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Authors: Don Pendleton
Tags: det_action
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asked.
"I canned him," Anderson said. "I told him I didn't need a babysitter, and told him to get the hell out of here."
"And he left?"
"Hell no! I had to call security and have him escorted out of here."
"You don't worry about another attempt on your life?" Bolan asked.
"They had their chance. They won't try anything again, at least not here." The young man sounded sure of himself. Bolan felt less confident about the kid's safety.
"You said you have proof that your brother was killed," Bolan said. "What proof?"
"I'll show you." Bolan followed Anderson into his motor home, where Anderson dug out a banjo-bolt fitting wrapped in a grease rag and handed it to the Executioner.
"What's this?" Bolan asked.
"It's the brake line connection from Darrick's bike," Anderson said.
"How'd you get it?"
"I stole it from the Free Flow garage complex at Losail. They won't miss it; they're supposed to examine the wreckage but they have no interest in it. They don't seem to give much of a shit about what happened to Darrick."
"I got that impression myself," Bolan said. "Why is this important?"
"Look at the thread on the male fitting." Bolan did. The thread seemed like new, except for the first two rungs, which were stripped clean.
"That bolt was never tightened down. Someone deliberately just barely got the threads started, tightening them just enough so that they'd hold as long as there was no pressure applied to the brakes. As soon as someone grabbed a handful of brake, that thing popped right off," Anderson said.
It looked to Bolan like the kid was on to something. "Why would anyone want to kill your brother?" he asked.
"Time was, just about everyone wanted to kill him, back when he was banging cocaine and drinking twenty-four hours a day. Even before that. When he had the championship, he was an ass — arrogant, cocky, rude, abusive. Killing him even crossed my mind once or twice, especially after our parents were killed in a car accident and he didn't even bother to come to the funeral. Said he had a tire test in Jerez, Spain, but he didn't show up for that either," Anderson said angrily. He paused.
"But he'd changed. He wasn't the same person he was back then. He was doing great. It was like I had my brother back." Anderson pointed to the bolts from his brother's bike. "And then those bastards took him away from me."
"It doesn't make sense. Why'd they kill their top rider?" the Executioner asked.
"I don't know," Anderson said. "I do know that they don't care one whit about motorcycle racing. I don't know why they're even here."
Bolan suspected that the reason they were here was because they intended to commit a major act of terrorism somewhere on the west coast, but there was know point in mentioning that to the younger Anderson brother. And the soldier suspected that the reason they killed Darrick was because he either knew something or they were afraid he might know something. One thing was certain — they were dealing with some dangerous men.
"I suppose you think I'm crazy, just like everyone else," Anderson said.
"No, I believe you. I know these men are capable of committing murder," Bolan said.
Eddie Anderson looked at the soldier. "That's strange information for a fuel salesman to have."
"My company does its research on potential business partners," Bolan said. "These are some bad men, and they're capable of anything. They're capable of killing your brother, and they're capable of killing you. I wish you'd reconsider letting the police officer protect you."
"Hell no! I can take care of myself. I always have and I always will."
Bolan respected the kid's dedication to self-sufficiency, but he knew that this inexperienced youth was no match for a group of trained and dedicated terrorists.
"If you're so good at taking care of yourself," the Executioner said, "how come every time I see you someone is either throwing you out of a building or throwing you into a car?"
Bolan could tell he'd hit a nerve.
The
"I canned him," Anderson said. "I told him I didn't need a babysitter, and told him to get the hell out of here."
"And he left?"
"Hell no! I had to call security and have him escorted out of here."
"You don't worry about another attempt on your life?" Bolan asked.
"They had their chance. They won't try anything again, at least not here." The young man sounded sure of himself. Bolan felt less confident about the kid's safety.
"You said you have proof that your brother was killed," Bolan said. "What proof?"
"I'll show you." Bolan followed Anderson into his motor home, where Anderson dug out a banjo-bolt fitting wrapped in a grease rag and handed it to the Executioner.
"What's this?" Bolan asked.
"It's the brake line connection from Darrick's bike," Anderson said.
"How'd you get it?"
"I stole it from the Free Flow garage complex at Losail. They won't miss it; they're supposed to examine the wreckage but they have no interest in it. They don't seem to give much of a shit about what happened to Darrick."
"I got that impression myself," Bolan said. "Why is this important?"
"Look at the thread on the male fitting." Bolan did. The thread seemed like new, except for the first two rungs, which were stripped clean.
"That bolt was never tightened down. Someone deliberately just barely got the threads started, tightening them just enough so that they'd hold as long as there was no pressure applied to the brakes. As soon as someone grabbed a handful of brake, that thing popped right off," Anderson said.
It looked to Bolan like the kid was on to something. "Why would anyone want to kill your brother?" he asked.
"Time was, just about everyone wanted to kill him, back when he was banging cocaine and drinking twenty-four hours a day. Even before that. When he had the championship, he was an ass — arrogant, cocky, rude, abusive. Killing him even crossed my mind once or twice, especially after our parents were killed in a car accident and he didn't even bother to come to the funeral. Said he had a tire test in Jerez, Spain, but he didn't show up for that either," Anderson said angrily. He paused.
"But he'd changed. He wasn't the same person he was back then. He was doing great. It was like I had my brother back." Anderson pointed to the bolts from his brother's bike. "And then those bastards took him away from me."
"It doesn't make sense. Why'd they kill their top rider?" the Executioner asked.
"I don't know," Anderson said. "I do know that they don't care one whit about motorcycle racing. I don't know why they're even here."
Bolan suspected that the reason they were here was because they intended to commit a major act of terrorism somewhere on the west coast, but there was know point in mentioning that to the younger Anderson brother. And the soldier suspected that the reason they killed Darrick was because he either knew something or they were afraid he might know something. One thing was certain — they were dealing with some dangerous men.
"I suppose you think I'm crazy, just like everyone else," Anderson said.
"No, I believe you. I know these men are capable of committing murder," Bolan said.
Eddie Anderson looked at the soldier. "That's strange information for a fuel salesman to have."
"My company does its research on potential business partners," Bolan said. "These are some bad men, and they're capable of anything. They're capable of killing your brother, and they're capable of killing you. I wish you'd reconsider letting the police officer protect you."
"Hell no! I can take care of myself. I always have and I always will."
Bolan respected the kid's dedication to self-sufficiency, but he knew that this inexperienced youth was no match for a group of trained and dedicated terrorists.
"If you're so good at taking care of yourself," the Executioner said, "how come every time I see you someone is either throwing you out of a building or throwing you into a car?"
Bolan could tell he'd hit a nerve.
The
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