“No problem, Joey. I’ll take it from here.”
“You want me to stick around, Mr. Cooper?”
“Thanks, no. You get back to town.”
Ballantine opened his door. “You put my number in your phone?”
Slipping off his topcoat and dropping it on the passenger seat, Bolan nodded. “If I need anything else I’ll call.”
The Jaguar turned around and left.
Bolan picked up his backpack and slipped through the fence.
He had a rendezvous to keep.
Chapter 3
Bolan took a long, circuitous route to the dock, using the rusting piles of machinery for cover. He had almost reached his destination when he spotted a patrolling heavy, sporting a squat SMG. The guard was wearing a wraparound weatherproof coat to protect him from the rain, and a sodden ball cap was pulled down across his eyes. He moved slowly, with grudging reluctance at being delegated to tramping around the site. Bolan waited until the man moved past his position, then slid unseen into the shadows and closed in on his target.
The ship moored against the crumbling concrete dock was a tired-looking freighter. Rust streaks showed on the scraped paint of the hull. Bolan picked up the name stenciled on the bow, confirming it was the one Ballantine had spoken about. As Bolan hunkered down between stacked oil drums he was just in time to see a steel shipping container being swung by crane off the deck of the freighter and moved in the direction of a waiting tractor-trailer combo. The container would be placed on the flatbed of the trailer and locked into position.
Bolan waited as the container was loaded. The freighter crew, including the roving guard, turned and made their way back to the comfort of the dry ship, leaving the operator of the transporter to fasten down the clamps and secure his cargo.
Turning, Bolan edged his way to where other steel containers formed a line along the edge of the dock exit road. A plan was forming in his mind as he climbed up onto the containers and waited for the truck to move off.
He needed to be at the rendezvous point when the truck arrived with its illegal cargo. The pickup crew was his target. Bolan did not want to miss his chance at striking at them.
There was no option left. The rig was leaving. He knew what he needed to do, and, as risky as it might be, Bolan saw no other way. If he was going to follow through, he needed to act now.
He pulled a pair of black leather gloves from his pack before he slipped his arms through the straps, securing it across his back. He watched the container rig easing away from the dock, moving along the quayside. Its course for the exit would take it along the line of stacked containers, and Bolan knew that they offered the opportunity to make his move. He began to work his way across the rain-slicked tops of the containers, moving quickly as the rig began to pick up a little more speed. A swift glance ahead showed that the line of containers ended in about a hundred yards. Bolan had to strike fast—and not miss his step. One faulty move and he could easily slip. Bolan registered the notion and immediately dismissed it. He did not live his life on regrets.
The rig was some four feet below his level, the top of the container glistening with rain. Bolan powered forward, moving until he was close to the front of the rocking surface. He needed to allow himself some leeway. There was a three-foot gap between the rig and the stacked containers.
The end of the stacks was coming up. Bolan pushed forward, knowing he had to take the jump. He veered to the edge of the container, arching his body forward, pushed off and seemed to hang in midair for an eternity before he dropped.
His booted feet struck the wet surface, but lost their grip on contact. Bolan felt himself drifting to the far edge of the moving surface as the rig bounced across a pothole. One leg cleared the edge of the container. Bolan threw out a gloved hand, his fingers grasping at a metal lifting ring. His other leg stretched out, his foot finding a lodging point against one
of the cross struts. For a moment his body gave in to the shift of the container, then he managed to pull his free leg back onto the flat surface. He twisted away from the edge, splayed out across the roof of the container, and lay motionless.
Bolan felt the container move as the rig took the turn out of the yard. The container might have been secured to the trailer base but it still swayed as the vehicle turned. He braced himself, gripping the metal lifting ring, feeling his body slide again. Bolan wedged his boots against the cross struts. He had no idea how long his journey might take so he would have to put up with any discomfort.
Twenty minutes into Bolan’s ride the rain increased. Being on top of the container meant he was fully exposed to the chill downpour. Within a couple of minutes he was completely soaked. Coming in from the North Sea, the rain was cold. Luckily, his body-hugging blacksuit was able to withstand the downpour and the gloves he wore prevented his hands from becoming frozen. Bolan’s face was exposed and his skin tingled from the rain striking it. His thick hair became plastered to his skull. David McCarter often explained that the reason the U.K. was so green was because of the everlasting rain. Bolan realized that the Brit had never been joking. Every word he spoke was proving to be true.
The rig followed the coast for the most part, not moving inland until almost an hour had passed. Widely distanced, isolated farms showed up occasionally. Then there was a long stretch of uninhabited terrain before the rig slowed and made a right-hand turn. It bumped its way along a rutted, partly overgrown concrete road. Derelict buildings were visible in the pale light. The placing and construction of the structures, with the wide spread of flat land extending beyond, told Bolan they were on one of the long-abandoned Second World War airfields found in this part of the country. From these sites British and American aircraft had taken off for forays into Europe, delivering their payloads of deadly bombs onto German cities and factories.
The rig rolled beyond the smaller buildings until the humped shapes of the old aircraft hangars came into sight. From his vantage point Bolan saw a number of vehicles parked near one of the hangars—three panel trucks, and a pair of high-end SUVs. He counted at least seven men in a loose group waiting by the vehicles. They all wore heavy coats against the rain.
As the truck drew closer Bolan saw that three of the waiting men were carrying SMGs.
The rig slowed, then stopped. Bolan slid to the center of the container’s roof, away from the edge where any movement might be spotted. He eased the backpack from his shoulders, opened it and took out his combat harness, shrugging it on and securing it. He checked the Berretta 93-R in the holster. Then he drew out the Uzi that was nestling inside the pack. He retrieved three loaded magazines and located them in pockets on his harness. He repeated the process with extra magazines for the 93-R. A couple of smoke grenades and an M-34 phosphorous grenade hung from his harness.
Bolan heard the sounds of the container locks being freed, the doors being dragged open. They were swung wide to bang against the container’s sides.
“Okay, let’s move, you lot.” The harsh command was accompanied by someone banging on the side of the container with something metallic. “Come on, come on, we don’t have all fucking day. Get your skinny arses out of there before I come in and kick you out.”
Bolan hung the Uzi round his neck and reached down to his harness, closing his fingers over the smooth cylinders of the smoke canisters. He held the levers down as he pulled the pins, then slid to the side of the container, looking down at the parked vehicles and the group of waiting men. They were just starting to move to the rear of the container. Bolan let go of the levers on the canisters, lobbing them down into the straggle of men.
Despite the rain the thick coils of white smoked began to hamper the figures. The sudden disturbance had a disruptive effect on the group. Bolan rose to a crouch, Beretta in hand, moving quickly to the rear of the container. Below him, the man who had opened the doors was still yelling at the human cargo
that clustered at the edge of the container. Bolan knew that at any second the smoke would become visible and he would register what was happening.
The guy reached out and caught the sleeve of a hesitant girl, yanking her viciously from the container. The girl screamed, stumbling as she slammed to the ground, falling facedown.
“Hey,” Bolan said.
The guy looked up, his eyes widening as he saw the dark shape of the Beretta in Bolan’s hand. The 93-R spat out a single, suppressed 9 mm slug. It made a neat hole in his forehead and a significantly larger one as it blew out the back of his skull. As the man fell, Bolan holstered the Beretta, grabbed his pack and slid over the edge of the container, hanging by his hands for a couple of seconds before dropping into the body of the box. He unloaded his backpack and immediately brought the Uzi into play. The human cargo shrank back from his black-clad form, unsure what to make of his sudden appearance.
“Stay back,” Bolan commanded. He gestured for them to retreat, then dropped from the bed of the container to the concrete. He stepped over the body of the man he had just shot, turning to face the reception committee.
The first guy to show was one of the armed men, emerging from the coiling smoke, his angry face glistening from the falling rain. Whatever he might have been expecting, an armed man dressed in a black outfit was obviously not on his list.
“Who the bloody hell are...”
He failed to complete his question. He also failed to bring his SMG online. Bolan triggered the Uzi, hitting the man with a burst of 9 mm slugs that turned him from living to dead in a matter of seconds. The short burst drove into his chest and ravaged his heart. The man uttered a brief cry, fell backward and hit the wet concrete with a solid thump.
Bolan dropped to a crouch, ducking beneath the overhang of the container and worked his way close to the double set of rear wheels. He leaned out and opened up with the Uzi, laying down hard bursts of fire into the scattering figures still partly enveloped in the thick smoke from the canisters he had launched.
In between the crackle of his weapon came screams and moans, and not a little wild yelling and cursing. Bolan closed his ears to the din. He was not concerned with the suffering of the traffickers. They had forfeited their rights when they embarked on their chosen path. The rights of their victims had already been violated—the Executioner was simply delivering the justice those victims could not. The Uzi clicked on an empty magazine. With the ease instilled in Bolan by his use of the weapon, he dropped the used mag and slid a fresh one in its place. Bolan resumed his rapid fire, driving the opposition away from the container rig and back to the grouped vehicles.
Bolan gave the traffickers no breathing space as he crouch-walked to the opposite side of the rig, emerging upright and making his swift way along the vehicle. He skirted the tractor unit and came into the open behind the scattering traffickers. The thick smoke was dissipating quickly, exposing the panicked group. They were seemingly leaderless, each man shouting orders that were being ignored, and increasing the rising fear that was rendering them unable to make coherent decisions.
Bolan’s swift glance took in the bodies already on the ground. Some moving, others still.
A tall, hard-faced man, brandishing a handgun he didn’t seem capable of using, had turned and was heading in Bolan’s direction. He didn’t spot Bolan’s dark figure until the last moment. His face, already fairly pale, lost the final vestiges of color as he saw the Executioner. Given his startled appearance he suddenly remembered he was holding a weapon. He yanked his arm around and pushed the autopistol in Bolan’s direction.
“Bastard,” he yelled in a moment of pure defiance.
It was his final word.
Bolan’s Uzi crackled—a short, effective burst that dissolved the guy’s face into a bloody, shattered mask. The man buckled at the knees, folding forward, blood spouting from his head and soaking the front of his expensive topcoat.
In the time it took for the man to hit the ground, Bolan plucked the M-34 phosphorous grenade from his combat harness, while sending a burst of 9 mm fire at the window of the closest SUV. The glass shattered. Bolan pulled the pin of the grenade and tossed it through the shattered window of the vehicle. He pulled back and heard the grenade detonate. The thermal grenade threw out its fearsome power, the released phosphorous swelling to 5000˚F. The generated heat destroyed the SUV’s interior, blew out all the windows and ignited the gas tank. The resulting explosion threw blazing fuel out in a fiery ball that slammed against the side of the steel container, rocking it against the clamps holding it in place.
Dazed, with clothing scorched and burning, the surviving traffickers staggered away from the blazing wreck, their resistance subdued by the overall effects of Bolan’s intense strike. They had no idea what had just happened—nothing like this had ever occurred before. They had always believed the mob was protected. Invulnerable.
But the unthinkable had happened, and they were out of their comfort zone.
None of them knew they had just been subjected to a Bolan Blitz.
A concentrated strike by the Executioner.
Bolan reversed direction and moved to the open rear of the container again. The people inside, protected by the steel shell were confused and scared. Like the traffickers, they had no idea what had just happened. Their bewildered faces peered out at Bolan. He shrugged his pack over one shoulder.
“Anyone understand and speak English?”
“I do.”
The voice came from the girl who had been dragged from the container and dumped on the ground. She had a darkening bruise down one side of her face but seemed unharmed otherwise.
“Tell them they will be safe now,” Bolan said. “Get them out of the container and over there.” He indicated the open ground away from the container. “Keep them together for the moment until I can settle things here.”
The girl nodded. She began to issue orders in a firm tone, urging the women and girls to leave the container. She called out to Bolan after speaking to one of the women.
“Two are dead. There are others who need attention.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
Bolan turned his attention to the traffickers, his Uzi covering the sorry-looking group. Out of the seven he had counted, only two were still on their feet.
“All weapons on the ground now,” Bolan ordered. “Don’t give me an excuse to put you down.” His Uzi stayed on the men while they did as instructed. “Now move away and stand against the front of the hangar.”
“What about them?” one of the traffickers asked, indicating the wounded on the ground.
“Take them with you.”
“They need medical attention, you bastard.”
“You expecting sympathy? Maybe we should ask your passengers. Somehow I can’t see them being too willing to extend you any, either. Especially the ones who are dead.”
When he had the traffickers assembled Bolan ordered them to throw down their cell phones, too. Then he moved back, keeping them under his gun as he used his own phone to make contact with Henning.
“Don’t you ever think some people might need a break?”
“Greg, you sound cranky. Did I wake you?”
“Very funny.”
Bolan gave Henning a quick rundown on recent events. The Brit listened, heaving a heartfelt sigh when Bolan told him about the dead and sick victims.
“Where are you?”
“About an hour and a half from where Joey dropped me off. The container rig I hitched a ride on ran east along the coast road, then turned inland after an hour. We ended up at an old wartime airfield. I firebombed one of the vehicles, so it should show the cops the way in.”
“We’ll get a chopper in the air. They’ll find the place and guide the ground teams in.”
“Greg, get your people here ASAP. I need to move on.
Keep the mob on its toes.”
“Without the rule book of course?”
“Your so-called rule book is pinning you guys down so you can’t move in any direction. There’s bad blood somewhere in your setup, feeding the mob on every move you make. Flush him or her out. If you don’t, you’ll not only lose more of your people, but also your ability to mount effective operations.”
“You know what annoys me most?”
“What?”
“That you’re bloody right, Cooper. I’ll have the local cops move in and take over. Medical teams, as well. I suggest you head out the minute you hear them coming.”
“Thanks, Greg.”
“I’ll wait ten minutes before I make the call. Can you be clear by then?”
“I’m already gone.”
Bolan ended the call. He located the English-speaking girl and told her what was about to happen. He ordered the traffickers to move their wounded into the container, then made them climb inside. Bolan slammed the container doors shut and secured the locking bars.
“They won’t be able to get out of there,” he said.
The girl nodded. She threw her arms around Bolan and gave him a hug.
“Thank you. From us all.”
“You’ll be looked after,” Bolan said. “I have to go.”
“Are you not with the authorities?”
Bolan smiled. “Not in the way you might think,” he said.
The girl watched him commandeer the remaining SUV. It had been sitting away from the other vehicles so it hadn’t suffered any damage when the firebombed vehicle had blown. He placed his backpack in the truck as well as the cell phones he had taken from the traffickers. He eased out of his combat rig and pushed it into the pack along with the Uzi. Bolan powered up and drove off the old airfield, turning the SUV toward the north.
He had been driving for almost a half hour when he heard the distant sound of sirens. He pulled onto a narrow side road and into the cover of trees and bushes and waited until the convoy of police cruisers and ambulances had sped by. Then he rejoined the main road and kept driving. His cell rang twenty minutes later. It was Henning.
Hostile Force Page 2