Hostile Force

by Don Pendleton

  “Were you serious about wanting to break the mob up?” Corrigan asked.

  “I don’t joke about my intentions.”

  “How are you going to do it now?” Corrigan gestured with the 93-R. “You don’t have much going for you at the moment.”

  At the moment maybe, Bolan internalized. But things change.

  His response to Corrigan’s comment was a slight shrug.

  “Jesus, Cooper, you make it easy for a man to get angry with you.”

  “Corrigan, I’m not here to win a congeniality award. And making casual conversation isn’t my thing.” Bolan raised his bound hands. “We’re not exactly soul mates, are we?”

  “That is true. Cooper, I have a problem. Maybe you can help.” Corrigan spoke in a calm, reasonable tone. “Sorin’s sister is proving to be less than cooperative. Could be you might persuade her to change her mind.”

  “She has no idea where her brother is. When he was picked up in Scotland, the rescue team were separate from the OrgCrime unit. They took Ethan to a secure site even I don’t know the location of,” Bolan said.

  “If that’s true then we still have a problem. Sorin knows where the data we need is. Getting it back is priority. One way or another I intend to get my hands on it. Which brings me back to my dilemma. I have Clair. Now I have you. I want Ethan Sorin. And I want that information back in my hands.”

  “Your bosses must be sweating just thinking about what Ethan has on them and the mob.”

  “They understand what that information could do if it got into the wrong hands.”

  “From my perspective it would be the right hands.”

  Corrigan smiled as a thought struck him. “The truth is the bosses can’t be exactly sure just how much information Sorin and his late accomplices actually downloaded. How deep they went into the database. It makes them uncomfortable. And desperate.”

  “That supposed to gain my sympathy?”

  “Hell, no. Just be aware they’re not going to be in a favorable state of mind where you’re concerned. If they have a couple of their boys kick the crap out of you, it’s because they want answers.”

  “I’ll try and not hold it against them,” Bolan said.

  “Be there in a few minutes,” Ketch said. “Hey, Cooper, you feel like wetting your pants go ahead. We’ll understand.”

  * * *

  THE SUV SWUNG OFF the road, between the stone pillars marking the entrance to the grounds of the château. It cruised along the drive and pulled up alongside the parked vehicles.

  Corrigan stepped out, holding the Beretta on Bolan as he climbed out. Ketch followed them to the front door, hauling Bolan’s holdall with him. They crossed the hall and Ketch pushed open the door to the room where the mob’s heads were waiting.

  “Gentlemen,” Corrigan said. “An early Christmas present.”

  He placed a hand in Bolan’s back and pushed him forward.

  Lowell caught Corrigan’s eye and gave a slight nod. His man had redeemed himself as far as he was concerned.

  He took a long look at the tall, black-haired man and had to admit that despite the battered and bloody appearance, the man named Cooper was impressive. Even as he stood before them, a captive amongst men who bore him nothing but ill will, he stood upright, his strong-featured face impassive. The expression in his eyes warned Lowell he was not a man to be taken lightly. Under a hostile gun, his hands bound, the American showed no outward sign of fear.

  “You’ve had a good run, Cooper,” Lowell said. “Cost us a great deal. But it’s over now, son. Don’t believe otherwise.”

  Bolan stayed silent.

  “Does he not speak?” Astrianni said. “Is he mute?”

  “He can talk,” Corrigan said. “When he figures it’s worthwhile.”

  Lec Frasko stood up, the force of his rising tipping his chair back. He stormed around the table, his face tight with anger.

  “This bastard owes me for a consignment of top-grade merchandise. I’ll make him talk.”

  “Lec,” Lowell shouted.

  “Go to hell,” Frasko screamed, spittle spraying from his lips as he rushed at Bolan. “We have waited long enough.”

  Corrigan stepped back a couple of feet, keeping the Beretta trained on Bolan.

  Frasko rounded the end of the table. His face was flushed with rage, fists bunched. He almost lost his balance as his shoes slipped on the polished wood floor. In his haste he launched a badly timed fist at Bolan. Grunting from the effort he tried to regain his balance. He was too slow. Bolan had swayed away from the intended blow. He pulled his own bound fists up and almost leisurely clubbed Frasko across the mouth. The sound of the blow was loud in the hushed room. Frasko gave a pained grunt and dropped to his knees. He stayed there, blood starting to drip heavily from split lips. Bolan moved away from him, hands dropping into a non-threatening position.

  Lowell gestured at Frasko’s bodyguards and they moved forward to help their boss back on his feet. Frasko was too dazed to resist as he was returned to his seat. One of them produced a large white handkerchief from his jacket and pressed it into Frasko’s hand so he could stem the blood flow.

  “He isn’t going to thank you for that,” Corrigan said softly.

  “I’m just disappointed you didn’t shoot him for me,” Bolan said.

  “Hell, he’s one of the guys who signs my paychecks.”

  Lowell raised his hands to quiet the murmur of voices around the table.

  “Let’s come to order,” he said. “Believe me, I have no love for this man. But knocking him senseless right now isn’t in our interests. This man has had contact with Ethan Sorin and his sister. We need to use that in order to get back the information Sorin stole.”

  “He claims he has no idea where Sorin is right now,” Corrigan said. “The OrgCrime unit doesn’t have him. Some outside agency pulled him out of Scotland and has him hidden away.”

  “Why should we believe that?” Hans Coblenz said.

  “Because you have a man inside the OrgCrime unit,” Bolan said. “Sorin’s whereabouts fed to the unit would have come straight to you. His safety would have been jeopardized.”

  Rene Markel said, “From a security position it was a wise move.”

  “We can work around it,” Corrigan said. “Now we have Cooper and the girl. As long as we do, Sorin isn’t going to hand over his information. He knows if he does, his sister is dead.”

  “Your logic has a slight flaw,” Markel pointed out. “If Sorin is being held incommunicado, how do we get the message to him?”

  “We have our way in,” Lowell said. “Cooper will come across.”

  “You think?” Bolan said.

  “Every man in this room has the urge to kill you,” Lowell said. “The only thing keeping that from happening is your knowing where Sorin is. We have the girl, and I have a feeling she might be your weak spot. We took her as a lever against Sorin. But now we will use her to persuade you to give him up. Simple arithmetic, Cooper. The girl. Sorin. You. Figure it out. If we don’t get the cooperation we require, Ethan Sorin will lose his sister.” Lowell caught Corrigan’s eye. “Put him with the girl. Let him see her. Talk to her. Mr. Cooper might be the ice man, but I think seeing the girl will thaw him out.”

  Corrigan nudged Bolan with the Beretta. “Let’s go, hotshot.” He looked across to where Frasko, still holding the handkerchief to his bleeding mouth, was glaring at Bolan with hate-filled eyes. “You certainly didn’t make a fan of him there.”

  Bolan didn’t respond. He walked out of the room, with Corrigan behind him and Ketch to one side. Across the hall and up the wide staircase to an upper landing, then a sharp turn to another flight of stairs.

  “Take the right passage,” Corrigan said.

  There was an armed man lounging on a chair outside a sol
id wood door. When Corrigan gestured, the guard took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

  “I just love a reunion,” Ketch whispered as Bolan moved by.

  “Just don’t take too long about it,” Corrigan said, pushing Bolan into the room.

  The door closed with a heavy thud. The key turned in the lock.

  And Bolan found himself face-to-face with Clair Sorin.

  Chapter 25

  “Of all the people I might have expected to see here,” she said, “you’re the most unlikely.”

  “That could hurt my feelings if I took it the wrong way.”

  Clair crossed the room and flung her arms around his neck, gripping him tightly. She seemed to notice his bruised face and stepped back.

  “God, what have they done to you?” A soft hand touched his cheek. “Why?”

  “Must have been something I said.”

  “That’s just the sort of thing Ethan would say.”

  She busied herself loosening the knots on the rope around Bolan’s wrists. He noticed she was wearing exactly the same outfit she’d had on the last time he saw her. Roll-neck sweater, jodhpurs and riding boots. They looked a lot less neat but Bolan wasn’t about to complain. When she finally released the expertly fastened knots and pulled the rope free, Bolan felt his restricted circulation starting to flow again. He flexed his hands. His wrists showed raw marks where the coarse rope had bitten into the flesh.

  “Tell me about Ethan. Did you find him?”

  “Yeah. He was hurt, but I got him transferred to a secure place.”

  “Badly hurt?”

  “Bullet wound that got infected.”

  Clair’s face blanched. “Is he going to be all right?”

  Bolan nodded as he moved around the room, checking it out. Apart from a mattress and blankets on the wood floor, the room was devoid of furniture. There were two windows, tall frames with leaded-glass panes. The heavy wood frames were screwed down. Bolan glanced up at the high, vaulted ceiling. He was looking for any signs of cameras and microphones. There was nothing to indicate any listening devices on the smooth walls.

  What the hell, he thought, if they want to listen in they aren’t going to get anything useful.

  “You must have heard what happened at my house?”

  “Yes.”

  “They murdered all the agents. Even the woman. She was standing right beside me when they...” Clair shook her head. “Matt, I don’t understand these people. What’s wrong with them? They kill without thought. Even wild animals don’t slaughter their own kind like these do.”

  “They have no conscience,” Bolan said. “Mindless thugs who don’t give a damn. Expect the worst from them and they’ll take it a step further.”

  “What happens now? To us?”

  “They still want the information Ethan took from them. It’s important they get it back. I’m not going to lie to you, Clair. If we don’t give them Ethan’s location and access to the information they will kill us. They put me in here so I can persuade you to cooperate. We give up Ethan and we survive.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said. “Do you?”

  “That’s what they want us to think. With the information in their hands we become surplus to requirements.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging.”

  “At some point they might need you to communicate with Ethan. Convince him you’re still unhurt. Proof they do have you.”

  “Nice to be told I’m useful for something,” Clair said drily.

  “They’ll keep us alive as long as we make them happy.”

  “But either way we die in the end. Some choice, Mr. Cooper.”

  Bolan drew her close and said softly, “Only if we stay around.”

  He cautioned Clair to speak quietly. “From what I saw before they put me here, everyone has a gun. And there are more of them than us,” she murmured.

  “Then we need to reduce the odds.”

  “Why do I not like the sound of that?”

  Bolan said, “Do they bring you food and drink?”

  “Yes. And take me to the bathroom at the end of the passage. Why?”

  “How many bring your meals?”

  “One carries a tray. Second man carries a big gun.”

  “Do they leave the door open while they’re in the room?”

  Clair nodded. “Are you...”

  “Our best chance. As long as the door is locked we can’t do anything.”

  She repeated herself. “Matt, are you trying to get yourself shot?”

  “That’s the part I want to avoid. If anyone comes in, follow my lead, but try not to get in my way.”

  No one came for some time—close to a couple of hours. Light faded outside the windows. They sat on the floor, backs against the wall. Clair moved close to Bolan, seeming to want him near her. Being as high as they were in the château, no sound reached them from downstairs.

  “Do you think they’re deciding what to do with us?”

  “Could be.”

  “I can’t believe how my life has changed. I mean, look at me. A prisoner in a French château. People wanting to hurt me. For heaven’s sake, Matt Cooper, I run a bloody riding stable in Buckinghamshire. I’m not a female James Bond.”

  Bolan had to smile at her righteous anger. He could understand it. She had been torn from her normal, peaceful environment and dropped feetfirst in the middle of killing and sudden death. He admired her resolve not to fall to pieces. Many people, in similar circumstances would have. Clair Sorin seemed to be simply getting annoyed. He hoped she stayed that way.

  Bolan had just glanced at his watch—it was close to eight in the evening—when he heard sounds on the other side of their locked door. Then the murmur of voices.

  Beside him Clair stirred out of a light doze.

  “What is it?”

  “Visitors,” Bolan said.

  He pushed to his feet and crossed the room, Clair following him. They faced the door as someone inserted the key and turned it.

  “Stay to one side,” Bolan said.

  The door swung wide.

  An armed figure stepped inside. He carried an MP-5 SMG. The weapon was pointing at Bolan. It was the door guard.

  A second figure carried a wooden tray holding food and drink.

  Behind him was a familiar face.

  Lec Frasko. His lips were swollen and looked painful. At his side was one of his bodyguards. The minder’s jacket was off and Bolan could see he was carrying a 9 mm Heckler & Koch pistol in a holster on his left hip, butt forward for a cross-draw.

  “I wanted to see if you were comfortable,” Frasko said in his heavily accented English. He attempted a smile but pain from his split lips cancelled that out quickly.

  The hell you did, Bolan thought.

  “I had to promise not to shoot you,” Frasko went on. “Don’t worry. That will come just later.”

  “We were just wondering about that,” Bolan said, his conversation generating interest. It was what he wanted. A sliver of relaxation on the part of the opposition—enough to give him his window of opportunity.

  “Yes,” Clair joined in. “Just how much longer are we going to have to wait?” She injected enough inflection in her voice to draw attention.

  Bolan saw the guy with the H&K glance at her, a slight sneer starting to curl his lips.

  Now.

  It isn’t going to get any better.

  Bolan twisted, slicing his left elbow round to slam into the guy’s face. The man gave a harsh grunt as his cheek collapsed from the blow. He stumbled back and Bolan continued his turn, snatching at the SMG. He jerked it free, aware that Frasko’s bodyguard was reaching for his handgun. Bolan dropped to a crouch, lowering his body mass, and tracked the muzzl
e of the MP-5, finger already at the trigger. He eased it back and laid a short burst into the bodyguard. The man grunted as the 9 mm slugs shattered his ribs, the short range letting the shots tear through and blow out to one side of his spine. As the minder dropped back against the wall, Bolan caught movement on the periphery of his vision and saw the tray bearer throw his burden aside and sweep his hand to the autopistol tucked under his belt. The tray was still falling when Bolan triggered the SMG, stitching the man down his side, opening him up like pulped fruit. Bolan angled the H&K and hit the guy he’d punched in the cheek. The burst took the man in the throat. He tumbled to the floor, hands gripping his torn, bloody flesh. During the initial seconds of the confrontation, Frasko had reached under his jacket for his own holstered weapon, fingers fumbling for the checkered grips of his pistol. He knew he wasn’t going to make it when his weapon resisted his pull, tangling with the lining of his coat. Bolan’s borrowed weapon traversed under his steady grip. He held a microsecond’s contact with Frasko’s wide-eyed stare of utter fear before he punched out a burst that collapsed the Albanian’s face and lifted the front of his skull in a bloody mess.

  “Clair, pick up the handguns,” Bolan snapped. He didn’t want her freezing in shock at what had just happened. “See if they have spare magazines in their pockets. Do it fast before they start coming up the stairs for us.”

  He turned and crouched by the man he’d relieved of his MP-5. He found a spare 30-round magazine and slid it into a pocket. The man didn’t have a handgun. Bolan picked up the food-delivery man’s pistol, a SIG, and tucked it in his belt. An extra magazine went into another pocket.

  “Two pistols,” Clair said as Bolan faced her. “Just one extra magazine from the bodyguard.”

  Her face was pale, drained. She kept blowing out sharp breaths to calm herself.

  “Can you handle a pistol?” Bolan asked as he led the way out of the room and along the passage.

  “Ethan and I used to practice target shooting sometimes,” she said.

  “Required skill for an English lady?”

  She managed a croaky laugh. “Hardly,” she said. “But in my rebellious younger days I did roll my own cigarettes.”