It wouldn’t be the first time the Executioner had been forced to rethink a mission

The chill draft caused by the train’s motion buffeted him and pulled at his clothing. 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 other kind of transportation.

The sudden shriek of the train’s whistle alerted him. The train reduced its speed somewhat. He watched the ground some feet below. It still seemed to be moving by at a dangerous speed.

He figured it wasn’t going to get better than this. He was about to take a calculated risk—one that might leave him injured. But if he decided to stay on the train he could find himself in the hands of the authorities and his freedom might become a thing of the past. Bolan swung around so he faced the way the train was moving, waited for the clearest patch of slope and went for it.

Desperate Cargo

The Executioner®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

It is easy to be brave behind a castle wall.

—Welsh proverb

The men who hide behind their wealth and pretend to be brave will pay the ultimate price.

—Mack Bolan

THE

MACK BOLAN

LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Prologue

During its long, slow voyage from Thailand, the Orient Venturer made a number of calls into friendly ports. Sometimes it was to take on more cargo, or to unload. It refueled and during those stays in port the captain played host to officials who marked his cargo as legitimate and departed the ship with considerably more cash in their pockets than they’d had when they boarded.

The Orient Venturer’s voyage was one it had made a number of times. In its hold, or in the steel seagoing containers secured to its rusting and scarred deck plates, it carried the mixed cargo that marked it as a ship of all trades. The cargo—mainly clothing and electrical goods, manufactured in Asian sweatshops—would find its way into stores and retail outlets spread across Europe. Cheaply made, the goods would be sold at marked-up prices for Western consumers. These items brought a fair profit for the company that owned the ship.

One container, however, held cargo that would net an even greater profit for the men behind the Orient Venturer.

The special cargo was stowed in a special container. A close inspection would have shown that the container had been altered to facilitate its cargo.

In the roof were a number of vented grilles to allow air to travel in and out of the steel box. This was necessary in order to keep the cargo of young Thai women and children alive.

The eldest woman was twenty-two, the youngest twelve. They were all kidnap victims, intended for sale when they reached their destination. They had no choice in the matter because they were virtual slaves. They’d been stolen from their homes for induction into the twilight world of human trafficking. At journey’s end they would be passed along to their new masters. Some would be forced into the garment industry where they would work endless hours for starvation wages. Others would be moved into prostitution, the sex industry, or they would go as personal playthings for wealthy clients. The younger and prettier a girl, the more likely she would be bought for sexual gratification.

Business was thriving. The Orient Venturer made regular trips delivering the cargo to mainland Europe and the United Kingdom. The men behind the business were based in Rotterdam and London. The organization conducted business globally, procuring assets for clients in the Middle East and the United States. It was well run, protected because of weak legislation and the inability of legal forces to act without absolute and watertight cases. One slip, one word or phrase, on a document, and the whole case could be thrown out of court. Proof positive was almost an impossibility, and although a dedicated effort was being made, no indictments had yet been achieved. Government task forces working together had their hands tied. They struggled for months to concentrate their investigations only to find that their superiors, sensitive to the demands of the courts, would shake their heads and demand even more proof.

The task forces looked for ways to gather their evidence and took the decision to insert undercover agents into the organization in an effort to obtain what they needed.

Dean Turner and Ron Bentley were seasoned agents, working for the joint task force. When they had been asked to take on a covert assignment to infiltrate the trafficking group in Rotterdam they didn’t need to be asked twice. Once assigned they distanced themselves from the main group, setting themselves up to watch suspected members of the trafficking organization. Over a couple of months they concentrated on the Rotterdam group, looking for any members who seemed to be vulnerable to turning, and finally fixed on a single individual who expressed some vocal dissatisfaction with his position within the organization.

The initial contact went well. Their man seemed to have a grievance against his employers and a tendency to complain about them to the American undercover agents. They spent time with him, sympathizing with his complaints, and slowly reeled him into their confidence. In the end he agreed to provide them with evidence that would give the task force solid evidence into the workings of the trafficking group.

However, when the agents made the rendezvous to meet their contact they were ambushed, disarmed and taken to an isolated location.

They were told they were going to be made examples of—used to show the task force that further efforts to break the organization were useless. The traffickers wanted the international task force to know powerful forces ranged against them. The organization had high-profile protection. They could not be touched. No one could harm them. The agents would be used to make the task force realize they were simply wasting their time.

For three days the agents were savagely tortured, their naked bodies abused and broken. Photographs were taken to be sent to the task force and a final message stated where the bodies could be found.

The stark warning, showing the brazen contempt the traffickers had for the task force, had its effect. After the bodies had been located and removed, the task force was ordered to stand back and reassess its operational method. There was a need to regroup—by no means to admit defeat, but the clear message to the task force from the traffickers had got through, and it was realized that the enemy had the upper hand.

1

From the window of his hotel room Mack Bolan could see the distant configuration of Rotterdam Port, the night sky ablaze with lights. He saw a vast sprawl of warehouse units, cranes and endless rows of steel cargo containers. He was seeing the vista through the sheeting rain covering the city, blown in from the cold swells of the North Sea. Across the stretch of water was England, the secondary target of Bolan’s mission.

The Executioner’s presence in Rotterdam was down to intel he received during a briefing with Hal Brognola back in Washington. That clandestine meeting between the man from Justice and Bolan had kick-started the Executioner’s journey to Europe. After touching down at Schiphol Airport, Bolan had ridden a local train to Rotterdam and his prebooked room. The weather had been rough for most of the flight and stayed the course while Bolan had transferred to his hotel. It was midevening, the sky already dark. Bolan had a rendezvous with a contact the next day, so he figured he would have an early meal and turn in. The turbulent weather during the flight had denied him sleep, so a solid night’s rest was advisable.

Bolan turned from the window when he heard a tap on his door. He crossed the room and opened up. A trolley was wheeled inside carrying the meal he had ordered. Bolan handed the service girl a tip, then closed and locked the door after she left. Bolan was on alert. He wasn’t the paranoid type who saw threats lurking in every corner. Even so, past experience had taught him never to leave anything to chance.

He took off the covers and checked the meal. It was exactly what he had ordered. A steak, potatoes, salad. He pulled up a chair and settled down to eat. The food was good. Only when he was done did he activate his tri-band cell phone and tap the speed-dial number that would connect him with Hal Brognola. The connection hummed and buzzed, then the big Fed’s voice reached Bolan.

“So how is Rotterdam?”

“Cold. It’s raining like it’s in for the duration. I’m fine. You have any updates for me?”

“No. Status hasn’t changed much since we talked and you flew out. The operation is stalled. The heads are talking. Trying to come up with a fresh way of moving on, but as of now it’s a no-go. Those two agents getting killed has hit hard. You know why. Suspicions there was a mole inside the task force appear to have been proved. Turner and Bentley were betrayed and the fact we have someone operating inside the group and capable of passing along information makes everyone suspicious of the man next to him. No one is going to commit to anything.”

“Let’s hope my meeting in the morning throws up something useful,” the Executioner said.

Brognola hesitated before he replied.

“Tread carefully with this man Bickell. Hasn’t been proved he was the one who turned Turner and Bentley over to the opposition but he was the only man who had access to them. The more I think about it, the less I’m in favor of you using him.”

“Right now we don’t have anything else. I’m not about to go into this meet blind.”

“Striker, these people are bad. You saw what they did to our two mans. They work a business that treats human beings like so much merchandise. Don’t believe they won’t do the same to you given the chance.”

“Understood, pal, now quit worrying and give me some good news.”

“Your Brit buddy,” Brognola said, referring to David McCarter, the Phoenix Force commander, “has a contact for you in London. He can set you up with specialist equipment. I’m sending a photo over your phone for identification. And I’ll text a name and phone number to set up your meet. This man is supposed to be good. He’ll sort out anything you want. Anything else you need right now?”

“Just a good night’s sleep,” Bolan said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Bolan checked the information Brognola had sent to him. A half hour later he turned in, clicking off the light. He lay staring at the rain-flecked window, his mind still active as he reviewed the past couple of days and the events that had brought him to Rotterdam and his upcoming meeting with a man who might turn out to be a Judas.

Two Days Earlier, Washington

DRESSED IN CASUAL clothing he might have been just another tourist taking in the sights of the nation’s capital.

But Mack Bolan was a world away from being just that. As he strolled around in the pale sunlight, observing the scene around him, Hal Brognola fell into step beside him.

“Looking good as ever,” Brognola said lightly. “Your lifestyle must suit you.”

“You didn’t call me just to boost my confidence, Hal.”

“Would you believe I need your help on a problem?”

“Go ahead.”

“A joint US-UK-European task force has been compromised by the deaths of two of its undercover agents. Dean Turner and Ron Bentley. They had gotten close to the group the task force was investigating. Human trafficking on a big scale. Working out of Europe and serving the needs of clients in Europe and the U.S. Striker, this is as nasty as it gets. These people are running a virtual slave trade. Men, women and even kids.” Brognola pointed at the slim briefcase he was carrying. “I have the whole dossier in here. Details the perps. Their locations. Right now the operation has stalled because there’s some concern how deep infiltration might have gone. The whole thing is on hold. And while that happens the suspects are still operating. Evidence against them is all suspicion but no substance. Nowhere near enough to even haul anyone in. It’s a big organization. Run by an influential head honcho with top-class protection. Hugo Canfield. British citizen. He has a hotshot lawyer with an impeccable record standing behind him. Dutch man called Ludwig van Ryden. And he uses that man every time one of his clients even gets a parking ticket.”

“What do you need, Hal?”

“Someone without ties to any part of the task force. A clean slate. No allegiances. Nothing that connects.” The big Fed paused. “And someone who can leave the book of rules at home.”

Brognola opened his case and extracted a thick folder. He handed it to Bolan. “We can see the end result of this business, Striker. What those bastards do to people. I want to reach the head and cut it off. The task force has its hands tied right now and I’m damn tired of the restrictions holding us back. If I had my way I’d go in all guns blazing but I’d have to fight bureaucracy first and last. I need a lever. Something I can use to force the game into the open.”

“Where would I start?”

“Our dead agents had an informant. Part of the organization but he convinced our mans he wanted to quit and was willing to cooperate. Name of Wilhelm Bickell. Based in Rotterdam, where the traffickers are said to have what Bickell called a distribution point. We don’t know if that’s true because our mans were killed before they got that information to us. All we have is a cell phone contact number for him.”

“It’s thin,” Bolan said. “But I’ve started with less.” He weighed the folder in his hand. “I’ll need credentials. Anything else you can conjure up.”

Brognola nodded. “No problem.” He tapped the folder. “The phrase read it and weep applies pretty well here, Striker.”

THE EXECUTIONER SPENT most of the day going through the contents of the explicit data. It covered suspects, the trafficking group known as Venturer Exports and its head, Hugo Canfield. Its grip on human trafficking was widespread and from the text of the reports Bolan became aware of the callous indifference of the people running the enterprise. The hub for Venturer Exports was mainland Europe and the U.K. Its market was worldwide and even Mack Bolan, well versed in the evil manifested through man’s indifference to human suffering, was forced to sit back and take a moment’s respite. It appeared that the practice of slavery was still thriving. From his reading it seemed that the majority of victims involved came from those ravaged parts of the world where recent conflicts had created rich hunting grounds for the traffickers. They scavenged through Asian and Eastern European countries, snatching people off the streets, collecting them from holding camps. The countless numbers of displaced people were seldom missed. Officials were paid off, heads turned and no questions asked. The victims were bundled into containers and taken by road, across borders where money replaced transit visas, and the human cargo was waved through without an inspection. The final destination of the converging containers appeared to be Rotterdam, and from there the merchandise was sent to whichever market placed its order.

The slaves provided cheap labor for sweatshops, for service industries, where the employers held the workers illegally. They were in foreign countries without proper papers, earning little money and constantly under the threat of violence if they made any kind of protest. Young women, chosen for their good looks, were channeled into the many-tentacled sex industry, from making adult movies to working the streets. And there was the ever-present shadow of the drug business in the background. The data Brognola had provided included photographs that emphasized the ever-present dangers encroaching on the lives of the traffickers’ victims. The sick, the dying and the dead. Drug affliction. The punishment meted out to a victim who had rebelled. Or those who simply succumbed to the pitiful life forced on them.

Read it and weep.

Brognola’s words had not been far from the truth. Venturer Exports and the men profiting from it had to be stopped. The Executioner was onboard.

2

Wilhelm Bickell, average height, near-bald head glistening from the rain, hunched his shoulders beneath the long raincoat. Bolan recognized him from the photograph in the folder Brognola had provided. The image had been taken from a distance, but it was not difficult to identify the man. Bickell had an extraordinarily plain face. His outstanding feature was his large, crooked nose supporting a pair of heavy eyeglasses. According to the intelligence relating to the man, Bickell was a fixer for Venturer Exports. The detail provided by Turner and Bentley had him down as dissatisfied with his position. A disgruntled employee passed over by his superiors, tired of being treated as mere hired help. He was supposedly ready to turn against them for the simple emotion of revenge. The two agents had nurtured his feelings, fueling his resentment. They had been preparing Bickell as an aide in gaining possession of evidence that might have turned the task-force investigation to a positive outcome. That hope died after they had been lured into a meeting, taken captive and tortured savagely before being killed.

The Executioner kept those thoughts in mind as he stepped away from the café door and crossed the sidewalk to where Bickell was standing.

“Wilhelm Bickell? I’m Cooper.”

Bickell nodded.

Bolan took his hand from his coat pocket and palmed the leather wallet holding the U.S. Justice Department badge Brognola had supplied. Next to the badge, beneath a plastic cover was a laminated card with Bolan’s picture and cover name on it.

Bickell’s eyes, magnified by the lenses of his glasses, examined the big American’s face. The only contact he had had with Bolan was over the phone, arranging the meet. He recognized the voice.

“This is not a very satisfactory way for us to meet, you understand. Ja?”

“Under the circumstances I was given little choice. Turner and Bentley didn’t leave much in the way of contact details. You remember them, don’t you?”

Bickell visibly stiffened. Red spots colored his pale cheeks.

“Of course I remember them. We were working together. Am I under suspicion concerning their deaths? Perhaps you are not aware of the risk I took even associating with them. My own life is in danger now.”

“We’re all in a risky position, Bickell. I came to Rotterdam to try and pick up where the others left off. Are you willing to continue cooperating?”

“Of course,” Bickell said. “I am ready to help any way I can.”

A little too quickly, Bolan thought. Slow down, Bickell, you’re making yourself obvious.

“We should walk,” Bickell suggested. “I really feel I am being watched. You understand? Ja?”

“Let’s go,” Bolan said.

Bickell led the way along the sidewalk. The rain and the early hour had reduced the number of pedestrians. They walked for a few hundred feet before Bickell paused at the mouth of a side street. His hesitation warned Bolan, but for the present he played along.

“There is a quiet coffee shop down here,” Bickell said. “We can talk in private. Ja?”

Bolan fell in alongside the man and they walked along the street. The tall buildings on either side reduced the rain to a slight mist. They also cut the intrusion of sound and it enabled Bolan to pick up the soft murmur of a car engine and the sound of wet tires rolling along the street. From the corner of his eye Bolan saw Bickell’s shoulders hunch under his coat. The sound of his footsteps sharpened as he began to walk faster.

“We running out of time?” Bolan asked.

Bickell said something Bolan couldn’t catch. But he understood the threat offered by the pistol that emerged from the right-hand pocket of the man’s coat. The muzzle aimed at Bolan.

“Over there,” Bickell snapped, gesturing with the pistol.

The Executioner saw they were at the entrance to an empty delivery yard, the gates standing open, the adjoining building deserted and quiet. Bickell’s gun hand gestured again and Bolan walked ahead, the Dutchman following. As Bolan turned to face Bickell, the car he had heard turned in through the open gateway and rolled to a stop. A tall man climbed out and pushed the wooden gates shut, dropping a metal bar in place. He moved to stand a few feet behind Bickell, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his thick coat. A moment later he was joined by the man who had been behind the wheel of the car.

“Tell me, Mijnheer Cooper, are you so trusting it never occurred to you that something like this might happen? Or are you simply stupid?” Bickell asked.

“Look at it from where I’m standing. I only arrived last night and it appears I have already been betrayed by the man who set up Turner and Bentley for execution.”

Bickell didn’t like the inference, but shrugged it off.

“That was so easy it was almost embarrassing. Those two were so naive they deserved to die. Like so many Americans they believed in trust and loyalty. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.”

Bickell said something in Dutch to his two companions. It drew a round of laughter.

“So, Cooper, they sent you in like the Lone Ranger to deal with the bad mans. Ja?”

Bickell raised his left hand to wipe at the rain spots on his glasses. It created a thin window of opportunity. It was enough for Bolan to bunch his right hand into a big fist that struck out at Bickell’s face. Bolan hit him twice. The blows were powerfully brutal. They slammed into Bickell’s mouth and nose, jerking his head around and toppling him against the side of the parked car. Bickell slid across the rain-slick surface, his legs going from under him. He hit the ground on his knees, head dropping. Blood spilled from his battered face.

“For Turner and Bentley,” Bolan said softly. “Consider it a down payment.”

The pair behind Bickell came alive, producing handguns. They covered Bolan, who had already stepped back, his hands raised in surrender. When they saw he was not going to do anything one of them moved to where Bickell knelt. He reached out a hand and dragged Bickell to his feet, pushing him against the side of the car. He also retrieved the pistol Bickell had dropped. Then he moved up to Bolan and expertly checked him for weapons. Satisfied the American was not armed he rejoined his partner.

Bickell, hands pressed to his bloody face, stared at Bolan. The left lens of his glasses had cracked when Bolan hit him and the single eye left visible blazed with undisguised anger.

“Bastaard.” The invective was muffled but there was enough force for Bolan to understand the feeling behind it.

The man who had searched Bolan moved to open the passenger door and roughly hustled Bickell inside. He slammed the door and walked around to the driver’s door. He barked a command to his partner, who moved to reopen the gate. Then he gestured at Bolan.

“In the back, Cooper.”

Bolan did as he was told. With the gate open the second man climbed in beside Bolan, covering him. The car started and reversed out onto the street. It was driven to the far end, then picked up a wider street that wound through the city. The thought struck Bolan that no one had made any move to prevent him seeing the way they were going. Their ultimate destination looked to be an intended one-way trip for Bolan. He sat back, taking in the scenery, his agile mind working on that fact. His captors wanted him alive for the present. His future was another matter. Once the opposition had decided how much—or how little—he knew about their operation, his usefulness would end. These people had already shown how little they cared when it came to disposing of unwanted baggage.

With that in mind Bolan prepared himself for what might come. He had no illusions. What waited for him at the end of this drive would be far from pleasant if he failed to make use of any opportunity presenting itself. He was not being driven to a barbecue. Pain and suffering were the only items liable to be on any menu put before Bolan.

He concentrated on his captors. The damage he had inflicted on Bickell would keep the man out of any hard action. His injuries would divert his attention away from Bolan. Not a great victory but at least it had cut the opposition by a third. Until they arrived at their destination Bolan wasn’t going to know by how much that percentage might rise. He had assessed the two men accompanying Bickell as solid professionals. It appeared that their orders had been to bring Bolan in alive and unharmed, and they were doing that. Bickell had let his mouth run away with himself and had received the necessary chiding to shut him up temporarily. From the brief time he had been able to watch the others Bolan had seen they were strongly built, capable of handling themselves. And both were armed. Bickell was unarmed, his fallen pistol having been retrieved by the man behind the wheel.

The Executioner sank back in the soft leather seat, watching the wet streets of Rotterdam slip by. As they eased through the narrow streets Bolan caught glimpses of the river that ran through the city. Cranes and warehouses began to dominate the skyline. They were heading in the direction of the port. The car made some sharp turns, moving along narrower streets that edged the main port facility. There were businesses along this section. Distribution warehouses. Service industries. Private vehicles were replaced by vans and trucks. The car made a sharp right turn that took it along a narrow road that paralleled the water before swinging in through open gates into a freight yard that had a large warehouse structure at the far end.

There didn’t appear to be much activity around the yard. Bolan noticed a number of large steel containers, some stacked three high. There was a car parked near the warehouse. They drove over the yard’s rutted surface and through a high doorway into the warehouse. As the car came to a stop inside Bolan heard the metallic rattle behind them as a metal roller door was lowered.

Bolan’s minder produced his pistol, gesturing. “Get out.”

With the pair of minders flanking him Bolan was walked across to an office block against one wall. The door was opened and he was pushed inside. Bolan sized up the man awaiting his arrival.

Well dressed. A sober suit and tie. Expensive. The cold expression on his face did nothing to endear him to Bolan. He had a fine look to him. Almost delicate. His skin was silky, lips colorless, pale blond hair. Rimless glasses with lightly tinted lenses shaded his gray eyes. He was observing Bolan with an intensity that could have been intimidating to anyone with less confidence.

“Where’s Bickell?” the man asked.

Bolan picked up the English accent.

The minder who had driven the car wagged a thumb in Bolan’s direction.

“There was some aggravation. Willi came off worse,” he explained in his heavily accented English. “He’s never learned to keep his mouth closed. He’s in the car.”

The blond Brit leaned forward a little, stroking the tip of his narrow chin.

“I was surprised when you contacted Bickell. Obviously the example of your dead friends failed as the deterrent it was intended to be.”

“Did you expect us to ignore it?” Bolan said.

“Had it not occurred to your superiors that Bickell might have been the one who turned on your friends?” The man adjusted the hang of his jacket.

“We guessed. It was decided to draw him out. Give him a chance to repent his misdeeds.”

“A sense of humor. I like that in a man. But it isn’t going to save you.”

“I wasn’t expecting it to. I just wanted to get a look at the kind of people who would kill so readily.”

“Look, Cooper…is that correct? Cooper? Turner and Bentley, or whatever their real names, were dealt with as part of a tactical maneuver.” He smiled. “Sounds bloody pretentious, doesn’t it? But they were getting a little too close to us at a busy time. Couldn’t afford to have them snooping around like that.”

Bolan stayed silent, watching the man. He was playing it light, but there was intelligence in those eyes.

“You can’t avoid it,” Bolan said. “Sooner or later your organization is going to come down. Killing Turner and Bentley shows you’re getting scared because the investigation is closing in.”

The Brit smiled. Not from bravado. It was clearly from the security that he felt.

“It will never happen, Cooper. Turner and Bentley were blundering around like a pair of blind men. They had no idea what they were taking on. Just like your bloody task force.” He held up a single finger. “You can’t touch us. Understand. You cannot touch us. Keep sending your sad little agents and we will get rid of them just like Turner and Bentley. And you, Cooper.”

He turned aside to speak to Bickell’s heavies. The conversation was brief, words muffled. Then he glanced back at Bolan.

“Now?” asked the man who had driven the car.

“Yes. We get rid of him. No time to play games this time. Just kill him and dispose of the body.” The Brit barely glanced at Bolan as he made for the door. “Your trip here was a waste of time. Pity you won’t even get to see the sights.”

As he passed through the office door the driver attracted his attention.

“What about Bickell, Mr. Chambers? He is becoming a liability. Since we dealt with those Americans he’s become nervous. Scared. He could break. We don’t think he should be trusted any longer.”

Chambers stopped in his tracks, turning to face the driver. His pale face showed twin red blotches on his cheeks.

“What are my orders about using my name? Tell me.”

“Never to mention it. I apologize for my error, sir.”

The Brit glanced across at Bolan.

The big American shrugged.

“I’m not going to be telling anyone. Am I, Mr. Chambers?”

A thin smile curled Chambers’s lips.

“Very true, Cooper. Very true.” He turned to the driver. “Make sure they are both taken care of. We can’t afford any more of Bickell’s nerves.”

Chambers stepped out of the office.

The driver perched on the edge of the office desk. His partner moved for the first time since they had entered the office. “Willi?” he asked.

“Bring him in here. Give Chambers a minute to get clear. You know he prefers not to be around at times like these,” the driver said.

“He has no stomach.”

“It’s what we are paid for.”

As the partner left the office Bolan glanced at the driver. “Is the English for my benefit?” he asked.

The driver grinned, seeming to enjoy the question. “Rotterdam can be a very hospitable city. But not exactly so in your case.”

“And there I was hoping you might show me around.”

The sound of a car engine rose as Chambers drove away, the noise fading quickly. Bolan heard the scrape of shoe leather on the concrete outside the office. The door was pushed open to admit Bickell and the driver’s partner. The lower part of Bickell’s face was swollen and bloody. The moment he saw Bolan he erupted into a wild verbal assault.

The driver yelled at him. Bickell ignored him, still screaming. Without warning he launched himself at Bolan, arms flailing wildly.

The driver’s partner reached out to grab Bickell. He had both hands free, having put his pistol away.

Bolan allowed Bickell to get within a foot or so, then launched himself into action. He caught hold of Bickell’s coat, swinging the man off balance, and used him as a battering ram against the driver. Bolan’s contained energy lifted Bickell off his feet and he was catapulted into the driver. Locked briefly together the pair tumbled back over the desk, sliding across the smooth surface and over the far edge.

The moment he released Bickell, Bolan swung about and met the driver’s partner head-on. Before the man could put up any defense Bolan slammed into him, hitting him in the face with a crippling elbow smash. The man grunted, stunned, briefly stalled, blood gushing from his crushed nose. Bolan hit him again, then caught his shoulders and spun the man around, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck. Bolan applied pressure, twisting, until he heard the crunch of crushed vertebrae. He felt the man shudder, body going into spasm, before it became dead weight. Bolan’s right hand moved down and located the pistol in the deep pocket of the man’s coat. He reached in and hauled the heavy automatic pistol clear. It was a SIG-Sauer P-226. The Executioner knew the weapon well. As he swung the gun up, turning, he let the dead man slip from his grasp. The weapon’s muzzle lined up on the desk as the driver struggled upright, head and shoulders coming into view. Bolan’s fingers stroked the trigger and released a trio of fast shots into the driver. The slugs cored in through the target’s chest. The driver fell back and slammed against the wall, a stunned expression on his face.

As the driver slid sideways, blood smearing the wall, Bickell lurched upright, hands grabbing for the pistol still in the dead man’s hand. He snatched it free and turned the muzzle toward Bolan, his finger jerking back on the trigger in a moment of frantic zeal.

The bullet hit the wall behind Bolan. The Executioner returned fire, his double shot blowing through Bickell’s upper body and dumping him on the floor. Bickell hunched up in fetal curl.

“Not the way I wanted this to end,” Bolan muttered.

3

The Executioner moved from body to body, checking pockets and placing the contents on the desk. He had three handguns and extra magazines. He took a cell phone from Bickell and one from the driver. Wallets offered banknotes and credit cards. The only one with identification was the driver. It gave his name as Rik Vandergelt. Bolan kept that. He also took the banknotes. Cash money was always useful. He pocketed the cell phones.

The Executioner searched the office. He wasn’t expecting hard evidence to directly point the finger at the trafficking business. He was just hoping to find something to work with. The desk yielded little of interest. He moved on to the battered wooden filing cabinets standing against one wall. The first held not much more than office stationary. The second had three drawers. Two were empty. The top one had a couple of folders stuffed with invoices. They were all from a company in the U.K. The company, South East Containers, was based near a coastal town that served as a conduit for the container business with Europe. The invoices were dated as far back as a couple of years. Bolan was about to leave the invoices when his attention was caught by the name of the company’s director, printed in a small box at the top of the invoice.

In itself the name wouldn’t mean very much. A legitimate-sounding company. Legitimate-sounding director.

Except that he had just ordered Mack Bolan’s death before walking out of the office.

The director was Paul Chambers.

Bolan folded one of the invoices and slid it into a pocket. As he placed the stack of papers back in the drawer a pale cream envelope he hadn’t noticed slipped from the documents. He picked it up and took a look at the address. It was to the same one that the invoices had been sent. The postmark showed it was at least three months old and mailed from Amsterdam. The envelope held a single sheet of good-quality notepaper. The same color as the envelope, the paper was heavy and embossed. The heading showed it was from a law firm in Rotterdam. The brief text in a smart font was in Dutch. One line indicated a time and date a week earlier. Bolan stared at the note, his eyes checking out the printed name at the bottom of the text.

Ludwig van Ryden. The lawyer Brognola’s information had named.

Small beginnings.

Bolan had long ago learned never to ignore any lead, no matter the initial insignificance. The letter went into his pocket next to the invoice.

Bolan took the SIG-Sauer and the extra magazines. Leaving the office he crossed to the car that had transported him to the warehouse. He made a quick search that netted him nothing. The car was clean. He debated whether to use the vehicle, making a quick decision to leave it where it was. The car might be fitted with a manufacturer’s tracking chip, allowing the opposition pick him up once they realized the vehicle was missing. Bolan decided he would be better off hiring a vehicle himself.

He walked away. It was still raining, the morning overcast. The weather was the least of his concerns. It took him twenty minutes to retrace the route the car had taken. Back on a main thoroughfare he managed to catch a passing cab and asked to be returned to his hotel. Back in his room he stripped off his damp clothing and took a hot shower. Clad in a thick bathrobe he rang room service and ordered a pot of coffee. It arrived quickly and Bolan filled a cup. He had the company invoice and the letter from the man called van Ryden in front of him. He took the pair of cell phones and switched them on. Bickell’s phone listed more than two dozen incoming calls, the majority from the same number. Vandergelt’s phone showed a couple of calls from the same number. The number matched the one on van Ryden’s letterhead.

Bolan activated his phone and called Brognola. His friend’s voice was slurry from sleep when he answered. “You get a kick waking me up?”

“Hal, if you insist on going to bed every night, what can I do?”

The big Fed laughed. Bolan heard him moving around before he spoke again.

“How did the meeting with Bickell go?”

“Interesting. You can scratch him off the list. He was the one who drew your mans into a trap. Had me walk into a setup with a couple of his Dutch buddies. We went to a rendezvous with a Brit named Chambers. He wasn’t too happy with me. Seems your task force was getting close to Venturer Exports. So the hit on your mans was ordered.”

“You mentioned Bickell in the past tense.”

“After Chambers ordered his local heavies to feed me to the fishes matters got a little heated. Venturer Exports is down three employees.”

“Understood. Did you gain any intel?”

“Couple of things. I want you to check into a U.K. company called South East Containers. Director is Paul Chambers. Has to be the same one who wanted me dead. I also found a connection with your lawyer Ludwig van Ryden. Another name for you—Rik Vandergelt. He was one of Chambers’s enforcers. See if there’s anything on the database.”

“Okay. I’ll get right on to it. Striker, you need anything else?”

“Right now, no.”

“Expect a call,” Brognola said.

“I may be on the move.”

“No surprise there.”

BOLAN DRESSED in one of the suits he had brought with him. He tucked the SIG-Sauer in his belt and buttoned his jacket. From a leather case he took a couple of printed business cards Brognola had provided. They showed Bolan as an executive from a computer software company based in Maryland. It was a fictitious company located at a nonexistent address. The telephone and e-mail contacts would route any caller to an automatic response that would accept the call and promise a return response. Bolan placed the cards in his wallet. He called the front desk and asked for a cab to take him to the Hofpoort district of the city. It was in the business center of Rotterdam. Ludwig van Ryden’s office was located there.

Bolan dropped his damp clothes into a plastic bag and took them down with him, asking for them to be cleaned and pressed. His cab was already waiting when he emerged from the hotel. The weather had brightened, the rain had stopped. The Executioner settled back for the journey, planning ahead for his anticipated rendezvous with Ludwig van Ryden.

THE OFFICE BLOCK was one of a number in the neat plaza. The notice board outside told him van Ryden occupied a suite on the sixth floor. Bolan made his way toward the entrance, pausing briefly to switch off his phone. Brognola had called during the cab ride to inform him that Ludwig van Ryden was one of the key names on the task-force database. His association with individuals within the trafficking business was known to the force, but they had nothing they could move on with certainty. The man was sharp. His reputation as a lawyer who worked very closely with human rights groups made it difficult to nail. The slightest hint of any possible move against him brought instant and vociferous agitation from influential members of the Dutch establishment. The big Fed provided information that van Ryden had made a number of visits to the U.K. where he had meetings with Paul Chambers and Hugo Canfield.

“Rik Vandergelt is known to Interpol. He served a couple of prison terms a few years back. Since his last incarceration he’s managed to stay out of jail. Seems he got himself a hotshot lawyer. Name of van Ryden.”

“Keeping it in the family,” Bolan said.

The Executioner stepped through the glass doors of the office block, hearing them swish shut behind him. He crossed the art-deco lobby and smiled pleasantly at the young woman behind the expansive reception desk.

“Do I need to sign in?” he asked, placing his hands on the marble-topped counter. “My first visit to Rotterdam. I guess I’m still finding my way around.”

The receptionist observed the tall, good-looking man, noting the intense blue eyes and the genuine smile. His voice was deep and a little unsettling. His steady gaze, appreciating her blond beauty, took her by surprise. She was not accustomed to such intimate scrutiny. The sensation was not unpleasant.

“Have you an appointment with anyone?”

Bolan shook his head. He took out one of his business cards and slid it across the counter for the young woman to read.

“I only got in last night. Haven’t had the chance to make formal arrangements yet. Would have done it this morning but my meetings went on longer than I expected. Next thing I received a call from my CEO to catch the evening flight to Paris, but to call in and say hello to Mr. van Ryden. We’re hoping to meet up with him soon to negotiate some long-term representation with our company.” He increased his smile. “Help, please.”

She returned his smile and picked up her phone, tapping in a number. When it was answered she spoke quietly, her eyes never once leaving Bolan’s face. When she was finished she replaced the receiver.

“Mr. van Ryden will see you immediately,” she said. “He has a meeting in half an hour but says he can spare some time.” She directed Bolan to the bank of elevators across the lobby. “Sixth floor. Suite thirty-two.”

“If I wasn’t leaving in a few hours I would invite you out for dinner.”

“If you were not going away I would accept.”

“Maybe next time.”

“Yes. Maybe next time.” She watched him walk to the elevator, giving a sigh before she returned to her duties.

Definitely next time.

BOLAN STEPPED OUT of the elevator, checking the wallboard for directions. Suite thirty-two was to his left. He pushed open the pale wood door and stepped inside. An outer office contained a desk and another attractive young woman. The Dutch seemed to have got it right, Bolan decided.

“Mr. Connor?” the woman asked, pushing to her feet. She was strikingly tall. She guided him to double doors and knocked, pushing open one of the doors to let him enter. It closed firmly behind Bolan.

Ludwig van Ryden’s office was wide, spacious, furnished expensively. The man’s desk looked large enough to host a dinner party. There was an open laptop computer in the center. The office was a mix of pale wood, glass, stainless steel. Hidden lights illuminated a collection of slender glass sculptures housed in wall cabinets. A half-open door showed a private washroom. Underfoot the carpet was thick and soft.

The lawyer rose from behind his desk to meet Bolan. He was in his forties. A tall, leanly fit man wearing a suit that had probably cost a small fortune. His thick brown hair fell to the collar of his jacket. He came around the desk to take Bolan’s hand, his smile showing even white teeth.

“Please sit down, Mr. Connor. Would you like a drink?”

“Thanks, no.” Bolan sat in one of the cream leather chairs, watching van Ryden fill a heavy tumbler with whiskey. “You might want to make that a double, van Ryden,” he said quietly.

The lawyer half turned, an amused smile on his lips. Then he saw the pistol Bolan was pointing in his direction. For a moment he froze, glass in his hand.

“I don’t understand. What is this?”

“This is a gun. Taken earlier from a friend of yours. Rik Vandergelt.” Bolan saw the color drain from van Ryden’s face. The name had meant something to him. “I see I have your attention now.”

“I do not know what you mean. The name means nothing to me.”

“Right. So you’ve forgotten that you represented him legally? I’m sure he could have done with your advice a couple of hours ago. Then we have Paul Chambers. And Wilhelm Bickell. I don’t suppose you know them, either?”

“Of course not.”

“So you’ll be even more surprised if I tell you my name isn’t Connor. It’s Cooper.”

The lawyer flinched at the mention of the name. He recovered enough to move the whiskey glass, raising it to his lips and swallowing the liquid in a single gulp. Bolan saw it as a simple ploy to allow van Ryden time to gather himself. When the man returned his gaze to Bolan he had composed himself.

“We could spend the next hour playing word games,” van Ryden said. “But that would be a waste of your time and mine, Mr. Cooper. So, what is it you want?”

“American agents Turner and Bentley were both murdered by your associates. Bickell arranged for the same to happen to me. It didn’t happen as planned. Bickell is dead. So is Vandergelt,” the Executioner said.

“If I knew these people, what am I supposed to understand from what you have told me?”

“It’s simple enough. You and your associates are involved up to your necks in human trafficking. I’m here to serve notice. Nothing fancy wrapped up in legal terms. Time is up for all of you. I’m going to close you down. All the way. Mark it in your diary, van Ryden.”

The lawyer took a moment to absorb Bolan’s words. He looked like a man who couldn’t decide whether he had heard the truth, or been fed a line. He ran a hand across his mouth, then wagged a finger in Bolan’s direction.

“A joke. This is a bad joke. Ja?”

“Call your associate Chambers. Ask him about Cooper. We were face-to-face this morning. Maybe he’ll see the funny side. And don’t waste time denying any involvement with Chambers. It’s on record you’ve had meetings with him in the U.K. And with Hugo Canfield.”

The lawyer sobered up suddenly, accepting that the stranger in his office was deadly serious. He glanced at the black muzzle of the pistol. At Bolan’s unflinching gaze. He realized he was in a risky position. He became a lawyer again, relying on his bargaining skills.

“You have virtually admitted killing Bickell and Vandergelt. You’re an American in a foreign country. You represent the U.S. government. How do you think the Dutch police will view this? Add the fact you have walked into my office and threatened me with a gun?”

“I’m sure you’re going to make it clear for me.”

“Cooper, you cannot win. Everything is against you. So I admit I am working with Chambers. There are others. Far too powerful for you to influence. I am a respected member of the community. Who do think they will side with? You? I do not think so.”

“Let me think about that. In the meantime I need to make sure you don’t raise the alarm when I leave.” Bolan pressed the muzzle of the pistol against van Ryden’s forehead. “Take off your belt,” he ordered.

“Why?”

Bolan waggled the pistol. “Humor me. I’m an American in a strange town and it’s been difficult to say the least. So I’m allowed to act oddly. Now do it.”

The lawyer did as he was told. Bolan made him face the desk, hands behind his back. He used the thin belt to strap the lawyer’s wrists together, tightly. Pushing the man around the desk Bolan shoved him into his chair. He yanked out the telephone cable and circled van Ryden’s neck, drawing it around the seat’s headrest. Bolan pulled it tight enough to be uncomfortable.

“Don’t struggle against it. The knot I’ve tied will pull tighter if you put pressure on it,” the Executioner said.

Bolan was lying but van Ryden didn’t know that. His face was shiny with sweat and his eyes showed real fear.

The big American crossed the office and stepped into the well-appointed washroom, grabbing a couple of towels. He used one to blindfold van Ryden. The other he partially stuffed into van Ryden’s mouth, muffling any sound the man might make. Bolan spun the leather seat and pushed it away from the desk, leaving it facing the window.

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.”

“Lucky for me you didn’t pay too much attention,” the Executioner said.

“Fuck you, Yank. My legs hurt, you bleeder.”

“Can’t you see the tears in my eyes?”

“What are you going to do to him?” A woman’s voice came from behind Bolan.

He turned. It was the young woman he had spoken to. Her gaze was fixed on the wounded crewman. There was no pity in her eyes as she stared down at him. She was attractive, but right then her face was a hardened mask of sharp angles, pale and bloodless.

“What does he deserve?” Bolan asked.

She turned her gaze on Bolan, searching his face, seeing someone who would treat her respectfully. Despite her drawn, pale features the Executioner could see she was a determined young woman. He glanced beyond her to the rest of the “cargo” from the container. They were all exhibiting the ravages of their ordeal but they were far from being defeated.

“He deserves the worst we could do to him,” the young woman said. Her soft voice bore traces of an Eastern European accent. “But if we did that, then we become as bad as they are.”

The crewman glanced at her, unsure how to take the remark. He had the sense to stay silent, concentrating on his wounds.

Bolan drew the woman aside, looking over her shoulder so he could keep the wounded Brit in sight. “What do I call you?”

“Lucky?” She reached out to touch his arm, a simple gesture that expressed her feelings. “My mother was always telling me my humor would get me into trouble. My name is Majira.”

“Where did they pick you all from?”

“Pristina. Off the streets. My own fault for walking home alone after dark. But what was I supposed to do? Never go out? Lose my job? I had heard about the traffickers. How they grab people and send them abroad. I never imagined I would be one of their victims. Nor would any of the others.” She took a breath, her voice breaking slightly. “It is the children who would suffer worst. We all understand what would happen to them. Sold to…to soulless monsters who would abuse them.”

“Not his time, Majira.”

“You are American. Why are you doing this?”

“Long story. Let’s say I’m trying to shut this group down.”

“Are you a policeman? One of the good mans?”

Bolan nodded. “I’ll go with that. The name is Cooper, by the way.”

“So, Cooper, tell me, what happens now?”

Bolan looked at the huddled figures. He turned, checking out the darkened buildings at the landward end of the jetty.

“Take everyone to those buildings. At least you’ll have shelter while I organize things. Do it now, Majira.”

She nodded, turned quickly and spoke to the group. Her voice persuaded them to follow her. Bolan watched the uneven line moving away, the older women comforting the children. He waited until they had vanished inside one of the buildings before turning his attention to his captive.

“What’s bloody well going on?” the Brit asked.

“I feel more comfortable without witnesses,” Bolan said, standing over the downed man and staring at him.

The Brit watched him, short-lived defiance showing through his pain. He wasn’t sure how to perceive the tall, black-clad American. One thing he did know. The man was serious. The way he had taken down the crew had been an eye-opener. Once he had his opening he had taken out the opposition with ruthless efficiency. Being the sole survivor might not turn out to be the greatest blessing.

“What?” the Brit asked. “Christ, if you’re going to kill me get on with it. Standing there saying nothing. It’s creepy.” His remark was said more out of bravado than anything else. In truth he was scared.

“Tell me about the two Americans you killed.”

“Now you wait a minute. I had nothing to do with that. It was down to Willi Bickell and the blokes who run things. No shit, mate, they did it. I’m just hired help.”

Loyalty never flew the coop so fast, Bolan thought.

“Chambers is the head man around here?”

A frantic nod. The Brit looked eager to talk, hopeful it would go toward extending his life span. The man was no different to anyone else. His first thoughts were of his own survival.

Bolan made a show of ejecting the pistol’s magazine and snapping in a fresh one. He dropped the ejected mag into his pocket, moving round the prone man on the ground.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Bolan glanced at the man. “I can’t afford loose ends.”

“You can’t. You people don’t go round executing people.”

“People like me?” Bolan said.

“You’re a cop. And bloody cops don’t—”

“I think we need to clear something up. I never said I was a cop. I don’t have a rule book.”

“Look, fuck this game. You can’t just shoot me like this.”

“No?”

“Can we deal?” the man pleaded.

“Maybe you don’t have anything I want.”

“Try me. But we make a deal first or I don’t say a thing.”

“My word good enough?”

“I have to trust you? Big risk for me.”

“You’re still alive.”

The Brit considered his situation. He wasn’t going to get a written guarantee, and he was in no shape to play hard to get.

“So what do you need to know?”

“Tell me about van Ryden?”

“He fixes things. Has connections here. Arranges for people to look the other way so we can get cargo in and out. He works with the top level in the U.K., as well. Yeah, well, Chambers does the hiring and firing here and at the U.K. base, but Hugo Canfield is the real man in charge. Chambers is second fiddle, really. He likes to throw his weight about. Canfield is the man. But you wouldn’t want to tangle with him. He’s too big. Can’t be interfered with. The man has a cop in his pocket. An Interpol agent. Probably even customs officers. Hell, maybe even higher than that. He runs in serious circles. No shit, mate, Canfield is bad news. I’d sooner sit naked in a crate of fuckin’ rattlesnakes than cross Canfield.”

“What about a database? Names and locations?”

“Even if I told you, there isn’t anything you can do.”

“So what have you got to lose?”

“Only my balls. If they find out I gave them up what they did to your undercover men will be like a slap on the wrist.”

“One way or another you’re going to tell me. I can walk away and let you bleed to death, or end it with a bullet behind the ear. Believe me when I say I don’t give a damn one way or another. It’s your choice. Your buddies took the hard way. That can be arranged for you.”

“What about protection? I’ve cooperated. You can get me protection.”

Bolan took out his cell phone.

“I can make the call from right here if you give me what I need.”

“I did hear van Ryden has a database on his computer. It’s supposed to have details on everyone who works for Venturer. Means they can keep tabs on us all. Hold on to all our unsavory little secrets. Keeps it at his home outside the city. Place is watched over by armed security. Only other thing I can tell you about is the farm they use to house people while trade is done. I can give you a location for both places.”

Bolan made his call minutes later. When Brognola came on Bolan briefed him on the status of the mission.

“If the task force wasn’t wrapped up in protocols and red tape, maybe they could have gotten further,” Brognola grumbled. “So tell me again about these people you found.”

“Women and children. One I spoke to said she was snatched in Pristina so I’m guessing this group came from that area. Off-loaded from a container ship. I arrived in time to prevent them being moved off the dock and sent to God knows where. Hal, do you still have people on the ground hereabouts?”

“Part of the task force is cooling their heels in Amsterdam. You need their help?”

“The women and kids need looking after. Somewhere they’ll be secure until a decision can be made about them. I also have a survivor from the crew who were going to ship them out. He’s wounded. Needs medical assistance and protection. Your task force might be able to get more info out of him.”

“I expect you’ve already got what you need?”

“We exchanged mutual considerations.”

“I’m sure. Striker, let me talk to our people out there. I’ll come back to you ASAP.”

Bolan spent time collecting weapons from the dead crewmen. He placed his small arsenal just inside the open container. He kept one of the MP-5s and extra magazines for his own use. He checked out the cab of the big tractor-trailer unit and located a first-aid box under the passenger seat. Using the contents he bound up the Brit’s legs, applying pressure pads to slow any further blood loss.

“First you shoot me, now you bandage me up. What next? A mug of hot sweet tea?”

“What do you think?”

“Sounds like I’m a dead man either way.”

“Redemption can go a long way to keeping you alive.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“You gave me what I needed. So I’ll keep my word. You’ll be taken into protective custody.”

“Don’t I have a say about all this?”

The hardness that etched itself across the big American’s face told the man he had said the wrong thing. The blue eyes were suddenly like chips of ice. He could almost feel the chill emanating from them.

“I’d be justified to shoot you right now after what I’ve seen tonight. You people are crawling in the gutter. You sleep well at night? Seeing those young kids and knowing the life you’re sending them to? Have you looked at pictures showing how those perverts treat them?”

“Look, I just work on this part of the business. Collection and distribution. Never seen where they go.”

“That clear your conscience?”

“Mate, I’ve been struggling for years to do that. Probably too late for me. I’m just trying to earn a living. Bloody hell, aren’t we all?”

Bolan didn’t answer. He had all too often heard the excuses, the self-justification, the criminal element came up with to whitewash their activities. He didn’t believe a word of it. He dismissed it as he always did, because if he digested it and analyzed the pathetic reasons he might have turned his gun on them out of sheer disgust.

Reasoning platitudes were the get-out clauses from the mouths of criminals through the decades. From mass murderers to raving dictators who slaughtered thousands, there was always an excuse. A smiling word that was supposed to wash away the bloodlust and the wanton elimination of entire cultures. The perpetrators never considered they had done anything wrong. It was always the rest of the world that was out of step. That did not understand why a particular horror had been committed. Some odd quirk lodged deep in the homicidal, deranged minds of the despots allowed them to excuse away what they had done. If they explained it they self-purged their conscience. They became heroes instead of maniacal villains. And in many instances they often convinced others to see the justification.

In Mack Bolan’s eyes a bloody-handed butcher was just that. There was no redemption. No vainglorious explanation that wiped away the needless deaths of men, women and children. Evil was evil. It would never be reconciled as far as he was concerned. It was why the Executioner existed. Why he stood against the monsters.

Someone had to.

Because if he didn’t, who would?

5

Hugo Canfield was having lunch at his London club when the maître d’brought him the telephone. He plugged it into one of the sockets, then placed the instrument on the table for Canfield.

“The caller said it was quite urgent, Mr. Canfield.”

Canfield nodded. “Thank you, Enright.” He waited until the man had withdrawn before picking up the receiver.

“Canfield.”

“This is van Ryden. Is it convenient?”

Canfield allowed himself a slight smile. The club dining room was exceptionally quiet. Only two other diners were seated together on the far side of the opulent room. All Canfield could hear was the low murmur of their voices and the click of knives and forks as they ate.

“It will cease to be if my roast beef gets cold.”

“There has been a problem with the latest cargo due for delivery. I thought you should know.”

“Explain ‘problem,’ Ludwig.”

There was a slight pause before van Ryden spoke. “The problem occurred at the delivery location and the cargo was lost.”

“I’ll be going back to my office after lunch. Use the jet. I want you in London before the end of the day.”

“Of course, Hugo.”

Canfield ended the call. He beckoned for Enright to remove the phone, then returned to his meal. He found his appetite a little soured at the news. Hugo Canfield did not enjoy being told that one of his shipments had been lost. He knew the details of the particular cargo that had been expected in Rotterdam. He had invested time and money, as he always did, and if it had been lost, then that meant he was going to be down a considerable sum. Not only that but he was going to have to disappoint important clients. They would not be pleased, which meant Canfield would not be pleased. Client satisfaction was something he prided himself on. It was one of the reasons his organization was the best. He allowed no slackening in standards. He would not tolerate failure.

He smiled suddenly at the thought of van Ryden sitting in the comfort of the Learjet as it crossed from Rotterdam to London. The man would not enjoy the flight. His churning stomach would not be put down to air sickness. He would be worrying. He would not realize that Canfield was not about to lay the blame on him. The lawyer was responsible for the legal part of the operation and logistics. He also dealt with finance. He was not a field operative.

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