Shadow Strike

Stepping out of the vehicle, he left the door open and flipped the keys over a shoulder. From a nearby kiosk, a teenage valet rushed forward to snag them in the air, muttering apologies for not being more prompt.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” Bolan chuckled, pulling out a wad of cash. Peeling off a hundred euro note, he let it drop. “Just park it close.”

“Absolutely, sir!” the valet gushed, beaming over the colossal tip. “I wash, too! Good job!” One hundred euros was a month’s wages.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said, dismissing the matter with a wave. “Just don’t scratch the paint or I’ll break your legs.”

“Yes, sir! No, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Heading for the front door, Bolan noticed the armored limousine from the traffic circle parked in a handicap zone. Standing around the vehicle were four large men openly carrying Uzi submachine guns, with spare clips jutting from their belts like samurai swords. One of them had a dead white eye, and a military-style hand mike dangled over the shoulder of his white linen suit. Bolan instantly marked him as the crew chief.

The men watched him closely, shifting to a more aggressive stance, but Bolan ignored the street soldiers as if such a sight was an everyday occurrence. He would wager five-to-ten that the limo belonged to Rezart Kastrioti, the man he was supposed to meet in a few minutes for lunch.

Stepping through a revolving door, Bolan felt as if he was entering another world. The structure was hollow and rose impossibly high, the rooms arranged along the outer rim. By craning his neck, the big American could see straight to the vaulted roof some fifty stories above.

The air was cool and clean, smelling faintly of jasmine. Lush plants grew in orderly abundance, and carpeted steps led to a spacious lobby that stretched nearly the length of a football field. Glass elevators rose and descended at several locations, liveried staff rushed about carrying trays, and soft instrumental music played from hidden speakers. Bolan identified it as something by Debussy. Signs pointed the way to the indoor golf course, water park, brothel, restaurant, casino and skeet shooting range.

A score of elegant people moved through the lobby, the men in tailored business suits, the women in skimpy dresses that showed a wealth of cleavage and displayed long legs. Everybody was deeply tanned, and accompanied by secretaries, assistants, armed bodyguards, aides, butlers and maids, while nannies herded small children or pushed babies in strollers.

Bolan pretended to check his watch, barely able to believe the ebb and flow of people. It was more like opening night at the Metropolitan Opera than a simple Tuesday morning. Was this some national holiday he didn’t know about? That could be a major problem.

That was when he noticed the carefully disguised video cameras. They were everywhere, overlapping one another’s ranges. There was absolutely no way anybody could go anywhere unnoticed. This was prison level security. Bolan realized that this wasn’t merely some random hotel; it had to be owned and operated by the Fifteen Families. The King Zog was most likely the nerve center of Albania, a safe haven of luxury and comfort for the criminal elite, far from the misery and strife they caused.

Instantly, he changed his plans for an emergency escape. There were far too many innocent bystanders in the line of fire to do a blitz of any kind. Which left him only one option if things went wrong. But hopefully, he wouldn’t have to do anything that extreme.

Radiating confidence, he coolly headed for the restaurant. Appearing as if from nowhere, smiling waiters bowed and removed a velvet rope to usher him through to a private section. A young waitress gave a curtsy in passing. Bolan stayed in character and merely grunted in return.

Just past an array of private booths, Bolan found another part of the restaurant had been sectioned off by a wooden trellis covered with a thick blanket of live roses, a secret world hidden within the mob terrarium. Inside the decorative arbor were a dozen tables, all empty except for the largest. That could accommodate twenty, but there were only two settings, on opposite sides. Sitting at the head of the table was a short fat man in a reclining office chair, his dirty shoes on the linen tablecloth. Rezart “The Hacksaw” Kastrioti was puffing on a black cigar, a SIG-Sauer pistol peeking out from a shoulder holster under his tailored suit. The man was clean-shaved, including his head. A diamond twinkled from his right earlobe, and his left shoe had a extra-thick bottom, indicating that that leg was slightly shorter than the other.

Possibly from having rickets as a child, Bolan guessed. Which meant he had been poor once, but wasn’t anymore. He had to have worked his way up the organization, by being either smart or ruthless, probably both. That told Bolan a lot about the man.

“Get your damn feet off the table!” Bolan snapped.

With a start, Kastrioti instinctively obeyed, not used to being ordered about by anybody but his direct superiors in the organization. Then he scowled and started to go for the pistol under his jacket, until Bolan burst into laughter, sat down in a chair and put his own feet on the table.

“Stop hogging all the room.” He chuckled. “Is that how you treat a guest?”

Breathing deeply, Kastrioti did nothing for a long moment, and Bolan started to think he had read the man wrong. Then Kastrioti snorted a nasal guffaw and slapped the tabletop with an open palm.

“I like your style, Yank!” He laughed, pointing a finger across the table. “You take no shit! Me, too! I am Rezart Kastrioti! Welcome to my country!”

Never had Bolan heard that phrase used so accurately. It was his country, every rock, tree and bush. “A pleasure.” He smiled and gave a salute. “Now, do you want to talk business first or—”

“Business always first,” Kastrioti stated, pushing aside a plate to fold his hands on the table. “Afterward we shall have wine, women and song, eh?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Agreed!” He smiled, then went darkly serious. “So…pirates have been bothering your ships. That is not good for profits. How can we help? Do you want armed guards on the ships, or military escorts, or—”

Bolan interrupted. “What I told my representative this meeting was about, and want I really want to talk to you about are two entirely different things.” Swinging his feet to the floor, Bolan slid the briefcase across the table.

Scowling, Kastrioti looked at the case while thoughtfully rubbing a ring on his thumb. Then he reached out to turn the case around and flip up the lid.

“Nice,” he whispered, fingering the stacks of cash before he closed the case again. “Very nice, indeed. Okay, Yank, what is it you really want? Slaves, drugs or guns?”

“Just some information.”

“What kind of information?” Kastrioti asked in a calculated manner, pouring a crystal goblet of dark red wine. He took a sip and waited.

“Somebody stole my property,” Bolan said, letting a hint of anger enter his voice. “I want it back.”

Kastrioti gave a nod. “As is only proper.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know who has it,” Bolan said, observing a subtle movement on the other side of the rose trellis. His combat instincts flared, and he casually slipped a hand into his pocket to press the button on the remote control.

“That is a shame,” Kastrioti said.

“But you do know how it is.”

“Indeed,” the man replied, twirling the glass to inspect the wine in the overhead lights. “And I have this information because…?”

“Because they just made a sizable deposit in a Spanish bank,” Bolan said. “Your bank.”

“Me? I do not own a bank.” Kastrioti laughed, looking over the rim of the goblet. “But I may have a cousin who does. Several cousins, in fact.” He took another sip. “What does this thief look like?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then how—”

“He just deposited several million in gold bars,” Bolan stated, resting his elbows on the table. “That can’t happen every day, even to the Fifteen.”

Sipping more wine, Kastrioti gave no reaction to the mention of the organization. “No, it does not,” he said, setting the goblet aside. “Yes, I am aware of this person. The sum was truly impressive. But there is a small problem.”

“Which is?”

“You have not paid me anywhere near as much as he has deposited. Thus, he is more valuable to me than you.”

There was more movement on the other side of the roses, and Bolan distinctly heard the telltale click-clack of an arming bolt being pulled into place. Once again he changed the escape plan. Yes, this was a private little world, perfect for some bloody business far from the view of everybody else.

“At the moment, you’re correct,” Bolan said smoothly, shifting his weight. “But you see, in regards to the billions involved—”

“Billions?” Kastrioti interrupted in surprise.

Bolan smiled. “Of course! Did you—” Instantly, he surged upward, heaving against the heavy table with all his strength.

The candles and silverware went flying, while the heavier plates and wine bottles slid toward Kastrioti to crash in a noisy pile. Snarling curses, the Albanian toppled backward in his chair, but came up in a roll with the SIG-Sauer drawn.

“Freeze,” Bolan gritted, pressing his Beretta into the base of the fat man’s neck.

Startled that the voice came from behind him, Kastrioti started to turn, then stopped, easing his finger off the trigger of the deadly pistol.

“Smart move,” Bolan said. “Now drop it.”

“This is not good business, Yank,” Kastrioti muttered, letting go of his weapon. It hit the soft carpeting with a dull thud. “Simply tell us who you are working for, and you can leave alive.”

“Do the other one, too,” Bolan ordered, digging the barrel in deeper.

Kastrioti reached down to pull a small.32 Remington from an ankle holster.

“You really shouldn’t have put your feet on the table,” the soldier said, tapping the weapon out of the hands of the other man with the Beretta’s barrel. “Now, kick it away.”

Sullenly, Kastrioti complied.

“Okay, call off your boys,” Bolan commanded, watching the shadows move on the other side of the trellis. “Or you’re the first to die.”

For a moment, Kastrioti did nothing, panting deeply from the exertion of controlling his anger. “Not a chance in hell,” he growled, and dived to the floor.

A split second later, the entire trellis exploded as a dozen automatic weapons cut loose, spraying a hailstorm of high-velocity lead across the private alcove.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mazagón, Spain

“Bah, this smells like death,” a man announced, sniffing the stiff collar of his British uniform. An L-85 assault rifle was slung from his shoulder as per regulations, and a canvas belt of spare 5.56 mm magazine clips was strapped tightly around his waist.

Placing both hands behind his back, Thorodensen stood rigidly at attention. “Nonsense! All these uniforms have been thoroughly washed several time. They are absolutely clean.”

The man wearing the uniform of a CPO gave no reply, but his expression clearly stated that he completely disagreed with the former Icelandic ambassador, as did several other members of the group.

“I love this heat!” a large woman said, smiling into the warm sun.

“Dear God, I miss snow,” a small man growled in reply, wiping a sheen of sweat off his brow.

The ancient ridge of cooled lava had been smoothed over time by the crash of the gentle waves, yet the landscape still held a certain aspect of raw power that reminded the people of their distant home.

The dozen armed members of Penumbra stood in an orderly row, NATO equipment bags stacked neatly off to the side. Behind them rose a hulking concrete building situated at the extreme end of a rocky peninsula. Every door to the NATO disposal facility was made of solid steel, with three different types of locks. There were no windows whatsoever, and two massive chimneys rose from the middle of the structure like the horns of a demon. The entire grounds were enclosed with an electrified fence topped with razor wire, and a radar antenna spun nonstop on a nearby hill, where a SAM bunker was hidden.

The shore was lined with antipersonnel mines, a sunken WWI battleship blocked the narrow harbor, and a state-of-the-art NATO sonar sensor was hidden among the barnacles, rust and colorful coral.

The best way to approach the place was along a narrow road, a twisting ribbon of asphalt studded with concrete tank traps, edged with more land mines, and lined with rows of steel spikes fully capable of rendering even bulletproof tires into ragged shreds.

The exit ramp from the main highway was normally closed with a steel barrier designed to stop a modern-day tank, along with a secondary spread of steel spikes jutting from the pavement that would shred tires.

“I hope everything goes well this time,” Professor Vilhjalms said, hunching her shoulders. “Brooklyn was a disaster.”

“Yet we did get the mines, correct?”

“That is true,” she hedged. “But still…”

“Everything will be fine, Lily. The staff of the facility accepted my credentials, did they not?” Thorodensen said, minutely adjusting his cap. The insignia of a commander was stitched on the bill. “And why should they not? The papers are real enough. They were just not assigned to me.” He turned to smile at her tolerantly. “Everybody is gone, and we’re here alone. What could possibly gone wrong?”

“The unknown is what frightens me,” Vilhjalms said, glancing out to sea. Their Hercules seaplane was moored just over the horizon, well past the reach of any ground-based radar. If all went well, they would be gone within the hour. If not, escape was only minutes away. That gave her some solace.

Nervously, she tugged on the heavily starched uniform again. This had been the largest shirt among the dead sailors. However, it had been designed for a man, and it simply didn’t fit conformably across her more ample feminine contours. In an effort to flatten her breasts, she had removed her brassier. That helped, but not much, and now every step produced a very undignified jiggling effect. Everybody was trying not to notice, and she deeply appreciated the courtesy.

Trying not to be obvious, Vilhjalms glanced at Thorodensen, standing so close that she could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. The white uniform fitted him perfectly, of course. But then the man was built like a Norse god of war, and she wouldn’t have minded at all if he had noticed her unbound freedom. Not even a little bit. On impulse, she bumped a soft breast into his bare forearm.

Curiously, Thorodensen glanced down. “Something wrong?”

Suddenly, they heard the low roar of truck engines in the distance.

“Here they come.” She sighed, trying to cover the blunder. Science and math she understood, but clearly, seduction was not one of her many skills.

“And right on schedule,” Thorodensen said with a smile. “Okay, people, stand at attention! Remember, from now on only speak English! Even among yourself. Understood?”

“Ja, samkomulag!” the men and woman answered in a ragged chorus.

“And what did I just tell you?” he bellowed.

“Yes, sir!”

“Better,” Thorodensen growled, feeling a trickle of sweat going down his spine.

There was a loaded pistol at his hip, as well as an L-85 assault rifle across his back. More importantly, he had a remote control in his pocket. If necessary, he could destroy the entire facility, along with his own people and a huge section of the peninsula. But that would purely be a last resort, death instead of being captured. His fledgling organization, Penumbra, desperately needed this cargo. Without it, the plan fell apart completely, here and now.

As the convoy rumbled closer, Thorodensen noted in relief that it was a standard NATO formation, nothing special. There were three primary vehicles and a few escorts. The main three were massively armored NBC-class trucks, nuclear-biological-chemical proof, able to withstand any type of modern-day weapon, even a near hit from a tactical nuke. Of course, a direct hit would vaporize them, just like anything else. But where most armored vehicles would be torn to pieces and nearly vaporized, these resilient trucks could ride out the shock wave with the crew intact and alive.

“Trouble?” Vilhjalms whispered, licking her dry lips.

“Not in the least,” Thorodensen said with a thin smile. Accompanying the four NBC trucks were two Hummers full of combat troops, and six motorcycle riders in full body armor. An Ashanti gunship hovered in the sky overhead.

Thorodensen grunted. That was normally more than enough protection for this type of cargo. Just not this day.

As the convoy got close to the exit ramp, Thorodensen waved a hand, and the Icelander in the guard kiosk operated the controls. Hydraulics thumped, and the flimsy-looking gate slowly moved out of the way.

The convoy braked to a halt at the kiosk, and the motorcycles spread out in a defense pattern. Saluting the guard, the driver of the lead Hummer offered a clipboard full of papers. Saluting back, the Icelander pretended to read them, gave a curt nod, then waved the convoy on.

“Pass,” he said in a perfect Liverpool accent.

That caught the driver by surprise, and he beamed in delight. “Cor’ blimey, you from the Puddle?” He laughed. “Me, too! Where were you stationed?”

Since he had already used the only English word he could say correctly, the guard merely scowled and jerked his head toward the facility. The driver glanced that way, and Thorodensen frowned darkly.

“Pass!” the guard repeated, stressing the word.

“Sorry, mate,” the driver muttered, and shifted into gear once more.

“Wait a minute,” a Turkish sergeant commanded, holding up a palm. “That’s a British navy uniform. Why is the royal navy guarding a UN facility?”

Instantly, everybody in the convoy stiffened and stared intently at the lone guard.

With a sigh, Thorodensen reached into his pocket.

“Hey now, he’s just some swabbie doing the task he was assigned,” the driver said with a big grin. “Isn’t that right, ya yellow-bellied whoremaster?”

Having no idea what else to do, the guard grinned back and winked.

“British my ass, it’s a trap!” the sergeant yelled, working the arming bolt on a MP-5 as he swung the weapon around and fired.

The startled guard was blown off his feet as the hail of 9 mm rounds hammered across his chest.

Thorodensen pressed the first button on the remote control.

Instantly, the entire section of road lifted up on thundering columns of flame, twisted bodies and broken wreckage spraying outward for a hundred yards. The motorcycle riders were torn to bits, their flaming bikes tumbling into the electrified fence sending out torrents of sparks. Even the armored trucks flipped over, rising a dozen yards into the air before crashing back down sideways onto the ruined roadway. The NBC vehicles slammed into the pavement, but seemed completely unharmed; not even the windows were cracked.

Instantly, the Icelanders started to rush forward.

“Wait!” Thorodensen commanded, pressing the second button.

A split second later, a full salvo of surface-to-air missiles streaked out from the hidden bunker on the hill, and the Ashanti gunship erupted into a writhing fireball. As it fell, the props came loose and spun wildly away, while several rockets launched into the sea. They hit the water and violently detonated, sending out huge waves that crashed onto the rocky shoreline.

“Now, get those trucks open!” Thorodensen bellowed, striding down the road. “We have thirty minutes before reinforcements arrive!”

“Thirty?” Vilhjalms asked, already working the small EM scanner in her hands. “I thought our window was only fifteen minutes!”

“Before leaving the United Nations I managed a small reorganization of the tactical rescue forces in Spain,” Thorodensen said grimly. “They’re now less efficient than the French parliament on a Friday.”

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