“Bring her,” Reese said. “Corrigan ordered she be delivered alive—he said nothing about any bruises.”
He led the way through the house the way they had come in, across the garden and back through the wooded area. Reese used his phone to alert the vehicles and by the time they reached the pickup point, a pair of large SUVs were waiting on the narrow lane that ran parallel to the Benson home. Once everyone was inside, the two vehicles drove off.
Reese called Corrigan and told him they were on their way.
“Good. There were no problems?”
“Nothing to speak of. Cec has a bullet burn in his arm. Apart from that the operation was a success. The OrgCrime unit has seven less agents and will be realizing they can’t beat us. And we have Sorin’s sister to barter with.”
“Time something went our way,” Corrigan muttered. “You know what to do, Reese. Hey, don’t let that woman out of your sight. If you lose her don’t ever show your face again.”
Chapter 18
Tony Lowell had already flown in from New York and was settled in his London apartment, facing Corrigan from across the room.
“Christ, this a real mess,” he said.
“You know how we deal with messes. We clean them up and move on.”
“Not exactly happening at the moment.”
“We’ve come through worse. It’ll even out now we have Sorin’s sister.”
“Where is she now?” Lowell asked.
“Secure. On the boat.”
“Heard anything from our partners?”
“Markel is whining all the time. And Frasko’s been flexing his muscles—threatening to take over.”
“I’m getting some flak from them, as well. Jesus, I’m pissed off with the whole damn thing. Having to stall them while we try to get those files back from Sorin is not doing my ulcer any favors,” Lowell said.
“Which is why we need to concentrate on finding Sorin and getting that information back.”
“I’m on it.”
“Let’s face it. Up to now it hasn’t been entirely successful.”
“I admit we’ve had a couple of setbacks.”
“Jesus. Setbacks? Corrigan, I always like your sense of humor, but this ain’t no fuckin’ laughin’ matter. If this gets out, you and me both are going down the crapper big-time. We’ll have every one of those assholes gunning for us.”
“Mr. Lowell, have I ever let you down? I’ll get this sorted. My word on it. And when I give my word you know I’m good for it.”
Lowell leaned back in his leather chair. He snapped his fingers and the armed minder standing at the side of the expansive apartment lounge immediately came forward to offer his employer a large cigar. When the cigar was burning well, Lowell waved his free hand, the heavy gold rings on his fingers catching the light.
“You want a cigar?” he asked.
Corrigan shook his head.
“Mr. Lowell, they are going to want a meet—I can feel it coming. They’re starting to get real nervous. The Sorin thing was bad enough. Now we got this Yank in the mix. Bastard has caused us some aggravation and I don’t think he’s backing off anytime soon.”
“What sucks is this guy seems to be some kind of phantom,” Lowell said. “He comes and goes and no one can get a fuckin’ line on him. What about your OrgCrime inside man?”
“Nothing. It would seem this guy doesn’t have any connection with the task force.”
“We have to do something, Corrigan. Make sure all our sites are protected. I want this bastard’s head. And I want that goddam file Sorin has.”
“He’ll know by now we have his sister. And he’ll have figured out that handing that file over to the OrgCrime unit means she gets dead very quickly.” Corrigan smiled. “He’s not going to part with it anytime soon.”
Lowell bared his teeth in a hard sneer. “I wish I had your faith, Corrigan.”
* * *
BOLAN GRIPPED THE WHEEL of the SUV hard. He peered beyond the glare of the headlights, seeing Clair Sorin staring back at him. The image was so clear it caught him off guard and he had to ease off the gas pedal. He forced himself to see the road ahead. After everything that had been done to protect Sorin and get him to safety, his sister had been taken. Henning’s protection team had been slaughtered by the hit team.
Clair had been taken.
Was she hurt?
Injured in any way?
Bolan had taken a liking to the capable young woman. Her capture by the mob hung over him like a dark shadow because he knew these people—their vicious and unfeeling methods. The thought of Clair in their hands only added to his discomfort.
He had to get her back—alive. As much for his own sake as for hers.
He glanced at the SatNav. The bright screen was guiding him along a long road running through the Essex landscape. Here, the houses were set wide apart. The flat land offered little in the way of relief. He had already driven by large swathes of near-barren land. Industrial sites. Many deserted and dotted with tumbledown warehouses and workshops.
Joey Ballantine had given him a location for one of the mob’s businesses. A site that handled stolen cars. In the isolated workshops vehicles were altered for resale. All high-end, expensive cars. Often they would be stripped down for serviceable parts to be shipped out to the mob’s customers. Or details would be changed—plates and ownership papers.
“I only found out about this place a few days ago,” Ballantine had said, “because there was a call out for extra heavies. The mob was looking for blokes handy with guns. I did a little digging. You, Mr. Cooper, have put the wind up the bastards. They’re upping their protection because they don’t know where you’ll hit them next.”
“I have a bad feeling about that,” Bolan said.
“Only wish I could tell you where Corrigan hangs out, But no one knows where his personal place is. It’s why I’m sending you to the place in Essex. Guy who runs it is Pete Kaman. Story I heard is he’s one of Corrigan’s few buddies. He might know where Corrigan lives.”
“Worth a visit,” Bolan said. “Maybe I can get Kaman to talk. And shutting down the mob’s outlet will be a bonus.”
Presently, he was approaching the place. Slowing the SUV as the SatNav told him his turn was coming up, Bolan pulled off the road and onto a rutted dirt track. He swung into the shadows of thick undergrowth and parked. He shed his outer clothing to reveal his blacksuit and pulled on his combat harness, the 93-R rig and the Desert Eagle holstered at his hip.
There was enough light left to show him the layout of the sprawling workshop and the low-lying single-story house next to it. Bolan saw the stripped and rusting carcasses of derelict autos strewn around the area. Along with the old oil drums, and piles of discarded tires, it was enough to offer him cover as he moved in on the building.
Bolan met his first obstruction as he rounded the rear of a vehicle shell.
A stocky, wide-shouldered man in dark clothing, wielding a stubby mini-Uzi.
They locked eyes for a few seconds, then the guy went to lift his Uzi.
Bolan realized he had no time to pull his own weapon. Even in that moment he changed tack and brought his hands into play. Bolan caught the man’s right wrist with his own left, fingers clamping down hard, twisting and pulling the gun hand across his body as he turned in toward the man. Bolan drove his right elbow up and slammed it into the shooter’s face, hard. The man grunted under the solid impact. Bolan elbowed him a couple more times, feeling the man’s head rock. He felt a warm spray of blood against his cheek. The shooter tried to free his gun hand but all he succeeded in doing was to jerk back on the trigger. The Uzi fired, the 9 mm slug clearing Bolan’s body by a fraction. Turning fast, Bolan swung his opponent around and slammed him bodily against the metal auto body. The man’s breath gusted from his lip
s in a bloody spray—Bolan’s elbow smashes had crushed and torn his lips. Before the man could catch his breath Bolan slammed his fist into his exposed stomach—hard blows that hurt. A stifled groan burst from the guard’s lips. He struggled to fight back but Bolan allowed him no leeway. He was aware the man was still holding his gun and any weapon in an enemy’s hand was a threat. Pushing the gun hand down and away, Bolan used the moment to snatch the Desert Eagle from his hip holster. He jammed the big muzzle under the shooter’s chin and pulled the trigger. The powerful .44 magnum slug blew the guy’s head apart in a mushroom of bone and bloody brain matter.
As the bloody corpse slumped to the ground Bolan was already on the move. The shots would have warned the opposition. Any advantage Bolan might have had was wiped away, and his foray into enemy territory had been raised from soft probe to full contact. He was going to have to fight his way out if he wanted to remain in the game.
If he had been the kind who cursed his bad luck, Mack Bolan would have been in full voice, but that would have gone against his makeup. Long experience in combat situations had endowed Bolan with the ability to stay calm and use everything he could to his advantage. Melting into panic would get him killed very quickly. He understood his position and acted accordingly. He picked up the sound of raised voices nearby. Heard the scrape of boots on concrete, and figured there were two, three at the most. Bolan estimated they would burst into view within seconds. He flattened against the front wall of the house, the big Desert Eagle leveled and ready.
His guess had been correct.
Three armed guys came into sight, bunched close as they cleared the building. They were too close together to allow themselves firing clearance if they spotted their target. Bolan let them step into full view before he opened fire.
The Desert Eagle thundered in the close confines of the area. Bolan emptied the magazine, his calculated shots on track, sending the trio of would-be shooters down in a bloody tangle, their brief yells drowned by the crash of the heavy-caliber explosions.
Bolan jammed the Desert Eagle back into the holster and freed the 93-R, the selector set for triple bursts. He needed to maintain his pace—not give the opposition any stretch, allowing them to gather themselves. His sudden appearance had already disturbed their equilibrium. He had to keep up the mood.
He was hoping Pete Kaman hadn’t been one of the men he’d taken down.
Bolan rounded the side of the house and saw a concrete patio in front of him. French doors were set in the house wall, and he spotted a number of metal patio chairs set around a table. Bolan reached out and snatched up one of the chairs. He swung it in a pendulum arc, releasing the chair and sent it crashing through the French doors. Glass shattered and wood splintered. Bolan followed the chair through, striding across the sill and into the room beyond.
It spread away from him, a bright room with scattered casual furniture and colored rugs on the tiled floor. On the far side, three wide steps led to a curving bar counter, glass shelves lined with bottles.
Bolan heard a voice yelling orders.
An armed figure, dressed in black shirt and pants, burst into view through an archway. He saw Bolan and raised his voice again.
“He’s inside, Pete. Stay where you are.”
The Beretta was already lined up on the guy and Bolan triggered a 3-round burst that spun him round and bounced him off the wall. The man slithered loosely to the floor, his face registering the shock of being shot. He flopped forward from the waist, his shirt starting to glisten red.
Bolan kept moving, pressing against the wall to the side of the arch as he heard the scuff of shoes in the passage beyond the arch. A shadow fell across the tiles.
“Hey, Jacko, what the hell...”
Bolan dropped to a crouch, the 93-R angling up so that when the man came into view, his bulk filling the opening, he presented an easy target. Bolan swung the muzzle of the autopistol up a fraction and placed a triple burst into the guy. The slugs burned in below the jaw, up through into the skull and exited in a gush of destruction. The shooter went up on his toes, finger pulling back in spasm on the trigger of his SMG. A long burst of slugs hit the ceiling, pockmarking the pristine white and raining a shower of dust on the floor beneath.
Bolan had eased around the swaying corpse before it fell, and was halfway along the passage as the dead man crumpled.
Since the house was on a single level Bolan didn’t have stairs to worry about, just a complex of rooms leading off the main entrance hall. His only concern was the number of armed men he might be faced with.
Six down.
How many more to go?
Bolan paused, back to a wall, listening for movement that might offer insight into where the enemy was lurking.
Seconds slipped by.
Nothing.
Had he removed the team?
Was he alone?
He picked up the slight rustle of sound off to his left. Then the low creak of a door moving on dry hinges. Bolan focused on the door.
His question about being alone seemed to be premature.
Bolan watched as the dark ring of an SMG’s muzzle crept around the edge of the door. The barrel of the weapon was being used to ease the door open. Bolan could make out the dark shape of the man holding the weapon. Then a hand, paler than the bulk of the body, gripping the fore section of the SMG. Bolan picked out the curve of the shooter’s face, still partially hidden by the door frame. An eye moving back and forth as the guy sought to confirm Bolan’s presence.
The guy was playing the caution card. Maybe aware of his minders’ earlier recklessness. More concerned with protecting his own skin.
And maybe because he was on his own.
That made him valuable to a degree, Bolan realized, for any information he might have.
So taking the man alive became priority.
The dead didn’t talk.
Bolan moved the 93-R’s selector to single shot. If he couldn’t get the drop on the guy, he was going to need to go for a wounding shot. Bolan knew the odds would be longer, but if the guy refused a less-violent conclusion and tried to tough it out, Bolan would have no choice.
The door eased open a few more inches, allowing Bolan to see the potential target’s right leg. He tracked the Beretta in.
“Step out. I won’t kill you, Kaman,” Bolan said. “Let me see the weapon on the floor. Your choice.”
“You know me? So who are you?”
“The one you’ve been expecting, Kaman. Your people call me the Yank.”
“Shit.” Then the man said, “You expect me to roll over so easy?”
“Your buddies all took the hard way out. Left you to pick up the tab.”
“Maybe I’m not on my own. Maybe I got backup in here.”
“If that was so, you would be sending them out first. Guys like you let others do the dirty work for them.”
“And maybe I can do it myself.”
“I should let you think about that.”
The guy did, but not for long. He made his play, which turned sour on him the moment he flung the door back and triggered the corridor with full auto-fire. Slugs hit the walls, shattered tiles and punctured the plaster. The overall effect was noisy but didn’t cause any real damage.
On the tail end of his auto burst the man made his run for freedom, ducking low and breaking free from the open doorway.
Bolan saw the move, failing to understand the guy’s motive. He didn’t think about it for too long. The Beretta fixed on the chosen target, snapping out the single shot that caught the man in the right thigh and knocked him off his feet. He hit the hard tiled floor, the SMG leaving his grasp. When he landed, the left side of his face cracked against the floor, leaving him stunned and bleeding. He was barely conscious when Bolan kicked the SMG out of reach, and he offered little resistance whe
n he was dragged along the corridor and into one of the rooms.
The shooter recovered some time later only to see he was in the kitchen, bound to a chair. He felt the heavy pulse of pain from his wounded leg. When he glanced down he saw that his pants leg had been cut away and a crude bandage was wrapped around his thigh. The cloth was soaked in blood. The side of his face, where it had hit the floor, burned with sharp pain, and he could feel dried blood on his flesh.
Movement caught his eye. He turned his head and saw the tall figure dressed in black, hung with weapons. The man’s thick black hair framed a strong-featured face. The eyes were the feature that drew Kaman’s attention—hard blue, like chips of ice. He was unable to see a trace of humanity reflected in them.
“You need to have that leg seen to,” the man said. “I didn’t hit anything vital but there’s no guarantee infection won’t set in. It’s one of those things with bullet wounds even if they’re not instantly fatal. The bullet penetrates and drags in dirt. Fragments of material. If it isn’t correctly treated the wound can get nasty very fast.” Bolan leaned against the edge of the heavy kitchen table, watching the man. “You’re still bleeding under that bandage, too.” He paused. “Anything you want to say?”
“Yeah. I need a doctor. You some kind of sadist?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things,” Bolan said. “Never a sadist. What should I do about it?”
“Christ, you shot me. What do you want now?”
Bolan leaned forward. “A trade-off, Kaman. Your life for information.”
“I should have fuckin’ guessed it would be something like that.”
“Play with the grown-ups, you get to pay the price.”
Kaman stared up at Bolan. Sweat had sheened his pale face. He fought back a wave of nausea.
“You expect me to give up my people?”
“Don’t pretend we’re talking about a religious order. You’re involved in drug- and people-trafficking. And don’t forget the car-ring business out there. Your people are so low on the scale, I’m surprised you don’t have to dig your way out just to see daylight.”
Hostile Force Page 10
