Shadow Hunt

by Don Pendleton

  The Executioner nodded and made the call to the marshals’ office. Then he tucked the files under his arm and started to walk to the door.

  “Marshals are on their way to take you into custody,” Bolan told Perotti. “We’ll hand you over to them, which is more than you deserve.”

  Perotti laughed, almost maniacally. “You think you’ve got me, Cooper? None of this will ever see the light of day. I might lose my badge, but I’ll be on the street in less than six months. And when that day comes, I’ll be looking for you. I’ll find you, Cooper, and I’ll kill you.” He laughed again. “Assuming Costello doesn’t get you first.”

  The Executioner was going to say something, but then noticed Perotti’s left hand reaching for something under the desk. Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle in one smooth motion, turned and shot him in the heart. The report echoed in the small office as Perotti slumped back into the chair, dead. The 9 mm pistol that he’d grabbed dropped to the floor.

  “I guess I should have handcuffed him. Too bad he won’t be able to stand trial,” Remy said.

  “He just testified,” Bolan said quietly. “And I was judge, jury and executioner.”

  17

  Bolan and Remy knew the resonating sound of the gunshot would bring security on the double, so they left the office running and hit the stairwell at full speed. Fortune smiled on them, and they got out of the building without incident. Once outside, they quickly returned to the SUV. Bolan handed the file he’d taken to Remy, who began to flip through it while they drove through the city.

  Remy suggested they could lie low for a time at a blues club, right on the edge of the French Quarter, and Bolan agreed. By the time they got there, the club was shutting down for the night, but the owner was a friend of Remy’s and waved them in. The Spotted Cat was in a tiny two-story building tucked between two towering office buildings. The interior was bricked along the stage wall, with stools lined up for the acts to use. Bolan looked around as Remy spoke with the owner. The memorabilia that lined the walls would have made any music lover envious. A whispered conversation between the two men resulted in the owner quickly locking up and heading to his apartment upstairs, after telling them to take all the time they needed.

  Remy walked behind the bar and poured himself a Red Horse beer from the tap. He held a second large glass mug up to Bolan. “Want one?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “But is that coffee behind you warm?”

  Remy put a hand on the side of the pot. “Yeah, but I got no idea how old it is. You might be drinking Mississippi mud.”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said. “This is the first place that I’ve seen in New Orleans that makes me appreciate the city. We’ll get rid of some of the thugs, and maybe people can enjoy the music and the history again.”

  Remy poured Bolan a mug of the black coffee and brought it to a table along with his beer. They settled down with the files Bolan had taken from Perotti’s office, and began sifting through the pages.

  Bolan couldn’t believe that Perotti had been corrupt for so many years, long before Costello was added to the mix. He had been using the international ports and waterways as his own personal loan shark and shipping empire. His bank records showed accounts in the Caymans, Switzerland and Argentina.

  “Hey, look at this,” Remy said, holding out another sheet of paper for Bolan’s inspection. “This is interesting.”

  He added the sheet to the pages he was already compiling, all of which were related to shipments of Israeli weapons. But the crates Bolan had seen in the warehouse were small potatoes compared to the list in front of him. In the warehouse, he’d only noticed assault rifles and small arms, but this list included antitank missiles, explosives and communications gear designed to pick up on satellite transmissions. These weren’t just arms to be supplied to private security forces, these were the kinds of munitions that could start wars in certain parts of the world.

  “It looks like they were pulling stuff straight off the ships in the Gulf,” Bolan said. “Some of these lists are stamped like a manifest.”

  “They’re getting into some pretty serious weapons here,” Remy said. “Assault rifles are bad enough, but one of these antitank weapons could take out a small building. I also see some higher yield explosives that might have an interesting impact, like say blowing a hole in the side of a building. This would be pretty big stuff on the black market.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Bolan said suddenly.

  “What’s that?” Remy asked.

  “That I haven’t talked to the right people yet,” he replied. Bolan picked up his cell phone and hit the auto-dial for Brognola.

  “What have you got?” Brognola said as he picked up.

  “I need you to use one of your contacts. I’ve got a hunch.”

  THE PHONE RANG twice before a heavily accented voice answered. “Amit,” Bolan said, “I’m sorry to call so late, but I’m a colleague of Hal Brognola and he said you might be able to help me out with a very urgent matter.” Amit was an Israeli intelligence officer stationed at the embassy in Washington, D.C.

  “Men in our business are not allowed the luxury of uninterrupted rest, my friend. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have a secure fax line?” Bolan asked.

  “Of course,” Amit said, rattling off the number.

  “One second,” Bolan said, turning to Remy. “Does your friend own a fax machine?” When Remy nodded in the affirmative, Bolan handed him the sheaf of papers and gave him the number. “Send this over for me, would you?”

  Remy took the papers and headed toward the small office behind the bar.

  “I have a file of information that I’m going to send you,” Bolan told Amit. “It should be coming through in just a minute.”

  Amit asked for him to hold while he transferred the call, and picked it back up several minutes later. “The pages are coming through now,” he said.

  “Good.” Bolan then filled Amit in on Costello, Perotti and Lacroix. “From what I can tell, they’re stealing this stuff right off your transport ships. Are you getting reports of missing hardware?” He could hear the sound of papers being shuffled in the background.

  “Yes, actually,” Amit said. “We’ve got investigators working the area now. We had three shipments come up short, but we weren’t certain where the theft was happening in the supply chain. We caught it earlier on the last shipment, so we’ve been having the vessels stay anchored in the same area while it is being investigated. Some of the things that were taken are…sensitive.”

  “Looking at the list, I can see why they would be a cause for concern. I’m glad you’re holding the ships. Maybe if we work together we can figure out which parties may be involved,” he said.

  “Do you have any photographs of these men?” Amit asked.

  Bolan looked through the papers on the table and found color copies of identification. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got them.”

  “Can you send them to me?”

  “Sure, hold on a moment,” Bolan said. He used his phone to take a picture of each one up close, then sent them to Amit via email. “On the way.”

  “My personal email?” he asked.

  “Yes. Hal supplied me with your address,” Bolan replied.

  “One moment, then,” Amit said. “Stand by.”

  Bolan held for a couple of moments, then the intelligence officer came back on the line. “Are you sure the names are all correct?” he asked.

  “As far as I know,” he said. “Why?”

  “Because the man in the picture identified as Nick Costello is not him.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “This man is not real Mafia,” Amit said. “He’s not even Italian.”

  “You’re kidding,” Bolan replied. “Then who is he?”

  “A man we tracked for several years, then we lost him. His name is Nikolai Agron, and he’s old Russian KGB. Back when it all started to fall apart, he was selling off parts of the Russia
n war machine before anyone else had even considered it. His greed got him chased out of Russia, and he turned up in several other places using different names, but around 2005, he vanished. In truth, we assumed he was dead.”

  Several lights went on in Bolan’s mind, including why Costello’s accent seemed funny to him. He was very good at disguising it, but the hint was there for an experienced listener. “Damn, that explains a lot,” he said. “For one thing, so far as I can tell, he rarely leaves his compound.”

  “With your permission, I would like to share this information with one of my compatriots in Russian intelligence. He would be very happy if I could give him Agron’s location, and it would clear up a debt between us.”

  “You can tell him, Amit, but I wouldn’t count on them getting to him before I do.”

  “I do not suppose you would consider waiting,” he said, his voice expressing dismay. “At least for some of my people? This series of thefts is being taken very seriously by many in the upper ranks, and it’s one of our top priorities at the moment. There is a lot of pride that needs to be soothed.”

  “I’m sorry, but all of this is coming to a head and I’m going to finish it. Still, you should probably have someone in the area who can verify that the weapons belong to you, and I’d appreciate anything you’ve got on Agron. I’d like to know who I’m really dealing with here.”

  “The file is no trouble, and I can have someone from the embassy down there as soon as possible…” Amit’s voice trailed off for a moment, then he said, “But do not be surprised if others are on their way, as well.”

  “Just tell your people two men out there are on their side,” Bolan said. “I don’t want to be caught in a cross fire.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Thank you for coming to me with this. I want this stopped. My government will be extremely grateful, and it will probably mean a promotion.”

  “And thanks for your help,” Bolan said, then hung up the phone. Remy had returned to the table and finished his beer. The soldier related the conversation he’d just had, and finished just as the file on Agron came through to his phone.

  He opened the file and he and Remy looked at it together.

  “Ex-KGB, all kinds of trafficking, including drugs, weapons and even women into the sex-slave trade in Eastern Europe. An all around class act,” Bolan finished sarcastically.

  “So he’s not even Italian,” Remy said. “You know, I bet some of the people working for him might look down on that kind of thing.”

  Bolan opened his phone and dialed again. Maybe lighting a fire under the real Mafia would help their odds.

  The voice on the other end sounded extremely unhappy. “Who the fuck is this, and why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”

  “Is this Angelo Cosenza of Chicago?”

  “Yeah, it is. Who the hell are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a concerned citizen just calling to give you some information.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?” he said.

  Bolan didn’t respond, just relayed the story of how Nick Costello, posing as a mafioso in New Orleans, was actually a Russian thug named Nikolai Agron.

  “The hell you say,” Angelo said. “If this is true, he’s got some balls on him.”

  “Big ones,” Bolan agreed. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

  “I’ll take care of it—and him—personally,” Cosenza said.

  “Better hurry,” he replied. “I think this guy has a lot of trouble coming his way.”

  There was a long pause, followed by an odd, rasping sound that he quickly realized was laughter. Finally Cosenza said, “Yeah, you got that right,” and he hung up the phone.

  Bolan gathered up the papers on the table and finished his coffee, while Remy drank the last of his beer.

  “I have a thought,” Remy said, “if you want to hear it.”

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “I don’t know what everyone you’ve called will do, but if they thin the herd, I’m liking our odds a little better.”

  “Real mafiosi hate impostors,” Bolan replied. “Especially ones who are taking money out of their hands and putting it into their own pockets. They’ll take it personally.”

  “And the Israelis?”

  “For them, it will be a matter of national security and public pride. If Costello gets those weapons into the hands of his buyer, the trail will ultimately lead back to the Israelis. It would be a big mess and a public relations nightmare for them. They’ll act quickly, and the Russians will be right behind them.”

  “Then we better move fast, because it sounds like you’re going to have more guns on your side than he does.”

  “Costello is a bonus,” Bolan said. “More importantly, I want to get Rio out alive. That’s why I came here in the first place.”

  Remy took his empty glass and Bolan’s mug to the bar. “Then let’s get moving.”

  “IT’S ALL FALLING APART,” Nick said. “We’re out of time.”

  “What’s happened?” Victor Salerno asked.

  “Perotti is dead, killed in his own office, and it looks like a bunch of his files are apparently missing.”

  “That’s bad,” he agreed.

  “It gets worse. The docks are awash with Israelis on ‘shore leave,’ and even a few Russians.”

  “Russians? Why?” Salerno asked.

  “Who the hell knows?” Nick said, but of course he did. His cover had somehow been completely blown. It was only a matter of time until the real Italian Mafia got involved as well, and when Salerno found out that he wasn’t who he said he was… He shook his head. “Put an extra guard on Rio, and move him to a secure room in the center of the house. I want the gates closed and the perimeter sealed. No one in or out without my permission.”

  “Okay, Nick,” he said.

  “This guy Cooper… This has to be it with this guy. He’s coming, I can feel it. We need to end this and get our weapons out. Things will calm down then.”

  “What about Rio?”

  “I’m going to finish with the marshal next. If he doesn’t give me what we need, then I’ll whack him and we’ll do it the hard way.”

  “Trucks overland?” Salerno asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “The Israelis are going to be heading our way soon, so we need this done.”

  “I’ll take care of Cooper and his friend, boss,” Salerno said. “Just get those routes.”

  “I’ll do my part, you just do yours. Take care of this nut—and good. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder.”

  18

  Bolan watched Costello’s compound through his binoculars. It was a pretty good setup, he had to admit. There were at least twenty-five men patrolling the grounds, and all of them were armed with Israeli assault rifles, mostly Tavor TAR-21s. The majority of the men paced the perimeter, while four guarded the main gate, which was closed and locked. The main house resembled an embassy, two floors with secure exits and probably a lower level for storage.

  “How do you want to play this?” Remy asked.

  “He’s gone into lockdown, which means he’s aware of at least some of the trouble headed his way,” Bolan said. “If we don’t take him now, it’s going to get crowded.” He looked over the compound once more. “I’m going to need a distraction on the perimeter big enough to open a hole for me to go through, then I want you to play God.”

  Remy scanned the area, then pointed. “There’s a stand of trees over there that looks sturdy enough,” he said. “Good cover and position.”

  “That works,” Bolan said. “I’m going in just to the right of the main gate. The wall is a little lower there, and it’s the shortest route to the house.”

  “We can set up charges on the wall there,” Remy said, pointing again, “and there. Once we’re both in position, we can set them off. That should pull most of the guards away from your entry point, and then I can watch your six through the scope.”

  “My objective at this point is to
get Rio out,” Bolan said. “I’ll deal with Costello or whatever his real name is after I take care of the marshal.” He checked the grounds through the binoculars once more and spotted an all-too-familiar figure.

  “That guy,” Bolan said, pointing, “Victor Salerno. He’s Costello’s capo. If we can get him, that will be a nice bonus. I don’t think Costello will be able to keep pulling men to him without Salerno.”

  “Perhaps we’ll get lucky then,” he said.

  They returned to the SUV to finish gearing up, which included putting on wireless headsets that would let them stay in contact throughout the assault. Bolan prepped two small blocks of C-4 with a timer and detonator and put them in his bag. Remy slid the M-16 A-4 from its case. It had a small scope and a laser sight that would serve his needs very well, but more important was the sound suppressor attached to the end of the barrel. He took several magazines for the rifle, as well as a couple for his .45. A small grappling hook attached to a rappelling line, along with both Desert Eagles and ammunition, completed Bolan’s equipment.

  “You set the charges,” Remy said, “then move into position. That should give you plenty of time to get around to the gate while I hightail it into the trees.” He moved off toward the back side of the compound, while Bolan headed for the front.

  The Executioner moved along the outer perimeter and placed the first charge on the stone wall and set the timer. He moved down the wall and pulled the second charge from his bag.

  Bolan heard the rustle of leaves a split second before the guard was on top of him. The guard tackled him to the ground. Bolan twisted to one side and brought his elbow back into the guy’s face. The guard loosened his hold enough that the soldier could wedge his knee underneath himself and roll the two of them over. Two short jabs to the face and the sentry stopped fighting.

  As Bolan started to back off, the guard pulled a knife and tried to stab him in the side. The soldier grabbed his hand and turned the knife toward his adversary. The strength contest had begun, but Bolan knew he needed to get out of there quickly. One burst with all of his body weight had the knife lodged in the guy’s throat.