Hostile Force

by Don Pendleton

  Lowell recalled the conversation with the man. He managed a bleak smile when he remembered the gasp of horror in the agent’s voice at the mention of his family. Hanley had been so eager to collect his money and pass along information, but upon seeing the relationship he thought he had crumble with just a few choice words, Hanley had realized he was trapped. Trapped in the middle between the mob and the OrgCrime unit, with no way to turn. Lowell’s hinted threats would hang over Hanley, shadowing every move he made. He might consider going to his superiors and confessing all, but it would end his career, possibly earn him jail time—and any relief he might feel would be short-lived. If Hanley crossed the mob there would never be an end to it. Hanley would never escape them. The mob had a long memory and it never forgave betrayal. Hanley’s family would never realize it, but their lives would be forfeit sooner or later. If Hanley ever decided to confess, he would be handing out death sentences to his family.

  The Lear touched down at a small private airfield in France. Formalities were nonexistent. The mob had long-standing arrangements with the local customs and the limousine waiting for Lowell was waved out the gate without a pause. He sat back in the deep, comfortable seat, his bodyguards sitting facing him, while the car sped along the road. It would take just under an hour to reach the meeting place. Rene Markel had already informed him the others were already there. They would want to commence business at once.

  Lowell had no problem with that. He was anxious to proceed as quickly as possible. The sooner issues were resolved, the sooner he could get back to the States. Lowell did not enjoy trips that took him away from America. He preferred home ground. All this international dealing left him cold. Sure, he did business with these foreign partners because they had the goods he wanted, but he didn’t particularly enjoy their company. He would take the money their enterprises collected. He would handle their goods. He would increase his business initiatives. But he didn’t have to put up with their crap. He was Anthony “Tony” Lowell—an American, and a self-made man who had earned his bones long before his business partners started to throw their weight around. Deep down he didn’t trust them, and he was sure they felt the same. But business was business. So the proprieties were observed.

  Lowell stared out at the provincial French countryside. The rural scene did little for him. He was a city boy, born and bred. A New Yorker who loved the Big Apple. His early life had been lived on the mean streets—the feel of concrete beneath his feet, the noise and the smell of the neighborhoods all around him. His teen observations had made him appreciate the city’s heart—the vibrations, the hustle and graft. His excursions into juvenile crime taught him the thrill of the game. Lowell graduated to the big time when he was nineteen after he made his first hit. He had done it as a favor for a local crime boss, stepping in when the hired shooter dropped the ball. From that day on Lowell became a made man. He learned to pay his respects to the bosses, to maintain a favorable attitude, and he watched and listened to everything that went on around him. His diligence paid off. By the time he was in his early twenties, with three more hits behind him, Lowell was in charge of his own team. His advancement had been steady—unspectacular but steady. Above all he was a trusted employee. In a dishonest profession, Lowell was a straight dealer. He understood the benefits of being honest to his crime family, and no one could ever accuse him of being underhanded. This brought its own rewards. People talked to him, knowing he would maintain a trust and never betray a confidence. He cultivated his informants and built a group of contacts both inside and outside the law. Life was good to him.

  When a rival family had made an unexpected bid to take down the company Lowell was part of, there was a brief but bloody standoff. The takeover failed but not without cost on both sides. Lowell’s boss and his top men died, as did over half of the rival family. There was a period of confusion—an empty chair to be filled. Lowell realized an opportunity and made his move, assuming control and easing his own people into the top positions. There was no opposition. No one who wanted the job. Lowell became the Capo. He made it clear that his intention was to run his crew and make no moves against any other mobs. He maintained his word, concentrating on his own businesses. He had always had a good eye for opportunities and the propositions he received from the European mobs interested him. Within a couple of years his ties with his extended family were bringing in unheard-of profits from the various enterprises they were dealing in.

  The drugs coming in from Afghanistan meant he didn’t need to become involved with the vicious Mexican and Colombian mobs.

  The human cargoes from Frasko’s highly organized Albanian connection provided women and girls from various European and U.S. locations. The volatile Frasko, a dedicated trader in people, was a hard man to deal with, but his goods were always top-grade.

  There was also always a steady trade in weapons. Hans Coblenz, the humorless German, ran a complex of dealers that ranged across Europe. He had a solid connection within Russia where surplus weapons were still readily available, and Lowell had customers in the U.S. for some of those.

  With the rest of the group, Lowell was part of a syndicate with multiple supply-and-demand branches.

  With the formation of the OrgCrime task force, life had become less comfortable for a time. Though its intentions were serious, the OrgCrime group was hampered because it had to follow rules. Its legal division hammered it home to the multinational agencies that anything and everything they did must be legally sound. Rules and regulations. Human Rights. Legalese. It made the agencies almost powerless. The departments were swamped with paperwork and virtually strangled by the rule of law. Getting an inside man had been a bonus, and Hanley had proven his worth by feeding solid information to the mob. When he learned about the information theft carried out by three of the OrgCrime agents, Hanley had helped identify them. Two of the agents died. The third, Ethan Sorin, had eluded his killers so far and had gone into hiding.

  That had been bad enough, but an added complication had arrived in the shape of the unknown American who had started to initiate hard strikes against the mob. No one, not even Hanley, had known anything about the Yank. It was only after Delbert’s failed attempt against Sorin’s sister that Hanley had learned the man’s name.

  Cooper.

  It did them little good, though, because every attempt to learn more about him produced nothing. The guy was a ghost. A shadow who came and went at will, usually leaving a trail of broken bodies behind. Lowell gave the man credit for his ability to come and go like a wisp of smoke. But he wanted the bastard caught and put down before he destroyed the mob.

  One man with the ability to create havoc wherever he showed. It would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so damned serious. The whole mob seemingly powerless to stop a single man.

  Even Corrigan was being made to look a fucking idiot, Lowell thought then. Which brought him back to the present and the rendezvous he was making with the rest of the group at the château the organization owned.

  He felt the car slow a short time later. It turned off the narrow road, swept past stone columns and high iron gates. It approached the big house along a winding drive, through an avenue of tall trees, and Lowell studied the outline of the château that had stood in the grounds for more than two hundred and fifty years.

  Lowell was not impressed. In his eyes it was an ugly pile. All crenellated stone and leaded windows. Seeing the place made him long for his New York apartment overlooking the Hudson. He hoped his visit here would be a short one so he could head back home soon.

  The limousine stopped in line with the stone steps that led to the entrance. A number of other vehicles were already parked there.

  “You want me to check first?”

  Lowell glanced at his bodyguard.

  “Frankie, if we can’t trust our business partners, what the hell.” Lowell grinned. “Do it anyway.”

  Frankie and the
second minder, a blond-haired younger man called Leonard, eased out of the limousine and had a walk around the entrance area. Under the long, lightweight topcoats they each carried a 9 mm Uzi. The weapons were capable of rapid rates of fire and both men were skilled in their use.

  Frankie moved to the door as it opened.

  Rene Markel extended his arms in a welcoming gesture. He wore his dark hair to the collar of his expensive suit, underneath which was a thin, striped shirt and a dark tie. He was in his early forties, sleek and good-looking.

  “It is good to see you, Tony,” he said. “Even under these circumstances. Vous-êtes les bienvenus, mon ami.”

  Lowell nodded. “Everyone here?”

  “Yes.”

  Markel led the way inside. Lowell’s bodyguards fell in close behind. The Frenchman guided them across the entrance hall and through a door that took them into a large, well furnished room.

  Lowell recognized the five heads of the mob, each of them accompanied by their own bodyguards. He greeted each man in turn before taking his place at the head of the long oak table that had been readied for the meeting. As the heads sat down, the bodyguards took up positions behind their respective bosses.

  “I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” Lowell said.

  “This needs sorting,” Frasko said. As usual he showed little patience. “And where is Corrigan? Has he decided to stay away from the mess he has created?”

  “Let’s keep this civilized, Lec,” Lowell said. “No need to go off on one of your rants.”

  Frasko slapped his hands down on the table. “The hell with that,” he said. “Your man has fucked up. No pretending he has not. I have lost money since this American showed up. I do not like to lose money.”

  The Italian, Astrianni, raised a placating hand. “We all have lost money,” he said. His English was heavily accented. “That is not the most important consideration here.”

  Frasko laughed. “Only you could say that. I do all the work gathering the women so you can sit back and take the profit.”

  “You whine too much,” Coblenz said. “Albanians are such a miserable breed.”

  “Kraut,” Frasko snapped.

  The German leaned forward, jabbing a thick finger at Frasko. “Peasant.”

  “Enough,” Lowell yelled, half rising and pounding a fist on the table. “What the fuck is wrong with you people? We have a problem on our hands. No point arguing among ourselves. We need to fix this. Now keep quiet unless you have something useful to say.”

  Markel quietly cleared his throat. “I have something to report that might satisfy you all.”

  “Go ahead, Rene,” Lowell said.

  “I wanted to wait until we were all assembled. I received a call from Corrigan about twenty minutes ago. He is on his way from meeting the Venture. Which is why he is not here at the moment. He is bringing us an unexpected guest. Someone we have all been waiting to meet.”

  All heads turned in the Frenchman’s direction.

  “Rene?” Lowell asked.

  “He is bringing in our mystery American. The man himself—Cooper. He is Corrigan’s prisoner.”

  Chapter 24

  They were met at the small harbor. Waves were still slamming into the Venture’s hull when Calverton maneuvered the vessel through the harbor entrance, sheltered by stone walls from the fury of the English Channel. He brought the boat around and executed a by-the-book berthing. Morgan transferred to the quayside, hauling the mooring ropes into place fore and aft.

  A full-size SUV was parked and waiting. Corrigan’s imposing figure stood by the vehicle, ignoring the rain that still fell from cloud-heavy skies.

  The moment the Venture was secure, Ketch appeared with Bolan, hands bound in front of him, being pushed across the deck. Ketch prodded his prisoner with the muzzle of the 93-R and Bolan stepped off the boat. Ketch carried Bolan’s holdall in his free hand.

  Corrigan moved to confront Bolan.

  “Bienvenue en France,” he said. “I guess you’ve had better welcomes.”

  Bolan met the man’s taut stare, refusing to back down.

  “Remember what you told me?” Ketch said. “Dead is dead.”

  Bolan turned to stare at the man. “I remember.”

  “Keep it in mind. Now move. I don’t want to stand in the rain all damn day.”

  Bolan was put in the rear of the SUV. Corrigan took the Beretta from Ketch, who climbed behind the wheel, dumping Bolan’s holdall in the passenger footwell. The big vehicle rolled across the quay and picked up the road beyond. As houses fell behind them, exposing empty countryside, Bolan settled in the soft leather seat.

  “It’ll take us about forty-five minutes,” Corrigan said.

  “I’m in no hurry,” Bolan said.

  “I should empty this fucking gun into you right now for what you’ve done.”

  Bolan’s bloody lips etched a thin smile. “I did warn you.”

  “You cost us some good men, Cooper. Too many.”

  “First you have to define good men.”

  Corrigan shook his head. “You’ve got balls. I have to give you that. Let’s forget the men you put down. Instead we’ll talk about how you’ve made me look a damn fool in front of the people I work for.”

  It wasn’t difficult, Bolan thought.

  He kept the thought to himself. Bolan did not feel inclined to discuss Corrigan’s embarrassment. He didn’t give a damn about the man’s feelings. Corrigan worked for the mob, which made him as guilty as they were. Right at that moment Bolan was mentally kicking himself for falling right into the mob’s hands.

  He was not feeling sorry for himself—it wasn’t in Bolan’s makeup to tolerate self-pity. That was self-defeating. Bolan remained positive. It was the only way out of a difficult situation, and right now he was in a difficult position. No doubt about that. He ached from a dozen sore spots on his body and face. Ketch and Morgan had been more than enthusiastic in their treatment of him back on the Venture. He was going to have several bruises on his body and his ribs down his left side gave him pain with every breath. His face was bloody and the gash in his scalp where Ketch had slugged him with the Beretta was still wet with blood. He also had his wrists tightly bound.

  Ketch had tied his hands in front. He should have secured Bolan’s hands behind him—it was an error Bolan wasn’t about to point out. And it did present him with a degree of flexibility for later, but for the moment he was allowing his battered body to heal itself. Letting his strength build while he listened to Corrigan. As long as the man talked, he wasn’t doing anything else to Bolan.

  “You know what really makes me mad?” Corrigan said. “The fact that you broke into my apartment. Violated my personal space and left one of my boys dead.”

  “I called round but you were out. I was looking for Clair Sorin. Your guy forced my hand.”

  “You really are a direct bastard. Clair wasn’t there so you played Mr. Gallant and took that bitch Lauren away instead.”

  “Seeing how you’d been treating her, it seemed the right thing to do.”

  “And my money?”

  “Lauren figured you owed her. Have to give her the benefit of the doubt.”

  “I had a feeling she was sharper than she let on,” Corrigan said. “But I had things on my mind at the time. If I ever get my hands on her again...”

  “No,” Bolan said. “She’s long gone. Even I don’t know where to.”

  Corrigan dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand.

  “I want to know about you, Cooper. You’re a nervy son of a bitch. You come out of nowhere and start chopping up my people. Taking away our merchandise. Just who are you? No one seems to be clued in to who you work for. So, what? Military SpecOps? SEAL? Some kind of Delta Force maverick? There’s no way you belong
to that pussy OrgCrime unit. All they do is run around like headless chickens waving paperwork at us. But you come storming in like some wild ass, shooting everybody on sight. What the hell set of rules do you work from?”

  “My own,” Bolan said. “Not hard to understand. I see a dirt bag, I take him down.”

  Corrigan smiled. “You should be working for me,” he said.

  “Not really. I’m fussy about the company I keep.”

  “And you like to push people’s buttons. Be careful, Cooper, because I can lose it at any time.”

  “If you wanted me dead right now we wouldn’t be discussing the meaning of life,” Bolan said. “You would have told Ketch to shoot me and toss my body overboard while we were still in the Channel.”

  “He’s fuckin’ right there,” Ketch said.

  Corrigan appeared to have lost interest in the subject. He was examining the Beretta, working the forward hand lever, and checking the fire selector.

  “Nice piece,” he said. “This the one with 3-shot mode?”

  Bolan nodded. “Handy when it comes to dealing with scum.”

  Corrigan refused to bite.

  Conversation lapsed.

  Over Corrigan’s shoulder Bolan watched the French countryside go by in a blur. Ketch drove fast, with excellent control, the SUV going hard along a narrow country road. Bolan pushed himself into the corner of the seat, ignoring the pain that kept letting him know it was not going away. He flexed his muscles as much as he could without making it too obvious to Corrigan.