Desperate Cargo

by Don Pendleton

  “Hopefully we could be spared the need to expect them showing up here. If they do survive it still gives us time to arrange a welcome for them. Sergeant Gantley, don’t bother to get any rooms ready. Cooper won’t be staying long.”

  “Just a quick visit, then, sir?”

  Canfield smiled.

  “Very brief. Painful and brief. Especially for Chambers. Didn’t take him long to change sides.”

  “I should have got to him sooner, sir. Before he could open his mouth to Cooper.”

  “One way or another Mr. Paul Chambers is going to find it’s a very small world, Sergeant Gantley. One where he can’t run away and hide.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The ex-military cop finished pouring the whiskey. He sealed the bottle and placed it back on the wet bar. Without a word he placed the tumbler within Canfield’s reach and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Canfield picked up the tumbler, raised it to drink, then paused. His gaze turned hard, eyes gleaming as he struggled with the turmoil inside his head. Too much was happening that was causing him aggravation. When he’d retreated to Banecreif he expected a calm and restful time. Canfield hurled the thick tumbler into the wide stone fireplace. The glass shattered and the whiskey flared as the flames engulfed it.

  “Damn you to bloody hell, Cooper,” he said. “Damn you for making me feel like this in my own house.”

  On his feet he strode to the glass-fronted gun cabinet. He opened the doors and reached for a racked Franchi-SPAS shotgun. The weapon, customized for him in London, was finely balanced. The SPAS was a formidable tool in Canfield’s expert hands. He liked hunting with the shotgun even though it was not primarily a sporting gun. When he turned it on either Cooper or Chambers there would be no hint of sport in his actions. This time around his targets would have a special significance.

  He wanted the pair dead and buried and he cherished the hope that they actually got through to Banecreif. If his men on the train failed to stop them, Canfield could look forward to handling the matter himself.

  Especially Cooper, the man responsible for so much death and destruction. He was the reason for the fragmenting of Hugo Canfield’s organized and well-oiled machine. Because of Cooper, Canfield had lost merchandise, money and people. His reputation had been tarnished and so had his credibility. If the news spread to his potential new partners it might sour their decision to do business with him. Canfield understood how they might view the attacks on Venturer Exports. The drug business thrived on being able to move its products around with comparative ease, taking any small losses without suffering too badly. The fact Canfield was under the eye of a multination task force looking into his trafficking might not bother them. The blatant strikes against him by Cooper, who ignored the restraints placed on a lawful investigation, might easily do more to scare them off.

  The problem was Canfield’s and Canfield’s alone. He needed to clean up his own mess. Prove to his future partners that Hugo Canfield was capable of maintaining order. Only he could solve it, and solving it meant getting rid of Cooper. The man’s sheer audacity was bringing him here to Banecreif. Canfield saw that as Cooper’s mistake. If he did survive the rail trip he would be on Canfield’s home ground. Here he was the master. His knowledge of Banecreif and the surrounding terrain was indisputable. That gave Canfield the advantage. He would use it to the limit.

  And this time Cooper would not walk away so easily.

  In fact, he wouldn’t walk away at all.

  18

  Breck waited for his partner to join him in the buffet car. He handed Munro the cup of coffee he’d ordered. Munro ignored his partner while he blew air across the steaming surface of the drink. It was one of his partner’s habits that annoyed Breck. He held back from saying anything because it would only encourage Munro to continue doing it.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me if I found ’em?” Munro asked abruptly. There was a thin smile on his lips. “Pay attention, son, or life is goin’ to pass you by.”

  They had each taken one end of the train, working their way back to the central point, that being the buffet car. Breck had seen no sign of Cooper or Chambers. The smug expression on Munro’s lean face suggested he had been successful.

  “Have you found them?”

  Munro took a mouthful of coffee, nodding. He led Breck away from the counter to avoid being overheard. “Third carriage along. Compartment 12B. Easy as that.”

  Breck glanced out the window behind him. “Be dark in a couple of hours. Reckon we should wait until then?”

  “About right. What do you think? Take ’em down and dump ’em off the train while it’s still dark?”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  “That Yank will be armed,” Munro said. “And he’s not slow to use his gun from what I heard.”

  “So we’ll be careful. Here, you’re not going soft on me, are you?”

  “Like I would. Anyhow, what sort of a question is that to ask?”

  “Since you started going around with that skirt from the club I reckon you have.”

  Munro wagged a finger at his partner, grinning widely. “Jealous. You are bleedin’ jealous, Marty Breck.” He swallowed more coffee. “She never did fancy you. Thought you were too rough for her. She prefers the sensitive type like me.”

  “Says who?”

  “Who is she with, partner? Need I say more?”

  Breck shrugged as he reached into his jacket and took out his cell phone. “Better let Gantley know we spotted them.”

  He spoke quietly when his call was answered, finally completing his conversation. He shut the cell and put it away. “Same as before. If the chance comes up we do it. If not we stay on their tail until they reach Banecreif.”

  “Never been to Scotland,” Munro said.

  “Sheltered life, son. You need to get out of the smoke more often.”

  “Right now I fancy a meal. There’s a proper restaurant car back that way. Help pass the time.”

  “Very smart, Sherlock. And what if Cooper and Chambers decide to do the same? Chambers knows us.”

  Munro accepted the fact grudgingly. “Well, they do sandwiches here. What do you fancy? Chicken? Chicken with salad. Or they do a nice chicken with chicken.”

  “Just get something, huh?” Breck glanced at his watch. It was going to be a long wait.

  NEITHER COOPER NOR Chambers left their compartment. Food had been ordered and was delivered to the door. On watch farther down the car Breck saw an opportunity to get them inside the compartment. Give Cooper and Chambers ample time to eat their meal before they moved. He returned to the buffet car and an increasingly fidgety Munro.

  “It’s getting dark, Marty,” he said. “Time to move?”

  “We give ’em a couple more hours. I just saw food being delivered. Let them eat, then we go. Wait until things quiet down.”

  “That’s generous of you.”

  “No. It gets us a way into that compartment. Knock on the door and say we’ve come to collect the tray. They open up and we go in hard and fast.”

  Munro peeled open his sandwich and studied the contents. “Does that look like chicken to you?”

  “A couple of hours. We take turns to watch the compartment in case the waiter turns up first. Now eat your bloody sandwich.”

  IT WAS DARK BEYOND the train windows. No one had gone near the compartment. Breck joined his partner and they made their way along the corridor to 12B. From inside their jackets they pulled out the suppressed 9 mm Glock pistols they carried in shoulder rigs.

  “Nice sharp knock,” Breck said.

  Munro nodded, rapping on the door.

  “Restaurant service, sir,” Breck said. “Come to collect your tray.”

  The door clicked after a few seconds. It opened. Paul Chambers stood there. As he recognized the two men he put out a hand as if to ward off any threat.

  “No way,” he shouted.

  “Hey, Paul,” Munro said and stepped inside the compartment
, his Glock already rising.

  Breck tried to warn his reckless partner but he was too late. Sudden movement from just behind the door caught Munro off guard. The dark outline of a fast-moving figure loomed over him. An arm swept down. Munro gave a strangled cry as the solid metal of a pistol smashed across the back of his skull with tremendous force. He stumbled across the compartment, out of control, slamming into the far wall.

  Already committed Breck followed his partner over the threshold, aware of the threat behind the door. He moved fast, starting to crouch, angling his Glock to punch a round through the panel. His intention might have been sound, but the execution was not fast enough. The door was driven at him, catching his shoulder, driving him off balance. He hit the compartment floor, the Glock firing as his finger jerked the trigger. Breck rolled, desperation leading his frantic moves. He heard the compartment door slam shut, caught a blurred glimpse of an armed figure. He dragged the seemingly reluctant Glock around to take a shot. He never made it. The muzzle of the other man’s pistol winked brightly—once, then again. Breck felt the impact of the pair of slugs as they cored into his chest. The force at close range slammed him to the floor, his arms spread wide as he sucked in air, struggling against the lethargy that was drawing him into a silent and shadowed place.

  BOLAN STEPPED BACK, still gripping the Beretta 93-R Len Watts had supplied. It was as if a blanket of silence had cocooned the compartment and it stayed that way until he let out the breath he’d been holding.

  Reality rushed back. He could feel the rhythmic cadence of the speeding train. The occasional creak of metal from the gentle sway of the car. Bolan backed across the compartment, moving the Beretta to cover everyone.

  That was when he saw Chambers. The man was crumpled in a corner of the compartment, limbs twisted awkwardly. The loose bullet from Breck’s pistol had blown in through his left eye and angled up to erupt from the top of his skull.

  19

  The Executioner collected the Glocks the intruders had carried and dropped them in his bag, along with the spare magazines they had. He knew from past experience that adding to his arsenal was recommended.

  His only choice was to leave the train at the earliest opportunity and make alternative travel plans. It wouldn’t be the first time he had been forced to rethink a mission. Flexibility in these situations was often necessary. Bolan had made such moves on many occasions before.

  He secured his bag by its long strap, swinging it across his back. The Beretta was back in its holster beneath his zipped leather jacket. He opened the compartment door and checked that the corridor was clear. He made his way along until he reached the end. At the junction where the car joined the next one there was an exit door set in the side. Bolan waited until he felt the train start to reduce speed. It was making the pull up one of the long gradients as it coasted through the Scottish lowlands. Working the door release Bolan eased it open until the gap was wide enough for him to push through. He used the grab rail set in the car side, searching for the foot step, and swung clear of the door, slamming it shut once he was secure.

  The chill draft caused by the train’s motion buffeted him and pulled at his clothing. Bolan hung on to the grab rail, thinking how well it had been named. He peered around. There was enough illumination coming from the train’s windows and from the pale moon to show him the terrain. From the tracks the ground fell away in a long grassy slope. Some way ahead he could see clusters of lights, indicating some habitation. A town. That meant people and maybe the chance to gain some kind of transportation.

  The sudden shriek of the train’s whistle sounded. Following that, the train’s speed reduced more. Bolan checked out the slope some feet below his level. It still seemed to be moving by at a good speed but he figured it wasn’t going to get better. He was about to take a calculated risk. One that might leave him injured. If he decided to stay on the train he could find himself in the hands of the authorities and, if Canfield learned about it, the man’s influence would be asserted. His contacts would home in on Bolan and freedom might become a thing of the past.

  As the train reached midpoint along the gradient its speed dropped down another notch. Bolan swung around so he faced the direction the train was moving. He waited for the clearest patch of slope and went for it. He pushed out from the step, relaxing his body and hit the soft surface of the slope with enough momentum to hurl him forward. His feet made contact. He let himself go, loose limbed, skidding across the grassy slope. He slammed facedown, his arms crossed to protect it.

  The hard shock stunned him and he was barely aware of being flung downslope. The hard contents of the bag dug into his chest and ribs as he bounced and slithered across the face of the slope.

  His wild ride came to a dead stop as Bolan slammed into a thick tangle of thorny bushes. He didn’t attempt to move until his senses settled. The first thing he did was check his arms and legs. Then he sat up and dropped the bag. Bolan stood slowly, turning to check out the train. He could still see the faint glow of lights as it continued up the gradient.

  The sooner he started to move, the better. Walking would help keep his battered body from stiffening up. He checked out his surroundings. The lights he had seen from the train were slightly west of his position, a couple of miles away. Bolan spotted moving lights below him—vehicles on a road a quarter of a mile distant. Bolan brushed himself off, slung the bag over his shoulder and headed in the direction of the road.

  IT WAS CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT when Bolan closed the door of the room he had taken at the roadside lodge. The lodge was the U.K. equivalent of a motel, there to provide accommodation for long-distance travelers. The young man on duty at the desk had processed Bolan’s request for a room with barely any interest. He was eager to get back to his viewing the international soccer match on the television set in his cubbyhole behind the desk.

  “You have a car?” the young man asked in a Scottish dialect strong enough to almost baffle Bolan.

  “No. Local sales man dropped me off. He’ll pick me up in the morning. We had a long day.”

  “So haven’t we all.” Bolan’s key card was slid across the desk. “Straight along the corridor. Room fourteen. You take your breakfast at the diner across the way. It’s in the price.”

  Bolan nodded, but the man had already turned back to his TV, absorbed in the droning reflections from the commentator and his group of former players as they analyzed the match.

  The room was comfortable and functional, equipped with a TV and a kettle for making hot drinks from the supply on a sectioned plastic tray. Bolan flipped the switch. As the water boiled he crossed to the room and closed the curtains. He checked the bathroom. The shower beckoned. Bolan made himself a mug of instant coffee, sitting on the edge of the bed as he drank it. He stripped off his clothes and padded into the bathroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror over the sink. His torso was crisscrossed with bruises and the still-healing bullet tear. He had half expected it to start bleeding again. He counted himself lucky that his leap from the train had let him off so lightly. Bolan turned on the shower and stood under the hot water. He soaped himself, then leaned against the tiled wall and let the water ease away some of the aches and pains.

  His strike against Canfield’s home base would still go ahead. It would take him longer to reach the place, but that might work in his favor. Anticipation of the coming attack would play against Canfield. He might lose some of his confidence. Start to doubt his own safety as he debated where and when Bolan would show. It was a strategy that could give the Executioner an edge. Anything that took the edge off Canfield’s force was welcome. Bolan had no idea of the strength of Canfield’s security. He was going in blind. It didn’t worry him too much. It wouldn’t be the first time he had gone up against an unknown force. He had the advantage of time on his side.

  Out of the shower Bolan dried himself and wrapped a towel around his waist. He prepared another coffee, stretched out on the bed and checked his phone. He saw the power was in need of ch
arging, so he took the unit from his bag and clicked in place the converter that would allow him to use the U.K. socket. He connected to the cell phone, saw the power indicator rise and hit the speed dial that would link him to Hal Brognola.

  “Striker, where are you?”

  “A long way from home,” Bolan said.

  “How close are you to wrapping this up?”

  “Close enough. You got anything for me?”

  Brognola held back for a moment.

  “Good news and bad news,” he said. “On the bad side there’s no way of making it any easier to say.”

  “Just say it, Hal.”

  “A ship on its way to the U.K., the Orient Venturer, dumped one of its containers over the side. They didn’t know they’d been spotted by a trawler out of a British port. The trawler hove to where the container had been dropped and marked it with a buoy. A British Navy vessel was called and it sent down diving teams to locate the container. When they raised it and got it open they found twenty-five bodies inside. Young women and kids. Later identified as Thai. The call went out and the authorities were waiting when the container ship docked. Captain and crew were arrested. No one will talk but we lucked out when the Bear did some hard probing into the container ship’s background. This is the good news. Aaron found one hell of a maze as far as ownership was concerned. Blind alleys and phony registration. But bless that man, he finally pinned it down. Bottom line is that the Orient Venturer belongs to Hugo Canfield’s organization. He can deny it until hell freezes over but he’s the man.”

  Brognola sensed Bolan’s feelings through the protracted silence that followed his revelation. He let Bolan have his moment, knowing how the man would be hurting. If emotion was ever allowed to break Bolan’s stoic image, it could be guaranteed when he was faced with more innocent suffering. The facts about the women and children would hurt Bolan more than a 9 mm bullet.