Desperate Cargo

by Don Pendleton

  Rolling again to gain distance Bolan staggered to his feet. He saw Gantley doing the same, and not wanting to give the man any leeway he launched a full roundhouse kick that hammered into Gantley’s chest, driving him backward. Continuing his forward run Bolan had almost reached Gantley when the Brit hooked his own right leg around and kicked Bolan’s legs from under him.

  The drop to the slabs left Bolan struggling for air. He saw Gantley rise over him, fists opening and closing in unison. Bolan drew his legs under himself and pushed upright. He swung at Gantley, drawing blood from the man’s left cheek. Bolan didn’t see Gantley’s left sweep up out of nowhere. It struck him across the side of his face with a meaty thump. Bolan recoiled from the blow, tasting blood in his mouth. He backpedaled and slammed against the buttressed stone wall edging the roof, gasping from the impact.

  The man was not going to give him time to recover. Even as the thought crossed his mind Bolan sensed movement, saw the shadow that fell across the stone slabs at his feet. He heard the grunt of exertion as Gantley launched another fist. Bolan yanked his head to one side, the solid knuckles raking the curve of his jaw. Although the full force of the blow was reduced, there was enough energy to spin Bolan off balance. Bolan heard the scuff of Gantley’s boots as the man moved to keep up with him. He threw up his left arm and took a solid blow just below his shoulder, then hauled himself around and countered with his right fist, slamming it hard into Gantley’s ribs. The blow drew a grunt from the man and he retreated briefly, giving Bolan time to slam a booted foot against the Brit’s knee again.

  Gantley pulled back, struggling to maintain his balance and Bolan thrust himself forward, driving his shoulder into the man’s broad chest, then launching a forearm smash that impacted against Gantley’s cheek. The sheer force of the blow fractured the cheekbone. Bolan delivered a second punch, increasing the damage. Flesh tore and a shard of splintered cheekbone showed white before blood discolored it.

  The pain he must have felt only increased Gantley’s fury. He caught hold of Bolan’s blacksuit with both hands and hurled him across the stone flags. Losing his balance Bolan had seconds to throw out his arms to break his fall as he went down for the second time. He landed hard, bouncing and tumbling across the weathered slabs, scraping his face against the rough surface. He felt the wash of warm blood streaking across his cheek and mouth. The low stone wall edging the roof brought him to a bone-jarring stop.

  Bolan could hear the heavy crash of the surging tide slamming against the rocks at the base of the east wall behind and below. Twisting his head he saw Gantley advancing. Blood streamed down his face and spattered the front of his fatigues. Gantley still looked every inch the hard man he was. His solid bulk did nothing to hinder his movements and he lunged forward without warning, slamming into Bolan as he pushed to his feet, aware of the low wall at his back. He was too late to move aside and Gantley crushed him against the stonework, massive hands clamping around Bolan’s throat. Bolan felt his spine driven against the lip of the wall. He braced his booted feet and pushed back against Gantley’s sheer bulk. The man was snorting with the effort he was putting into his attack. Hot breath fanned Bolan’s face. He felt Gantley’s thick fingers squeezing down on his neck, starting to deny him air.

  Bolan sensed déjà vu. Gantley’s arms were around his neck again. If he was unable to draw in oxygen his responses would begin to falter. He spun through his options, realizing they were few. Gantley had him pinned against the wall so there was no retreat that way. The man’s brute strength, spread against Bolan, held him near motionless. Only Bolan’s arms were free. He spread them for a moment, closing his hands into fists, then struck out at Gantley’s face—first against the already damaged cheek, then to the other side of the Brit’s face. Every ounce of Bolan’s not inconsiderable strength went into the blows, delivered without mercy. He maintained the two-sided attack, slamming his knuckled fists against Gantley’s face, seeing it turn even more bloody and raw.

  Gantley increased his grip on Bolan’s throat and it became a simple contest between the two—who would quit first. Bolan centered his whole being on his unrestrained physical assault on his opponent, his fists aching from the contact with Gantley’s head. And it was Gantley who jerked back, gasping from the relentless blows slamming into his battered flesh. As his grip on Bolan’s throat slackened Bolan planted his left hand on Gantley’s chest and accelerated his withdrawal, pulling back his right arm to aim a telling blow that landed square against Gantley’s already smashed nose. Blood erupted in bright streams.

  Howling with pain Gantley stumbled back, raising his hands to his ruined face and Bolan went directly for his unprotected stomach and ribs, pounding in blow after blow that brought the former military cop to a stop. Gantley let out a shuddering moan, starting to fold. Bolan dropped his hands on Gantley’s shoulders, pushing down as he swept his right knee up to smash into Gantley’s face. The blow straightened Gantley, his face a caved-in bloody mask. He didn’t even see as Bolan stepped in close, turning, then hauling Gantley over his shoulder in a body throw that launched the Brit off his feet. There was a surreal moment when Gantley seemed to hang in the empty air, then a long scream as he vanished over the buttressed wall, out into empty space before the long drop to the granite rocks at the base of the house.

  Gantley’s scream faded as he fell, ceasing the instant he struck the rocks.

  25

  The Executioner retrieved his Beretta after he finally located it, then crawled on hands and knees back to the base of the wall where he leaned against the stone, head hanging, dripping blood. Waves of nausea engulfed him. The only way he might have described his condition was as one big bruise. He was aching from head to foot. Bloody and sick. Even his hands hurt. His knuckles were raw and bleeding. He raised his aching head back against the cold, rough stone of the wall, wishing the rain would wash away his pain. He knew he had to move soon. To go find Hugo Canfield and complete his mission.

  In the end he didn’t need to do even that.

  Something told him Canfield would find him, and Bolan was too exhausted to climb to his feet there and then.

  From where he sat he could see the door that led back down into the house. A square of light against the graying dawn. He fixed his gaze on the doorway and waited. Something stirred in him, warning that Canfield was going to come to him. Bolan’s battered right hand grasped the Beretta, drawing it close to his side where it was hidden by his thigh. He moved the selector lever to tri-bursts.

  He waited.

  The minutes crawled. When he breathed Bolan felt a stab of pain across his ribs down his right side. He laid his left hand across his body, pressed over the ache. He hoped they were simply bruised and not cracked.

  He saw the shadow first, moving against the stone wall just inside the open stairwell. Bolan fixed on it, watched it pause, then rise higher. He could see the head and shoulders. The extended outline of a weapon. The form grew larger. It was the bulk of a tall man carrying an easily recognizable SPAS combat shotgun.

  The man chose his weapons well, Bolan thought.

  His grip on the Beretta tightened.

  Hugo Canfield stepped through the open door, moving quickly to one side to avoid being framed. His searching eyes picked up on Bolan’s motionless form, the shotgun coming around to center on the Executioner.

  “Tell me you’re still alive, Cooper. I want you alive, you interfering son of a bitch, so I can blow you to hell and back.”

  Bolan didn’t respond. He needed Canfield to walk closer so he had a clear shot.

  “Just move. Enough so I know you can see who it is putting you down. Damn you, Cooper, fucking move. You hear me? Thought you’d won? I’ll get through this. Rebuild. Come through even stronger. Do you bloody well hear me..?”

  Bolan heard him.

  He showed he had heard by bringing up the concealed Beretta.

  He saw the shock on Canfield’s face in the instant before he fired.

  He placed a tr
iple burst that cored between Canfield’s eyes and into his brain. He followed with two more, dropping the man where he stood, his finger frozen on the trigger of the shotgun. Canfield sprawled on the rain-soaked roof of Banecreif, his shattered skull leaking blood and brains across the slabs.

  “You talk too much,” Bolan said.

  He let his gun hand drop to his side. Despite the wet and the cold he was too tired to move for the moment, so he stayed where he was as dawn crept over the horizon.

  HAL BROGNOLA ANSWERED his phone and for a moment failed to recognize who was on the other end. It was only when he picked up the word Banecreif that he realized it was Bolan.

  “Hey, Striker, you sound a little rough.”

  “It’s been one of those days.”

  “You get your result?”

  “The organization is minus its head boy. Banecreif might be open for a new tenant. After some redecoration.”

  “Do I pass our findings along to the task force now? They are going to think Christmas has come early. I’ve already had reports of Canfield’s associates starting to jump ship and getting lawyered up.”

  “The whole package. Have a word with Aaron. He should have completed his excavations into the databases we downloaded. I figure the task force will be knocking on quite a few doors in the next week or so.”

  “Hey, thanks for your input, pal. We can start to pick up the pieces and step in. No doubt there’s going to be some raised voices heard but with Canfield out of the frame and most of his major setups out of action…well, I guess you see the situation should work in our favor once we start producing the downloaded data.”

  “Before I moved out I found the drug stash Canfield had on-site.”

  “His new venture?”

  “Yeah. Hell of a size, too. I didn’t like to leave all that white powder lying around in the basement. Anyone could have wandered in and found it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Happens that Canfield kept a fuel backup in one of the outhouses with Banecreif being off the track. Diesel and gasoline. I jury-rigged supply hoses to feed in through the extraction vents to the basement. Those storage tanks held quite a few gallons. Made one hell of a blaze.”

  “Are you clear, Striker?”

  “Way down the road. Couple of police cruisers went by a while back, but I’m observing the speed limit and out of uniform.”

  Brognola sighed.

  “Thank God for that. Hey, you sound bushed. You need any help?”

  “The final quarter got a little rough. I held my own but took some whacks.”

  “You fit to drive?”

  “Slowly.”

  “Keep your cell handy. I’ll see what I can fix through the U.K. task force. Make a rendezvous for you. Hell, they owe you that much. No, dammit, we all owe you.”

  “Keep an open file on this dirty business, Hal, because it isn’t finished yet. If no one else does I’ll be coming back to it. Sooner or later I’ll be coming back. And that’s a promise.”

  a cognizant original v5 release october 13 2010

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-5246-6

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.

  DESPERATE CARGO

  Copyright © 2010 by Worldwide Library.

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