Hostile Force Read online

  Lauren nodded. “Maybe.”

  “Do you have family you can go to?”

  “Nobody. I’ve been on my own since I was twenty. Looked after myself and did pretty well until...until Corrigan got his hands on me.”

  “What about friends?”

  “A few. But I won’t be making contact until I know this mess is all over. Last thing I need is to bring them to Corrigan’s attention.”

  “Corrigan and his associates are going to have other things to occupy themselves with.”

  “Maybe, Cooper, but I’m taking no risks. Without trying to be showy I can take care of myself, the last few weeks notwithstanding.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Bolan wrote a phone number on the small pad provided by the lodge. He handed it to Lauren. “Anything comes up you need help with, call this number. Friend of mine. Doug Henning. He’ll help.”

  Lauren took the note and slipped it into her bag.

  They finished their food and emptied the coffeepot.

  “I’m tired,” Lauren said.

  “Take the bed,” Bolan said.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “No sleeping on the couch for you. That bed is plenty big enough for the two of us and we’re both over twenty-one. I’ll take the left, you take the right. I promise I won’t jump all over you during the night.”

  Bolan smiled. “I can think of worse things than that happening.”

  He left her to slip under the covers while he went into the bathroom and had a shower. He dried off, donned one of the courtesy bathrobes and eased himself into the bed. As he put out the light he heard Lauren sigh, the bed moving as she turned over. Just before he drifted into sleep he felt her wriggle closer and wrap one arm around his body. Her body curved against his. She was soft and warm. He agreed with his earlier statement that it certainly wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him.

  When Bolan woke in the morning his watch told him it was just past eight o’clock. Sunlight shone behind the blind.

  And Lauren was gone. Her side of the bed felt cold. Bolan sat up. There was a note propped up on the bedside table.

  Thank you, Cooper. I won’t forget what you did for me. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. I’ll be fine. Lauren.

  Bolan reread the note. He was sure the young woman would be fine. And he wished her the best.

  Chapter 21

  Choppy gray water beyond the harbor. Heavy clouds drifting in toward the coast. There were only a few people around, which suited Bolan. He parked the SUV, made sure the Beretta was snug in its holster under the long coat and turned up the collar against the sea breeze—the air was cool and smelled of the sea. Bolan wore his combat blacksuit and boots under the coat, and carried his holdall with him.

  There was a stationary refreshment stall situated on the quay, facing the harbor. Bolan strolled across and caught the eye of the guy serving. A beefy man with thinning hair and a red face, he wore a T-shirt that strained against his big stomach, and his exposed arms were tattooed from wrists to biceps.

  “What can I get you, mate?”

  “Black coffee,” Bolan said.

  The drink was served in a paper cup. It was viciously hot, steam curling from the dark brew.

  “Quiet day,” Bolan observed.

  “Middle of the week,” the man said. He wiped his large hands on a damp cloth. “Not much happening.”

  They spent a few minutes discussing weather and the decrease in business. The man seemed eager to talk. His quiet day left him with little to do except observe the comings and goings of the world.

  “You know the Venture?” Bolan asked casually, watching for any adverse reaction.

  “Nice boat,” the man said, wiping the countertop with his cloth. “You looking for her?”

  “Friend in town said to check her over. I need a charter.”

  “Thought the Venture was a private boat?”

  “Sometimes runs the odd private charter I’m told.”

  “Well, you’re in luck, mate. She’s down at the end of the berth.” He jerked a meaty thumb in the direction of the quay.

  Bolan managed to finish the coffee. He dropped the empty cup in the trash bin and nodded to the guy. He picked up his holdall and moved on.

  The sea breeze was bringing in spits of light rain, and Bolan was grateful for the heavy folds of his long coat. The quay was longer than he had expected and it took him a few minutes to reach the extreme end where the sixty-foot-long Venture rocked gently on the swell, her sides protected by buffers draped over the deck rails.

  Bolan stood and checked out the motor cruiser. He didn’t see any movement on the vessel. If there was anyone on board they must have been belowdecks.

  He loosened the long coat so he could have easy access to the 93-R. His decision made, Bolan walked the final distance and stepped over the transom and onto the deck. He could feel it moving under his feet and balanced himself as he peered inside the main cabin.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Bolan saw a dark shape detach from the shadows inside the cabin. A lean man moved to stand in the open doorway. He was dressed in dark pants and a thick sweater. Had a shaved head above a scowling face. Bolan only gave these items a cursory glance. He was more interested in the MP-5 the thug was carrying. It hung from a webbing strap on his right shoulder.

  “Wouldn’t a fishing pole look more authentic?” Bolan said.

  The man’s scowl deepened. He took a step out of the cabin.

  “You making a joke?”

  “Is Corrigan still on board? I need to talk with him.”

  “I don’t know you, arsehole. Who told you about Corrigan being here?”

  Bolan let the holdall drop to the deck. The distraction drew the man’s gaze from his visitor. Only for a couple of heartbeats, but long enough for Bolan to clear the Beretta and place the muzzle against the man’s forehead.

  “You can’t...”

  The prod of the Beretta told the guy that Bolan could. He reached and took the MP-5 from the man’s shoulder. Bolan draped it over his own shoulder then retrieved the holdall.

  “Back inside,” he said.

  A look beyond the man showed Bolan there were no more occupants in the cabin. He maneuvered them both through the door. The interior was expensively furnished with polished wood and leather fittings.

  “Sit.”

  The man did, still staring at Bolan with a murderous gleam in his eyes.

  “Question time,” Bolan said. “I get the answers I want, you keep breathing. And, yes, I’m that Yank who’s been giving you boys the runaround. So you’ll understand I’m serious.”

  The thug’s expression betrayed his growing nervousness. Bolan had his attention.

  “Corrigan?”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “Where is he?”

  A slight hesitation until the Beretta was moved to center over his chest.

  “Still over in France.”

  “Where the girl is? Clair Sorin?” The guy nodded. “Anyone else on board?” Bolan asked.

  “Not any more. When Corrigan went across he kept the team with him. So there’s just me, the skipper and his mate. They’re in the wheelhouse.”

  “They armed?”

  “No. All they do is sail the boat.” A shrug. “I just take orders. Not my business to ask why. Maybe there’s more passengers to ship across.”

  Bolan backed up until he was pressed against the solid bulkhead. He placed the holdall at his side.

  “Call your crew down here,” he said. “I see anything that even looks like a gun, you’re first. Understand?”

  The man understood. Even so Bolan could sense his mind working, desperately seeking a way out of his current predicament.

  “Do it,” B
olan ordered.

  “Calverton, I need you and Morgan down here. Now. Both of you.”

  The voice that came up from above the main cabin held a trace of irritation. “What do you want, Ketch?”

  “I want your fat arses down here. Something you need to see.”

  The man stared at Bolan as if to say What can I do?

  Grumbling voices preceded the appearance of Calverton and his mate. They came into view at the head of the companionway that allowed access to the cabin.

  The Venture’s captain was lean and tanned. His eyes fixed on Ketch when he saw the man seated motionless. He didn’t see Bolan, who was in the far corner of the cabin. Behind Calverton was a squat, bearded figure, holding a mug in one hand.

  “What’s so bloody desperate?” Calverton asked.

  Bolan moved, attracting the captain’s attention. “Me,” he said. “Now go sit next to your buddy. Both of you.”

  “Who is this?” Calverton asked.

  Ketch said, “The American Corrigan’s been looking for.”

  “Are you serious?” Calverton said.

  “Do I look like I’m about to start laughing?”

  “Let me explain what’s going to happen,” Bolan said. “We cast off and you take us across the channel. Right to the spot where you delivered Clair Sorin. By the time we reach the French coast, I’ll need to know where the girl is being held. Are we clear?”

  “Just like that?” Calverton said. “As fucking easy as that?”

  Bolan nodded. “Easy as that.”

  “This is crazy,” Calverton said. “Corrigan...”

  “Corrigan isn’t in charge this time round. I am. Understand, my feelings toward you three are decidedly low. Stepping on you would be like crushing a bunch of cockroaches. You want to test that out, go ahead. Ketch first. Then the mate. Leaving you for last, Calverton.”

  Bolan allowed the following silence to stretch.

  “Better do what he says,” Ketch suggested.

  “But—” Calverton protested.

  “He has the gun,” Ketch pointed out. “And do you know how many of our guys he’s already killed?”

  Calverton glanced across at Bolan. The expression on the tall American’s face convinced the captain that the best thing was to do as he was told.

  Chapter 22

  Still miles off the French coast, the weather had turned against them. The persistent drizzle became a heavy downpour, strong gales whipping the waves into a frenzy. The Venture bucked and rolled, dipping one moment, then rising to the sweeping crest of powerful waves the next. It was Calverton’s skill at the helm that kept the boat moving forward. Along with Ketch and the mate, Morgan, Bolan kept a watchful eye on the situation from one corner of the bridge. He stood braced in a corner of the extensively equipped cabin, the Beretta in his hand a constant reminder he was serious about reaching France despite the weather conditions.

  “How much longer?” Bolan asked.

  Calverton maintained his watch through the main window as spray lashed at the thick Plexiglas, his hands busy at the helm.

  “Hard to tell with this damn storm blowing up. It’ll make our headway slow,” he said. “What happens to Morgan and me when we arrive?”

  “Nothing as far as I’m concerned,” Bolan said. “Ketch will take me to where the girl is being held. So stay out of my way, I won’t bother you.”

  Ketch, who had remained silent for most of the trip, turned to sneer at Bolan. “And if I tell you to go to hell and refuse to take you?”

  “You risk getting shot,” Bolan advised him, making it simple to understand. “Choice is yours. Dead is dead. Everything ends for you. Figure it out, Ketch.”

  Over the next quarter of an hour the weather took a turn for the worse. Wind-driven waves hit the Venture from all sides. At times the vessel was surrounded by masses of roiling water threatening to engulf her. It was only Calverton’s sure hand at the helm that guided the boat through the worst of the storm.

  Even Bolan was finding it hard to maintain his stance. Pressed against the starboard bulkhead, he was forced to keep a close eye on both Ketch and Morgan. Calverton presented no threat—the man was too busy at the wheel to concern himself with Bolan.

  The constant motion of the boat increased. The angle of the deck beneath Bolan’s feet became extreme as Venture was hauled up and down the deep troughs. He grabbed one of the brass rails fixed to the bulkhead as the boat turned violently. Calverton gave with a shout of alarm, struggling with the wheel.

  “Jesus!” he yelled.

  The Venture dropped without warning, water crashing over the sides and seeming to bury the boat. The shock of the fall jarred Bolan’s hand from the rail and he was thrown forward, close to losing his balance.

  Morgan, off to Bolan’s right, was thrown in the Executioner’s direction, face taut with shock. He fell to his knees, arms in front of him and they collided. Bolan felt Morgan’s hands clutch at his legs.

  The moment was ripe for Ketch to take advantage, and he did. Staying upright by a superhuman effort, he hurled himself across the cabin. He slammed into Bolan, left hand gripping Bolan’s gun arm, his right clenched into a hard fist that caught Bolan’s jaw. With Morgan recovered enough to throw his efforts in with Ketch’s, the three of them stumbled across the deck.

  Bolan was banged hard up against the bulkhead. The impact drove breath from his lungs as he struggled to gain his freedom. Ketch was in no mind to let that happen. His forceful attack, aided by Morgan, gave him the advantage. They drove in a continuous barrage of blows to Bolan’s face and body. And despite his refusal to quit, the Executioner was overwhelmed by the assault. Dazed, his face bloody and numb, Bolan was driven to his knees. Ketch gripped the 93-R and wrenched it from the big American’s hand. He swung the Beretta in a vicious strike that connected with Bolan’s skull, pitching him facedown on the deck.

  “Go on,” Morgan said. “Burn the fuck.”

  Ketch turned the 93-R away from Bolan’s motionless figure, shaking his head.

  “No,” he said. “They want the bastard alive. And that’s what they’re going to get.”

  Morgan was disappointed. “I say kill the mother.”

  The Beretta angled in his direction. “Not your call—it’s mine. And I aim to deliver this son of a bitch right into Corrigan’s hands.”

  “Leave it, Morgan,” Calverton called over his shoulder. “Ketch is right. They want Cooper alive. None of our business.”

  Morgan backed off, still dissatisfied, but knowing Calverton was right. The fate of the man called Cooper came under mob business and going against them could turn out to be fatal.

  “Let’s get this boat into harbor,” Calverton said. “Sooner we can get him off loaded the better I’ll feel.”

  Ketch said, “Find me a piece of rope so I can tie his hands.”

  He stripped off Bolan’s long coat so he could search him thoroughly, removing the shoulder rig and the sheathed lock knife.

  When Morgan returned with a length of rope Ketch bound Bolan’s wrists together. He reached into his pocket and took out his sat phone, tapping in a number and waited for it to ring out. When it was answered, Corrigan’s familiar tones snapping at him, Ketch grinned widely.

  “Meet me at the harbor soon as you can,” he said. “I’m bringing you a present. Name of Cooper. Not exactly kicking at this moment, but definitely alive, boss.”

  Chapter 23

  Corrigan’s rage had been something to witness, Tony Lowell mused. When the man was told what had happened in London, he had exploded. He obviously took it very personally. The invasion of his apartment had been seen as an insult. The American had walked through his security team, breached the apartment and had left, along with the woman Corrigan had installed there. Someone had also cleaned out his s
afe, where he had kept backup cash. One sentry subdued and one dead. The Yank, as the elusive American had been named, was getting under Corrigan’s skin like no one had ever done before.

  The mob’s heads had insisted on a meeting. Confidence in Corrigan’s abilities had sunk to an all-time low, and a face-to-face gathering was demanded. The driving force behind the meeting was Lec Frasko. The aggressive Albanian was spoiling for a fight. He demanded a gathering at the mob’s French headquarters, and, as he had the backing of the others, the decision was made.

  Lowell found himself overruled. He championed Corrigan, but he could not in all honesty deny the others their say. He was disappointed in the U.K. failures, and the loss of men and product were facts he couldn’t pass off easily. The OrgCrime unit had one of their people, Delbert, locked up. Corrigan vouched for the man’s loyalty, but even he couldn’t guarantee that. Nor could there be a valid excuse for the elimination of the team sent to Scotland to snatch Sorin.

  Flying in to the meeting with his two top enforcers, Lowell stared out through the window of the Lear, deep in thought. He would defend Corrigan as much as he could. Yet he couldn’t excuse the run of failures to the rest of the group—and Corrigan had accumulated too many errors over the past days to let slide.

  The only saving grace on Corrigan’s side was the successful hit on the home of Sorin’s sister. The woman had been taken alive, and the OrgCrime team eliminated. So at least they had a bargaining chip to play.

  Lowell himself had spoken with their man inside the OrgCrime unit. He had made it clear that he wanted Sorin told about his sister’s kidnapping. The inside man had insisted he had no idea where Sorin was. The agent’s protection was being handled by an unknown agency beyond OrgCrime’s reach. Lowell had made it clear to the man that he wanted results. He reminded the man of his fragile position. After taking money and favors from the mob, it was time to prove his worth.

  The task force agent’s name was Tom Hanley.

  “Just remember what we know about you and your family,” Lowell had said to the man. “That’s just about everything. It wouldn’t be a wise move to fail us now. Think about what you can lose—wife, children. You have an extremely pretty daughter. How old is she now? Yes, seventeen. How would you feel if we took her and included her in one of our auctions? You know the ones. I’m sure one of our Arab clients would pay good money for her. Young, white, blond hair. She would simply vanish and you would never see her again. That’s just one example. Should I go on? No? I didn’t fucking think so. Just do your job, Hanley.”