Desperate Cargo. Don Pendleton

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      Bolan checked the open laptop on the desk. The lawyer had been composing an e-mail. It was addressed to Paul Chambers. In English. It was advising the arrival of cargo that night at a place called Noosen Hag and told Chambers that distribution would take place within a few days. He was to expect his consignment then. Bolan memorized the location details. He would follow it up after he left van Ryden’s office.

      Unsure what was happening van Ryden began to use his feet to turn his chair around. Bolan waited, then moved in close, bending to whisper in the man’s ear.

      “I said don’t move. Try that again and I’ll tighten that cord around your neck myself.”

      Bolan rolled the chair across the office and into the washroom. He flicked off the light and closed the door on van Ryden.

      Bolan let himself out of the main office, pausing to say goodbye to van Ryden for the benefit of his secretary. He closed the door, turning to smile at the young woman.

      “Mr. van Ryden said to tell you he’s making a private call and doesn’t want to be disturbed. He’ll call when he’s done.”

      The secretary nodded. “Thank you.”

      Bolan stepped into the corridor and made for the elevator. On the ground floor he walked calmly out of the building, raising a hand to the girl he’d spoken to earlier. Outside he walked along the street until he was around the corner from the building before he hailed a cab to take him back to his hotel and a call he needed to make to Washington.

      4

      Bolan’s call to Brognola had resulted in the man coming back to him with details on the location. The big Fed had gone into the task-force database and it had provided Bolan with enough intel to hire a vehicle and drive along the coast to the isolated promontory where Noosen Hag, the former oil storage depot, stood. Brognola’s check had revealed that the depot, closed down for three years, had been leased through a shell company fronting for a consortium proposing to regenerate the site. It turned out that the consortium had connections with businessmen allied, through shadowy links to South East Containers, in turn tied to Venturer Exports. The various connections were all carefully concealed by setups and financial maneuvering in attempts to hide who was really at the helm. But as Brognola had pointed out all roads led to Rome. In this instance Hugo Canfield’s name kept popping up. Distanced from the everyday workings of the multilayered companies, his presence kept revealing itself. Still vague enough to prevent any interference by the legally bound task force, leaving them looking on, unable to act against him. Brognola offered the information to his loose cannon, knowing full well that Bolan would act on it.

      The defunct oil refinery was having a busy night. From his vantage point Bolan could see a number of parked vehicles. Panel vans. Private cars. There was some activity on the concrete jetty built to serve vessels belonging to the oil company. Powerful spotlights, powered by a portable generator, illuminated the area.

      Bolan had made his way to the site in the Toyota SUV he had rented earlier in the day. He’d covered the twenty-five miles in ample time and parked at a safe distance to go in on foot for the final distance. Crouching in shadow behind a scrap heap of rusting steel edging the jetty, only yards from the activity, Bolan watched as a crane hoisted a large steel container onto the trailer of a low-loader rig. He had watched the container being off-loaded from the small container ship that was now making its way back out to sea after delivering the container to the waiting handling crew. The turnaround time had been fast. No delays. The container ship would be back on its original course within a half hour.

      He had counted six in the crew on the jetty. Only two were showing weapons—H&K MP-5s. That didn’t mean the rest were unarmed. Bolan had the SIG-Sauer P-226. It held a full 15-round magazine and he had three more as backup. Unless he could pick up additional weaponry the pistol was going to have to earn its keep. Time was against Bolan, as well. It wouldn’t be long before the container was opened and its cargo released. That was a relative term. The people inside the container would simply be exchanging one form of captivity for another. Steel container to panel truck. Not a great exchange, thinking ahead to where the unfortunate passengers might finally end up.

      Someone on the jetty crew started to call out orders. Bolan saw figures move to the front of the container and begin to unseal the doors.

      As the container doors swung open, the gunmen standing guard, one of the crew hauled himself into the opening. From where he crouched Bolan could hear his barked orders. Moments later shuffling figures appeared at the opening of the container. They reacted when they saw the weapons aimed at them, but there was nowhere for them to go. One by one they began to drop to the ground, huddling together out of instinct. Bolan saw mostly women and young girls. When one held back she was pushed forward, stumbling to her knees. The muzzle of a submachine gun was jammed into her spine. The gunman took hold of the girl’s long dark hair and dragged her to her feet. He was yelling at her as he slapped her across the face. He raised his weapon and took aim.

      He didn’t get a chance to fire. Bolan tracked in with his weapon and put a single shot through the back of the man’s skull. The gunman pitched forward onto his face, blood pooling around him.

      The jetty crew panicked. The Executioner took advantage of the chaos. He targeted the men wielding weapons, the SIG-Sauer cracking steadily. The men carrying the guns were down on the jetty before they were able to pinpoint the hidden shooter. Bolan changed position, moving around the scrap metal and emerging near the container. He met one of the remaining three crewmen face-on. The man was dragging a pistol from beneath his jacket when Bolan slammed the SIG-Sauer across the side of the man’s skull. The man grunted, stumbling, and Bolan helped him down with a bone-crunching second blow. The man hit the jetty facedown.

      The Executioner crouched briefly to take charge of the man’s pistol. He heard someone yelling in English. He ducked around the end of the container where the captives were scattering along the jetty. He caught a glimpse of others still inside the container, shrinking back from the chaos outside. The crewman who had climbed inside the container was still there. He had a gun in his hand as he leaned cautiously from the opening. He failed to see Bolan until it was too late. The SIG-Sauer cracked, driving two 9 mm slugs into the man’s torso. He tumbled from the container onto the hard concrete. His skull bounced against the jetty.

      As Bolan checked the far side of the container he saw the sixth man making a run for the parked cars. Bolan hit him with a few 9 mm slugs to the legs, taking him down in an uncoordinated sprawl.

      “Anyone speak English?” Bolan asked the women in the container. Two of the young woman acknowledged his question.

      “Get them to calm down. Tell them they are going to be freed.”

      Bolan walked to where the leg-shot man lay. The man had rolled onto his back, sitting up and staring at his shattered limbs. Bolan kept his pistol in clear sight as he approached the man. He spotted the man’s dropped weapon and kicked it across the jetty and into the water.

      “Must hurt like hell,” Bolan said.

      The man swore in English, his brittle British accent exaggerated by the pain from his wounds. He dragged himself to the container trailer and pushed his back against one of the rear wheels.

      “I’ll bet you’re the bastard who took down Bickell and his minders. Right, am I? They told us to watch out in case you showed.”

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