Desperate Cargo

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan studied the sentry as he slogged his way through the heavy waterlogged grass. Even though he was clad in a waterproof coat the man was probably chilled to the bone and hoping to be relieved. Bolan figured this would be the best time to take the man. He had probably been on duty for a long few hours. He would be tired and ready to get under cover.

  The man moved by him. Bolan was no more than twenty feet away and was able to see the MP-5 the guard was carrying over one shoulder, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

  The sentry paced on, pausing at the perimeter of his patch to look around, before slowly, reluctantly, turning and retracing his steps. By this time Bolan had moved in closer, so that when the sentry drew level with him, Bolan was almost under his feet. As the man reached the ideal position Bolan swept his legs from under him, dropping him flat on his back. Unprepared the guard hit the ground with a hard thump, gasping as the air was forced from his lungs. Before he could recover Bolan slammed a bunched fist against his jaw. The sentry grunted and lay still, momentarily stunned. It was enough time for Bolan to strip away his MP-5 and handgun, turn the man facedown and use a couple of plastic ties to secure wrists and ankles. He rolled the man back over and as the sentry shook away the dizziness Bolan slid the fighting knife from its sheath and pressed it against the man’s exposed throat, applying just enough pressure so that the fine sheer edge cut into flesh, drawing a little blood and creating a prickly stinging sensation.

  “Listen good,” Bolan said. “You have an easy choice. Give me the answers I want, or I lean on this knife a little harder and open your throat all the way.”

  The sentry stared up at Bolan, only just able to see his face in the dawn light. But there was enough to recognize the hard, icy gleam in the eyes staring back at him.

  “I say anything Gantley will—”

  “Gantley isn’t the one you need to worry about, friend. It’s me you’re going to have to deal with. Right now I’m the most important man in the world.”

  Bolan emphasized his words by drawing the blade a little deeper across the sentry’s throat, causing a warm trickle of blood to slide across taut flesh.

  “Jesus…”

  “I’d suggest it’s a little late to start getting religion. Are you ready to answer my question?”

  The sentry stopped trying to free his bounds wrists and nodded. “What?” he asked.

  “How many more of you are there? And don’t make up numbers. I’m going to leave you here. Mess with me and I’ll come back and show you just how persuasive my friend here can be.”

  “Okay, okay. One more on the ground like me. Two on the roof. One inside manning the security cameras. And Gantley.”

  Bolan took hold of the sentry’s collar and dragged him through the grass until he reached the trees. He used the knife to cut a wide strip from the man’s waterproof coat and gagged him, propping him against the trunk of a tree. He searched the sentry’s coat and found a spare magazine for the MP-5. Returning to the spot where he had taken the man down Bolan picked up the MP-5. He swung the Uzi across his back, moving forward, his eyes searching for the second sentry.

  It was the sentry who found Bolan. As the Executioner circled a heavy stand of tangled undergrowth the sentry appeared off to his right, picking up speed as he fixed Bolan’s position. The guard called out, raising his MP-5 and let go with a loose burst that chopped at the undergrowth, showering Bolan with debris.

  Bolan dropped and rolled, propping himself on his elbows and returned fire. The sentry jerked aside, cursing wildly, and then hauled himself to a stop. His weapon tracked back in Bolan’s direction but he was a couple of seconds too late. Bolan’s second burst caught the man chest-high, a follow-up adding to the devastation as the 9 mm slugs cleaved into his body, tearing into his lungs and heart. The man uttered a high squeal, falling back and slamming to the ground.

  Bolan scrambled to his feet and dug in his heels, angling across the open ground for the cover of the house. In his mind he was calculating how soon the sentries on the roof might respond.

  The chatter of concentrated automatic fire answered his question as a pair of MP-5’s opened up. Bolan heard the sodden thumps as 9 mm slugs tore at the rain-soaked ground around him. He ducked and weaved, presenting a constantly shifting target, feeling the impact as slugs struck closer than he wanted. The shooters were having to lean over the parapet as Bolan got closer to the house, the angle they were having to deal with making accurate fire difficult.

  Bolan reached the rough stone wall, slamming against the unyielding surface and pausing for a moment. Shadows at the base of the wall helped to conceal him but he was aware that some of the 9 mm projectiles were also getting closer to the angle where the ground met the wall. By the law of averages he was soon going to feel one of those slugs. He glanced left and right. He saw a low-sited window a few yards away. He needed access to the house and a window was as good a way of entering as a door. He edged along the wall, taking himself away from the bursts of fire, albeit briefly.

  The window was large, the sill no more than a couple of feet from ground level—an old, wooden sash-style window. Bolan pulled away from the window, raised the MP-5 and triggered the remaining magazine capacity at it. The burst of sustained fire shattered the glass from the frame and shredded the wood. Throwing his arms up to cover his face Bolan took a run at the empty gap and launched himself through the window, taking the remaining glass and wood with him. He landed on his feet, glass showering around him.

  The first thing he did was eject the empty magazine and snap in his remaining full one. A glance around the room showed it in shadow, devoid of furniture. The door was on the far side. Bolan crossed to it, easing the handle and edging the door open to show the empty passage beyond.

  23

  The moment the sound of gunfire reached the security room, the guard in charge, Lou Trencher, snapped out of his half-sleep state and hit the exterior lights. Instantly the monitor screens were illuminated by the powerful lamps mounted around the outside of the house.

  Damn, I should have had them on already, he thought.

  Trencher knew he was in trouble. Once Gantley found out he had been slacking at his post it wouldn’t matter if an intruder was out there. The former military cop would kill Trencher himself. Sergeant Gantley had a fetish about running the security team like a small army. And he had no patience with anyone who slipped below his standards.

  The first thing Trencher saw was a body stretched out on the ground. He focused in with the camera controls, bringing the motionless form into sharp relief. He couldn’t identify the man because he was lying facedown, but he did see the blood oozing from the ragged bullet wounds, being sluiced away by the rain still sweeping in across the grounds.

  Trencher keyed the Send button on his internal handset.

  “Intruder alert. West wall.”

  Trencher heard the rattle of more automatic fire. It was coming from somewhere overhead. The roof guards. They must have spotted the man. What was his name—Cooper.

  Close by Trencher heard more gunfire. Then the shattering of glass. He realized it was coming from the room just along the passage from his security cubbyhole.

  Is Cooper breaking in? he wondered.

  Aware he had some making up to do Trencher snatched up his own MP-5, swinging around and stepping out into the passage. He flattened against the opposite wall.

  He heard the rattle of the handle, saw the door pulled open. The room inside was dark. Trencher could hear the sound of rain splashing in through the shattered window.

  Where was Cooper? Why didn’t the bastard show himself?

  He eased away from the wall, his finger curling against the submachine gun’s trigger.

  In the distance he heard someone shout his name. He recognized the harsh bark.

  Sergeant Gantley.

  The angry call drew Trencher to an involuntary halt, head turning in the direction of the sound.

  What did the man want now?
>
  Fuck you, Trencher thought, I got more important things to do.

  He swung back toward the point of his interest. The empty doorway.

  Only it wasn’t empty any longer.

  A black-clad figure stood there, the muzzle of his own weapon already tracking Trencher.

  Oh, shit, Trencher thought.

  Second time he had screwed up tonight.

  Bolan hit the armed man with a solid burst from his MP-5. The blistering stream of 9 mm bullets cut into and through the guard’s midtorso, kicking him back across the passage until the stone wall brought him to an abrupt stop. Trencher’s finger squeezed back against the MP-5’s trigger and a burst hit the ceiling overhead, flattening and spinning across the passage. Trencher slid to his knees, dropping his weapon and clutching at his wounds. The last thing he saw was the dark-clad figure turning and heading along the passage.

  The Executioner had seen the flight of stone steps that led from the ground floor. The steps were set against the wall, steep, and disappeared into apparent darkness. As he sprinted up he felt the flow of chilled air that met him. The stairs curved slightly to the left and as Bolan followed the turn the cold air increased. His initial guess had been correct—the steps led to the roof. Above him now he made out the shape of a heavy wooden door, partly ajar. The last few stone risers were wet from rain that had blown in through the gap.

  He drew himself tight against the cold wall, using his foot to edge the door wide, giving it a final hard shove. The door swung wide, banging against something solid.

  Bolan went through fast, dropping to a crouch and veering to the left, his MP-5 tracking ahead, searching for targets.

  He had two armed men on the roof. Aware of his presence. Now that the high-mounted lights had been activated there was a degree of illumination spilling across the rain-swept flat area.

  That light would expose the two guards and Bolan.

  A hunched shape cut through Bolan’s field of vision, firing as he moved. Bolan heard the hard snap of the slugs as they struck the stone behind him, so he changed direction, following the man and also searching for guard number two.

  More automatic fire. Bolan felt hot stone chips bite his left cheek. He swung around in response, seeing the still-moving shape. He pushed the MP-5’s muzzle around and kept the guard in his sights for a couple of seconds. His finger eased back on the trigger, sending a burst at the man. The guard stumbled, a muffled curse on his lips. He still managed to fire back, his slugs clanging against a metal ventilation duct only a few feet away from Bolan. Bolan dropped, rolled, then dragged himself away from his position, working his way into a stand of heating and ventilation ducts, letting the complex shadows conceal his black shape. It wasn’t going to hide him for long, but he needed a moment to check out the relative placing of his opponents.

  He was a second away from raising his head when the faintest crunch of a boot against the stone roof slabs reached his ears.

  The sound came from too close to his right.

  The second guard. Moving in for the kill.

  Bolan rolled over on his back, sensing the dark bulk rearing above him. In the fragment of light that fell across the section Bolan saw the rain-slick face, arms extending the man’s MP-5, the shiny surface of the waterproof jacket. The light gave his eyes a cold, metallic gleam.

  His MP-5 had moved with Bolan, an extension of his body, and he triggered the weapon the instant he locked on to the guard. Bolan kept his finger on the trigger, expending the remaining half of the magazine, pumping the 9 mms into the man’s torso. The close range pushed the slugs through, blowing out the spine in a bloody spatter of flesh and splintered bone. The guard gave a strangled groan as he toppled away from Bolan and crashed down hard on the stone roof slabs.

  Bolan threw the empty MP-5 aside and pulled the Uzi into position as he turned back to face the remaining guard. He worked his way out from the stand of pipes as the man, ducking and weaving as he sought a clear shot, was silhouetted against the bright glare from one of the spotlights.

  The guard realized his error and turned to step out from the light.

  Bolan’s reflex action triggered the Uzi. He used a tried-and-tested figure eight, stitching the guard from chest to crotch, the man jerking from the impact of the 9 mm burn. He bounced against the stone slabs, his MP-5 slipping from his grasp. A second burst from the Uzi took a section of his skull off, ending the fight.

  A moment of calm descended as Bolan eased to his feet, though his left shoulder ached from slamming against something when he had dropped to the roof and he had a faint ringing in his ears from the harsh chatter of automatic fire. He turned his face to the falling rain, letting the cold water refresh his senses.

  He didn’t hear the soft footfall behind him. Only sensed that he wasn’t alone a split second before something struck him across the back of his skull and he dropped to his knees, the shadows turning even blacker.

  24

  Bolan felt fingers working his combat rig loose, dragging it off his body, then freeing the holstered Beretta. He struggled against the dark mist fogging his senses, aware that the knife was being stripped from its sheath. The Uzi had gone from his grasp as he had been driven to his knees. He struggled upright, swaying as he gained his feet, turning about at the harsh voice ringing out.

  “All right, son, so you’re the tough man? Christ, you don’t look so hard to me.”

  The man facing Bolan was his height, broader across the shoulders and chest. His hair was cropped close to his skull, glistening with rain. He wore dark military fatigues, heavy boots on his feet. Bolan saw him unclip the holstered pistol on his hip and place it on one of the exhaust ducts. Then he was flexing massive fists, covered by thin black leather gloves, as he faced Bolan.

  This had to be Sergeant Gantley. Canfield’s minder.

  “Fuckin’ Yanks. Too much money and fancy ordnance. All that bullshit about being the best.”

  Bolan didn’t reply. He was using every second to recharge his reserves because he was going to need them. It was why Gantley had deprived him of his weapons. The man was ready to use his hands.

  They squared off in the predawn paleness. Rain still sweeping in across the slabbed roof of Banecreif.

  “Come on, then, Cooper,” Gantley taunted. “What is it you arseholes say—give me your best shot.”

  Even in the low light Bolan could see the perverse smile edging Gantley’s thick lips. He realized that the man was anticipating the upcoming conflict and expecting to enjoy it.

  Gantley moved forward, impatient because Bolan was refusing to move. In his eyes that would only confirm what he felt about Americans.

  All show and no go.

  Bolan let him close in, saving his strength for what was to come. Gantley had left him no choice. He was going to have to fight, or allow Gantley to beat him to death.

  The Brit swung a powerful fist. His left. A clumsy feint. Bolan eased away from it, his eye on Gantley’s right, which was looping around in a blur. He ducked under the powerful swing and leaned in to deliver two hard punches to Gantley’s ribs. Bolan concentrated his power into the blows and though Gantley’s muscular torso absorbed much of the impact there was enough to make him grunt and step back. Bolan caught the lips peeling back from Gantley’s teeth in an angry snarl.

  He can be hurt, Bolan thought, and he doesn’t like it.

  The next attack came swiftly. Despite his bulk Gantley could move fast, his upper body weaving. His long arms enabled him to swing early, still just beyond Bolan’s stretch. He didn’t feint this time, simply lashed out with both fists. His left caught Bolan across the side of his face, knocking the big American off balance. The blow was hard, not crippling, but left Bolan smarting, blood running down his cheek from a fresh gash.

  Bolan pulled away, saw the thin smirk on Gantley’s rain-slick face as he retreated. Then he brought himself to a stop, catching Gantley off-kilter for a second. It was enough time for Bolan to slam his fist full into Gantley’s m
outh. The blow split Gantley’s lips, blood blossoming as flesh was hammered back against his teeth. Bolan held his attack, throwing hard punches to Gantley’s mouth and cheeks, rocking the man’s head from side to side. Gantley took steps back, seemingly confused by the sudden and unrelenting attack. Bolan changed tack without warning, using his booted foot to deliver hard sidekicks to Gantley’s left knee. The blows hurt Gantley. His leg was weakening, his reflex blows uncoordinated, missing more than connecting. He could not contain his anger. Gantley was not used to being hurt, even opposed, and he had to gather himself with a great effort, sucking in his rage and concentrating his efforts.

  One of his large fists caught Bolan’s left wrist, yanking his arm to pull Bolan in close. He batted aside Bolan’s free arm, then swung him aside with the ease of a child casting off an unwanted toy. Bolan was thrown across the roof, losing his grip on the wet stone. He went to his knees, throwing his hands out to prevent contact with the solid slabs. He knew immediately that he had to get back on his feet. Gantley would be moving in. Before Bolan could stand upright Gantley’s thick arms encircled his neck, closing tight like the coils of a snake as he hauled Bolan to his knees. Bolan could hear him snorting through his bloody mouth as he bore down.

  Bolan sucked in a breath before Gantley’s stranglehold cut off his air. Knowing his time would be short Bolan reached up and back, getting a grip on Gantley’s fatigue jacket. He hauled hard, letting his body drop from the waist. The leverage worked and Gantley was dragged up and over Bolan’s head, in a perfect shoulder roll. As he thudded to the stone slabs his grip on Bolan’s neck slackened and Bolan rolled free, turning his body and slamming his right boot full into Gantley’s face. Gantley’s nose simply collapsed under the kick. Blood erupted from the crushed organ.