“Where would I start?”
“Our dead agents had an informant. Part of the organization but he convinced our mans he wanted to quit and was willing to cooperate. Name of Wilhelm Bickell. Based in Rotterdam, where the traffickers are said to have what Bickell called a distribution point. We don’t know if that’s true because our mans were killed before they got that information to us. All we have is a cell phone contact number for him.”
“It’s thin,” Bolan said. “But I’ve started with less.” He weighed the folder in his hand. “I’ll need credentials. Anything else you can conjure up.”
Brognola nodded. “No problem.” He tapped the folder. “The phrase read it and weep applies pretty well here, Striker.”
THE EXECUTIONER SPENT most of the day going through the contents of the explicit data. It covered suspects, the trafficking group known as Venturer Exports and its head, Hugo Canfield. Its grip on human trafficking was widespread and from the text of the reports Bolan became aware of the callous indifference of the people running the enterprise. The hub for Venturer Exports was mainland Europe and the U.K. Its market was worldwide and even Mack Bolan, well versed in the evil manifested through man’s indifference to human suffering, was forced to sit back and take a moment’s respite. It appeared that the practice of slavery was still thriving. From his reading it seemed that the majority of victims involved came from those ravaged parts of the world where recent conflicts had created rich hunting grounds for the traffickers. They scavenged through Asian and Eastern European countries, snatching people off the streets, collecting them from holding camps. The countless numbers of displaced people were seldom missed. Officials were paid off, heads turned and no questions asked. The victims were bundled into containers and taken by road, across borders where money replaced transit visas, and the human cargo was waved through without an inspection. The final destination of the converging containers appeared to be Rotterdam, and from there the merchandise was sent to whichever market placed its order.
The slaves provided cheap labor for sweatshops, for service industries, where the employers held the workers illegally. They were in foreign countries without proper papers, earning little money and constantly under the threat of violence if they made any kind of protest. Young women, chosen for their good looks, were channeled into the many-tentacled sex industry, from making adult movies to working the streets. And there was the ever-present shadow of the drug business in the background. The data Brognola had provided included photographs that emphasized the ever-present dangers encroaching on the lives of the traffickers’ victims. The sick, the dying and the dead. Drug affliction. The punishment meted out to a victim who had rebelled. Or those who simply succumbed to the pitiful life forced on them.
Read it and weep.
Brognola’s words had not been far from the truth. Venturer Exports and the men profiting from it had to be stopped. The Executioner was onboard.
2
Wilhelm Bickell, average height, near-bald head glistening from the rain, hunched his shoulders beneath the long raincoat. Bolan recognized him from the photograph in the folder Brognola had provided. The image had been taken from a distance, but it was not difficult to identify the man. Bickell had an extraordinarily plain face. His outstanding feature was his large, crooked nose supporting a pair of heavy eyeglasses. According to the intelligence relating to the man, Bickell was a fixer for Venturer Exports. The detail provided by Turner and Bentley had him down as dissatisfied with his position. A disgruntled employee passed over by his superiors, tired of being treated as mere hired help. He was supposedly ready to turn against them for the simple emotion of revenge. The two agents had nurtured his feelings, fueling his resentment. They had been preparing Bickell as an aide in gaining possession of evidence that might have turned the task-force investigation to a positive outcome. That hope died after they had been lured into a meeting, taken captive and tortured savagely before being killed.
The Executioner kept those thoughts in mind as he stepped away from the café door and crossed the sidewalk to where Bickell was standing.
“Wilhelm Bickell? I’m Cooper.”
Bickell nodded.
Bolan took his hand from his coat pocket and palmed the leather wallet holding the U.S. Justice Department badge Brognola had supplied. Next to the badge, beneath a plastic cover was a laminated card with Bolan’s picture and cover name on it.
Bickell’s eyes, magnified by the lenses of his glasses, examined the big American’s face. The only contact he had had with Bolan was over the phone, arranging the meet. He recognized the voice.
“This is not a very satisfactory way for us to meet, you understand. Ja?”
“Under the circumstances I was given little choice. Turner and Bentley didn’t leave much in the way of contact details. You remember them, don’t you?”
Bickell visibly stiffened. Red spots colored his pale cheeks.
“Of course I remember them. We were working together. Am I under suspicion concerning their deaths? Perhaps you are not aware of the risk I took even associating with them. My own life is in danger now.”
“We’re all in a risky position, Bickell. I came to Rotterdam to try and pick up where the others left off. Are you willing to continue cooperating?”
“Of course,” Bickell said. “I am ready to help any way I can.”
A little too quickly, Bolan thought. Slow down, Bickell, you’re making yourself obvious.
“We should walk,” Bickell suggested. “I really feel I am being watched. You understand? Ja?”
“Let’s go,” Bolan said.
Bickell led the way along the sidewalk. The rain and the early hour had reduced the number of pedestrians. They walked for a few hundred feet before Bickell paused at the mouth of a side street. His hesitation warned Bolan, but for the present he played along.
“There is a quiet coffee shop down here,” Bickell said. “We can talk in private. Ja?”
Bolan fell in alongside the man and they walked along the street. The tall buildings on either side reduced the rain to a slight mist. They also cut the intrusion of sound and it enabled Bolan to pick up the soft murmur of a car engine and the sound of wet tires rolling along the street. From the corner of his eye Bolan saw Bickell’s shoulders hunch under his coat. The sound of his footsteps sharpened as he began to walk faster.
“We running out of time?” Bolan asked.
Bickell said something Bolan couldn’t catch. But he understood the threat offered by the pistol that emerged from the right-hand pocket of the man’s coat. The muzzle aimed at Bolan.
“Over there,” Bickell snapped, gesturing with the pistol.
The Executioner saw they were at the entrance to an empty delivery yard, the gates standing open, the adjoining building deserted and quiet. Bickell’s gun hand gestured again and Bolan walked ahead, the Dutchman following. As Bolan turned to face Bickell, the car he had heard turned in through the open gateway and rolled to a stop. A tall man climbed out and pushed the wooden gates shut, dropping a metal bar in place. He moved to stand a few feet behind Bickell, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his thick coat. A moment later he was joined by the man who had been behind the wheel of the car.
“Tell me, Mijnheer Cooper, are you so trusting it never occurred to you that something like this might happen? Or are you simply stupid?” Bickell asked.
“Look at it from where I’m standing. I only arrived last night and it appears I have already been betrayed by the man who set up Turner and Bentley for execution.”
Bickell didn’t like the inference, but shrugged it off.
“That was so easy it was almost embarrassing. Those two were so naive they deserved to die. Like so many Americans they believed in trust and loyalty. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Bickell said something in Dutch to his two companions. It drew a round of laughter.
“So, Cooper, they sent you in like the Lone Ranger to deal with the bad mans. Ja?”
&
nbsp; Bickell raised his left hand to wipe at the rain spots on his glasses. It created a thin window of opportunity. It was enough for Bolan to bunch his right hand into a big fist that struck out at Bickell’s face. Bolan hit him twice. The blows were powerfully brutal. They slammed into Bickell’s mouth and nose, jerking his head around and toppling him against the side of the parked car. Bickell slid across the rain-slick surface, his legs going from under him. He hit the ground on his knees, head dropping. Blood spilled from his battered face.
“For Turner and Bentley,” Bolan said softly. “Consider it a down payment.”
The pair behind Bickell came alive, producing handguns. They covered Bolan, who had already stepped back, his hands raised in surrender. When they saw he was not going to do anything one of them moved to where Bickell knelt. He reached out a hand and dragged Bickell to his feet, pushing him against the side of the car. He also retrieved the pistol Bickell had dropped. Then he moved up to Bolan and expertly checked him for weapons. Satisfied the American was not armed he rejoined his partner.
Bickell, hands pressed to his bloody face, stared at Bolan. The left lens of his glasses had cracked when Bolan hit him and the single eye left visible blazed with undisguised anger.
“Bastaard.” The invective was muffled but there was enough force for Bolan to understand the feeling behind it.
The man who had searched Bolan moved to open the passenger door and roughly hustled Bickell inside. He slammed the door and walked around to the driver’s door. He barked a command to his partner, who moved to reopen the gate. Then he gestured at Bolan.
“In the back, Cooper.”
Bolan did as he was told. With the gate open the second man climbed in beside Bolan, covering him. The car started and reversed out onto the street. It was driven to the far end, then picked up a wider street that wound through the city. The thought struck Bolan that no one had made any move to prevent him seeing the way they were going. Their ultimate destination looked to be an intended one-way trip for Bolan. He sat back, taking in the scenery, his agile mind working on that fact. His captors wanted him alive for the present. His future was another matter. Once the opposition had decided how much—or how little—he knew about their operation, his usefulness would end. These people had already shown how little they cared when it came to disposing of unwanted baggage.
With that in mind Bolan prepared himself for what might come. He had no illusions. What waited for him at the end of this drive would be far from pleasant if he failed to make use of any opportunity presenting itself. He was not being driven to a barbecue. Pain and suffering were the only items liable to be on any menu put before Bolan.
He concentrated on his captors. The damage he had inflicted on Bickell would keep the man out of any hard action. His injuries would divert his attention away from Bolan. Not a great victory but at least it had cut the opposition by a third. Until they arrived at their destination Bolan wasn’t going to know by how much that percentage might rise. He had assessed the two men accompanying Bickell as solid professionals. It appeared that their orders had been to bring Bolan in alive and unharmed, and they were doing that. Bickell had let his mouth run away with himself and had received the necessary chiding to shut him up temporarily. From the brief time he had been able to watch the others Bolan had seen they were strongly built, capable of handling themselves. And both were armed. Bickell was unarmed, his fallen pistol having been retrieved by the man behind the wheel.
The Executioner sank back in the soft leather seat, watching the wet streets of Rotterdam slip by. As they eased through the narrow streets Bolan caught glimpses of the river that ran through the city. Cranes and warehouses began to dominate the skyline. They were heading in the direction of the port. The car made some sharp turns, moving along narrower streets that edged the main port facility. There were businesses along this section. Distribution warehouses. Service industries. Private vehicles were replaced by vans and trucks. The car made a sharp right turn that took it along a narrow road that paralleled the water before swinging in through open gates into a freight yard that had a large warehouse structure at the far end.
There didn’t appear to be much activity around the yard. Bolan noticed a number of large steel containers, some stacked three high. There was a car parked near the warehouse. They drove over the yard’s rutted surface and through a high doorway into the warehouse. As the car came to a stop inside Bolan heard the metallic rattle behind them as a metal roller door was lowered.
Bolan’s minder produced his pistol, gesturing. “Get out.”
With the pair of minders flanking him Bolan was walked across to an office block against one wall. The door was opened and he was pushed inside. Bolan sized up the man awaiting his arrival.
Well dressed. A sober suit and tie. Expensive. The cold expression on his face did nothing to endear him to Bolan. He had a fine look to him. Almost delicate. His skin was silky, lips colorless, pale blond hair. Rimless glasses with lightly tinted lenses shaded his gray eyes. He was observing Bolan with an intensity that could have been intimidating to anyone with less confidence.
“Where’s Bickell?” the man asked.
Bolan picked up the English accent.
The minder who had driven the car wagged a thumb in Bolan’s direction.
“There was some aggravation. Willi came off worse,” he explained in his heavily accented English. “He’s never learned to keep his mouth closed. He’s in the car.”
The blond Brit leaned forward a little, stroking the tip of his narrow chin.
“I was surprised when you contacted Bickell. Obviously the example of your dead friends failed as the deterrent it was intended to be.”
“Did you expect us to ignore it?” Bolan said.
“Had it not occurred to your superiors that Bickell might have been the one who turned on your friends?” The man adjusted the hang of his jacket.
“We guessed. It was decided to draw him out. Give him a chance to repent his misdeeds.”
“A sense of humor. I like that in a man. But it isn’t going to save you.”
“I wasn’t expecting it to. I just wanted to get a look at the kind of people who would kill so readily.”
“Look, Cooper…is that correct? Cooper? Turner and Bentley, or whatever their real names, were dealt with as part of a tactical maneuver.” He smiled. “Sounds bloody pretentious, doesn’t it? But they were getting a little too close to us at a busy time. Couldn’t afford to have them snooping around like that.”
Bolan stayed silent, watching the man. He was playing it light, but there was intelligence in those eyes.
“You can’t avoid it,” Bolan said. “Sooner or later your organization is going to come down. Killing Turner and Bentley shows you’re getting scared because the investigation is closing in.”
The Brit smiled. Not from bravado. It was clearly from the security that he felt.
“It will never happen, Cooper. Turner and Bentley were blundering around like a pair of blind men. They had no idea what they were taking on. Just like your bloody task force.” He held up a single finger. “You can’t touch us. Understand. You cannot touch us. Keep sending your sad little agents and we will get rid of them just like Turner and Bentley. And you, Cooper.”
He turned aside to speak to Bickell’s heavies. The conversation was brief, words muffled. Then he glanced back at Bolan.
“Now?” asked the man who had driven the car.
“Yes. We get rid of him. No time to play games this time. Just kill him and dispose of the body.” The Brit barely glanced at Bolan as he made for the door. “Your trip here was a waste of time. Pity you won’t even get to see the sights.”
As he passed through the office door the driver attracted his attention.
“What about Bickell, Mr. Chambers? He is becoming a liability. Since we dealt with those Americans he’s become nervous. Scared. He could break. We don’t think he should be trusted any longer.”
Chambers stopped in his tra
cks, turning to face the driver. His pale face showed twin red blotches on his cheeks.
“What are my orders about using my name? Tell me.”
“Never to mention it. I apologize for my error, sir.”
The Brit glanced across at Bolan.
The big American shrugged.
“I’m not going to be telling anyone. Am I, Mr. Chambers?”
A thin smile curled Chambers’s lips.
“Very true, Cooper. Very true.” He turned to the driver. “Make sure they are both taken care of. We can’t afford any more of Bickell’s nerves.”
Chambers stepped out of the office.
The driver perched on the edge of the office desk. His partner moved for the first time since they had entered the office. “Willi?” he asked.
“Bring him in here. Give Chambers a minute to get clear. You know he prefers not to be around at times like these,” the driver said.
“He has no stomach.”
“It’s what we are paid for.”
As the partner left the office Bolan glanced at the driver. “Is the English for my benefit?” he asked.
The driver grinned, seeming to enjoy the question. “Rotterdam can be a very hospitable city. But not exactly so in your case.”
“And there I was hoping you might show me around.”
The sound of a car engine rose as Chambers drove away, the noise fading quickly. Bolan heard the scrape of shoe leather on the concrete outside the office. The door was pushed open to admit Bickell and the driver’s partner. The lower part of Bickell’s face was swollen and bloody. The moment he saw Bolan he erupted into a wild verbal assault.
The driver yelled at him. Bickell ignored him, still screaming. Without warning he launched himself at Bolan, arms flailing wildly.
The driver’s partner reached out to grab Bickell. He had both hands free, having put his pistol away.
Bolan allowed Bickell to get within a foot or so, then launched himself into action. He caught hold of Bickell’s coat, swinging the man off balance, and used him as a battering ram against the driver. Bolan’s contained energy lifted Bickell off his feet and he was catapulted into the driver. Locked briefly together the pair tumbled back over the desk, sliding across the smooth surface and over the far edge.
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