Chapter 8

      Henry Fitch, Captain, Seattle PD, was the first to arrive. He parked his unmarked car and sat studying the deserted building. Rain marked the windshield, blurring the image. He was at a loss to understand why Senator Kendal had called this meeting at such a location. He knew that Kendal had a thing about secrecy, not wanting to be seen with too many people outside his close group, but this was extreme. Fitch wasn’t going to make too many waves. He was deep in with Kendal, taking his money and enjoying the privileges the man was able to bestow. So if Kendal called a meeting to discuss something important, Fitch had no real choice. He glanced again at his watch. At least he was on time. That was always important where Kendal was concerned. The senator had a thing about punctuality. It was one of his rules—and it didn’t do to break any of his rules. Fitch consoled himself by thinking about the bank accounts where he had his money squirreled away. Police pensions were one thing—Senator Kendal’s payoffs were another.

       A car nosed into view between a couple of the deserted buildings, splashing its way across to pull up alongside Fitch’s. Despite the spattering of rain on the window, Fitch recognized Detective Steve Dunn as the man got out of the car, pulling on a waterproof coat. Dunn raised a quick hand. On the other side of the car Dunn’s partner, Ken Brenner, stepped out the passenger door. Dunn pointed at the building’s side door, then he and Brenner headed for it. Fitch dragged his own waterproof jacket from the rear seat and pulled it on. He shoved open his door and stepped out. Rain hit him with a cold hand and he legged it for the open side door.

       Inside the building it was cold and dusty, shadows marking the floor. What light there was came from semi-transparent roof panels.

       “How come you didn’t tell us you were coming, too?” Dunn said. He was shaking the collar of his coat, shedding rain.

       “Because I didn’t know you were. Kendal’s text just said time and place.”

       “That’s what ours said,” Brenner acknowledged.

       Dunn said, “Must be important if he set up a meet this way.” He always stated the obvious.

       “You don’t say,” Fitch said.

       “Maybe something happened about Logan,” Brenner said.

       “He wouldn’t want to broadcast that,” Dunn said.

       “At least we’re on time,” Fitch said. “Jesus, it’s cold in here.”

       “No heating on,” Dunn said.

       Fitch stared at him. “He ever come up with anything startling?” he asked Brenner.

       “No. Ken likes to keep things on level ground.”

       Dunn said, “You talking about me?”

       “Yes, I am, partner.”

       “Well, don’t…”

       Fitch raised a hand. “You hear that?” He reached inside his coat for his handgun.

      “Not a wise move, Fitch.”

       The voice came from their left, from deep shadow. A tall figure detached from the dark and stepped into light. Dressed in black street clothes, the man stood over six feet, with thick black hair framing a strong-boned face, and blue eyes that were fixed on the three cops.

       The man held a big handgun that was easily recognizable as a .357 Magnum Desert Eagle. A serious weapon in any cop’s book—not to be ignored.

       “All of you. Take out the guns and drop them on the floor. Use your left hands. I’m only saying it once. Choice is yours.”

       Fitch, Dunn and Brenner exchanged glances, hopes swiftly dashed because the big man had them dead to rights. There was no way any of them could draw and fire while he had the .357 on them. The auto pistols were eased from holsters and dropped to the floor.

       “Kick them in my direction,” Bolan said. He watched them comply.

       “You know who we are?” Fitch said. “Cops.”

       “Correction,” Bolan said. “Dirty cops. On Senator Kendal’s payroll.”

       “Who the fuck says so?” Dunn said.

       “Ray Logan.”

       “That snitch,” Dunn said. “What does he know?”

       “Enough to put you three behind bars for a long time.”

       “If he stays alive long enough.”

       Fitch punched Dunn on the arm. “Shut the fuck up, Steve.” He turned back to Bolan. “You really believe you can buck Kendal? Do you have any idea what he has behind him?”

       Bolan allowed himself a thin smile. “Hired muscle. Backup from Maxim Koretski. Less you three.”

       “You got nothing on us,” Brenner said.

       “I have Logan’s evidence—photographs, tapes, documented data. That’s why you’ve been desperate to find him. So you can destroy what he’s gathered. And let’s not forget the bank accounts you jokers have been using to stash the money Kendal’s been paying you.”

      “Son of a fucking bitch,” Dunn screamed, losing control and rushing Bolan.

       The Executioner waited for the right moment as the cop came toward him. He might have had a non-termination policy as far as police officers were concerned, but it didn’t stretch as far as lesser punishment when he was faced with dirty cops. Bolan let Dunn get to within a few feet, then swung the heavy Desert Eagle around in a wide arc that terminated against Dunn’s left cheek and upper jaw. The steel bulk of the pistol landed with a meaty crunch and Dunn went down on the floor, bouncing against the filthy concrete. He twisted over on his side, blood pouring from the raw gash in his flesh.

       The Desert Eagle was back on Fitch and Brenner before either of them could react. “Have I made my point?” Bolan said.

       Fitch was having difficulty holding himself back. The unwavering muzzle of the Desert Eagle persuaded him it might be advisable. “Okay, okay,” he said. “So what happens now?”