Over the years he had been called many things. Some good, others not so much. But he never aspired to emulate any of the nicknames. He was, he supposed, an amalgam of them all. His nature led him to be what he was and to do what he did. He was not seeking accreditation for his actions. He had declared his intentions way back and had maintained that resolve over his many campaigns. Nothing was going to alter those conditions.
He rolled the car back onto the road and continued in the direction his SatNav took him. He made the turn onto the narrow, tarmac strip winding between tangled hedges. After a quarter mile it opened out onto a graveled area fronting the house. The stone-and-timber construction was old but well kept. There was a ground and an upper floor, plus a couple of outhouses to the right of the main structure. The land sloped away at the rear of the house to the loch, where the rain and the escalating wind disturbed the surface of the water. On a bright sunlit day it would have presented an idyllic view. On this day it was gray and uninspiring.
Bolan stopped the car and surveyed the house. There was a dark gray SUV parked near the outhouses. Someone was in the area. Bolan shut off the engine. Now he could hear the rain on the metal roof and feel the slight tug of the wind. There were no lights on. Windows in shadow. No movement.
For all he knew Sorin could be watching, wondering who his visitor was.
Friend or foe?
In Sorin’s position, Bolan would have wondered the same. He leaned across and picked the long coat off the rear seat, shrugging into it as he stepped from the car.
Bolan felt the wind against him, and the chill of the rain against his face as he strode up to the house. At the front door he rapped his knuckles against the weathered timber.
No response.
Bolan eased the 93-R from its holster, checking the setting for single-shot action. He reached for the handle and pressed it down. The door eased open on oiled hinges. Bolan pushed it wide, stepping to the side, one shoulder against the solid stone wall. From what he could see, the interior was shadowed. Silent.
“Ethan? Ethan Sorin? Show yourself. It’s Cooper. Remember me? We made a good team, Ethan. Clair told me where I might find you. She’s safe. Being looked after by your people.”
The reaction was instant. A figure moved slowly into view, holding onto the door frame as he stepped into the light.
It was Sorin.
And he looked like he had just walked out of Hell.
Chapter 14
The Bell helicopter belonged to the mob. Bought with the constant flow of money made by the various criminal activities, it was one of a number of aircraft, including a couple of Lear jets, the mob had on its books. There was another helicopter based in Europe and one more in the U.S.A. All on 24/7 standby, ready and waiting with flight crews. The U.K.-based Bell had picked up Corrigan’s three-man team from a flight pad in London. Corrigan had called the pilot and read him the coordinates and the chopper lifted off immediately, heading north for Scotland.
Corrigan had sent along Markus, Pikey and Lapdog. Pikey and Lapdog were always ready for a fight. They had grown up on the streets, using natural cunning and their desire to survive to bring them through their early years as small-time crime had graduated to more extreme enterprises. They ran girls. Pushed drugs. Ventured into trafficking. They also had a penchant for terrifying violence, which they used without thought to what might result. All they understood was the effect the threat of violence had on their victims. It got them what they wanted. And it was as a form of punishment that they realized its potential. They both had a growing list of murders listed on their tallies. Truth be known they enjoyed their work, unfortunately to a level that even their contemporaries stepped away from. All except Corrigan. Once he had learned about them he delved into their past and saw what they might offer. He recruited them into the mob, honed their skills and his effect on them was strong. They enjoyed the power their new positions gave them, the security and the fact they belonged.
They sat back in the comfortable flight seats and looked forward to what lay ahead. Corrigan had run them through a refresher course on Sorin before they left. They knew as much about the man as anyone. Corrigan had laid out their mission brief in his apartment.
“If he’s at the house, I want him alive. He has information that could hurt the organization. We don’t know how much he carries inside his head, so Sorin dead is no good to us. His brains leaking all over the fucking heather is bad. Take him alive.”
Lapdog’s bony face showed a frown. “Can’t we hurt him just a little, boss?” He was toying with the SMG in his skinny hands. “Seems a pity bringing these shooters if we can’t use ’em.”
“Have I ever said you are a scary psycho?” Corrigan said.
Lapdog grinned. “Thanks, boss.”
“Pikey, keep him on a leash,” Corrigan said.
“Sure thing.”
Lapdog grunted in annoyance. He was still smarting from the fact that Corrigan had put Markus in command of the team. Markus had some military background and also had a steadier head on his shoulders.
Presently they were closing in on the target.
“Touchdown in five,” the pilot said.
“Once you eyeball the house, land a couple of hundred yards away. Sorin may be armed,” Markus said. “If he figures out who we are he might start capping a few rounds. I don’t want the cost of repairing bullet holes coming out of my bonus.”
“You think he might shoot at us?” Pikey asked with a sarcastic edge to his voice.
“For certain he isn’t going to invite us in for tea and fucking scones,” Markus said.
Lapdog mumbled something under his breath. Like most bullies who enjoyed inflicting pain on others, he was not so brave when the possibility of harm to himself reared its head.
“Don’t worry, Dog,” Markus said. “If he does shoot you, I’ll make sure you don’t suffer too long.”
Pikey laughed out loud. “See,” he said, “Markus does care about you.”
Lapdog slid down in his seat, hugging his SMG close to his skinny chest, eyes suddenly cold and hostile.
“There,” the pilot said, pointing out through the rain-spattered canopy. “Target in sight.”
Markus followed the man’s pointing finger. Below he could see the outline of the house and outbuildings. He picked out the two cars parked next to the house.
“You got binoculars?” Markus asked the pilot.
“Under your seat.”
Markus searched and found the glasses. “Bring her in from the front of the house. Slow and low. Pad and pen, Pikey. Write down what I tell you.”
The pilot executed the maneuver and Markus leaned forward, scanning the parked cars. He quoted license numbers to Pikey who scribbled the pair of numbers down.
“Now what?” Lapdog asked.
Markus took out his sat phone and called Corrigan.
“I have two license plates I need identified.” He read off the numbers. “How long?”
Corrigan chuckled, a derisory sound. “I’ll put Rankin on it and make him sweat.” He put Markus on hold and called Rankin. “Time to impress me.” Corrigan quoted the license numbers. “Tell me who they belong to.”
“One day, Corrigan, you are going to ask me the impossible. Not today, though,” Rankin said. “The first plate belongs to a rental vehicle. Belongs to a London franchise. The second is registered to an Ethan Sorin. Does that impress?”
“It does,” Corrigan said. “I will arrange a bonus. Thanks.”
Corrigan reconnected to Markus.
Markus said, “He get what you want, boss?”
“One of those cars is Sorin’s. The other is a rental. From London.”
“Our Yank?”
Corrigan smiled. “Maybe we can catch two for one.”
The connection w
as ended.
“Put us down over there,” Markus said, pointing out the wide, open space away from the house.
The chopper descended under the pilot’s sure hand, despite the buffeting wind. It made a perfect landing. The pilot cut the power and the rotors began to slow.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll stay put,” he said.
Markus gave a mirthless smile. “You do that.” He opened his door. “Remember,” he said to Pikey and Lapdog, “we need Sorin alive.”
“Hey,” Pikey said. “What if we find that fuckin’ Yank has shown up?”
Markus’s smile widened as he glanced across at Lapdog. “You can kill that son of a bitch as many times as you want. Now let’s move.”
Before they deplaned they each slipped on the lightweight digital comsets they had brought along. They ran quick checks to make sure they were all working and set to the same channel.
“Once we separate, keep in touch,” Markus said.
The three men crossed the rain-streaked field, the soft ground pulling at their boots and coating them with mud. The waterproof coats resisted the rain and the hoods shielded their faces. The wind soughed in off the sea and they could taste salt in its moisture.
“If this is Scotland,” Pikey said, “it sucks.” He stepped in a shallow puddle. “Shit.”
They drew into a huddle, the house no more than fifty yards ahead. They were side-on to the building, so they could view front and rear.
“Lapdog, take the rear,” Markus said. “Watch yourself. Sorin is a field agent. Not an old woman with a walking stick.”
Lapdog nodded and veered off toward the house.
“He going to be all right?” Markus asked.
“Yeah. He’s a pain but he knows his job,” Pikey said.
“I can bloody hear you,” Lapdog said over the comsets.
“Just watch your skinny arse, mate,” Pikey said.
Markus made a final check of his SMG.
“Let’s go,” he said, and led the way across the final stretch of ground to the side of the house. They pressed against the wet stone, then edged their way to the front, moving past the parked cars.
“Front door,” Markus said. “Stay below the window level. We hit the door and go straight in. Hard and fast before they know what’s happening. Lapdog, you set?”
“Right by the kitchen door, boss.”
“Be ready if Sorin tries to leave.”
“He won’t get by me.”
Markus dropped to a crouch and led the way past the window, only straightening when he was positioned at the front door. He nodded to Pikey, who was on the other side of the door, SMG ready.
“Remember, we need Sorin alive. If you need to shoot, take an arm or a leg.”
Markus moved so he was facing the door. He braced himself for the impact, then raised his right foot. He slammed the sole of his boot against the door, right in line with the handle. The door shivered, wood splitting. Markus struck it a second time and the door shattered and swung inward to crash against the wall.
“Go,” Markus yelled. “Go, go, go...”
Chapter 15
The man staring at Bolan bore little resemblance to the Ethan Sorin he had once known. Then, Sorin had been tanned and fit. Now, he was gaunt and had dark rings under his eyes. The blond hair was tangled and Sorin was unshaven and looked as if he had been sleeping in his clothes.
“Where did you come from? Bloody hell, you look like a fugitive from The Matrix in that coat.”
“You mind if I get out of the rain?”
Sorin stepped aside as Bolan moved through the door. He closed it and turned to face his visitor.
“You said Clair was safe. Has she been in trouble? Because of me?” Sorin’s voice rose in anger. “Have those bastards been trying to get to her?”
Bolan said, “Let’s take it easy, Ethan. We need to talk things over.” Bolan rook off the long coat and exposed his blacksuit and the holstered Beretta.
“I don’t want to be unsociable, but most people bring a bottle of wine when they come calling, not a piece of artillery.”
“I’ve already met your buddies from the mob, Ethan, and the last thing they want is to share a drink.”
“You’ve got a point.”
Sorin indicated for Bolan to cross the room to a fire burning in the stone hearth. The low-ceilinged room was neatly laid out with solid furniture.
“I just made coffee. You want some?”
Bolan nodded. He watched Sorin move to the hearth where a metal jug rested on the stone base. The Brit reached for one of the thick mugs hanging from hooks on the mantel. He filled the mug and handed it to Bolan. The big American didn’t miss the slow, labored movements and the way Sorin favored his left side, reaching around to hug his ribs.
“Ethan, you need to see a doctor.”
“I can’t risk bringing anyone in. I’m reasonably safe here as long as no one can find me.”
“I found you.”
Sorin took his own mug and settled into a deep armchair.
“But you haven’t come to put a bullet through the back of my head.” He reflected on that statement for a moment. “Have you?”
Bolan sat. “If that had been the case I’d be on my way home by now.”
“I guess so. So bring me up to date, Cooper.”
“Matt.”
Bolan related his involvement with the mob and with Clair Sorin—from day one up to the present. Sorin listened in silence, his only response being the occasional shake of his head.
“And how did Clair take it all?”
“She handled it just like Ethan Sorin’s sister would.”
“I can guess. She is great, that girl. But, God, it makes me so damned angry that they sent one of their thugs to her house. It’s what we’re up against, Matt. These bastards don’t give a damn what they do. No respect. No conscience. And the OrgCrime unit has to work through channels. Held back by rules and regulations. We should be allowed to go straight for the throat. Fight fire with fire.” He slumped back in his armchair. “But the idiots in charge rein us in, quoting legalese until our bloody heads spin. I swear sometimes I think they’re all in bed with the crooks.”
“From what I’ve learned, it sounds as if someone in your unit is working for the mob.”
“There’s a leak. We don’t know who it is. So it’s getting to the point where we’re suspecting our own.”
“That’s what brought you up here?”
“My team, me included, were tired of all the crap we had to take. We felt useless. So the three of us decided to try something off the books. We had some intel on a mob house outside London. We came up with a plan and pushed it through. To be bloody honest, Matt, I don’t think we really knew what we might find. But when we broke in, like a bunch of amateur thieves, we had luck on our side. There was only one bloke in the place. We tied him up and went looking for evidence. Turns out this guy was the mob’s data operator. Silly sod didn’t even have encryptions on his computer system. Schiller was our cyber expert. He got into the system and hit pure gold. Lists, reams of them, detailing names and locations, paid accounts. All the bastards the mob is paying off—lawyers, judges, cops. In the U.K., Europe and even the U.S. Names of suppliers. Delivery routes. Too much to detail right now, but it was a bloody find. First thing we did was load it onto a data stick and left before our luck ran out.” Sorin shook his head. “But we made a mistake, Matt. We left a witness behind. The data operator. If the positions had been reversed the mob would have made sure there wasn’t someone left behind to identify us. We didn’t.”
“Ethan, you couldn’t have done anything else. You’re not the mob. Killing in cold blood isn’t in you.”
“But that got my partners killed and has me on the run. All I can figure is the
mob bloke must have got in touch with his people and they passed our descriptions on to the mole. Hell, I don’t know, Matt. Maybe there was some concealed camera at that house we missed. Maybe we went at it unprepared. But the bastards got our descriptions. We decided to lay low after the mission. We’d gone against orders, so we knew we’d get hell when we went in. This leak in the unit had us wondering who to trust, so we decided to separate until things cooled down. Schiller went to his home in Germany. Larry Cobb had a bolt hole in Paris. I decided to come up here after I secured the data stick in a safe place. Larry Cobb called the day he was murdered. He must have realized they were coming for him. He told me Schiller had already been hit and not to trust anyone. I had the information we’d built up, so Larry told me to hide out until I could figure out how to get the information to someone trustworthy. I took his advice, and even then I nearly didn’t make it. Someone showed up and tried to deal with me the minute I went to pick up my car. I caught his bullet in my side. Tore me up but didn’t penetrate. I jumped him and we fought—I was lucky enough to put him down. Then I got to my car and got the hell out of there. It was almost dark and I was gone before anyone could spot me. I drove out of London, picked up the A1 heading north and just kept driving. I didn’t stop for a couple of hours. I located a motor lodge and booked in. By then I was pretty weak. Bleeding had stopped. I took the first-aid kit out of the car and did what I could to clean and bandage the wound. Then I flaked out and slept. In the morning I had breakfast, bought a thermos flask from the lodge shop and had it filled with black coffee. After that I kept driving north. I survived on coffee refills and sheer bloody stubbornness. I wasn’t going to let those buggers get to me. When I reached the village I stopped at the shop and stocked up on food and drink. Came here and you can see the result.” Sorin’s shoulders slumped. “Selfish move,” he said. “I should have thought about Clair. I just didn’t think she might be in danger. If anything happens to her...”
Hostile Force Page 8
