Hostile Force

by Don Pendleton

  In moments of quiet reflection he accepted that it did sum up his purpose. He did clean up the messes created by others, but that was as far as he dwelled on the matter.

  He was more interested in the moment. And, as he broke the connection with Tony Lowell after receiving his new orders, his mind was already assessing the challenge of the mission ahead.

  In essence it was a simple enough order. Locate and eliminate the unknown American who had interrupted delivery of a cargo, taking down most of the crew and placing the valuable merchandise in the hands of the police. There were also the details of the man’s visit to Don Lawrence and the killing of Lex, the bodyguard. As far as Corrigan’s personal feelings were concerned Lex had forfeited his life because he had not been good enough to take the guy. A simple enough fact.

  He pushed to his feet and sauntered across the apartment, staring out through the window at a rainswept London. Dark clouds scudded in, fragmented by the strong breeze. He might have seemed to be simply observing the weather. In truth, his mind was already working on what needed doing.

  He turned and crossed to the wet bar. He reached for the cigar box resting on the black onyx surface and removed a long Cuban. He bit off the end with strong white teeth, lit the cigar with a silver Zippo and savored the tobacco.

  Corrigan was tall, close to six-five. He kept himself in shape with regular exercise. Not out of vanity but with a need to be in good condition. He was three years off forty. Good-looking without being handsome, with regular features. His hair, thick and brushed straight back, was dark, a few gray strands beginning to show at the edges. His eyes, a dark shade of blue, looked on the world with caution. He had little trust for anyone or anything. His abiding confidence in his own abilities was the only thing he believed in.

  That confidence had kept him alive and at the top of his profession for the past fifteen years. In that time he had only ever made one real mistake in judgment. On an early mission his carelessness had cost him. And the third finger of his left hand had been the price he paid. Since that day he had never once allowed anything to stand in his way. He had never dropped his guard again. And he had never failed. Exactly one week after the incident all those years ago, with his hand still bandaged, Corrigan had finally caught up with his adversary. His retribution had been swift and had served as a warning to anyone else who might stand against him. The rival enforcer had been rolled out of a car and left lying in the gutter following his brief disappearance. He was minus all ten fingers.

  Corrigan brushed a flake of ash from the front of his dark blue Sea Island cotton shirt. He favored expensive clothing because he could afford it and also because he liked to appear smart. His size meant he often found it difficult to find what he wanted on regular clothing racks, so he only went to the best. He used outfitters in London and New York and Paris. Just as he had apartments in all three cities. His work for the mob meant he travelled extensively. He didn’t like hotels, preferring his own surroundings. His regular crew travelled with him, permanently on call. It saved time, and he always had his group on his wavelength so there was never any need for extensive explanations when a mission came up.

  He would call them in presently, using a single-use cell on a party link so there was no chance of anyone tracing his call. His team used similar status phones, an unlimited supply of the cells being available from one of their suppliers. Corrigan put the phone on Speaker as it rang out and he waited for his team to come online.

  Four of them. Hard, experienced operatives who understood his needs and did as they were told without exception. They had all come from the streets. Though they were rough and undisciplined when Corrigan had recruited them from the lower ranks of the mob, he had trained them, tutoring them in the ways of the profession. If Corrigan had pride in anything it was in his crew.

  Pikey and Lapdog were both from London. Lean and wiry, with that ever-hungry look of the street. A deadly pair of soldiers who had learned the only man they could trust was Corrigan.

  Delbert was a solid African-American man from New York. His quiet demeanor was simple cover for a savage in expensive clothing.

  Markus came from Serbia. He had once been a combat soldier; his skills were broad-reaching and his loyalty to Corrigan unwavering.

  Corrigan’s call was answered quickly.

  “Change in plans,” Corrigan said. “We have an additional assignment on top of Sorin.” Corrigan paused. “Any ideas what it might be?”

  “Anything to do with that hit on the pickup crew at the airfield?” Lapdog volunteered.

  “Good thinking that, man. Exactly right. We go after him. Identify him and make him go away.”

  Markus said, “As in dead?”

  “If we can take him alive we do. But if the bastard wants to play hero, put him down hard.”

  “He’s only one mother,” Delbert said.

  “Listen up, all of you. Do not play this guy down. He’s serious competition. Took on the pickup crew and cut them to pieces. You all knew Lex. No beginner. This guy snapped his neck as easy as that. What does that tell us?”

  “That he’s no cherry,” Delbert said, admonished.

  “We don’t know who he represents?” Markus asked. “Or where he came from?”

  “Could he be part of a covert team?” Pikey said. “I mean, could there be others?”

  Corrigan shrugged. “You guys tell me. It’s what we need to know. This is what you’re trained to do. Go out and do some checking.”

  No one asked where. Corrigan expected his team to work with self-motivation, to use the skills he had embedded in them. He would be watching and assessing whatever they came up with, coordinating their results and making final decisions.

  “Check in regularly,” he said. “Keep each other in the loop. Decide where each of you wants to go and use all the resources we have available.”

  Markus said, “I’ll check the docks. See if anyone remembers anything.”

  “He took one of the pickup crew’s SUVs from the airfield. I can get details and see if I can track it. SatNav might give me something.” This was from Lapdog.

  “We’ll get on it,” Markus said.

  Delbert was left on his own after the others had spoken.

  Corrigan sensed the man had more to say.

  “Del?”

  “This guy already has information,” he finally said. “Knows about those OrgCrime agents. Maybe he figures that Sorin dude might have something that could help him.”

  “Right,” Corrigan said. “We already know that. Which is why we need to find Sorin. So what are you thinking?”

  “Let the others concentrate on the guy. Like you said, Sorin is keeping low on the radar, but we still need to keep him in our sights. Let me spend some time following through.”

  “Okay. What do you have in mind?”

  “Sorin has family. Could be worth looking there. It might be Sorin has made contact, even if it was just to let them know he’s alive. It’s a long shot. If it don’t come to anything, we write the family off.”

  Corrigan nodded. “Go with it,” he said. “I’m going to check our assets. This guy interests me. He’s real, so maybe somebody knows something about him.”

  Chapter 7

  The county of Buckinghamshire, around forty miles from London, was a world away from the frenetic inner-city noise of the capitol. Driving along tree-lined roads that wound between small, quiet villages, seeing large houses standing back in their own grounds, Bolan immersed himself in the tranquil beauty.

  Henning had furnished Bolan with coordinates he fed into his SatNav and the gentle Irish voice of the guide directed him to the gates of Clair Sorin’s home.

  Bolan had abandoned the vehicle he had commandeered at the airfield when he had reached the city. There was always the chance it might be tracked so he’d left it behin
d, dumping it and walking away, calling Joey Ballantine for a ride back to his hotel. Henning’s informant had obliged without complaint, becoming even happier when Bolan had handed him a wad of banknotes from his backpack reserve. He had dropped Bolan outside the hotel.

  “They must have you on a bloody good expenses rate,” Ballantine said when he eyed the five-star accommodation.

  Inside, the girl on the desk smiled at Bolan as he asked for his room keycard.

  “Back late, Mr. Cooper,” she said.

  “All-night poker game,” Bolan said. “Win some, lose some.”

  “How did you do?”

  Bolan said, “Tonight I held the winning hand.”

  After a sound night’s sleep Bolan dressed, ate breakfast, then took the elevator down to the basement garage where his rented SUV was parked. His holdall went with him, stowed in the back of the vehicle. He keyed in the address for Clair Sorin and drove into the hectic snarl of London traffic.

  Three years younger than her brother, Ethan, Clair was a widow in her early thirties. Her husband had been a successful investment banker with his own company in the city. He had collapsed and died from an unexpected and massive heart attack. At the time, Clair was running a riding stable on the grounds of the family home and had continued to devote her time and energy to the investment business. But a year after her husband’s death Clair had sold the investment business to one of the partners—it had left her an independent and wealthy young woman.

  Henning’s detailed information had told Bolan that Clair was extremely close to her brother. Neither of their parents was still alive, so the two of them were all the family each had.

  It was thin information, but for Bolan it was a starting point. Enough to prompt him to make a house call.

  The SatNav informed him he was within a mile of the property. Glancing out the window Bolan saw white fencing bordering the estate. He slowed, his gaze checking out the surrounding landscape. On either side of the road, deep grass verges, dotted with trees, added to the rural atmosphere.

  Bolan’s Irish guide’s charming tones told him he had a quarter mile to go.

  Bolan caught a fleeting glimpse of something off the road just ahead, on the left. He didn’t turn his head, simply allowed his eyes to move as he drove by.

  A large, high-end SUV, dark blue, tinted windows. Then he was by and continued on his course. The image of the SUV was fixed in his mind.

  The SatNav informed him to turn right after two hundred yards and that he would then have reached his destination.

  Up ahead he caught a glimpse of dark red roof tiles. The big house was set back from the entrance. The white wooden gates stood open and Bolan turned up the wide, gravel drive and followed it through a short avenue of trees and bushes. The drive widened into a generous oval at the front of the house. To the right, away from the house were the stables. A mix of red brick and wood, the stalls were fitted with Dutch doors. A number of horses’ heads were visible over the lower sections of the doors. Bolan rolled to a stop near the house and climbed out.

  He presently wore civilian gear. Tan slacks and a dark shirt under a sport jacket, and a pair of strong leather shoes. The jacket was loose enough to conceal the shoulder rig holding the Beretta 93-R.

  Bolan saw the front door was open, showing the wide, polished-wood floor of the hall that appeared to run the width of the house. He was moving toward it when the sound of horse hooves on hard stone caught his attention. He turned and walked in the direction of the stable, clearing the end of the house. A wide yard, stone-cobbled, fronted the L-shaped stable building.

  A tall, handsome chestnut mare stood motionless as its rider slid easily from the saddle. The rider was a woman, above average height, thick blonde hair falling free as the riding hat was removed. The woman shook her head, loosening the mass of hair. Her shapely, lithe figure was well-defined by a snug-fitting roll-neck sweater and cream jodhpurs. Knee-high leather riding boots completed the ensemble.

  Bolan took one look at her and knew she was Ethan Sorin’s sister. The likeness was startling, though Clair’s features held a feminine softness. When she turned to look in his direction, Bolan recognized the color of her eyes and the firm line of her mouth.

  “Can I help?” she asked. Her voice was steady, well-modulated. A slim girl appeared from the stable to take control of the horse. “Jane, give her a rubdown and a little water once she cools.” She returned her attention to Bolan, smiling easily. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem,” Bolan said. “It’s you I’ve come to see, not the horses.”

  “Oh?” she turned her head slightly, scrutinizing him closely. Not entirely suspicious. More cautious. “You’re not selling anything, are you?”

  Bolan shook his head, smiling easily. “No. I’ve come to talk to you about Ethan.”

  He had her full attention. Clair hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “Do you know my brother?”

  “I was involved in something and Ethan helped me out.”

  “My brother the hero.” She grinned.

  “My name is Cooper—Matt Cooper,” Bolan said.

  Clair ran strong fingers through her hair. “I think we should go inside, Mr. Cooper. Would you like a cup of coffee? If I say so myself, I make good coffee.” She smiled disarmingly. “Being American you’ll be able to confirm or deny that claim.”

  She led him back to the house and inside, her riding boots clicking against the smooth wooden floor. They went all the way down toward the back of the house, where an arched entrance took them into the large, well-furnished kitchen. Through the generous windows Bolan could see expansive, well-laid-out gardens.

  The kitchen was a mix of traditional and modern. It even had a beamed ceiling. Clair offered Bolan a seat at a large kitchen table while she filled mugs with coffee from a gently simmering percolator. She slid one mug in front of him, then sat facing him across the table.

  She waited until Bolan had tasted the coffee.

  “Verdict?”

  “It’s good,” he said.

  “So...Ethan,” she said. “Are we going to swap information?”

  “How much do you know about his current involvement?”

  “In the OrgCrime force?” And when Bolan nodded she said, “Ethan only tells me what he can. He doesn’t go into too much detail. The unit’s work isn’t a secret as such. There are articles in the media. Not detailed operational stuff, of course, but stories about how the combined force is trying to bring down these criminals.”

  “You have contact with Ethan?”

  “I used to hear from him regularly. Mostly phone calls. Then he would turn up on the doorstep and stay for a day. Sometimes only for a few hours. But then all that stopped. Nothing. I had an emergency number I could call in London, but that didn’t get me far. After a couple of times I got the feeling I was being fobbed off. I was told Ethan was on assignment and he would make contact when he could.” Clair drummed her fingers against the tabletop. “Mr. Cooper, I’m not stupid. I knew something wasn’t quite right.” She stared at him. “You suddenly showing up is just confirming it, right?”

  “I’m looking for Ethan because he’s disappeared,” Bolan said.

  “Disappeared? How? Where?” Her voice was taut as she made a brave effort to hold it together. “My God, is he dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you don’t have definite proof?”

  Bolan saw the way she was gripping the coffee mug, her knuckles white from the pressure. A hint of tears shone in her eyes.

  “Be honest with me, Mr. Cooper. Tell me what you know.”

  “I won’t lie. There’s been an incident. Two members of the OrgCrime force have been killed. Shortly after that Ethan vanished.”

  “When you say killed... How?”

  “Shot. Gangla
nd-style. A bullet through the back of the head. The bodies left where they could easily be found. A warning to the OrgCrime force to back off.”

  Clair took a breath, ran a hand across her mouth. “How do you know the same hasn’t happened to Ethan?”

  “I don’t for certain, but my instincts tell me not. If Ethan had been executed his body would most likely be exhibited just like the others. It hasn’t. My guess is he was sharp enough to evade the hit team and go into hiding.”

  “Maybe he’s hurt. Can’t make contact. Isn’t that possible? But we can’t be sure, can we?”

  Bolan noted the faint trace of panic in her voice. He didn’t blame her for that.

  “No, not for certain.”

  “Mr. Cooper...”

  “Let’s hold back until I can make some inquiries. First, you stop with the Mr. Cooper. The name is Matt. And I could go another mug of your coffee.”

  “Okay, Matt, coffee coming up.” She poured it into his mug. “Can I ask just who you work for? If you’re not with the OrgCrime unit, who are you with?”

  Bolan smiled. “You can ask, Clair, but I don’t have an answer you would understand. Let’s just say I perform a necessary function for the good guys.”

  Her laugh was genuine. “Ambiguous at least.” Then her gaze wandered, eyes growing wide.

  Bolan realized his jacket had gaped enough to expose the holstered Beretta.

  Clair fixed her eyes on his expressionless face. “Well, that explains a lot,” she said.

  “I don’t go up against sweet old ladies.”

  “Well, I should have guessed, I suppose.” She cleared her throat. “Seeing the gun makes me realize just how serious a mess Ethan could be in.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to find him.”

  The young woman nodded. “I know you will.”

  Bolan drank his coffee, falling silent as he went over something that had been skittering around on the fringes of his mind since he had entered the house.

  “Clair, have there been any unusual incidents taking place recently?”