“I’ll come with you. We might find something useful.”
The SUV looked clean. There didn’t appear to be anything left behind that might provide information.
“Tidy bugger, isn’t he?” Hanley observed.
One of his team called and Hanley excused himself and crossed to speak to the man.
Bolan slid into the driver’s seat and tapped the SatNav. He scanned the list, checking the one titled Home. It gave a Postal Code, the British version of the Zip Code. Bolan memorized the code. It was a start.
He made his way back inside the house and found Clair seated back at her desk, idly tapping at her computer keyboard. She glanced up at him.
“I have something that might be useful,” she said. “But I only want you to know.”
“About Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“Here,” she said, handing him a folded sheet of paper. “If Ethan is desperate he might go here.”
“Family secret?”
Clair smiled. “You could say that. It was a refuge we used to go to years ago. We kept it to ourselves. Somewhere the family could go when we needed to get away. We never told anyone. Never invited guests.” She touched Bolan’s hand. “It might be a waste of time, but I couldn’t think of anywhere else Ethan might go.”
“We’ll see.” Bolan pocketed the note.
Clair stood up, eyes searching his face. “Will I see you again?”
“It could happen.”
“I’d like to find out more about Matt Cooper.”
“I’m not all that interesting.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”
“Time I moved on. You going to be okay?”
“I think so.” This time the smile was a little forced. “Not that I have much choice. At least I won’t be lonely. Not with the protection team around.” She hugged Bolan. “Thank you. Again.”
He held her for a moment.
“Mmm, I really do think it’s time you left,” Clair said with little conviction.
Chapter 9
The postal code from Delbert’s phone led Bolan to an address in South Hampstead, a residential area of London. Solid houses stood on tree-lined streets. Bolan cruised the area until he found a place to park. Not an easy call in the densely populated district. He had checked it out on his way and the street was designated as non-regulated—the last thing he needed was to return and find his vehicle had been towed away, or fitted with a clamp.
He slipped into the shadows and worked his way back to the house. Under his long coat Bolan wore his blacksuit. He carried the Beretta and had a knife sheathed on his hip. The darkness, broken by pools of light from streetlamps, helped to minimize his presence. Bolan was thankful for the light drizzle—the rain discouraged most people from walking the streets.
Reaching the house, he took note of light behind windows and a couple of cars parked inside the perimeter wall. Bolan slipped past the vehicles and down the side of the house. He kept moving, reaching the rear. There was a garden, slightly overgrown, and an exterior light threw a pale spread of illumination out across the paved area. Bolan eased across to the first rear window. He checked the room—brightly lit and set out as a dining room. Three men sat around the table, playing cards. They were all armed. One wore a shoulder rig, the others had autopistols in hip holsters. Bottles of beer stood on the table and smoke from cigarettes had already created a shifting haze above their heads. Bolan could hear the low murmur of voices and the occasional burst of laughter.
He ducked below the sill and moved to the rear door. Another window showed him the kitchen, a single light revealing it was empty. Bolan slipped the 93-R from its holster and set it for single shot. He checked the rear door—it gave at his touch. He pushed it open far enough to allow him to slip inside. A short hallway with doors on each side. The one for the card-players’ room was on his left. It was partly open and Bolan could hear loud voices. A heated conversation that stopped short of an argument.
“...feel like we’re just sitting around for Corrigan’s convenience. Him and his fuckin’ team swan around like royalty. They use this house like it was a hotel. Order us around like we’re just hired help.”
“Well-paid hired help, so stop moaning, Eames.”
“All I’m saying is we should be doing more.”
“Bloody hell, Eames, maybe you’d be happier where Delbert is. He gets caught by the cops and now he’s sitting in a cell God knows where.”
“So much for being on Corrigan’s team,” a third voice said. “At least it shows they can screw up just like everyone else.”
Eames said, “Ask me there’s been too much screwing up the last few days. The pickup crew getting hit. Then Lawrence’s minder getting himself dead. I mean, what’s going on?”
“Tell you what, Eames, you can ask this mystery bloke yourself if he shows up.”
Bolan moved on cue, edging the door open, and stepped into the room. As he flattened against the wall, his Beretta covering the card playing trio, he pushed the door shut with his free hand.
“Now’s the time if you have questions,” he said.
Individuals caught in such a moment of indecision go one of two ways—either they figure that in such a position it’s better to take with the cautious approach and survive, or they say to hell with the safe option and go for the dangerous route.
Bolan’s combat senses warned him at least one of the men at the table was taking the riskier route microseconds before it happened.
He saw the guy wearing the shoulder rig tense up, his facial expression a mix of bravado and what-the-hell-am-I-doing as he snatched at the autopistol. The thug even managed to half draw the piece, starting to twist in his seat, before Bolan turned the Beretta and triggered a single 9 mm Parabellum round. The slug struck just above the target’s left ear. It cored through bone and brain, deforming on its route so that when it blew out on the opposite side of the skull it took a sizable portion of the head with it.
Movement on Bolan’s immediate left warned him of another threat. He saw the seated figure raising the handgun from its hip holster. He dropped to a crouch, tracking the 93-R and triggered a pair of shots into the man’s chest. The impact pushed him against the back of the chair, tipping it off balance. As the guy went backward his finger jerked the trigger of his part-drawn weapon and the slug burned into his own hip.
Still in a low crouch Bolan caught the third man leveling his weapon across the tabletop, panic in his eyes as he desperately made his shot. The slug plowed into the plaster wall a foot above Bolan’s head, then the big American returned fire. Three fast shots. His 9 mm slugs, angled upward, tore through the tabletop, showering splinters of wood in the air. They hit the shooter in the throat, tearing large, ragged holes as they tunneled up through his flesh and lodged in his brain. Jets of bright blood burst from the target’s ravaged throat, spurting across the tabletop.
Bolan straightened up. He shook his head—this wasn’t how he had wanted it to go. Dead men couldn’t talk. Information would have been more useful than three corpses. But they had chosen their way.
Turning to the door, Bolan cracked it open and stood listening. There were no sounds from the rest of the house. He waited before he emerged and made his way to the front. A quick check of the rooms confirmed there were no more occupants on the ground floor. Bolan crossed to the stairs. He went up fast, pausing on the landing.
Now he did hear sounds. Muffled and coming from bedrooms to his right.
Bolan checked the first door. He turned the knob and pushed the door open, standing to the side in case of a threat.
He had no need.
The room’s single occupant posed no danger.
A young woman, her left wrist handcuffed to the metal bed headboard, stared at him with large, w
ide-open eyes.
“Help me,” she said. “Please help me.”
* * *
“MY NAME IS LEINA RAJIC,” the girl had said.
Bolan then left her only long enough to go back downstairs and search the bodies, looking for keys—he found a number of them on a metal ring. He returned upstairs and began going through the different keys. On the third attempt the cuff opened. The flesh where the cuff had gripped was raw and broken.
“How long have you been here?” Bolan asked.
“Around three weeks. Before that I was in another house with other girls. They kept us chained there, too.” She plucked at the plain, sleeveless dress she was wearing. “They made us wear these things. Took away our clothes and shoes.”
“Where did they bring you from?”
“I came from Albania. There were eight of us when we were taken. Only seven reached here. One girl died because she kept trying to escape. She would not stop. One of the men beat her to death in front of us as an example. We were on some ship. They made us watch while they wrapped her body in chains and threw her overboard.”
“Are there any others here with you?”
Leina nodded. “In the next two rooms. Next door, the girl, Tira, is only seventeen.”
“Come with me,” Bolan said. “Why were the three of you brought here?”
“For the amusement of the men who work in this place.” Leina managed a thin smile. “They use us whenever they want.”
“Not anymore,” Bolan said. He handed Leina the keys. “Free the others. I need to check the house.”
“Are you from police?”
“Not officially. But you’ll be looked after now. I promise.”
Leina’s eyes studied him. The expression in them suggested she doubted what he said. Bolan could understand her skepticism. After what she had been through, her trust, especially in men, must have reached an all-time low.
“The three men who held you here are dead. You can take a look if you need to. I’m trying to put an end to what their mob does.”
“You tell the truth?”
“Yes. One of my failings is I never lie. I’m going to call the authorities and let them know where you are. They’ll take you to a safe place. Leina, tell them everything you know. Their job is to try and put these people down, so they need all the information they can get. A man named Henning will help you through this.”
She nodded in understanding. “All right. Are you not staying?”
“No. I have to find someone. A friend. I can’t become involved with the authorities.”
“What do I tell police about you?”
Bolan shrugged. “Whatever you have to. Now go and free your friends while I make my call.”
Chapter 10
Bolan was halfway across the landing when he heard the rattle of the front door. A voice called out. When there was no reply the owner of the voice strode across the hall, passing out of Bolan’s sight as he went toward the rear of the house. Bolan heard a muffled outburst as the three dead men were discovered. The man ran back toward the front door. Bolan caught a glimpse of a weapon in his hand as he jerked the door wide and called out.
“Get in here fast. Looks like we’ve been hit.”
Bolan flattened against the landing wall. This time the numbers were falling the wrong way, leaving him trapped with three innocent young women to protect.
He didn’t dwell on the problem. It needed a solution and the Executioner was never one to shrink from any kind of awkward predicament. He had his Beretta and an extra clip in his pocket.
Peering around the corner of the wall he saw the guy who had first entered, presently reinforced by two more armed men. The last man in shouldered the front door shut.
“Upstairs, Phil. Check the bitches. Monty, with me. Go.”
The one named Phil started up the stairs, his handgun held across his chest, left hand pulling on the banister rail.
Bolan let him reach the head of the stairs before he stepped out and delivered a brutal backfist to the man’s throat. It was full-on, with no holding back, and Phil uttered a single, gargled cry before his crushed throat shut down. He toppled backward, frantically trying to maintained his balance. He failed. His windmilling arms and legs flailed in an attempt to keep him upright. He alternated between wall and banister, losing his gun and eventually losing his balance. He crashed down on his back, bouncing from stair to stair and coming to a halt at the bottom. His arms and legs lay in unnatural positions, as did his head and neck.
“What is noise?”
Leina came up behind Bolan. Behind her were the other two girls. They crowded against Leina, eyes questioning, alternately staring at Bolan’s tall figure and Leina.
“Keep them back,” Bolan said.
He eased back from the edge of the wall, a move that proved to be lifesaving as autopistols exploded from below and slugs tore chunks of plaster from the landing wall. Shreds of wallpaper and dust filled the air.
“You have called police?” Leina asked.
“No. I think the neighbors will do it for us if they hear those shots.”
Bolan took out his phone and hit the speed dial for Henning. When the man came on the line Bolan didn’t waste time on chitchat. He gave Henning the address and told him to send help.
“It’s where Delbert was staying. I tangled with some of the outfit’s local chapter. Found three young women brought here for their recreational needs. Chained to their beds. One speaks English—her name is Leina Rajic. I got them free. Just go easy on them. I just had three more armed hostiles turn up. Greg, I need to get out before your buddies arrive, so there might be more casualties.”
“Do what you have to, and good luck.”
Bolan put the cell away.
“Stay back,” he warned Leina.
He had picked up a creak from the stairs. He heard the soft rustle of clothing and a low, hoarse whisper.
Bolan took a deep breath, gauged the distance he was going to have to travel, then launched himself in a powerful shoulder roll that took him across the gap at the top of the stairs and beyond.
A man yelled in surprise.
Bolan came to rest on one knee, the 93-R coming online as the two armed men swiveled in his direction. His move had left them lagging behind. Bolan aimed between the stair railings and lined up the lead guy. The Beretta spat its suppressed load, two 9 mm slugs catching him full-face. The man squealed, throwing his hands over his suddenly bloody face. He rose to his full height and turned half around before plunging back down to the hall. The surviving shooter, forced to pull away, spun back in Bolan’s direction to find the big American at the head of the stairs, Beretta swinging on target.
“Put it away,” Bolan said as the man moved his own weapon. “Last chance.”
“I can take you, Yank.”
The autopistol angled up.
The Beretta expended three fast shots. They hit the man in the chest, placed directly over the heart. One went all the way through and burst out the target’s back. He fell without a sound, slithering down the stairs to curl into a ball at the bottom.
“They always believe they’re indestructible,” Bolan murmured softly.
“What do you say?”
It was Leina. She clutched at Bolan’s arm, fingers tight against his coat.
“Nothing,” Bolan said.
“You must go before police come,” Leina said. “Go now. Quickly.”
“Look after yourself and your friends, Leina Rajic.”
She touched his face.
“Fat i mire,” she whispered. “Good luck.”
Bolan went down the stairs and through the house, leaving the way he had entered, by the rear door. He slipped the Beretta back into its holster, easing past the side of the house, then thr
ough the garden. He negotiated the fence, then tracked along the rear of the neighboring houses until he was able to reach the intersecting street. Keeping to the shadows between the wide-spaced streetlights he came to the main road again and located his parked car.
As he unlocked the door he picked up the distant sound of police sirens. They were quickly becoming louder. Looking in the rearview mirror he could make out figures starting to congregate around the house he had just vacated. Beyond the gathering crowd he saw the blue flash of police cruisers at the far end of the street. He started the car and eased into gear, freeing the parking brake. He kept the lights off as he eased away from the curb, crossing to the far side of the street. Once he was far enough not to be noticed, he switched on his lights and touched the gas pedal, picking up a little speed. At the far end of the street Bolan made a left, taking himself onto the main road leading away from Hampstead. He carefully merged with the traffic. More police cars, accompanied by ambulances, swept by, turning into the street Bolan had just quit.
“You’ll be safe now, Leina,” he murmured.
Chapter 11
Henning shook his head as he surveyed the bloody scene. Three bodies at the back of the house. Three more at the foot of the stairs—two dead from bullet wounds, one from a broken neck, plus massive bruising to the throat. Cooper’s clear-up rate was mounting rapidly, he thought.
“You’re working overtime on this one, pal,” Henning said to himself.
“You say something?” one of his men asked.
“No,” Henning said. “Nothing important.”
He was summoned upstairs and shown into one of the bedrooms.
A young woman sat on the bed, her left wrist handcuffed to the bed’s headboard.
“Henning, two more in the other rooms,” someone said.
“Get them free,” Henning ordered.
He studied the girl. She held his gaze for a moment and Henning could have sworn he detected a ghost of a smile on her lips.
Hostile Force Page 6