Hostile Force
Page 18
Henning pushed his way to stand in front of Hanley. He held out a hand. “Give me your weapon,” he said. “Empty your pockets on the desk.”
Hanley took the autopistol from its holster and handed it over. Henning ejected the magazine and worked the slide to push out the bullet in the chamber. He dropped the pistol on the desk, placing the magazine in his pocket.
He started to turn away. Then without warning he spun back around and brought up his right fist in a powerful swing that slammed against Hanley’s jaw, the force knocking the man backward. Hanley clawed at the desk to hold himself up. Blood was already spilling from his mouth down onto his shirt.
“You could have broken my jaw,” he yelled.
Henning looked down at his bruised knuckles. “Bloody hell, I must be losing my touch.”
“I’ll fucking sue you,” Hanley shouted as his hands were pulled behind his back and his wrists cuffed, none too gently.
“Why?” somebody said. “Not our fault you tripped and fell.”
“That’s what I saw.”
“Me, too.”
Another voice added, “Be careful you don’t trip and fall again.”
“Quit while you’re ahead,” Henning’s boss said. “You’re in enough trouble already. Leaking information. Implicit in the murder of your fellow agents. The kidnapping of Clair Sorin. Accepting money from known criminals. Now we know where to look, we’ll get it all, Tony.”
“And no mob to help bail you out,” Henning said. “You’re done.”
“Get him out of here,” the boss said. “Make sure he’s well looked after until it’s time to move him on.”
Hanley was hustled away, protesting wildly. Henning stood checking out the contents of Hanley’s pockets. He picked up the cell and went through it to the Send list. When he located the text Bolan had found on Corrigan’s phone, he showed it to his boss.
“He’s sent it a half dozen times.”
“If we can get hold of the phone belonging to Corrigan it will confirm everything,” Henning’s boss said.
“I’ll get it.”
“From your Yank?”
Henning only smiled.
“Greg, you sailed pretty close to the wind on this.”
“How so, boss?”
“Don’t be smart. This American has run riot over the past few days. Broken every rule in the bloody book. I think he may have also invented a few of his own.”
“He’s achieved what we haven’t been able to,” Henning said. “And he pulled Ethan and his sister out of trouble. And now we’ll have that information Ethan’s been hanging on to.”
“Does that justify his Wild West tactics?”
“End result is the breakup of the mob. The ruling elite taken down. It’ll help us complete the cleanup. Off the record, boss, I’d say it does.”
“Seeing as off the record is the flavor of the day, I have to agree, Greg. But next time you talk to your cowboy, remind him we don’t want a repeat if he hits the U.K. again.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
“Oh, what the hell. Tell him thanks, as well.”
* * *
BOLAN WAS BACK at the hotel he had been booked in originally. Stony Man Farm had called and kept his room available, and he was thankful for that. Clair had been reunited with her brother. Sorin had delivered his files and the OrgCrime force was busy using the information. The mob was in chaos, splitting apart and going for cover. Names were being pursued over their connection to the mob. At this moment, the only people profiting were the lawyers hastily summoned to start earning their high fees.
Passing off his still-apparent bruises as the result of an automobile accident, Bolan had retired to his hotel room for some R and R. He stood under the shower first, then rang Room Service and asked for food and coffee to be delivered. He told Reception he didn’t want to be disturbed and hung the notice on his door. After eating his fill, Bolan retired to his bed and gave in to his body’s screaming demand for rest.
Apart from the occasional visits from Room Service Bolan saw no one. He had not realized just how tired he was. He stayed in the room for two more days, then decided he needed to return to the land of the living. He ordered a breakfast tray, pulled out fresh clothing from his wardrobe and risked a shave after a shower.
His sat phone, switched off, had been plugged into a power outlet to recharge the battery. When he turned it on, he had close to a dozen messages. He called Stony Man Farm and assured them he was fine, then asked for Brognola. The big Fed told him the phone lines had been buzzing since news about the mob had got around. Anthony “Tony” Lowell’s death had set off an internal struggle for power within the New York mob. A number of hits had eliminated other rising stars within the criminal fraternity, and the U.S. OrgCrime unit had been closing in because of the names in the files Sorin had brought in.
“I don’t have to tell you how I feel about the dead OrgCrime agents,” Brognola said, “but the fallout is making a lot of people happy. Your pal, Ethan, has made it a lot easier to get to the right people. They’re scrambling over each other to point the finger and try to make deals. The Justice Department is lending a hand.”
“Just make sure none of them wriggle out from under,” Bolan said. “Too many good people have died to let anyone walk free.”
Brognola was silent for a moment. “If any do, Striker, I can always pass their names along to you.”
“Spoken like a true upholder of law and order,” Bolan said.
“Damn right.”
Later, Bolan spoke to Henning again.
“If they knew where to get hold of you, the boys here would be begging to buy you a drink,” Henning told him.
“I might take them up on that,” Bolan said.
“How are you doing?”
“Taking it easy.”
“Okay for some,” Henning said. “Our teams are running around like headless chickens since we took out the mole. Things are coming together nicely. Unofficially, you get our thanks.”
“You getting any backlash?”
“Uh-uh. The official word is a mob-related firefight at the château that resulted in a number of criminal deaths.”
“A thieves-falling-out kind of thing.”
“Exactly. Matt, what you did for Ethan and his sister will not be forgotten.”
“He was a good agent—a good man—in trouble. I was glad to help.”
“Oh, yeah, by the way,” Henning said, “I had a call from a young woman name of Lauren. She asked me to pass along a message. Something along the lines of her being okay and not to worry. And if she ever comes across you again...” Henning paused. “I’m not repeating that part in front of company.”
Bolan laughed. He could use his imagination to work that out.
Someone tapped on his door. He made his excuses to Henning and said he would call later. Crossing the room Bolan checked the spy hole to see who was waiting. Then he opened the door.
“Hey,” he said.
Clair Sorin stood there. Dressed in a cream trouser suit and a dark shirt, she looked beautiful.
“Mr. Cooper,” she said.
“Miss Sorin.”
“Am I going to have to stand here all day?”
“No. Would you like to come in?”
“That was almost hard work. And, yes, I certainly would like to come in.”
It wasn’t as if Bolan needed any further persuasion.
* * * * *
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ISBN: 9781460301036
Copyright © 2013 by Worldwide Library
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