Desperate Cargo. Don Pendleton
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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?”