance in several long
