Desperate Cargo

“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.”