Desperate Cargo

by Don Pendleton

  It was time, then, the Executioner decided, to make his play, because the window of opportunity was closing fast.

  Without warning he slammed the point of his elbow into the throat of the man on his immediate left, hearing the soft crunch of cartilage. The man clutched at his throat, gagging nosily. The moment he struck, Bolan leaned forward and wrapped both arms around the driver’s neck, applying severe pressure and wrenching the man’s neck with enough force to snap the vertebra. The driver uttered a startled gasp, his body rising from his seat, control of the speeding car lost in an instant. The Citroën began to swerve back and forth across the road.

  Bolan felt his second minder lunge at him, hands scrabbling for contact. With the driver incapacitated the Executioner swiveled to meet his attacker, slamming an open palm full into the man’s face, the heel of his hand connecting with the nose. The man’s head snapped back, blood starting to blossom and pour down over his mouth and chin. Bolan’s follow-up punch failed to land as the driverless Citroën was still veering wildly from side to side, throwing the occupants around like loose sacks of grain. Bolan gained a handhold, grabbing one of the trailing seat belts and wrapping it around his wrist. He held on hard as the car hit the rough edge of the road, wheels climbing up the turned-earth bank. The car’s weight and speed carried it along the bank for several yards, the vehicle tilted at an angle.

  Suddenly the wild ride came to an abrupt end. The nose of the Citroën smashed into a large concrete block partially sunk into the edge of the road. It was a section of construction fabrication waiting for removal. The block was solid, reinforced with steel rods, and it barely moved under the impact. The effect on the car was extreme. The hood collapsed as the engine was pushed back into the passenger compartment. Steel buckled and glass showered the interior. Neither DeChambre nor the driver were wearing seatbelts and the driver was thrown forward into the steering wheel, then partway out through the windshield. DeChambre, with nothing to restrain him, was propelled out through the gap, his upper body slamming into the concrete block with enough force to crush his head to a bloody pulp and shatter bones.

  If Bolan had not had the presence of mind to grab the nylon belt strap he might have ended up in the front of the car himself. He was thrown against the front seats, breath driven from his body. The two men with him, already immobilized, were battered by the effects of the crash. As the Citroën rocked to a halt Bolan had to push the limp forms off him before he could kick open a door and half tumble from the wrecked car. He hit the wet ground with a thump and lay sucking in harsh breaths. His chest hurt and his ribs ached. He lay still for a while until his breathing settled, then pushed to his feet, slumping against the side of the car.

  Canfield’s organization was persistent if little else. The man was fighting hard to preserve his business empire, and violent action appeared to be his hallmark. If that was what he wanted Bolan was happy to respond. He was determined to close down Canfield’s sleazy operation. And he would battle his way through Canfield’s entire crew, if necessary.

  The Executioner glanced around. The area still appeared deserted and no one had come forward to check out the site of the crash. It would be better for Bolan if he distanced himself from the area before anyone did show up. He remembered that one of DeChambre’s men had taken his gun. Bolan pushed away from the side of the car and leaned in to locate his weapon.

  A slight movement warned him too late. The toe of a shoe slammed across the side of his face. The blow shoved Bolan back a couple of steps, pain flaring over his cheekbone. Bolan saw a figure push out of the open door, blood covering the lower half of his face.

  The man whose nose he had broken.

  The thug exited the car in a rush that carried him into Bolan, slamming the tall American off balance. The man wrapped both arms around Bolan’s body, digging in his heels as he increased the pressure. Bolan felt his ribs move. The man was no weakling. He snuffled harshly through his shattered nose, spraying blood. Bolan jammed both hands under the man’s chin and pushed hard, forcing the head back.

  There was a momentary standoff, each man going for gold until Bolan slammed one knee up between his opponent’s thighs. The man gave a screech of pain, his encircling arms slackening off. Bolan gave a final push and the startled minder was left open. A sledging fist slammed against the man’s jaw, flinging his head to the side, giving Bolan the chance to grab a handful of thick hair. He swung hard, whacking the man’s skull against the edge of the Citroën’s roof a couple of times. The man went down without another sound.

  Bolan searched the pockets of the man’s coat and located his cell phone, the SIG-Sauer and the spare magazines. Jamming the gun back into his waistband Bolan pocketed everything else, then turned away from the scene, retracing the route to the main road.

  It took him close to a half hour and it was getting near dusk by the time Bolan found himself walking back toward the city. For once the rain had reduced to a fine drizzle. It was a small thing but he was getting tired of Rotterdam’s wet season. It was a couple of miles before he hit the outer city and found he had a signal again on his phone. He punched in Brognola’s number and let it ring until his friend’s voice came through.

  “Call off the meet. I won’t be delivering DeChambre. I had a little confrontation with him and some of his buddies. They wanted to take me for a one-way ride. It ended badly.”

  “I’ll have the team advised. What’s going on over there, Striker?”

  “Everyone I meet wants me dead, Hal. These are seriously terminally minded jokers.”

  “You’re upsetting their paradise. On the bright side I spoke to my task-force contact. They have all those women in secure placements. And some detail has been forthcoming. The women have identified photographs, picking out some of the people involved in snatching them off the streets. All that is going to help build up the files on Venturer Exports. But still not enough to move on it. That lawyer of Canfield’s would be hopping all over the scene before we moved a stick of furniture.”

  “Canfield’s favorite lawyer won’t be serving any more writs. The man is dead.”

  “Score one for us? So what are you thinking now, Striker?”

  “That the world has forgotten the difference between doing the right thing and standing by watching.”

  “Striker, we’ve had this conversation before. If the task force went in now and arrested everyone on Canfield’s payroll who would benefit? His second-team lawyers would scream abuse of human rights, quoting every law on the books, and without every charge sheet being one-hundred-and-one-percent absolutely correct down to the last full stop, the whole crew would walk. Justice, here and in Europe would be slapped with writs, false-arrest accusations and claims for defamation. We’d have compensation claims being stuffed into every orifice. And Hugo Canfield would be sitting in his plush offices having a glass of champagne while he set up his next trafficking deal.”

  “You know how to cheer a man up, Hal.”

  “They are lousy, lower-than-low scumbags, Striker. Safe because they’re having the last laugh at us. They know it. We know it.”

  “They may be laughing, Hal, but it won’t be for long. Right now they’re hurting and I aim to make them hurt even more. One more strike here in Rotterdam, then I’m going after Canfield and his U.K. setup.”

  “McCarter’s man in London will have what you need. I’ll look out for smoke rising over Big Ben.”

  After he ended the call Bolan looked around for a cruising taxi. He had had enough of walking around Rotterdam’s rainy streets.

  “IT’S BEEN TOO LONG,” Valk said again, glancing at his watch. “They should be back by now.”

  “So where are they?” his partner asked.

  “Try Bertran’s cell again,” Valk suggested.

  Lucien nodded and dialed the number. He waited as the cell rang out, shaking his head.

  Valk banged his fist on the steering wheel. “Why don’t they answer?”

  “You think maybe somethi
ng went wrong?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “One thing we don’t do is call Canfield and admit our suspicions. You know what they do to the messenger with bad news.”

  Lucien managed a weak smile. Their employer’s volatile moods were legend. No one ever wanted to get on Hugo Canfield’s bad side. Or incur a visit from the man called Sergeant Gantley. He found himself reaching inside his coat for the pistol nestling in its shoulder holster. When his fingers touched the smooth steel it gave Lucien a sliver of comfort.

  “This man. Cooper. He’s no fool. Look what he did to van Ryden and his team. And at the landing dock. Valk, we should cover ourselves. Maybe he got away from Bertran and the others. Maybe we…”

  Valk wasn’t listening. He was staring out through the car window, past the rain spatter and the gloom. He was watching a tall figure emerging from a taxi that had just pulled up outside the hotel.

  Tall.

  Black hair.

  An athletically built man dressed in black.

  He paid the driver and moved down the sidewalk to an SUV parked at the curb. It was the vehicle that Bertran had identified as belonging to Cooper.

  “I think that’s him,” Valk said. “Damn, it has to be him.”

  Lucien saw the man in question checking the SUV before turning and going into the hotel. He was about to ask what they should do, but when he saw that Valk had taken his own pistol from its holster, screwing on the threaded sound-suppressor, he knew he didn’t need to ask.

  “Let him get to his room,” Valk said. “No fucking about, Lucien. I don’t want this bastard playing any of his fancy tricks with us. We go in hard and shoot him. Plain and simple. It’s past time for being polite.”

  “If that is Cooper—where are Bertran and the others?”

  “If that is Cooper,” Valk answered, “I think we already know where they are.”

  Lucien attached his own sound-suppressor. He slid the pistol back inside the holster, then ran the back of his hand across dry lips. He glanced at his partner and saw that Valk was wearing that expression he always displayed when he had worked himself into a killing mood.

  “Let’s do it,” Valk said.

  He was out of the car, striding across the street before Lucien could say a word. All he could do was step out himself and follow Valk to the hotel entrance.

  They crossed the lobby and went to the desk where Valk caught the attention of the clerk.

  “Hey, wasn’t that the American, Cooper? The guy who just came in?” Valk had a wide grin on his face.

  He turned to Lucien. “I said it was Cooper. Didn’t he say he was staying here?” He turned back to the clerk. “I’m right? Cooper? We’ve been tracking him all day. Supposed to be going to a company celebration tonight, but he vanished earlier.”

  Valk lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sly guy—I think he met one of the saleswomen at the party last night and when we looked around he was gone.” He glanced at his watch. “Only a couple of hours and he’s supposed to be giving the big speech tonight. We don’t get him there on time we’ll be sweeping the streets tomorrow.”

  Lucien nodded, caught up in his partner’s enthusiastic charade. “That’s right. Help us out, friend. We need to get him all tidied up and daisy fresh. What’s his room number?”

  Valk had his cell phone out, tapping in a number. “Got to call our boss. Tell him everything’s okay. Then see if we can drag Cooper back on form.”

  He went through the pantomime of talking to someone on the other end of the line. In fact, he had dialed his own home number and was speaking to his own phone, making up the dialog as he went along.

  “We have him getting ready now, sir. What? No problem. We’ll have him there on time. Yes, sir. My word, sir.”

  He closed the phone, glanced at his watch again. “Cooper? Room number? Please…”

  The young clerk, looking from one man to the other, caught up in the excitement of the moment, blurted out the room number.

  “Thanks, friend. You have saved our sanity and probably our jobs.” Valk slapped Lucien on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go and get Cooper ready.”

  As the two headed for the elevator bank, Valk waved at the clerk. “Thanks, friend, you did us a real favor there.”

  The clerk watched the elevator doors close, frowning as the rush calmed down. He reached for the house phone and called the room occupied by the American named Cooper.

  “Mijnheer Cooper? Reception. You have two visitors on their way up to you. They say they should be picking you up for a company social evening. Was I right in sending them up, sir? I hope I haven’t disturbed you, only you did say you wanted a meal sent up because you were not going out again…”

  The phone cut off abruptly and the clerk was left feeling that he had indeed disturbed the hotel guest.

  BOLAN DROPPED THE PHONE back on its cradle and turned toward the door. He opened it and checked the deserted corridor. The elevator bank was to his left. He stepped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind him. He walked quickly and quietly to the far end of the corridor, reaching the junction a few doors along where the corridor made a right-angle turn in the direction of the emergency exit, the same one he had used to get DeChambre out of the hotel. He pressed against the wall, leaning slightly forward so he could watch the empty corridor.

  Seconds later the elevator pinged and the doors slid open with a subdued hiss.

  Bolan saw two men step out, checking the corridor before they walked briskly to his door. The way they moved told him they were anything but hotel guests, and when they each produced an automatic pistol, both fitted with sound-suppressors, he needed no more convincing. They stopped at his door, one turning to stand watch while the other reached to knock.

  When there was no response the pair exchanged glances. The man who had knocked said something that Bolan was unable to pick up, then stepped back to give himself space. Bolan realized what the man was about to do even before he raised his right foot prior to launching a kick at the closed door.

  Bolan slid around the corner and drew down on the man standing watch. He spotted Bolan the moment he stepped into view and called a warning to his partner. The man then extended his gun arm, the muzzle of his pistol sliding across his buddy’s shoulder. The SIG-Sauer in Bolan’s hand cracked twice. The first slug took a chunk out of the target’s right shoulder, blowing a spray of blood and flesh from his jacket. The force of the slug twisted the man half around so that Bolan’s second shot hit him in the throat and knocked him off his feet, gagging for air.

  As the crack of the shots echoed in the second man’s ears he spun on one foot, exceptionally fast, his pistol tracking in quickly. He fired on the move, his slug chugging from the muzzle and tearing a gouge of plaster from the corner of the wall an inch over Bolan’s head.

  The first man had barely hit the carpet when Bolan retuned fire from his one-knee position on the floor. He saw the gunman react to the slug that powered into his chest, knocking him back against the wall. As he rebounded from the impact the man took two more slugs from Bolan’s weapon. They hit with tremendous force, shattering his spine. He faltered, surprise etched across his face as he fell face down on the carpet.

  Bolan moved quickly, holstering his pistol, stepping over the bodies, and used his key card to open his door. In his room he picked up his bag. He always kept his belongings packed ready for a fast exit and right now that was what he wanted.

  The thought crossed his mind that Canfield seemed determined to continue his attempts to get rid of him. How many more of his crew was he going to throw at Bolan?

  Back in the corridor the Executioner turned and went for the emergency exit as he had done before, only this time he wouldn’t be returning to his room. As he turned the corner of the corridor he realized that no one had come out of any of the rooms to check the disturbance. Either they hadn’t heard the brief encounter because TV sets were playing, or the mo
dern-day malady of minding their own business had struck once again. In a way he couldn’t blame them. It was unfortunate that butting into the affairs of others often got the responsible individual into serious trouble, so people chose to stay behind their own closed doors.

  As he descended the stairs Bolan knew that his luck would not hold for long. Sooner or later someone was going to find the bodies, and when they did, the missing Cooper was going to find himself the center of the Rotterdam police’s attention.

  He needed to distance himself from them quickly.

  At street level he moved along the alley, reached the sidewalk and walked calmly to his waiting SUV. Bolan unlocked the vehicle and slid inside. He fired up the engine and eased away from the curb, merging with the traffic. He had no idea how long he might have before the cops picked up on his rental. In the time he did have he needed to lose the vehicle and get himself a fresh set of wheels.

  HAL BROGNOLA WORKED his influence with the task force and arranged for Bolan to get his SUV off the streets. He parked in the basement garage of a derelict office block and left it for the task force to pick up. They had left a black BMW SUV for Bolan to take over. It had legitimate plates and no history that would attract attention from the local cops. The Toyota would be lifted by a recovery truck, concealed under a tarp and driven to a task-force safe house.

  “You understand, buddy, that the task force will deny any association with you and your activities if questions are asked?” Brognola had told him.

  Bolan had smiled at that.

  “Hal, those words are like an old, familiar song.”

  “Off the record the team mans are high-fiving every time you hit Canfield’s organization. On a secondary note the two mans at the hotel turned out to be a couple of local hitters allied to Canfield’s group. Same as the ones who hijacked you along with DeChambre.”

  “Hal, stayed tuned. ‘Radio Rotterdam’ hasn’t finished broadcasting yet.”

  9

  The following day found Mack Bolan preparing for his planned hit on Canfield’s main distribution site in Holland. The farm and the processing plant occupied a large area off the main route out of Rotterdam. The information the man at the dock had given him proved to be extremely accurate.