It took Bolan more than an hour to reach the location. He noticed that the area he had driven through was taken up by similar industry. This part of the country grew vast quantities of agricultural produce that was distributed all across Europe and into the U.K. There were constant streams of vehicles towing large containers that held fresh supplies of vegetables and dairy products heading for distribution points. A large percentage of these vehicles were on their way to Rotterdam. Bolan saw a number of South East Containers trucks arriving and leaving the Knookreising Farm.
He sat at the side of the road studying the layout of the farm. There was a wide turn leading off the road onto a paved strip that terminated in the large freight yard fronting the farm. There was an office block and, behind that, the sprawl of large greenhouses and open strips of planted fields. To one side were the processing and packing sheds. It was an impressive setup.
Bolan moved his powerful binoculars to the far distance where, his research had informed him, the original farm still remained. He spotted a large house built in the 1950s. Next to it were traditional Dutch barns and outhouses. Bolan saw a couple of South East Containers trucks parked nearby. According to the maps he had studied there was a minor road that ran along the back of the property, close to the original farm setup. It seemed to offer the best opportunity for him to check out the place.
He glanced at his watch. Midafternoon. Overhead the sky was heavy with dark clouds. It looked as if he really had chosen Holland’s rainy season to make his visit. Bolan started the SUV and pulled back onto the road. He drove a couple of miles before he spotted the narrow road that skirted the eastern perimeter of the farmland. It took him almost twenty minutes before he found himself paralleling the main route. In that time he had encountered no traffic. The road he was on may have been the principal one when the original farm had been built, but the wider, faster main route had taken all the traffic. For Bolan’s purpose that was ideal.
He pulled off the road, turning the BMW around before taking it down a rutted strip into the cover of tangled undergrowth. Out of sight Bolan was able to take his gear from the SUV’s back and ready himself.
His intention was to dismantle Venturer Export’s distribution base. Given the right equipment that would have been straightforward. But his access to specialist ordnance was virtually nil. Coming into the country unarmed and with no recourse to hardware meant the Executioner was winging his mission. Bolan didn’t let that hold him back. He was just going to have to be a tad more creative. In the SUV he had the handguns confiscated from the opposition, plus the MP-5. The shoulder rig he had taken from one of the gunmen housed the SIG-Sauer. His second pistol was tucked behind his belt.
Before leaving Rotterdam Bolan had used some of the money taken from Canfield’s people to outfit himself. A visit to a sporting goods store had offered him close substitutes for his combat gear. Combat-style pants, a thin sweater and a pair of sturdy walking boots—all in black. The photographer’s jacket he had purchased at a store farther along the street provided pockets for his extra ammo clips. He slung the MP-5 across his back by the webbing sling and pulled on the dark cap he’d bought.
Exiting the vehicle Bolan eased along the bottom of the ditch and peered over the rim. A few lights were on in the farmhouse and buildings against the gloom of the afternoon and the overcast sky. He studied the layout. There would be adequate cover. He spotted parked farm machinery, stacks of crates and barrels. And he saw a few more people about than he might have expected on an old-fashioned farm. Bolan had a feeling they might be there because of him and the problems he had been creating for the traffickers. His appearance and interference had stirred them into defensive mode. Hit-and run tactics had the effect of making the enemy nervous because they had no idea where or when he might strike again.
Look out, guys, I’m closer than you think.
The first drops of rain warned Bolan of the downpour about to come. He welcomed it. Rain would work more on his behalf than the opposition’s. It would cover his approach. Deaden any sound. The rainfall began in earnest, heavy drops bouncing off the road. Bolan used the rain as his cue, pushing up to the road, crouching low as he went across it and through the tall grass to the perimeter fence. The outer fence was no more than a couple of feet high, a simple three-bar structure. From there Bolan wound his way across a hard packed-earth strip and dropped to a kneeling position behind an ancient, rusting trailer. Its tires were flat and cracked, the paintwork long faded and flaking. Bolan dropped flat and crawled beneath the chassis, working his way along the trailer until he was able to look out across the main yard.
The first man he saw might have been a farmhand. His clothes were nondescript, made for heavy work, and so were the thick boots on his feet. But the squat submachine gun he carried close to his body had no place on a working farm. The next figure moving into Bolan’s line of vision, clad in a similar fashion to the first man, also had an automatic weapon. The two men came together, shoulders hunched against the rain, sharing their patrolling misery and the cigarettes they lit. Their collars were pulled up and caps pulled down against the rain.
Watching them convinced Bolan they were protecting something with a much higher value than the tomatoes being produced across the way.
Human cargo.
Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled, low and deep. The intensity of the rainfall increased. The armed guards parted company, each moving in a different direction. As one man moved out of sight the other one moved in Bolan’s general direction, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground as he tramped past the old trailer, cutting across the rear of the farm property. Bolan watched where he went and waited patiently until he returned minutes later. There was no military precision in the patrolling. The man simply wandered, the submachine gun pressed close to his side as if he was afraid getting it wet might render it inoperative. He walked past Bolan again, moving down the side of the farm building, then pausing to presumably check out his area of responsibility. He kept looking skyward, displeased at the weather, shaking his head a couple of times as he turned and resumed his restless patrolling. When the Executioner saw the man moving into a shadowed area, he slid out from beneath the trailer and fell in behind him.
Typical of old, long-established farms, there were tumbledown sheds and more abandoned machinery scattered around the property. The grass grew randomly, sprouting in defiant clumps between the rusting metal parts and cast-aside tires.
Bolan stalked his man until they were well to the back of the old house. He moved up without warning, catching his un-suspecting quarry in a powerful neck lock. He dragged the man to the wet ground, ignoring the man’s frantic struggle for his weapon, the hoarse gasp from a restricted throat. Slamming one knee into the guard’s lower spine Bolan hauled back until he felt vertebrae snap. The man went soft in his grasp. Bolan released him and pushed to his feet, stepping back, catching a final shuddering spasm before the guard became still. The Executioner took the man’s weapon and threw it into an untidy stack of old machinery. He slid the body out of sight under a trailer.
One less gunman to worry about.
Bolan wanted no surprises from guards coming in behind his back. No probe, whether hard or soft, guaranteed total security. Reducing that probability was Bolan’s only safeguard, though even he knew it wasn’t going to shield him fully.
Flat against the end wall of the barnlike building, Bolan peered around the corner. The downed guard’s partner was trudging up the slight incline, pulling up his coat collar and no doubt cursing the inclement weather. He slowed as he neared Bolan’s position, looking around for his missing buddy, then continued on toward the corner of the barn.
Was he thinking his partner had stopped under cover for another cigarette? Maybe taking shelter from the downpour?
His casual movement gave the impression he was not alerted by any possible trouble.
Bolan let the man round the end of the barn, then used his right foremarm to deliver a brutal throat
strike. The guard’s strangled cry was cut off before he could generate any warning sound. Trying to suck air through his crushed passages the man offered little resistance to Bolan’s follow-up maneuver. He caught hold of the guard’s coat collar and pulled down, driving his knee up into the vulnerable face. The solid impact drove the guard up and back. He slammed against the wood wall of the barn, splintering a couple of the weathered slats, then pitched facedown on the rain-sodden ground. Bolan relieved him of his weapons, hurling them into the shadowed piles of machinery.
He was turning away from the barn when something caught his eye. A gleam of metal showing through the gap created by the broken wood slats. Bolan checked it out. Pulling away a length of wood he saw an inner lining of steel sheeting. Something was constructed within the wooden shell of the old barn. He didn’t waste time speculating, though he didn’t expect to find anything good.
He heard a rumbling sound. The rainfall was increasing. The ground under Bolan’s feet was quickly becoming waterlogged, the disturbed earth sluicing down the gradual slope in brown rivulets. He crept around the side of the barn. Some twenty feet away the raw earth gave way to a concrete apron that provided hard standing for the vehicles that would draw up to the barn access. From his position Bolan could see that the sliding door had been rolled back. One of the South East Containers trucks had reversed up to the door and Bolan watched as the container doors at the back of the truck were opened. Figures clustered around the opening. One of them was gesturing, his raised voice reaching Bolan. Hesitant figures appeared at the edge of the container. One of the men reached up and caught an arm, dragging a young woman down out of the container. She stumbled as she landed on the concrete. Other hands reached out to steady her balance before pushing her roughly inside the barn. Bolan counted six more women being removed from the truck. The container doors were closed and secured. Someone banged on the side of the truck and it pulled away, moving down toward the main farm buildings.
The Executioner had his confirmation.
He pulled the MP-5’s sling over his head, running a quick check to confirm the weapon was set for use.
There was one man lingering near the barn door. He was leaning against the frame as he spoke into a cell phone, his head nodding as he talked. He wore a long dark coat and a baseball cap.
Bolan edged along the wall of the barn, his eyes fixed on the man. The downpour muffled any sound he might have made and Bolan was standing directly behind the man by the time he completed his call and pushed his phone into a pocket. The webbing sling flipped over the man’s head and Bolan twisted it, pulling it tight against flesh. He pulled the man back and down, jamming a knee into the spine as the squirming, panicked man struggled to reach for his gun. The powerful muscles in Bolan’s arms were taut under the pressure he was applying. The frantic struggles weakened; the boot heels drumming against the concrete slowed, jerked into stillness. Bolan held his position for a few more seconds, then loosened his grip and drew the webbing strap over the man’s head, dislodging the cap. He lowered the man to the wet concrete, caught hold of his collar and slid him away from the access door to the base of the barn wall.
With his MP-5 set for triple bursts Bolan edged around the access door, sparing a few seconds to assimilate the image.
The steel construction he had partially glimpsed through the broken barn slats was a twenty-foot-square lockbox, the front wall facing him, constructed of close-spaced bars with an inset door. Inside the box Bolan saw the group of young women from the container, some standing in listless poses, others sitting on the low cots that were bunched together at the far end of the box. Bolan’s fingers tightened around the MP-5 as the image of the captive females registered. Herded into the steel box like so much cattle. Trapped, without hope, awaiting the next stage of their forced captivity.
On the far side of the barn were stored metal canisters and crates, some standing five high. There were also racks of wooden pallets and filled sacks.
In front of the stored goods were the men who currently dominated the frightening world the women had been forced into. The traffickers. Bolan had nothing but contempt for them as they talked and laughed, clustered around one of a number of desks holding a computer, the large monitor displaying pornographic images. Bolan counted five of them. They were intent on studying the screen images, oblivious to the Executioner’s presence until one of them straightened to light a cigarette. He moved back from the main group, touching his lighter flame to the cigarette, casually glancing across the barn.
He saw Bolan.
His reaction was fast but not enough to allow himself and his partners clear space. The man shouted a warning, snatching at the handgun tucked behind his belt. He was still yelling when Bolan hit him with a 3-round burst that thudded into his chest, shoving him back against the edge of the desk. As the man arched back across the desk Bolan fed him three more slugs that shattered ribs and chewed at flesh.
The man’s four colleagues scattered in a panic, reaching for weapons. A couple wore them in body holsters, the others grabbed at MP-5s on nearby desks.
By this time Bolan was on the move, angling in across the barn, his weapon up and firing, seeking targets. His mobility proved an asset. Bolan weaved about, laying down deadly fire that cut into the unprepared traffickers. His slugs punctured flesh, broke bone and caused bloody gouts and spurts. Only one of the crew got off retaliatory fire, yanking his own MP-5 around in a panicky sweep that sent gunfire ripping through the barn’s timber walls. His action only lasted brief seconds before Bolan’s strike continued. He stitched the man with a pair of triple bursts that slammed the trafficker back across the desk, dislodging the computer monitor and sending it crashing to the floor. The man rolled across the desk, arms thrown wide, his weapon spilling from his limp grasp.
Before he moved again Bolan exchanged the MP-5’s magazine for a fresh one. It was time, mainly the lack of it, that dictated Bolan’s actions. He crossed to the lockbox. The inset door was secured by a modern lock mechanism. He studied it, then heard a quiet voice. It came from one of the young women. He didn’t understand the language and looked at her through the bars.
“English?” he asked.
She turned and gestured at one of the other girls, speaking to her.
“I understand a little,” the young woman said. “There are…keys in drawer. I saw them put in there.”
Bolan tracked her pointing finger and crossed to the desk she indicated.
“Yes. There.”
He found a set of keys, took them back to the door and found the right one on the third attempt.
“Tell them to come out. We have to move quickly. Make them understand. Others may be coming because of the shooting,” he said.
The woman nodded. She began to instruct the others and they responded without argument. They gathered at the barn door.
“That way,” Bolan said. “You’ll find a fence. A narrow road on the other side. Best I can do right now. Take them. Go.”
“What will you do?” the woman asked.
“Whatever needs doing. Now get out of here.”
The young woman nodded. Before she followed the others she bent to retrieve one of the abandoned handguns. “They will not touch us again,” she said.
Bolan followed her to the door and watched the small group as they moved up the slope, away from the barn. He picked up sound coming from below his position. Turning Bolan saw an open-backed 4x4 swinging into view and racing in his direction. His presence on the farm was well and truly acknowledged now.
Bolan stepped out from cover to take the battle to the enemy.
10
The driver of the 4x4 raised a warning as the tall, dark-clad figure stepped out of the barn, the submachine gun in his hands raised. Beyond him the women from the lockbox were running free and clear. At the driver’s shout one of the men standing in the exposed rear of the vehicle swung his weapon on-line and opened fire. The slight bounce of the 4x4 took his aim off-line and the strea
m of 9 mm slugs chewed wood from the barn wall, spitting splinters into the air.
The shooter’s partner, less reckless, called him an idiot. He told him to hold back until they were closer. It might have been sound advice but in this case it did little to gain them any advantage.
The Executioner broke into a hard run, weaving slightly as he approached them, then brought himself to a stop. The MP-5 in his steady hands settled on the 4x4. Flame winked at the muzzle. Glass shattered as the windshield blew apart. The driver screamed as he caught a face full of razor fragments and 9 mm slugs. He twisted away from the windshield, losing control of the 4x4. It lurched to the right, jerking as the lack of control brought about a stall.
The pair of shooters were thrown off balance for seconds that cost them dearly.
Bolan raised the MP-5 as he stepped to the side, clearing the cab as the vehicle came to a dead stop. The shooters in the back reached out to steady themselves by grabbing the rail at the rear of the cab. It was Bolan’s opening. He took it without pause, his weapon spitting triple bursts as he closed in on the vehicle. The closest shooter jerked and twitched as he caught a triple tap, the force of the slugs turning him sideways, so that Bolan’s second burst hit him in the ribs, splintering bone and coring through to his heart. His partner scrambled to the far side of the truck and jumped to the ground, hauling his own submachine gun into position for a fast response once he saw his target. He failed to see Bolan drop to the concrete and angle his MP-5 beneath the 4x4. The Executioner tracked the shooter as he moved the length of the truck, then triggered two 3-round bursts that shattered the man’s ankles, dumping him screaming on the ground, blood squirting from his torn flesh and shattered bone. The shooter caught a quick glimpse of Bolan before the MP-5 crackled again and the shooter’s head snapped back under the force of the 9 mm slugs.
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