Desperate Cargo

by Don Pendleton

  The secretary nodded. “Thank you.”

  Bolan stepped into the corridor and made for the elevator. On the ground floor he walked calmly out of the building, raising a hand to the girl he’d spoken to earlier. Outside he walked along the street until he was around the corner from the building before he hailed a cab to take him back to his hotel and a call he needed to make to Washington.

  4

  Bolan’s call to Brognola had resulted in the man coming back to him with details on the location. The big Fed had gone into the task-force database and it had provided Bolan with enough intel to hire a vehicle and drive along the coast to the isolated promontory where Noosen Hag, the former oil storage depot, stood. Brognola’s check had revealed that the depot, closed down for three years, had been leased through a shell company fronting for a consortium proposing to regenerate the site. It turned out that the consortium had connections with businessmen allied, through shadowy links to South East Containers, in turn tied to Venturer Exports. The various connections were all carefully concealed by setups and financial maneuvering in attempts to hide who was really at the helm. But as Brognola had pointed out all roads led to Rome. In this instance Hugo Canfield’s name kept popping up. Distanced from the everyday workings of the multilayered companies, his presence kept revealing itself. Still vague enough to prevent any interference by the legally bound task force, leaving them looking on, unable to act against him. Brognola offered the information to his loose cannon, knowing full well that Bolan would act on it.

  The defunct oil refinery was having a busy night. From his vantage point Bolan could see a number of parked vehicles. Panel vans. Private cars. There was some activity on the concrete jetty built to serve vessels belonging to the oil company. Powerful spotlights, powered by a portable generator, illuminated the area.

  Bolan had made his way to the site in the Toyota SUV he had rented earlier in the day. He’d covered the twenty-five miles in ample time and parked at a safe distance to go in on foot for the final distance. Crouching in shadow behind a scrap heap of rusting steel edging the jetty, only yards from the activity, Bolan watched as a crane hoisted a large steel container onto the trailer of a low-loader rig. He had watched the container being off-loaded from the small container ship that was now making its way back out to sea after delivering the container to the waiting handling crew. The turnaround time had been fast. No delays. The container ship would be back on its original course within a half hour.

  He had counted six in the crew on the jetty. Only two were showing weapons—H&K MP-5s. That didn’t mean the rest were unarmed. Bolan had the SIG-Sauer P-226. It held a full 15-round magazine and he had three more as backup. Unless he could pick up additional weaponry the pistol was going to have to earn its keep. Time was against Bolan, as well. It wouldn’t be long before the container was opened and its cargo released. That was a relative term. The people inside the container would simply be exchanging one form of captivity for another. Steel container to panel truck. Not a great exchange, thinking ahead to where the unfortunate passengers might finally end up.

  Someone on the jetty crew started to call out orders. Bolan saw figures move to the front of the container and begin to unseal the doors.

  As the container doors swung open, the gunmen standing guard, one of the crew hauled himself into the opening. From where he crouched Bolan could hear his barked orders. Moments later shuffling figures appeared at the opening of the container. They reacted when they saw the weapons aimed at them, but there was nowhere for them to go. One by one they began to drop to the ground, huddling together out of instinct. Bolan saw mostly women and young girls. When one held back she was pushed forward, stumbling to her knees. The muzzle of a submachine gun was jammed into her spine. The gunman took hold of the girl’s long dark hair and dragged her to her feet. He was yelling at her as he slapped her across the face. He raised his weapon and took aim.

  He didn’t get a chance to fire. Bolan tracked in with his weapon and put a single shot through the back of the man’s skull. The gunman pitched forward onto his face, blood pooling around him.

  The jetty crew panicked. The Executioner took advantage of the chaos. He targeted the men wielding weapons, the SIG-Sauer cracking steadily. The men carrying the guns were down on the jetty before they were able to pinpoint the hidden shooter. Bolan changed position, moving around the scrap metal and emerging near the container. He met one of the remaining three crewmen face-on. The man was dragging a pistol from beneath his jacket when Bolan slammed the SIG-Sauer across the side of the man’s skull. The man grunted, stumbling, and Bolan helped him down with a bone-crunching second blow. The man hit the jetty facedown.

  The Executioner crouched briefly to take charge of the man’s pistol. He heard someone yelling in English. He ducked around the end of the container where the captives were scattering along the jetty. He caught a glimpse of others still inside the container, shrinking back from the chaos outside. The crewman who had climbed inside the container was still there. He had a gun in his hand as he leaned cautiously from the opening. He failed to see Bolan until it was too late. The SIG-Sauer cracked, driving two 9 mm slugs into the man’s torso. He tumbled from the container onto the hard concrete. His skull bounced against the jetty.

  As Bolan checked the far side of the container he saw the sixth man making a run for the parked cars. Bolan hit him with a few 9 mm slugs to the legs, taking him down in an uncoordinated sprawl.

  “Anyone speak English?” Bolan asked the women in the container. Two of the young woman acknowledged his question.

  “Get them to calm down. Tell them they are going to be freed.”

  Bolan walked to where the leg-shot man lay. The man had rolled onto his back, sitting up and staring at his shattered limbs. Bolan kept his pistol in clear sight as he approached the man. He spotted the man’s dropped weapon and kicked it across the jetty and into the water.

  “Must hurt like hell,” Bolan said.

  The man swore in English, his brittle British accent exaggerated by the pain from his wounds. He dragged himself to the container trailer and pushed his back against one of the rear wheels.

  “I’ll bet you’re the bastard who took down Bickell and his minders. Right, am I? They told us to watch out in case you showed.”

  “Lucky for me you didn’t pay too much attention,” the Executioner said.

  “Fuck you, Yank. My legs hurt, you bleeder.”

  “Can’t you see the tears in my eyes?”

  “What are you going to do to him?” A woman’s voice came from behind Bolan.

  He turned. It was the young woman he had spoken to. Her gaze was fixed on the wounded crewman. There was no pity in her eyes as she stared down at him. She was attractive, but right then her face was a hardened mask of sharp angles, pale and bloodless.

  “What does he deserve?” Bolan asked.

  She turned her gaze on Bolan, searching his face, seeing someone who would treat her respectfully. Despite her drawn, pale features the Executioner could see she was a determined young woman. He glanced beyond her to the rest of the “cargo” from the container. They were all exhibiting the ravages of their ordeal but they were far from being defeated.

  “He deserves the worst we could do to him,” the young woman said. Her soft voice bore traces of an Eastern European accent. “But if we did that, then we become as bad as they are.”

  The crewman glanced at her, unsure how to take the remark. He had the sense to stay silent, concentrating on his wounds.

  Bolan drew the woman aside, looking over her shoulder so he could keep the wounded Brit in sight. “What do I call you?”

  “Lucky?” She reached out to touch his arm, a simple gesture that expressed her feelings. “My mother was always telling me my humor would get me into trouble. My name is Majira.”

  “Where did they pick you all from?”

  “Pristina. Off the streets. My own fault for walking home alone after dark. But what was I supposed to do? Neve
r go out? Lose my job? I had heard about the traffickers. How they grab people and send them abroad. I never imagined I would be one of their victims. Nor would any of the others.” She took a breath, her voice breaking slightly. “It is the children who would suffer worst. We all understand what would happen to them. Sold to…to soulless monsters who would abuse them.”

  “Not his time, Majira.”

  “You are American. Why are you doing this?”

  “Long story. Let’s say I’m trying to shut this group down.”

  “Are you a policeman? One of the good mans?”

  Bolan nodded. “I’ll go with that. The name is Cooper, by the way.”

  “So, Cooper, tell me, what happens now?”

  Bolan looked at the huddled figures. He turned, checking out the darkened buildings at the landward end of the jetty.

  “Take everyone to those buildings. At least you’ll have shelter while I organize things. Do it now, Majira.”

  She nodded, turned quickly and spoke to the group. Her voice persuaded them to follow her. Bolan watched the uneven line moving away, the older women comforting the children. He waited until they had vanished inside one of the buildings before turning his attention to his captive.

  “What’s bloody well going on?” the Brit asked.

  “I feel more comfortable without witnesses,” Bolan said, standing over the downed man and staring at him.

  The Brit watched him, short-lived defiance showing through his pain. He wasn’t sure how to perceive the tall, black-clad American. One thing he did know. The man was serious. The way he had taken down the crew had been an eye-opener. Once he had his opening he had taken out the opposition with ruthless efficiency. Being the sole survivor might not turn out to be the greatest blessing.

  “What?” the Brit asked. “Christ, if you’re going to kill me get on with it. Standing there saying nothing. It’s creepy.” His remark was said more out of bravado than anything else. In truth he was scared.

  “Tell me about the two Americans you killed.”

  “Now you wait a minute. I had nothing to do with that. It was down to Willi Bickell and the blokes who run things. No shit, mate, they did it. I’m just hired help.”

  Loyalty never flew the coop so fast, Bolan thought.

  “Chambers is the head man around here?”

  A frantic nod. The Brit looked eager to talk, hopeful it would go toward extending his life span. The man was no different to anyone else. His first thoughts were of his own survival.

  Bolan made a show of ejecting the pistol’s magazine and snapping in a fresh one. He dropped the ejected mag into his pocket, moving round the prone man on the ground.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Bolan glanced at the man. “I can’t afford loose ends.”

  “You can’t. You people don’t go round executing people.”

  “People like me?” Bolan said.

  “You’re a cop. And bloody cops don’t—”

  “I think we need to clear something up. I never said I was a cop. I don’t have a rule book.”

  “Look, fuck this game. You can’t just shoot me like this.”

  “No?”

  “Can we deal?” the man pleaded.

  “Maybe you don’t have anything I want.”

  “Try me. But we make a deal first or I don’t say a thing.”

  “My word good enough?”

  “I have to trust you? Big risk for me.”

  “You’re still alive.”

  The Brit considered his situation. He wasn’t going to get a written guarantee, and he was in no shape to play hard to get.

  “So what do you need to know?”

  “Tell me about van Ryden?”

  “He fixes things. Has connections here. Arranges for people to look the other way so we can get cargo in and out. He works with the top level in the U.K., as well. Yeah, well, Chambers does the hiring and firing here and at the U.K. base, but Hugo Canfield is the real man in charge. Chambers is second fiddle, really. He likes to throw his weight about. Canfield is the man. But you wouldn’t want to tangle with him. He’s too big. Can’t be interfered with. The man has a cop in his pocket. An Interpol agent. Probably even customs officers. Hell, maybe even higher than that. He runs in serious circles. No shit, mate, Canfield is bad news. I’d sooner sit naked in a crate of fuckin’ rattlesnakes than cross Canfield.”

  “What about a database? Names and locations?”

  “Even if I told you, there isn’t anything you can do.”

  “So what have you got to lose?”

  “Only my balls. If they find out I gave them up what they did to your undercover men will be like a slap on the wrist.”

  “One way or another you’re going to tell me. I can walk away and let you bleed to death, or end it with a bullet behind the ear. Believe me when I say I don’t give a damn one way or another. It’s your choice. Your buddies took the hard way. That can be arranged for you.”

  “What about protection? I’ve cooperated. You can get me protection.”

  Bolan took out his cell phone.

  “I can make the call from right here if you give me what I need.”

  “I did hear van Ryden has a database on his computer. It’s supposed to have details on everyone who works for Venturer. Means they can keep tabs on us all. Hold on to all our unsavory little secrets. Keeps it at his home outside the city. Place is watched over by armed security. Only other thing I can tell you about is the farm they use to house people while trade is done. I can give you a location for both places.”

  Bolan made his call minutes later. When Brognola came on Bolan briefed him on the status of the mission.

  “If the task force wasn’t wrapped up in protocols and red tape, maybe they could have gotten further,” Brognola grumbled. “So tell me again about these people you found.”

  “Women and children. One I spoke to said she was snatched in Pristina so I’m guessing this group came from that area. Off-loaded from a container ship. I arrived in time to prevent them being moved off the dock and sent to God knows where. Hal, do you still have people on the ground hereabouts?”

  “Part of the task force is cooling their heels in Amsterdam. You need their help?”

  “The women and kids need looking after. Somewhere they’ll be secure until a decision can be made about them. I also have a survivor from the crew who were going to ship them out. He’s wounded. Needs medical assistance and protection. Your task force might be able to get more info out of him.”

  “I expect you’ve already got what you need?”

  “We exchanged mutual considerations.”

  “I’m sure. Striker, let me talk to our people out there. I’ll come back to you ASAP.”

  Bolan spent time collecting weapons from the dead crewmen. He placed his small arsenal just inside the open container. He kept one of the MP-5s and extra magazines for his own use. He checked out the cab of the big tractor-trailer unit and located a first-aid box under the passenger seat. Using the contents he bound up the Brit’s legs, applying pressure pads to slow any further blood loss.

  “First you shoot me, now you bandage me up. What next? A mug of hot sweet tea?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Sounds like I’m a dead man either way.”

  “Redemption can go a long way to keeping you alive.”

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  “You gave me what I needed. So I’ll keep my word. You’ll be taken into protective custody.”

  “Don’t I have a say about all this?”

  The hardness that etched itself across the big American’s face told the man he had said the wrong thing. The blue eyes were suddenly like chips of ice. He could almost feel the chill emanating from them.

  “I’d be justified to shoot you right now after what I’ve seen tonight. You people are crawling in the gutter. You sleep well at night? Seeing those young kids and knowing the life you’re sending them to? Have you looked at pictures showin
g how those perverts treat them?”

  “Look, I just work on this part of the business. Collection and distribution. Never seen where they go.”

  “That clear your conscience?”

  “Mate, I’ve been struggling for years to do that. Probably too late for me. I’m just trying to earn a living. Bloody hell, aren’t we all?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. He had all too often heard the excuses, the self-justification, the criminal element came up with to whitewash their activities. He didn’t believe a word of it. He dismissed it as he always did, because if he digested it and analyzed the pathetic reasons he might have turned his gun on them out of sheer disgust.

  Reasoning platitudes were the get-out clauses from the mouths of criminals through the decades. From mass murderers to raving dictators who slaughtered thousands, there was always an excuse. A smiling word that was supposed to wash away the bloodlust and the wanton elimination of entire cultures. The perpetrators never considered they had done anything wrong. It was always the rest of the world that was out of step. That did not understand why a particular horror had been committed. Some odd quirk lodged deep in the homicidal, deranged minds of the despots allowed them to excuse away what they had done. If they explained it they self-purged their conscience. They became heroes instead of maniacal villains. And in many instances they often convinced others to see the justification.

  In Mack Bolan’s eyes a bloody-handed butcher was just that. There was no redemption. No vainglorious explanation that wiped away the needless deaths of men, women and children. Evil was evil. It would never be reconciled as far as he was concerned. It was why the Executioner existed. Why he stood against the monsters.

  Someone had to.

  Because if he didn’t, who would?

  5

  Hugo Canfield was having lunch at his London club when the maître d’brought him the telephone. He plugged it into one of the sockets, then placed the instrument on the table for Canfield.

  “The caller said it was quite urgent, Mr. Canfield.”