“Come on,” Bolan shouted.
Clair joined him. She peered over the edge of the roof at the narrow metal ladder.
“Down that?”
“Or jump,” Bolan said. He grasped the metal rail and swung his legs over the low wall. He took a few steps down. The rungs felt solid enough. “Stay close,” he said.
With Clair just above him, Bolan led the way down the ladder. The rail was cold and wet. The rain persisted, soaking through his clothing. If anything, it confirmed he was still alive.
Ten feet left.
Bolan heard the crunch of boots on the gravel below.
He let himself slide the next few feet, ready to let go of the ladder.
The sounds came closer.
Someone shouted in French. Bolan knew enough of the language to understand the challenge.
He let go of the ladder, tensing himself for the drop. He grasped the MP-5 and felt the impact as he struck the ground, rolling forward and came up facing the two armed shooters as they emerged out of the gloom.
“Merde.”
Still half-crouched, Bolan opened up, stitching the pair with 9 mm death. His concentrated fire drove them off their feet.
Clair was at his side then, gripping his arm, breathing hard. Her fingers clutched at his him. She was doing her best to hold it together.
“Front of the house,” Bolan said. “We’ll try for a vehicle.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “Make it a very fast one.”
Staying close to the wall they worked their way toward the front of the château. Peering around the edge of the stone wall Bolan saw the collection of vehicles parked near the front entrance.
Light spilled out from the overwhelming percentage of windows, casting illumination across the frontage. He saw armed figures spill out from the wide-open front doors. Beside him Clair drew in a sharp breath.
“They still seem upset about something,” she said.
“Losing their ticket to the big prize gets people that way,” Bolan said.
“Now I’m a ticket. First prize, I hope.”
Bolan spent a few seconds assessing the situation. There was little chance of them reaching one of the parked cars without being seen. And he hadn’t quite finished with the mob yet.
“I want you to do something for me, Clair,” he said. “No argument. Just do what I ask.”
The tone of his voice told her this was beyond the time for making light remarks.
“Tell me.”
Bolan pointed away from the house in the direction of the dark area beyond the spill of lights. There was thick undergrowth and close-standing trees.
“Cut around to the left, away from our position. Straight into the bushes. Find a place where you can hide yourself. Flat on the ground. Watch the house. Stay where you are until I come to fetch you. Go now.”
Clutching the SMG to her chest Clair moved away from him, making no comment as she faded into the darkness. Out of sight and sound. She followed his commands because she realized what he had to do required his full attention. He did not need her close to him, where he would have had to look out for her safety. This time his strike would bring matters to an end and she knew he had to focus fully.
The château was about to become his killing ground.
The Executioner was setting himself up for the end battle in his campaign to bring down the mob.
The ruling heads of the organized crime mob were about to face abdication. Their reign of violence and savagery, corruption and coercion, was coming to a close. Through their actions they had denied themselves any plea for mercy. In the lead up to this night, money and power, the brushing aside of any veneer of humanity had condemned them.
I am not their judge.
I am not their jury.
I am their Executioner.
Chapter 27
Bolan skirted the spread of light, merging with the darkness, and circled around until he was concealed by the parked cars. The rain was slanting in hard, driving across the château grounds in shimmering waves. But Bolan was beyond even feeling it, his focus on what lay in front of him. From where he crouched he could see through the wide set of windows to the right of the main entrance. That was the room where Corrigan had taken him, presenting his captive to the mob bosses. He could see them, still gathered around the long table. There looked to be a great deal of heated conversation taking place.
They still seem upset about something, Clair had said.
Her words hit the spot.
That something was Bolan. He had disrupted their plans. Taken away the advantage they had gained by kidnapping Sorin’s sister. And on top if that, he had taken on their hired muscle and created chaos.
A cold smile etched itself across Bolan’s bruised and battered face, stinging the tender flesh.
It was payback time.
So you like pain?
You like to see suffering?
Then sit back and watch this night’s final performance.
Bolan saw the slow approach of one of the armed shooters. The man was peering back and forth, checking around the parked cars, edging closer to where Bolan crouched, his SMG allowed to hang from its strap. He didn’t want to alert the others until he was closer to the house.
Bolan shrank deeper into the gloom as the heavy tread of the man brought him to the rear of the last car. As the man turned away from him, Bolan stood silently. A dark figure, shedding runnels of rainwater as he rose to his full height, powerful hands reaching out to encircle the unwary sentry, one big hand clamping over the man’s mouth to shut off any warning cry. Bolan dragged his prey behind the bulk of the big SUV, tripping him with a leg sweep. Bolan followed the man down, slammed one knee into the lower spine and grasped his head in both hands. The man had no chance to make any sound as Bolan pulled back, twisting hard until the neck and spinal cord separated with a soft grating of bone. He went into spasm and just as quickly became limp.
On his feet, Bolan held the H&K strapped across his chest as he closed on his target—the window of the room where the mob heads were gathered. As he cleared the bunched cars, Bolan saw the second outside man turn in his direction, SMG coming up. The man triggered too soon and the shots burned the air inches away, giving Bolan the opportunity to break his stride and hit the shooter with a controlled burst. The sentry tumbled in an ungainly sprawl.
And Bolan continued his run at the window. Mere feet away he triggered the contents of his magazine at the glass. The window imploded, sending glittering shards into the room. Bolan had a glimpse of startled figures turning, staring at the shattered window.
By this time he had dropped a hand into a deep pocket of his blacksuit, lifting out one of the grenades, pulling the pin and hurling the grenade in through the window. Bolan repeated the action with the other three grenades. Then he was running for the front entrance, having snapped a fresh magazine into the MP-5.
The first grenade detonated as Bolan hit the stone steps, barreling in through the doorway and angling to the left. He heard the detonation, followed by shrill screams. Then the second, third and fourth explosions. The closed doors of the conference room blew out, a cloud of dust and smoke following. Bolan backed across the hall, pressing against the opposite wall. A shower of debris was sprayed across the hall.
A shrieking figure, covered in dust and shedding blood, stumbled out through the door. The man was hugging his left arm, holding it tight against his body. Bolan caught a glimpse of shredded flesh and bone near the shoulder, the limb practically severed from the body. The MP-5 leveled on the figure and Bolan touched the trigger, hitting the man in the chest and punching him off his feet. The man went facedown and Bolan saw that his upper body was a mass of torn flesh where he had been caught by one of the grenade explosions.
Someone started firing blin
d from the wrecked room, through the clouds of dust and smoke. Bolan heard slugs slam into the wall over his head. He returned fire, moving his muzzle back and forth, high and low. As soon as he had exhausted his magazine, Bolan threw the empty weapon aside and brought the second one he was carrying into operation. The powerful chatter of the SMG filled the dusty hall with its sound. Bolan fired into the room, picking up on anything that moved, or that he imagined was moving. He cleared two full magazines before his finger moved from the trigger and he felt his tension slip away.
The pause that followed was broken only by the occasional sound of debris detaching somewhere in the confines of the silent room. Dust slowly dispersed. Smoke hung close to the ceiling. Bolan heard the patter of rain drifting in through
the shattered window.
He reloaded the MP-5—an automatic response to having an empty weapon.
He heard a sound off to his left. It came from the first landing. Bolan moved, stepping away from the wall to clear himself from being spotted. He waited in the alcove created by the main room’s door frame.
Someone spoke in French.
Anger.
Confusion.
Bolan let them reach midway down the stairs before he stepped out, the SMG picking out the armed figures as they appeared. The crackle of autofire filled the hallway. Bolan had dropped low, so the opposition’s bursts impacted against the edge of the alcove, showering him with stone chips. His accurate return fire caught the two shooters in the open and pitched them back against the stairs. They rolled and jerked as they slithered lifelessly down to the floor.
Bolan turned and stepped into the grenade-blasted room. The multiple explosions had torn the room apart. The long table had splintered down the middle. Chairs had been tossed aside. The wall coverings had been scorched and tattered. Bookshelves hung askew, their contents on the floor.
The deadly effects of the grenades on the human occupants of the room was similarly devastating. The mob heads lay scattered in bloody poses. Shrapnel from the bursting grenades had sliced and ripped into them. Blood was spattered and torn clothing exposed shredded flesh and bone. Bolan’s follow-up volleys of 9 mm slugs had found some of the bodies too. No one was moving. The stench of death hung heavily.
“My mistake was not shooting you the minute Ketch brought you off that boat.”
Bolan turned and saw Corrigan.
The man was still alive.
But barely.
Slumped against a wall he stared at Bolan through a mask of blood that covered his face and drenched his shirt. A large flap of raw flesh hung from his scalp. Fragments of skull were exposed. The left side of his upper body had been ripped open by a grenade blast, the clothing gone to show the massive wound. A pulped mass of flesh showed splintered ribs. Corrigan was bleeding freely, spitting it from his bloody mouth.
“You had your chance,” Bolan said. “Remember what I said at the beginning. I promised to take your mob apart. Piece by piece. I made you walking dead men. I like to keep my promises.”
Corrigan’s right hand lifted from his side. He held his pistol, trying to raise it. The effort made him gasp. He dragged his left arm across his body. When Bolan saw it he realized there was no hand left. It had been blown off during the grenade burst. Corrigan’s eyes blazed with defiance through the bloody mask covering his face.
“I need to kill you, Cooper, you son of a bitch.”
Bolan centered the muzzle of the MP-5, his finger finding the trigger.
“Game over,” he said and fired, the long burst virtually demolishing Corrigan’s head.
There was a cell phone on the floor near Corrigan, the screen flashing. Bolan picked it up. The message was informing Corrigan a text message was waiting to be opened. Bolan thumbed the button to read the message.
Can’t make contact with anyone. What’s going on? Need update about Sorin’s sister.
Bolan reread the message a couple of times. He pressed Reply and was presented with a screen showing a blank area and a cell phone number at the top. That was all he needed for the moment. He closed the phone down.
Bolan stepped outside, feeling the cold rain on his face. He turned and made his way to where he had sent Clair.
“It’s Matt,” he called. “You can show yourself now.”
“How do I know it’s you?” she replied, taunting him even as she merged from the deep undergrowth. “Maybe you’re trying to trick me, Yank.”
“Only Ethan Sorin’s sister would say that.”
She stood facing him, holding out the MP-5. “Can I get rid of this now?”
Bolan took the SMG from her. He led her toward the parked cars, choosing the SUV Corrigan had used to bring him to the château. He opened the rear door and placed the weapons on the floor behind the seat, except for one autopistol. As they climbed in, Clair reached down into the foot well and pulled something onto her lap. It was Bolan’s holdall.
“Open it up,” Bolan said. “Should be a sat phone in there.”
Clair searched the contents, handing him the phone. He powered it up, then contacted Stony Man Farm.
“Can you pinpoint my current location?” he asked when Aaron Kurtzman answered.
“Do not insult me with a question like that. I’m sitting in front of millions of dollars’ worth of computers and all you want is a location?”
Bolan failed to hold back a grin at Kurtzman’s rant. He would work his cyber magic and have Bolan’s position without working up a sweat. Kurtzman maintained a nonstop grumble about being underused until he completed the task.
“Coordinates on their way to your phone,” he said.
“Thanks,” Bolan said. “You can go back to your Popular Mechanics magazine now.”
The last thing Bolan heard was Kurtzman’s booming laughter as he finished the call.
Bolan started the SUV, spun it round and drove away. He took it back along the road in the direction of the coast. Once they were well clear of the château, Bolan called Henning on the sat phone.
“Where the hell have you been?” the Brit asked.
“Long story, Greg. I’m in France. Clair Sorin is sitting beside me. She’s unhurt. I’m going to give you coordinates for a château. Get your people to make a visit. You’ll find the head honchos of the mob there.”
“They liable to put up any kind of resistance?” Henning asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
“They’re in no condition to do anything,” Bolan said. “On the top floor of the house you’ll find some early Christmas presents in the form of drugs, ordnance and a pile of cold, hard cash. I think the place was used as a regional distribution point.”
Henning was silent for a moment. “Sounds as if we’ll have to put this down to another intergang fallout.”
“One more thing,” Bolan said. He opened up the cell he’d found next to Corrigan and read the text message, following it up with the sender’s number. “I’m sure you’ll make use of that.”
“You can count on that, mate. You need any assist getting out of the country?”
“If I do, I’ll let you know.”
Bolan glanced across at Clair. She had tipped the seat back and was slumped in a relaxed position, already asleep. He didn’t wake her until much later. By then he was parked on the quayside where the Venture was still moored. The recent storm had kept the vessel from leaving.
He checked his handgun, smiling to himself as he opened his door.
“Isn’t that the Venture?” Clair asked.
“Bring the holdall and we’ll go say hello to the crew.”
He reached inside and picked up the MP-5s.
As they walked toward the boat Clair said, “They’re in for a surprise.”
“Hope it’s not too much of a shock,” Bolan said. “They’re going to take us b
ack across the channel.”
“England? Home?” Clair said. “And not a minute too soon, Mr. Cooper.”
Chapter 28
The task-force squad room was half full when Greg Henning walked in. He was followed by his immediate superior, who hung back as Henning crossed to his desk. Standing beside it, he called for attention.
“Couple of announcements I have to make. Ethan’s sister has been located. She’s on her way home. Ethan has been informed, and he’s recovering from his injury. The other thing is the mob headmen have been taken down. They were gathered in France for a heads-up meeting at a château they used as a headquarters. Our European division has been in and verified that none of the bastards survived. They were all dead by the time the team showed up. Looks like someone went in to rescue Clair Sorin and had to use excessive force to pull her out. The team also located a large stash of drugs, weapons and money. So a good result all round.”
Henning glanced across the room to where Tony Hanley was sitting behind his desk. The man’s face had paled and his eyes were staring straight ahead. Henning looked in the direction of his boss, who nodded for Henning to continue.
“That, Tony, is why your text message received no answer. Because Corrigan was already dead when you sent it.”
“I...don’t know what you mean....” Hanley protested. He half rose from his seat. By this time every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on him. “You can’t...”
“We can, you miserable bastard,” Henning said. “You made it easy for us by texting on your own cell this time. Were you panicking because you’d been left out of the loop? Forgot to use your burn phone? Didn’t take a lot of effort to track down who owned the number from that text.”
There was a rising sound of anger as the team turned on Hanley. He was surrounded by the men he had been betraying, and if their superior had not ordered them back, they might have descended on him.
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