Night's Reckoning Read online

  “Sarge, you sound like a man with a plan.”

  “No, Jack, I’m just a man with a phone.” Bolan took out his smart phone and hit speed dial.

  “Striker, I see you’ve been a little conspicuous today,” Kurtzman’s warm tones greeted him without preamble. “Good thing Hal isn’t here right now, or else he’d have this headset off me before—”

  “I think it may get a little worse before it can get better, Bear,” Bolan cut across him. “Listen, you’ve been following this one, right? It’s the gray van we’re looking for, and it’s got to be somewhere in the Duindorp district. That’s classic Kowalski according to your files. Now the Koninklijke aren’t too happy, either, but I don’t think that’s entirely down to me. Long story, but the point is that I can’t ask for what I need right now without argument.”

  “Ah, Striker, you know I’m your number-one fan. Of course I’ve been following this. They’ve got a very good CCTV feed in Den Haag. I’d compliment them on their choice of system, though if I did that I’d then have to point out why their security is pretty awful. However, it has enabled me to more or less follow the route your boys took. Not always easy, as there are no real distinguishing features, and one gray van looks like another—”

  “But you knew where to look, right, Bear? I’m betting you were way ahead of me.”

  “Neck and neck, probably. The CCTV is not so good when you get out by the water. Typical poor area, if I can stereotype. Either lack of maintenance or the local kids have good aim. But I’ve found it. Industrial estate, run-down and mostly empty. I’ll send you a reference and also some footage so you can look it over.”

  “I owe you, as always.” Bolan smiled.

  “Teamwork, Striker. It’s just that you get all the hard bits.”

  “That’s the way I like it, my friend,” Bolan said before breaking connection. Within moments, the map reference and footage were on his phone, and while Grimaldi brought Dragonslayer round to head for the right grid, Bolan studied the footage.

  The gray van entered the estate on a wide slip road. The units on all sides appeared to be deserted. Even the one that the van eventually entered had the appearance of desolation. He had to hand it to them: they’d camouflaged their location well. A deserted area is good for hiding, but it does make it all too easy to leave traces in plain view.

  These guys had learned well from Kowalski.

  “Jack, don’t take me too far in,” Bolan said. “Set me down about a mile out. I’m going to have to do the rest on foot.”

  “Problem, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked over his shoulder.

  “You wouldn’t be asking if you’d watched this,” Bolan said ruefully. “It’s wide open down there. They’d see you coming from a distance and be more than ready. Think I’d like to avoid that. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we seem to be the only thing in the skies.”

  Grimaldi chuckled. “A mile out it is, Sarge...”

  * * *

  GROZNY RUBBED HIS wrists and shook his head as he stepped out of the van, taking the step down to the concrete floor of the industrial unit and looking around him with approval.

  “You did a good job. Perhaps too good when you had to make me seem restrained and unwilling, but otherwise good. Your masters will be pleased with you. By the way, would you happen to know who they are?” he added with a sardonic smile.

  There were eight men in the unit: the van driver and his shotgun, the men who had accompanied Grozny in the back of the van and those who had been waiting in the unit for their return. A cell that had worked in perfect harmony and returned the target—returned him at great personal expense, as an equal number of their men had died. Those who had been in the van did not know this, but those who had stayed behind to monitor and coordinate had listened in to police transmissions. One of them, stocky, shaven-headed and eyes bulging with anger, stepped forward and grabbed Grozny by his

  T-shirt, bunching it up and pulling the older man to him.

  Grozny could smell the garlic on his breath as he hissed, “We take down a whole fucking prison for you. We lose half our number to the scum that let these streets run riot. We do that because you are a hero, because you mean something. And all you can do is insult us. We are part of a group. We know who our leaders are, and we follow them because we want to.”

  “Are you finished?” Grozny asked gently. “Good,” he added as a puzzled frown crossed the squat man’s face. Then, before the frown could be followed by any kind of reaction, Grozny took the man’s balled fist in his own, enveloping it with callused fingers that closed and tightened, causing the shorter man to gasp as his own knuckle joints were ground painfully together.

  While his attention was thus distracted, Grozny brought his knee up sharply into the man’s groin. The white heat of pain turned the gasp into a scream, his grip loosening. Grozny took advantage of this, letting go with one hand while using the flat edge of the other to chop across the other man’s neck as he dipped in reaction to the pain, offering himself perfectly for the action.

  He hit the concrete floor and Grozny casually rolled him away with one foot before looking around the unit at the men who were responsible for his release.

  “One thing. Do not disrespect me. Remember who I am. I once took down twenty armed men. I was young. I could not do that again. Ten, perhaps. All of you, without a doubt. You know nothing. Your beliefs demand that you fight. That takes money. And that...that has to come from somewhere. We all have paymasters. Accept that. Somebody has paid you for me. They, too, have their reasons.”

  There was silence as he looked around the unit once more, then down at the squat man.

  “Now that we have that settled,” he continued in a milder tone, “someone get me a drink. And you—” he gestured at the squat man “—get up. It couldn’t have hurt that much. No one has balls that big.”

  * * *

  DEN HAAG IS AN old city, but unlike most of the Dutch towns and cities of a similar vintage—late-sixteenth to early-seventeenth century—it was not built within walls. There seems to have been no particular reason for this in any of the histories that Bolan had scanned while learning some geographic background. However, it did have the effect that while many of the country’s towns and cities had suffered from the overcrowding caused by dense population and little movement for redevelopment that history had brought them, Den Haag had been given room to breathe.

  The result of this was that the city had sprawled out in all directions, with redevelopments taking place on the fringes and causing it to grow until it was stopped on one side only by the water. There were rich and poor areas, like any city, but these spread farther apart as a result of the luxury that space gave them.

  As Dragonslayer skirted the middle-class areas and flew over the deprived and rundown area of Duindorp, Grimaldi scanned the ground for somewhere he could either put down or drop the soldier. While he did this, Bolan packed a duffel bag and made sure the compartments on his blacksuit were put to good use. Some concussion and flash grenades, with a couple of CS and explosive thrown in; nose plugs and a mask in case he had to use the gas; some C-4 and semtex with detonators and fuses, always a useful addition; a Micro-Uzi and the Desert Eagle that had once been his signature weapon, but found less favor as the nature of his missions dictated weapons that were more of an SMG nature; a Benelli M-3T with a folding stock and a switch to flip from pump action to auto. The latter was a gun he was hoping he could avoid using, as a shotgun in a confined space that included his target was always one hell of a risk.

  But this was a time for risk. The Koninklijke would be following Dragonslayer closely, trying to pin him down. Nominally, they were the good guys like him—if only he could be so sure in this case. There was something rotten at the core of this whole operation. That was why Hal Brognola had asked him to step in. But Bolan was still groping in the dark, which mad
e his mission that much harder.

  No matter, that was for later. He was prepared only for the immediate objective—to secure his target. Anything else was irrelevant until that had been achieved.

  Bolan made his way back to Grimaldi. “Okay, Jack?”

  “Sure thing, Sarge. There’s some open space around here, so I can almost set down, then get the hell out of Dodge. By the time they’ve realized that I’ve not just circled and carried on, you can be halfway there and I can be back—do you want me to hang around?”

  Bolan shook his head. “Negative. It’s a pretty static target. It’ll be harder for them to track me on the ground if you’re not close by overhead. Make them think a bit by heading off—maybe take your time, do some sightseeing.”

  The pilot grinned. “Gotcha. I’m on the end of the wire if you need me.”

  Bolan slapped Grimaldi on the shoulder and went back to the hatch from which he would descend, waiting for the chopper pilot to position the craft.

  Dragonslayer came in close across the tops of low buildings, a few curious passersby looking up at the sound. For the most part, no one seemed to care. The streets around this area were empty, even though it was early evening. The area was mostly light industry and warehousing facilities rather than residential, which helped. The fewer curious eyes, the better.

  Grimaldi dropped the chopper down over a carpark that was almost empty, and Bolan let down the rope before sliding down to the tarmac. He seemed to have descended unobserved, and made immediately for the cover of a warehouse unit. He yelled a few words into his headset, and the chopper rose up, turning and veering off toward the east, away from his target location.

  Bolan paused to take stock as he hit cover. Grimaldi’s flight path would lead the Koninklijke away from where he was headed; and if by any chance the low-flying chopper had been observed by the target group, then they would assume it was flying blind and still searching. As far as the former were concerned, this was something he wanted to attend to with no interruption; for the latter, it was essential they have no advance warning of his approach.

  As for Grimaldi, Bolan knew he had no worries about the flier being picked up. Grimaldi would give them a nice easy trail to follow until he decided to head back to whatever location he had picked for a base. Give them a trail, then drop under the radar, fly low and hard, and use the camouflage the veteran had no doubt already put in place until he was needed again.

  Which would, hopefully, not be for some time. While this had been going through his head, Bolan had been checking the schematics of the area that Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman had downloaded. He had a route to the location of his target, and a clear vision of the territory around. All that remained was to recce the area on arrival.

  He moved swiftly along the route he had chosen. It took him out of his way at times, but the blacksuit was conspicuous, so it was best to try to avoid being spotted. This did, however, have the advantage of bringing him out at the rear of the unit where the gray van had terminated its journey. He intended to make that termination in every sense of the word.

  The unit was in the center of an estate that seemed to be in disrepair and little used. There were a few CCTV cameras mounted along the roadways, and from the footage sent to him he knew which of these were still working and should therefore be avoided. The cameras on the deserted units, however, could be a problem—likely that they were also inoperative, but there was a chance that the group snatching Grozny had wired them up to provide a panoramic recce of the estate.

  Bolan had field glasses in the duffel bag, and he used these to get a closer look at the target unit. The original cameras on this were obviously broken: too obviously. A wry smile crossed his face as he noted smaller cameras, wireless, that had been fitted cleverly in secluded spots. There would be no way to disable them without drawing attention to himself.

  Okay, then—if he could not easily get in, he must bring them out to him....

  He began to circle the industrial estate, keeping to lengthening shadows as dusk began to fall, pleased to note that much of the municipal lighting was defunct, and placing the explosive charges that would be key to his plan....

  * * *

  GROZNY TOOK A HIT of the vodka they offered him. He could see that the squat man he had humiliated was keeping a distance, but the others had accepted his rant and were seemingly keen to pander to his every desire. It had been a long time since he had tasted any spirit, and although he had no intention of celebrating his release by getting drunk, he was keen to feel that burn once more.

  He drained the tumbler and placed it back on the deal table, where bottles and a glass sat next to newspapers and a digital radio. He wondered what the headlines on tomorrow’s papers would say. Given the scale of the raid it would be hard for a clampdown, but he wondered if the authorities would deem it wise to have his escape known.

  For a moment, a pang of self-pity swept over him. He was a burnt-out warlord from another age—who would consider him dangerous anymore? He had spent too long in hiding and away from the fray. In his absence, all he had hoped for in the new country he had been trying to forge had been swept away by a tide of liberalism that denied its heritage and made it fit uncomfortably with the rest of Europe. Others who shared his views were like these men—outcasts and outlaws.

  Why would he be important enough to make headlines?

  Perhaps for what he knew about the past—there was still that, if nothing else. And that was surely enough to count for something, if not in the public eye.

  He poured himself another shot of vodka and took it straight. It was smoother than the moonshine he remembered from the old days, but it was effective enough. It was only after this reflection that he became aware that the van driver was talking to him.

  “Say that again?” he snapped, cutting the man off in midflow. “From the beginning...”

  “I was saying that they have not issued our bulletins and statements to the people. We have a purpose, and you are part of that. This whole action, what our brothers have died for, was all part of that. We seek a new state for the Serb people, where we can have autonomy from the mongrel nations and alliances with pigs that have dogged us since the revolution. Only then can we make a state that will show our comrades in other parts of the East how things can truly be. Only then will real alliances be formed.”

  “And your statement,” Grozny said gently, interrupting, “it was couched in these terms?”

  “It was more eloquent. I am not a man who can phrase these things as well as others,” the driver answered. “But yes, in essence...”

  Grozny sighed. “Then it is no wonder that they did not run your statements. Let me guess—I have been released from an oppressor’s captivity so that I can once again speak freely and help lead my people into this promised land? And then it goes on and on in such a manner for several paragraphs?” Grozny snorted, and turned to face the group. “You think they are bothered about this? What we Serbs tried to build all those years ago is nothing to them. If my release was a gesture, then it was futile and will gain you nothing. But if you want it to be more than a gesture, then it can be,” he added, seeing the confusion writ on their faces. “First, I want to know who is really behind this effort, and why. Then we can talk about more than talk—then we can take action. Yes?”

  “Of course there is more than this, but—”

  “But nothing,” Grozny roared. “Enough of this. I did not agree to this when I was contacted just so I could end up in another prison—” he gestured around him with the tumbler “—waiting for the police or military to close in on us. Why haven’t we moved on yet? Do you people learn nothing from experience?”

  “Calm down, old man.” The squat man sneered. “We have a plan, and we are just waiting to be contacted.”

  “Yes, and I’ll be bound that your plan did not include losing half your manpo
wer and maybe leaving a trail by these means,” the aging warlord snapped emphatically. “War is adapting to circumstances and making them work for you. Not waiting to be told what to do. Too soft...”

  Even as he spoke, the men facing him were distracted by two explosions, a fraction of a second apart, that rent the quiet of the evening beyond the unit.

  “You see?” Grozny yelled triumphantly. “Now this is what I mean....”

  Chapter 3

  As the first explosion rent the evening air, Bolan was back in position and waiting for signs of movement from the target unit.

  Speed was of the essence. Any disturbance, even in such a run-down and seemingly deserted area, would alert the authorities—and he knew that the Koninklijke would be waiting for the first signs to appear.

  Keeping clear of the cameras and placing charges at three opportune spots, Bolan had covered an arc that swept the front and sides of the unit. His recce had revealed to him that the rear of the unit, although not having the large entrance of the front, had a loading bay that would also allow vehicular access. The space was tighter, partly because the egress was smaller, but also because the structure of the loading bay constricted any possible movements.

  This was perfect—his plan was to use the detonation of the charges as a signpost to those inside that they were being attacked from the front, and that there were forces closing in a pincer. Their only option—assuming that they reacted rather than stopped to think—would be to try to ferry Grozny out the back and thence to another safe house.

  Let them try this—Bolan would be waiting.

  The rear of the unit backed out onto a narrow service road and the rear entrances of another set of units, which, like the target, faced a large car park. The whole estate had been designed on these lines, as a series of squares linked by the ribbon of these service ways.