Hostile Force

by Don Pendleton

  “The hell with you. We run a business. We supply what’s in demand.”

  Bolan’s expression became bleak, his eyes colder—if that were possible.

  “Have it your way. I’ll get my information elsewhere.” He holstered the Beretta and turned to leave.

  “Hey, what about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “You walk away, I’ll fucking die here.”

  “Not my problem,” Bolan said. “You’d let one of your kidnapped women die if she became a liability. I’ve seen it happen. You treat them as if they don’t matter. Human beings. Why should I show you any consideration?”

  Kaman struggled against his bonds, teeth bared against the self-inflicted pain. Foul obscenities rolled from his lips.

  Bolan had reached the door when the man yelled, “Wait. Don’t leave....” He slumped, exhausted. “What do you need to know?”

  “Just the address of Corrigan’s apartment in town,” Bolan said. He took out his cell and held it up. “The sooner you give me what I want, the quicker I call for help.”

  “I’m a dead man once I give it up.”

  Bolan shrugged. “Aren’t we all,” he said. “It’s just a matter of when.”

  Kaman winced as pain coursed through his thigh. Sweat beaded his face.

  “The address,” Bolan repeated.

  “Bastard,” Kamen said, but he gave up the address.

  Bolan made his call, bringing Henning up to speed. He gave his current position and advised of the need for medical help for the wounded man.

  “Cooper, it’s kill or cure with you,” Henning said.

  “I promised the guy help if he gave me information. He did, so now he’s yours. You can go over the house, as well. See if there’s anything you can use.”

  “Okay,” Henning said. “Any update on Ethan?”

  Bolan said, “He’s still recovering. That bullet wound has left him weak.”

  “Has he been told about Clair?”

  “No. The man has enough of a fight with his recovery. There will be time to tell him what’s happened when he’s stronger.”

  “Has he said anything about what happened before he went on the run?” Henning asked.

  “I asked, but he wasn’t in a fit state to talk. I’m just glad we got him back.”

  “Thanks to you, Cooper.”

  “Thank me when we have Clair back safely.”

  “Seems likely Ethan must have gotten his hands on something important if the mob had to snatch his sister,” Henning said. “Damned if I know what, though.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Bolan said.

  He completed the call, then checked the guy tied to the chair. He was semiconscious. Bolan’s binding of the wound had stopped the bleeding and would hold until Henning’s team arrived with proper medical help. He told the bound man to stay still so he didn’t start the bleeding again.

  “Help’s on the way,” Bolan told him. “Hang in there.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Sure. Live or die. That’s your choice.”

  Bolan made his way outside. He crossed to the vehicle workshop and pushed open the sliding doors. He knew what he was looking for. There was plenty of flammable liquid stacked up. It only took a few minutes to puncture drums and flood the floor. When Bolan exited the building flames were already starting to spread.

  He cut through the grounds and returned to where he had left his SUV, changed back into civilian dress and drove off.

  By the time he hit the road the workshop was well alight. It would be seen for miles, making it easy for Henning’s team to locate it.

  He felt no guilt at not revealing Sorin’s information. It was the reason why the mob had mounted its search for his friend. But until he had Clair out of their hands, Bolan refused to come clean. As much as he wanted to place the information in the OrgCrime unit’s hands Bolan held back. The crime force, as was its nature, would act on the incriminating evidence once they saw it. And if that happened prematurely, Clair’s chances of survival would evaporate quickly.

  There was also the problem of an insider feeding the mob. From Henning’s admission the mole was still operating. Bolan was not going to pass along any data Sorin had in his possession until the OrgCrime unit had cleaned house. Two of its agents had been executed and Sorin was still under threat. Those deaths and Sorin’s attack could have come via the leaked word of the insider.

  Bolan had not forgotten how the protection team at Clair’s house had been attacked. The mob had had exact knowledge of their numbers and had been able to hit quickly. Someone had passed information directly to them. That was another reason why Bolan had the mob in his sights. The attack at Clair’s house had been swift and brutal, the killing of the protection team cold and calculated. The enemy here was ruthless. Brazen in their mindset that they were untouchable. Able to hit out at whoever they wanted to, wherever they desired.

  Which was why Bolan was operating solo. He was under no obligation to obey the OrgCrime group rules. Despite their remit to bring down the mob, the constraints they operated under held them back from out-and-out hard-strike actions unless they had by-the-book evidence.

  Bolan had no such restrictions. He worked to his own set of rules. He sought out his targets, pinpointed the guilty, went at them full-on and delivered the primal justice they deserved.

  It was the only way to handle the guilty. They flaunted civilized laws, and carried out their evil with a contempt for anyone who stood against them. Yet they turned to the law when caught, using it to plead their case and quoting every precedent to allow them to walk away, surrounded by their expensive lawyers and smiling their way to freedom.

  Bolan’s law found them guilty and he exercised his own judgment. Courts and legal trickery did not come under his umbrella. In Bolan’s world the truly guilty did not go unpunished.

  In his court there was no appeal.

  No bail.

  All they had to look forward to was their execution.

  Delivered in person by the Executioner.

  Chapter 19

  The place was near Canary Wharf, but not part of that pristine redevelopment. The building was old-London in design and build. Substantial though, without the flash and glitter of the newer constructions that sparkled in the night.

  Bolan cruised past the building and took the narrow street that ran down the west side. It was darker away from the streetlights and Bolan spotted a parking lot behind the place. He eased the SUV to a stop, climbed out and checked his weapons. The Beretta in its shoulder rig under his leather zip jacket. A razor-edged lock knife in a snug holster on his belt. In his pants pocket he carried a few coiled plastic ties. He had no identification, not even a cell phone. Bolan used the remote to lock the vehicle, then eased through the welcoming shadows and into the parking lot.

  There were two cars parked up near the rear wall. Bolan caught a brief flicker of light as someone lit a cigarette. Keeping flat to the wall, he closed in on the rear of the building, picking up a low murmur of voices. He identified two of them.

  Close enough he was able to make out the individual figures. Big guys, broad across the shoulders, shaved heads gleaming in the thin light fixed over a solid-looking door. One of the men turned and Bolan saw the silhouette of an SMG.

  One guy made a low comment that brought a harsh chuckle from his partner.

  “Well, I don’t give a damn,” another man said. “We should be sitting up there in comfort. Not out here freezing our balls off.”

  “I’ll call Corrigan and you can tell him that yourself.”

  “You think I got a bleedin’ death wish?”

  The man with the SMG laughed again, then said, “I’ll go do another circuit. Stop me from seizing up.”

  He cr
adled the weapon under one arm as he moved off, fishing a packet of cigarettes from inside his coat. He went through the procedure of taking a cigarette from the pack, using a disposable lighter to fire it up. The actions kept his attention while he walked.

  Bolan trailed him as he moved toward the far limit of the parking lot, letting the man stroll farther away from the light over the door. There was a blind spot at the far side of the lot—a shadowed area that would provide Bolan with the environment he needed.

  His target paused, taking a long draw on his cigarette, savoring the taste of the tobacco. A small comfort during a night of boring sentry duty.

  The guy seemed to sense rather than see a presence close by. He turned quickly. Not fast enough. The presence became a tall, dark shape that moved with a sound. And then something unyielding slammed across the side of his head. The blow was followed by another, second hit. The sentry felt himself falling, pain obviously flaring. He landed on his knees, hands thrown out to brace himself, but there was nothing to get hold of. He hit the ground, his senses slipping away. It all became too much and he slipped into a dark void.

  Bolan slid the SMG to one side. He pulled plastic ties from his pocket and secured the unconscious man’s wrists behind his back. Looped plastic around the ankles and tethered them tightly. He used the lock knife to slice off a long, wide strip from the guard’s topcoat and used it to gag him. Satisfied the man was secure, Bolan picked up the SMG, checked it was ready for use and went after the second sentry.

  He moved around the two parked cars, their bulk shielding him from the sentry. Bolan was able to close in on the man before he became aware of the Executioner’s presence.

  It was the hard prod of the Beretta against his spine that told the guard he was not alone. For a moment he may have thought it might be his partner having a joke, but the way the ring of steel pushed into his flesh changed that thought quickly.

  Bolan reached around and slid his left hand inside the guy’s jacket, feeling for a weapon. He found it in a shoulder rig. Bolan pulled the autopistol free. Using his free hand he dropped out the magazine and tossed the pistol over the roof of one of the parked cars. Then he threw the magazine across the car park where it clattered into a dark corner.

  “Now I don’t feel so intimidated,” he said. “The next part is easy.” Bolan had spotted the keypad on the wall beside the door. “You open the door and we go inside.”

  The man hesitated. “It’s my job to prevent that from happening,” he said grudgingly.

  He was big, broad, and Bolan understood his tone. He had been caught out while doing his job and that would gnaw away at him. It would make him dangerous if he decided to attempt to right what he perceived as a wrong.

  “We’re changing that tonight. Now key in that code and quit stalling.”

  “You’re that bloody Yank,” the guy said.

  “Then you’ll understand I don’t play around.”

  The man reached out to the keypad. “They want you bad,” he said. “Corrigan wants to rip out your throat.”

  “I’m getting tired of hearing what Corrigan wants,” Bolan said. “Now open the door before I put you down permanently.”

  The man tapped in numbers and the door clicked as it was released from the lock. Bolan prodded with the Beretta and the man hauled the door open. He led the way into a small entrance hall with a single elevator door. Without being told, the guard pressed the button and the elevator door slid open. Once they were inside, the button was pressed, the door closed and the elevator began its smooth ride.

  “Anyone inside?” Bolan asked, using the Beretta as a prompt.

  “Corrigan isn’t here if that’s what you mean.”

  “Right now he isn’t my priority,” Bolan said. “I’m looking for someone else.”

  “I didn’t think you were offering subscriptions for National Geographic,” the man said drily.

  “Move in front of me,” Bolan said.

  He had no intention of emerging from the elevator to a hostile greeting. The man was broad, with a solid torso and Bolan had no qualms over using him as a shield. He was dealing with lowlife criminals who traded in human life. Who sold drugs. So their survival was low on his list of priorities. If one of them got hurt during his entry to Corrigan’s residence, so be it.

  The elevator slowed and stopped. The door opened.

  “Make it easy on yourself,” Bolan said. “The place empty?”

  “Except for the woman,” the man said.

  For a moment Bolan imagined he might be talking about Clair. Just as quickly his hope faded. His reason for coming here had been to try and locate Ethan’s sister. He didn’t imagine Corrigan would have left her alone in his apartment. It would have been impossible for Clair to have effected an escape given the setup, but Corrigan would not have risked even a slender chance for her to get away. If there was a woman here it wouldn’t be Clair Sorin, so Bolan would have to be satisfied with information.

  Bolan nudged the man forward. “Get over there and sit down,” he said.

  As the thug moved away from him, Bolan spotted a small wooden table with a potted cactus plant on top. He swept the plant aside, sending it crashing to the carpeted floor. Bolan picked up the table and placed it in the way of the elevator door as it began to close. With the upper door jammed, the elevator would not be accessible from below.

  “Corrigan won’t like that,” a woman’s voice said. “Locking him out of his own place and making a mess on his carpet.”

  Bolan looked around and saw a tall, attractive woman standing on the far side of the spacious room. She wore snug-fitting pants and a scarlet shirt. There was no hiding the supple shape the clothes covered. Shoulder-length ash-blond hair swayed as she crossed the room, pausing to rest one hip against the back of a large leather sofa. Her hazel eyes inspected Bolan from top to bottom, full red lips pouting in an amused smile.

  “I’ll just have to live with that,” Bolan said.

  “I recognize the accent,” she said. “You must be...”

  Bolan managed a weary smile. “Yeah, I know. The Yank who seems to be upsetting everyone lately.”

  “Do you have a name? It’ll get tiring having to call you Yank all the time.”

  “Cooper,” Bolan told her. He saw no reason why they shouldn’t know who he was, because the name wouldn’t gain them any advantage.

  “Lauren,” she said. “I’m the current inmate of this bloody place.”

  “By choice?” Bolan asked, intrigued at her use of words. “Or circumstance?”

  She inclined her blond head. “I can’t deny I walked in willingly, but once the bars appeared it was too late.”

  The tone in her voice explained a great deal. Bolan saw the pain in those hazel eyes and realized the woman was trapped in a world she couldn’t escape. The luxury of the apartment might have shielded her from the outside world, but it did nothing to save her from the fact she was a prisoner.

  “So what does he have on you?” Bolan asked.

  Lauren’s answer was to unbutton the scarlet shirt and slip it off. The fact she was naked beneath it only exposed the full extent of the still-healing bruises marking her white flesh. The marks were on her breasts as well as over her ribs. She turned around and showed Bolan the welts that crisscrossed her slim back. When she faced him again she held out her arms and Bolan saw the needle tracks there.

  “He keeps me quiet by forcing the drugs on me,” she said and her reserve broke, tears spilling from her eyes. “He does things to me, and when I try to resist...”

  “Bitch, keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” the minder yelled.

  He had been sitting on an armchair, seemingly compliant. He pushed up off the chair and lunged at the woman, his big hand sweeping round to deliver a hard slap that caught her cheek. Lauren gasped, stumbling, losing her balance.
As she fell her head caught the edge of a coffee table and she sprawled unconscious. Deciding he had an opportunity, the thug made an abrupt turn, coming at Bolan in a wild rush. He moved with surprising speed despite his heavy bulk. He threw out his arms, hands groping, and his right arm slammed against Bolan’s gun hand, pushing the Beretta aside. The guy’s full-on charge had a lot of power behind it and he drove Bolan back. A solid wall brought them to a sudden halt, the impact catching Bolan unprepared. He felt the man’s hand clamp over his wrist, pushing the Beretta away. Bolan was no weakling but he quickly became aware of his opponent’s strength. He launched a clenched left fist that connected with the man’s heavy jaw, sliding across to the mouth. Bolan felt the jolt of the blow. He saw the minder’s head turn from the impact and heard the expelled grunt. A bead of bright blood welled up on the man’s lower lip. Bolan pulled his fist back and hit him again. Same force. Same point. This time the lips went back against the teeth that cut into soft flesh. The man swore loudly. He twisted at Bolan’s right wrist, abruptly dragging his arm down and slammed Bolan’s gun hand against a raised, heavily muscled thigh. Once. Twice. Bolan felt his grip on the 93-R slacken as his fingers numbed. A third smash and the Beretta slipped from Bolan’s grasp, hitting the carpeted floor.

  The big man spun Bolan around, clamping his muscular arms across the Executioner’s chest and applied pressure, pinning Bolan’s arms at his sides. His bear hug began to compress Bolan’s ribs against his lungs. Bolan realized he had only a short time to retaliate before serious damage was done. His legs and feet were the only things free, so Bolan cleared the floor, slamming his feet against the wall. With his knees bent he had some leverage and he used it to thrust back, hard, and felt his opponent lose traction. Thrown off balance the big man began to topple. With Bolan on top, the pair went down. They hit the floor and Bolan snapped his head back on impact, the back of his skull impacting against the sentry’s face, cracking against his right cheek with an audible sound. The big man gasped. He struggled to maintain his bear hug and managed until Bolan jerked his head back a second time, increasing the damage to the already injured cheek. The man let out a hurt roar, arms slackening, and Bolan pulled himself free and rolled away, coming to his knees. The sentry, clutching one hand to his splintered cheek, scrambled awkwardly upright. He was looking around for Bolan, who was on his opposite side, giving Bolan the opportunity to launch a brutal, hammerlike, double-fisted blow that connected with his target’s jaw. The guy’s head snapped round, blood spurting. He was flung sideways, hitting the floor on his left shoulder, and almost immediately his hand reached out for Bolan’s fallen Beretta. Dazed as he was, the guy refused to quit.