Hostile Force

by Don Pendleton

  “You understand English?”

  The girl nodded. “Yes. My name is Leina. Are we safe now? There was so much shooting. Men falling down stairs.”

  Henning was about to ask her how she knew that, but he understood. She had returned herself and the others to their manacled condition to distance them from having to say much about what had happened.

  Damned if they aren’t covering for Cooper, he thought. How does he manage to do that?

  “Don’t mention that falling down the stairs thing to anyone. Understand, Leina?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “We’ll get you out of here soon—have you checked over.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Your friend. Will he be all right, Mr. Henning?”

  Henning had to smile. “I believe he will.”

  Later, back downstairs, Henning stood in the hall. The bodies had been processed, and as much evidence as possible had been collected and taken away.

  “Bloody mess, boss.”

  Henning nodded at the young OrgCrime agent. “At least the right bastards got themselves killed.”

  “Bit harsh.”

  “These buggers are so low on the scale, Marsh, they don’t even register. You read all the data we have on them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So don’t go wasting sympathy on them. You saw the condition of those women and girls out at the airfield. Two dead. Most of the others still needing medical attention. Three more here, chained to the beds. Are we still shedding tears, Marsh?”

  “I guess not, boss.”

  “Remember that every day we’re on this detail.”

  “We located a couple of laptops,” one of the agents called.

  “Get them to base. Go through them and pull every scrap of data you can. Maybe we’ll come up with some hard evidence we can throw at these bastards.”

  * * *

  HENNING WAS STILL at his desk as the light filtered through the blinds. Beyond the glass the city was waking to a new day. Henning couldn’t have cared less. It had been a long night and his workload hadn’t lessened by a fraction.

  “Hey, boss, fresh coffee,” a voice called out.

  It was Marsh, carrying a tray holding mugs of steaming liquid. He placed one in front of Henning, then moved on to distribute the rest of the coffee around the office.

  “How can you be so bloody cheerful at this time of day?”

  “Clean living,” Marsh said.

  Henning felt his burn phone vibrate in his pocket. When he answered he recognized the voice at the other end immediately.

  “Thanks for the mess we had to clean up last night,” he grumbled.

  “Are the girls okay?” Bolan asked.

  “They’re fine. Being cared for in a safe environment.”

  “They’d better be,” Bolan said, “or I’ll come back to haunt you.”

  “Most of those beings no longer with us are in our database—they were all involved with the mob.”

  “Have you got any useful information from the scene?”

  “We found a couple of laptop computers. They’re with our cyber team as we speak.”

  “You find anything that might assist, I’d be grateful.”

  “Well, of course, Mr. Cooper, I’ll have it sent directly to you via the UPS courier service.”

  “Do I sense a little testiness there?”

  “It’s been a crap night,” Henning said. “A long, crap night.”

  “Sorry,” Bolan apologized. “Didn’t mean to come over strong. I know you’re stepping across the line every time you help. But I need to find Ethan Sorin before the mob does. I won’t let him die on my watch.”

  “Amen to that,” Henning said. “I’ll feed you anything I can. Now you just watch your back, Cooper.”

  “Always.”

  * * *

  BOLAN ENDED THE CALL. He was back on the road after a night’s rest at his hotel. He had been able to have a long, hot shower before falling into bed. Since leaving London he had been driving for hours, heading north, his destination the location Clair Sorin had given him.

  He was hoping her information would get him to Ethan Sorin and that the man was still alive. Even though Clair had told him the location was a family secret, Bolan understood the frailty of maintaining total security, even with such an innocuous thing as a secret holiday destination. He understood the power the mob wielded, their ability to ferret out the smallest detail. Total security was something people wanted to exist, but in Bolan’s experience it was hard to achieve. In reality, even governments had found that out to their cost.

  Chapter 12

  Corrigan had an inquiring mind. It was constantly badgering him to explore the possibilities that existed in every situation. Just like the Sorin problem. The OrgCrime agent, along with his now dead partners, had infiltrated one of the mob’s databases and had extracted information. Information that would have the potential to blow the organization wide open if it got into OrgCrime’s hands. Against the odds they had walked away, albeit only for a short time, before they were located and dealt with. Two had died. The one called Sorin had eluded his pursuers and was presently in hiding. The information this agent held did not appear to have been passed to his group. But that was because it had become clear to Sorin that the OrgCrime unit had a mole in their ranks, and he was unsure whom to trust. However, currently there was an added complication—the unknown American who had made it clear he was intent on bringing the mob down. His initial hits had confirmed his intention. His discouraging success had stirred the top men into action and the problem had been assigned to Corrigan and his own team.

  A brief, but accurate summation as far as Corrigan was concerned. Unfortunately matters had taken an unexpected and disturbing twist.

  Delbert, previously a reliable and experienced operative, had let himself be taken by the American when he had confronted Sorin’s sister. Corrigan had received an update from his OrgCrime informer. Delbert had been arrested and whisked off to a covert location where he would be questioned and kept in a secure lockdown. The man was a write-off. Out of the picture. Corrigan accepted the situation because he had no choice and also because if Delbert had let himself be taken then he was on his own. Corrigan had no patience with failure.

  He recalled the brief cell phone call from the American. The man had been calm, precise in his telling of what had happened to Delbert. Corrigan had to admire his nerve. The way he had suggested Corrigan relay his words to the mob’s top men. The guy was no rampant vigilante—he was deadly serious. A smile crossed Corrigan’s face as he replayed the reactions of the bosses during the video conference. There was outrage and a little panic. Then the recriminations from some of them, accusing Corrigan of not doing his job, until he quietly reminded them he had only just taken on the assignment, and if they wanted to handle it themselves he would step aside. It took Tony Lowell to bring the stress level down. Lowell had the touch of the old school about him. He might have been the elder statesman within the mob but that only lent him authority, and he had applied his experience to the situation.

  “Give the guy a chance,” he had said. “Corrigan has never failed us before. He’s the best. But he’s digging in the dark here. Before he can get rid of this guy he needs to identify him. And right now not one of us has any idea who this bastard is. You don’t snap your fingers and expect the guy to pop up out of nowhere. Let Corrigan do his job. Give him some stretch. You people need to think before you start throwing dirt....”

  Now, Corrigan sat in his apartment, behind his desk. He had been busy for the last few hours, concentrating on matters at hand.

  He had been tasked with the need to eliminate the mystery man interfering with operations.

  And with the capture of Ethan Sorin.


  As much as he wanted to get his hands on the elusive Yank, Corrigan’s main concern was Sorin, who had escaped being taken out like his partners and had gone into hiding, along with the data the three OrgCrime agents had gathered. If the OrgCrime unit got their hands on that information they would have the means to strike down the mob.

  Delbert’s attempt to reach Sorin’s sister had ended in failure. So Corrigan had to deal with the matter again.

  He saw two ways to approach it.

  Locate and go directly for Sorin.

  Or take the sister away from the OrgCrime protection team. With Clair Sorin in the hands of the mob they would have a bargaining chip. Something to force Sorin to come forward and hand over the stolen data.

  Corrigan didn’t fool himself into imagining either way would be easy. There were no guarantees of success one way or the other. But something needed to be done.

  He decided to try the direct approach first. Try and find where the agent had gone.

  That was when Corrigan came up with a potentially workable theory. He would have been the first to admit it was way off the line, but right then he needed anything to offer him a chance of locating Sorin. So he threw the dice and waited to see if he hit the right combination.

  Corrigan made use of his own assets. He had built up a background file of people skilled in a number of applications. Phone tappers. Cyber hackers. Watchers and listeners. They were paid well for their services—money was no problem. The mob understood the importance of good intelligence and allowed Corrigan to operate in that field.

  At this moment Corrigan had his people working full-time on the Sorin problem. He was attacking it from all angles and felt he had everything covered.

  His laptop pinged as a message entered his email inbox. Corrigan opened it.

  The email told him to check the attachment. When he did, Corrigan was presented with telephone bills going back a number of years and a similar number of bank statements. When he scrolled through the lists he saw that there were highlighted entries.

  He picked up his throwaway cell and called a number. His call was answered after two rings.

  “I got your email, Rankin,” Corrigan said. “You want to decipher it for me?”

  Rankin said, “I ran all the permutations of Sorin’s background. Pulled up details of his home phone number and hacked into his bank account. Banks are so easy to get into. I downloaded bills and statements then got out of those places before anyone even knew I’d been there. I compared dates and times and came up with a few constants. I checked phone numbers and lucked onto one that wasn’t used much, but when I ran the address for that number it turned out to be located outside a small village in the northeast of Scotland. Google Earth maps has a picture. Isolated house on the edge of a loch.”

  “Who owns the place?”

  “Land Registry holds titles to properties. The house has been in the Sorin family for over thirty years. Current owner is Ethan Sorin. Once I had that it was easy to locate utility payments via Sorin’s bank statements.”

  “Rankin, you are almost worth the money I pay you.”

  “Oh, I know that.”

  “I’ll transfer your fee shortly. And thanks.”

  Corrigan put down the phone, leaning back in his leather executive chair, smiling to himself.

  His pleasure was short-lived after he picked up the ringing telephone on his desk.

  “Yeah? Talk to me.”

  The call was short and to the point.

  The house in Hampstead had been hit. Six crew-member fatalities. The three women being held there were currently in police hands and the house was under investigation by the OrgCrime unit. The informant had learned that when the house was searched a couple of laptop computers had been seized and taken back to the OrgCrime unit for investigation.

  “Sonofabitch,” Corrigan yelled across the apartment.

  His immediate thoughts were directed at the big American. The guy was showing up everywhere.

  But who the hell was he?

  Corrigan pushed to his feet and crossed to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a large whisky—very large. He took a long swallow and noticed his hand was shaking slightly. It wasn’t from fear. It was plain and simple frustration. Corrigan liked to be in control. At this moment he wasn’t. The mysterious American had the upper hand for the time being. Corrigan emptied the tumbler, placed it back on the cabinet and returned to his desk.

  He conceded that the American appeared to be doing exactly what he had threatened—attacking the mob and taking it apart piece by piece. His skill was in gaining information and using it well. He made no announcements. No prior warnings. He seemingly came out of nowhere, carried out his strike and then simply vanished. The guy was like a ninja. Whatever he was, the guy was good. And he had no qualms when it came to handing out his kill shots.

  Locate your enemy.

  Make your hit.

  Leave no prisoners.

  Except in Delbert’s case.

  Corrigan figured the American must have decided that leaving Delbert alive might offer the OrgCrime unit someone to question in order to get information. Another point in his profile. The guy was ruthless but he was also smart. Thinking ahead. As he had when he’d left some of the crew at the airfield alive. Leaving them alive meant they were possible avenues for information once they were in the hands of the OrgCrime agency.

  Corrigan made a call.

  “I want a chopper ready ASAP. Three guys. Armed. I have a lead on Benson. We need to act on it fast because I have a feeling that fucking Yank might be on his way there, too. Yes, that Yank. I’m working on the thought that Benson’s sister might have pointed him in the right direction. His time might be up if we figure it correctly. No dodging the bullet for him this time.”

  Corrigan utilized his authority to organize a backup plan. He knew that the best operations could go belly-up, and if that happened they were back at the starting gate. So it was wise to have an alternative strategy. And that meant arranging to work on his other option.

  Clair Sorin.

  The sister.

  But this time it would not be a one-man operation.

  Corrigan made two more calls.

  The first was to his OrgCrime inside man. It was a simple request. He wanted to know the strength of the protection team at Clair Sorin’s house.

  His follow-up call was to Nate Reese, one of his soldiers. Corrigan told him the background and the force he would be up against.

  “Get yourself an armed team together. Get into position and wait for my call. If our boys make good and grab Sorin, I’ll stand you down. If the hit doesn’t come through you go in and take out the OrgCrime protection team. I want Sorin’s sister alive. She can be our insurance. One way or another Sorin is going to give us what we want. If I have to skin that bitch in front of him I’ll do it.”

  “Deadly force against the protection team?”

  “Hell, yes. They won’t want to lose Sorin’s sister, so go in hard. Show those bastards the cost of standing up to us.”

  “You got it, boss,” Reese said. “I’ll let you know when we’re set.”

  Chapter 13

  Northeast Scotland. Approaching the area Bolan was not surprised at the drop in temperature. The time of year and the location left a lot to be desired where the weather was concerned. This part of Scotland demanded fairly hardy inhabitants, the wind blowing in off the North Sea bringing squalls of chill rain. Bolan found himself driving through open, rugged terrain, with few signs of habitation the farther north and east he got. If this was where Ethan Sorin was in hiding he could not have chosen a more isolated spot.

  The screen of the SatNav showed Bolan he was on track. The single strip of the road wound through the undulating landscape. Every now and then he spotted the dull gr
ay of the sea off to his right. For the past hour he had seen only a few farms open to the elements. According to one of the few roadside signs he was about ten miles out from the village where Sorin’s house was situated, though it was another eight miles to the east of the village itself. Bolan eased his tall frame in the seat. Comfortable as it was, he had been at the wheel for long hours. Despite the chill of the outside temperature, he had the climate control on, blowing cool air around the car. He had resisted opting for warmth in case it lulled him into lethargy. He did have the radio on, set low, and was listening to a music station that was beamed in from some Scandinavian source. The only Scottish stations he had been able to find were mostly filled with talk shows.

  If Sorin was not at the house, Bolan would have to reconsider his approach. He had it fixed in his mind that there was no way he would quit. Sorin was in trouble and Bolan’s determination to track him down would not diminish even if this particular route came to a dead end.

  It was midafternoon when Bolan coasted through the village. A narrow street of well-preserved stone houses, a few small shops and a couple of pubs. There were lights showing from some windows against the cloudy day. A shivering spray of rain followed Bolan along the street and he was through the village almost before he realized. A few more houses hugged the road on the far side of the village, then even they vanished behind Bolan.

  He heard the SatNav telling him he only had four miles to his destination. Bolan scanned the road ahead and found a place where he could park. He had on his blacksuit beneath his civilian clothing, which he shed. From the holdall in the passenger well, he retrieved his weapons.

  The Beretta was snug in its holster, the sheathed combat blade against his hip. Bolan was hoping for a soft approach with a similar follow-up. His long experience called for caution and a prepared mind, because Mack Bolan understood the vagaries of fate. His visit here was to locate Sorin and ensure the man’s safety. The protective voice at the back of his mind was warning him to go in on full alert, however, ready for any untoward situation. It was the way Bolan entered any unknown scenario. And his readiness was the main reason he had survived for so long. That and his well-honed responses to any threats. Bolan didn’t spend too much time analyzing the complexities of his survival rate. He was who he was and that satisfied him.