Desperate Cargo. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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