Bolan yanked open the driver’s door and hauled the body from the seat and climbed in. He dropped the MP-5 and dipped the clutch, turning the key to restart the stalled 4x4. As the engine burst into life Bolan put the vehicle into gear and slammed down on the gas pedal, sending the 4x4 into a rubber-scorching lurch forward. He spun the steering wheel and took the truck inside the barn, bringing it to a hard stop. Out of the cab he grabbed his weapon and some spare magazines, then stepped around to the side of the 4x4, crouched and raked the underside, puncturing the gas tank. Streams of gasoline began to spurt from the ragged holes. Bolan kept firing the MP-5 until the magazine was empty. The gas was spreading in a wide pool across the concrete floor of the barn.
Crossing to the desks Bolan searched the floor and found the lighter dropped by the first man he had shot. He scooped it up and ignited it. The lighter flared as Bolan turned up the butane. Bolan snatched up a discarded newspaper and formed it into a loose tube. He lit the paper and let it burn, then tossed the flaming torch into the spreading gasoline. Vapor caught the fire, sucking at it hungrily. It engulfed the 4x4 in a frantic surge, flame swelling up in a ravenous ball. Bolan retreated, snapping in a fresh magazine for the MP-5. He had just reached the door as the truck blew, the force of the blast slamming between his shoulders and almost knocking him off balance as he stumbled out into the cool of the rain.
Raised voices made him turn. Three armed figures were running in his direction. They opened fire the moment Bolan appeared, slugs hammering at the concrete. Bolan pulled back, flat against the wall of the barn, feeling the heat from the fire starting to penetrate the wood. He raised the MP-5 and tracked the closest of the approaching hostiles. He stroked the trigger and saw his target stumble. The man went down all the way when Bolan hit him with a second triple burst. The sight of their partner falling made the other two fall back, hesitating as they realized their own vulnerable positions. Bolan didn’t hesitate. He put a burst into one of the men, the slugs tearing through his shoulder and spraying bloody bits of flesh and bone from the wound. The man dropped his weapon, clutching at his shoulder. In his haste to get away he lost his footing and crashed headlong to the concrete. Bolan heard the crackle of automatic fire from the remaining man, felt the snap of slugs as they burned the air around him. He felt the shock of a hit as a bullet clipped his right side, just above the hip. The force knocked him off balance. Bolan forced himself to absorb the pain as he swung his MP-5 toward the shooter. He saw the man go down hard, his weapon discharging into the sky.
Clamping a hand over his bleeding hip Bolan straightened, turning to head back up the slope to his waiting car.
Behind him flames were flaring from between the wooden slats as the barn fire expanded. Bolan heard soft explosions from within the blazing structure and remembered the stored canisters and packed sacks. He had no idea what they might have held but they seemed to be reacting to the intense heat. He had almost reached the low fence when a powerful explosion rocked the ground under his feet. When he looked back over his shoulder he witnessed a series of blasts that threw spiraling geysers of flame into the sky, tearing out the barn roof. He maintained his retreat from the farm as the explosions continued, the fireballs arcing across the farm grounds, raining down on the main buildings and parked vehicles. Whatever had been stored in the barn was proving to be highly flammable and was creating chaos on the traffickers’ base.
Bolan stumbled over the fence, going to his knees on the rain-sodden ground, a sudden weakness starting to spread over him. Reaction to the bullet wound. The hand over the flesh gouge in his side was leaking blood between his fingers. He felt the ground shudder as one of the arcing fireballs hit the earth just yards away, spreading a burning mass of liquid flame. Too close, Bolan decided. He struggled to his feet and made for the road.
A rain-soaked figure appeared, hands reaching out to support him. Bolan blinked his watery eyes and recognized the young woman from the barn. The one who spoke some English.
“I can help. Come.”
She let him lean against her. She was stronger than she looked. One arm around his body she led Bolan across the road and down the slope to his parked SUV. The rest of the women were crouching down behind the vehicle. They watched Bolan with wary expressions, faces lit by the rising flames in the gray afternoon.
“We need to move away from here,” Bolan said, using his key to unlock the BMW. “Tell them to get in the vehicle. Now.”
Before the woman had time to answer something caught her eye and she gripped Bolan’s shoulder. “They come.”
Bolan swung around. Saw the approaching bulk of a big SUV. It was speeding up from the farm, bouncing over the rutted ground. It hit the concrete strip, swinging out from its direct path as it powered past the blazing barn.
“In the car,” he yelled, bringing the MP-5 on-line.
Bolan fought back the rising pain from the bullet gouge, ignored the blood still seeping from the wound, as he pushed up to road level, facing the oncoming bulk of the SUV. He saw a dark figure lean out from the side window and level a weapon. The muzzle flared briefly as the weapon crackled. The ill-judged volley went wide. Bolan stood his ground and returned fire from his static position, and as the heavy vehicle smashed through the flimsy perimeter fence, his burst clattered in through the grille and into the radiator. Raising his weapon Bolan hit the hood and the windshield. The glass failed to break, the slugs ricocheting off, leaving starred cracks. The effect made the driver haul on the wheel, the big tires squealing as they ground into the paved surface of the road. The SUV slid sideways, swinging dangerously close to Bolan as it came around. He threw himself out of harm’s way, the bulk of the vehicle missing him by inches before it righted itself and powered along the strip of the road.
Bolan tucked and rolled, biting back the flare of pain from his wounded hip as he slid across the rain-soaked ground. He scrambled to his knees, bringing the MP-5 back on track as the SUV jerked to a sliding stop, rear doors swinging open. Armed figures disgorged from the vehicle. Bolan opened fire before they had the chance to set themselves and caught one with a couple of tri-bursts that slammed him back against the open door. The man on Bolan’s blind side made it to the rear of the SUV, searching for a target. He walked into Bolan’s steady fire and went down with a harsh gurgle.
Bolan heard the roar of the SUV’s motor as the driver decided to gain some distance. He ran forward, raising the MP-5 to shoulder height, angling the muzzle, firing into the vehicle at window level. The side glass shattered as repeated bursts riddled the interior. The SUV made a brief forward jerk, then stalled, the motor dying. Bolan cleared the magazine, ejected it and felt in a pocket for a fresh load. He clicked it in place. He jerked the weapon around as the driver’s door clicked open. The driver slid sideways, pushing the door wide as he dropped from the seat onto the road, blood gleaming on his torn neck and from ragged wounds in his face and skull.
Bolan stood in the middle of the road, soaked from the heavy rain, hand clutched over his bloody side. The MP-5 dropped in his right hand. He didn’t hear the woman step alongside. Only glanced around when she touched his arm.
“Now we go,” she suggested.
Bolan stared at her.
“Before others come. Please.”
He followed her back to the SUV. The other women were already crowded inside the vehicle. The woman slid onto the passenger seat and waited until Bolan climbed behind the wheel. He started the motor and got the SUV moving up out of the hollow and onto the road. He hit the wiper switch and the blades swept back and forth, clearing the rain from the windshield. As he followed the road on its curving path back to the main highway the farm came into view on their right. The blazing barn was in plain sight, other fires raging from the fallout created by the explosion of the material stored inside the building.
Beside Bolan the young woman, still clutching the pistol she had picked up, nodded to herself as she stared at the blaze.
Bolan kept the BMW rolling, slo
wing only when he reached the junction where the side road rejoined the main route. He swung the wheel and drove past the jam of vehicles starting to crowd the highway. Once he was clear Bolan increased his speed. Twice they saw emergency vehicles heading for the blaze site. Hugo Canfield’s people were going to have to answer some serious questions once the police became involved. Bolan’s hope was that the disruption to the trafficking operation would simply add more pressure to his actions. He was also aware that Canfield’s involvement would be well camouflaged and any connection between himself and the operation would be hard to prove on a legal level.
Bolan’s past experience had educated him in the complexities of the criminal mind-set. Men like Hugo Canfield operated on a different level. Distanced from the everyday exposure of his criminal activities by legal manipulation, the use of cover titles and companies operating under him but run by underlings. Canfield was far beyond the grasp of law enforcement. He was able to make his profits by proxy. He allowed others to take the risks and the falls from grace. That was why the task force had not been able to reach him. Canfield simply sidestepped all their efforts, using the law and its complex infrastructure to protect him, while at the same time giving it the finger.
Now he had a different hunter on his trail. One who moved outside the restrictions of such laws. Mack Bolan used a simple logic. He saw the crimes. He identified the perpetrators. He did not stand idly by and do nothing.
Bolan considered the huddled group of young women in the SUV. They were the victims. Taken by force from the streets they called home. Transported to a strange place by men who saw them as nothing more than merchandise. Objects with a price over their heads, to be bartered for and sold into lives of deprivation and humiliation. The traffickers dealt in human souls, without any thought for the innocents they preyed upon. Human trafficking, in Bolan’s eyes, was one of the most despicable crimes man had ever devised. There was something especially evil when men could take others of their kind and sell them like so much cattle, indifferent to the suffering they caused.
Hugo Canfield made vast amounts of money via this sickening business. He collected his payments from the people he sold to, enriching his already privileged life with increasing amounts. While he lounged in comfort the nameless victims were forced into degrading occupations, where any kind of resistance would be rewarded with violence. Their new masters looked upon their purchases as simply that—purchases—objects they could treat how they wished. The objects had no rights. No redress against the treatment they received, and there was nowhere for them to escape. Owned body and soul by their masters they found that the only relief they could expect came through obedience. Total, unquestioning obedience.
Venturer Exports existed because of the protective umbrella spread over it. A formation of powerful individuals who used their positions to hide the activities of the traffickers beneath complex covers. Favors and money fueled the actions of these protectors. Canfield knew his people and he lavished his bounty on them, sucking them into his circle. It was a self-perpetuating monster. One that demanded more from everyone involved. Any threat against the safety of the collective would bring powerful responses because there was too much to lose. Money aside, there were reputations and careers to protect. The higher the profile the more they had to lose. Bolan had already witnessed the willingness of his enemies to hit back. As far as he was concerned the responses he was getting indicated his strikes were starting to bite.
He had no option but to maintain his offensive.
“I think we have company,” the young woman at his side said, her body twisted around in the seat as she peered through the BMW’s rear window.
Bolan checked his side mirror and spotted a big silver Mercedes barreling along behind them. It wasn’t so much the car but the aggressive way it was being driven that was alarming.
Bolan saw the vehicle accelerate. Silver spray misted behind it from the rain-slick road. It drew closer to the SUV. The driver was pushing to the limit. The thought of engaging on this busy strip of highway didn’t sit well with Bolan. He always did his best to avoid involving those he considered innocents. It was looking as if his opponents had no such scruples.
A figure leaned out from one of the car’s windows, a pistol in his hand. The shooter held his position for a while but was unable to gain a solid shot and finally pulled back inside the car.
“We can’t avoid them out here,” Bolan said to the woman. “Tell everyone to hang on.”
These mans don’t give up, he thought. Well, neither do I.
He jammed his foot hard down on the gas, sending the SUV surging forward. Peering through the streaked windshield he saw a sign ahead, indicating a right turn onto what appeared to be a construction site. Bolan hauled the wheel at the last moment, feeling the heavy SUV rock on its suspension as it fought gravity in the sudden turn. For a moment the rear wheels felt as if they were about to lose traction. They held and the SUV bumped over the edge of the paved highway onto a wide strip of hard packed earth made slippery by the falling rain.
Bolan checked out the way ahead. The muddy track opened out on a wide expanse of graded terrain. There were scattered items of heavy earth-moving vehicles. All of them sat motionless at the moment. To their left steel girders thrust up from concrete bases. Stacks of buildings materials dotted the site. All that was missing were the construction workers. They had quit for the day, or had been forced to quit because of the weather. Bolan didn’t fail to notice the pools of brown water that had gathered in the ground hollows. Even with its high suspension and deep-treaded tires the SUV was finding the loose surface hard work. Glancing in his rearview mirror Bolan saw the Mercedes still in sight, but making its way over the muddy terrain.
Okay, Bolan decided, let’s do it the hard way.
He gunned the engine, swinging the wheel around and faced back the way he had come.
Beside him the young woman gasped. “What are you doing? This is crazy.”
“You could be right,” Bolan said. “But it’s been that way the past few days.”
He aimed the big SUV directly at the Mercedes, arcs of mud spraying up from beneath his wheels. He saw the car slide to a stop, then start to flounder as it sank in brown mud, the driver giving in to panic as he tried to apply full power to the wheels. All he did was dig the car in deeper.
“You will hit them,” the woman said.
“Maybe, but not with this,” Bolan said, taking his foot off the gas pedal and pressing the brake.
The SUV slowed, sliding sideways as Bolan let go of the wheel. He grabbed the MP-5, shoved open his door and jumped out. The ground was soft, slippery, underfoot. He leaned against the side of the stalled SUV and worked his way to the front.
The driver of the Mercedes shouted something to his partners as he saw the black-clad figure emerge from the SUV. One of the back doors opened and Bolan saw a raised weapon. He shouldered the MP-5, tracked the shooter and hit him with a burst that shattered the door window before reaching the target. The man stumbled back, clutching at his punctured chest.
Bolan half turned and jacked out more bursts, this time aimed at the driver behind the windshield. It took a couple of assaults before the glass starred and imploded. The driver’s hand flew off the wheel, a reflex action as he caught slugs and glass that tore the flesh of his throat and face. The car jerked to a sudden stop as the engine stalled. Bolan moved out from cover, closing in on the Mercedes. He had seen movement at the rear of the vehicle. The far-side rear door being pushed open. He flicked the selector to full auto and riddled the car with 9 mm death. He maintained his forward motion, pausing only once to feed in a fresh magazine before continuing his attack. He took it to the logical conclusion.
The Executioner checked the interior of the car. The driver and the two men in the rear lay in bloody sprawls. The one man who had stepped out lay facedown in the mud.
Bolan turned back to the BMW, seeing the white, shocked faces of the young women pressed against the win
dow glass. They watched him without saying a word as he climbed back inside, dropping the spent MP-5 on the floor. He started the engine and slowly drove back the way they had come until they reached the road again. He wasn’t in a talkative mood himself. The wound in his hip was still hurting. He could feel warm blood drawing the blacksuit against his flesh. He should have done something about it but his main concern was getting the women as far away from the farm as possible. The authorities were going to have a great deal to sort out. It would keep them occupied for some time and he wanted to use that time to get well clear. At the earliest opportunity he needed to call Brognola again to have him liaise with the task force so the women could be taken care of.
Bolan needed to take some time for himself to deal with his wound, get some rest and prepare for the next phase of his operation.
It was time to leave Rotterdam and relocate to the U.K.
Hugo Canfield had his secondary operation there and that was the Executioner’s next target.
He had a final request for Brognola. Bolan needed a flight out of Holland. One that would not involve him having to negotiate official channels. Bolan’s Matt Cooper identity had been involved in too much action within Holland’s borders. He wanted to get out quickly and quietly, and enter the U.K. in the same way.
11
Len Watts waited for the Executioner in a quiet pub in Pinner, a suburb of London. His appearance did not hint at his profession. Watts, a tall, athletically built man in his early forties, had the look of an academic. He wore beige corduroy slacks and a tweedy sports coat, an open-neck shirt and tan loafers. His dark hair was collar length. Yet his easy manner concealed the sharp mind of a man with his finger on the pulse of the covert world he worked in.
McCarter had given little away when he had sent along the details to Bolan concerning Watts. Reading between the lines Bolan’s guess was that Len Watts not only provided ordnance, but knew how to use it, and most likely had used it.
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