Survival mission, p.14
Survival Mission, page 14
If she was inside.
If she was still alive.
But what if it was all a waste of time? He wouldn’t know until he’d found a way inside the place and searched it thoroughly. And if he came up empty, then what? If the pimp had lied to him or simply had been misinformed, then Murton would be no closer to Mandy.
Where would he begin another search?
“She’s here,” he muttered to himself as he scrambled from the boat after quickly tying it down.
He wasn’t dressed for battle—jeans and running shoes, T-shirt under a windbreaker—but what the hell. This wasn’t Kandahar or Baghdad, and he wasn’t under military discipline. He was a father fighting for his only child.
Tucking his pistol underneath his belt, at the small of his back, Murton quickly stuffed his pockets with spare magazines for both the sidearm and his submachine gun. The remaining items in the bag were P2 stun grenades, the Czech model, which he’d collected from the Old Town dealer on a whim, uncertain whether they would be of any use to him.
I guess we’ll see, he thought, leaving the scree along the riverbank and moving swiftly toward the disused loading dock before him.
To his left, against the south side of the warehouse, Murton saw an SUV and a sedan parked, unattended. One of them, he thought, should serve well for his getaway with Mandy.
And God help anyone who tried to stop them.
“IT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE MUCH,” Bolan said as he turned into the short driveway before the gate and chain-link fence surrounding the warehouse.
“It’s not supposed to,” Reynek answered. “On the inside… I suppose we’ll see.”
A guard in uniform peered at them through the gate’s wire mesh, frowning, right hand resting on his holstered pistol.
“Want to do the honors?” Bolan asked.
“My pleasure,” Reynek said and stepped out of the Volvo, calling to the guard in Czech as he approached the gate. The sentry gave a curt reply, shaking his head to emphasize the negative.
Before Reynek could speak again, a muffled sound of gunfire reached them, coming from behind—or possibly inside—the warehouse. As the guard turned, startled, Reynek drew his own piece from concealment, raised its muzzle to the wire and fired a point-blank round into the head of the distracted watchman.
Bolan had his foot on the accelerator as the sergeant grappled with a loop of chain, released it and began to roll the gate out of his way. He drove past Reynek, steered around the fallen guard and pulled up to the street-side entrance of the warehouse. Reynek dragged the corpse behind a small guard shack, concealed from passing vehicles, and ran to join him at the Volvo, both men taking automatic weapons from the car. Another burst of gunfire from the warehouse added urgency to every move.
The door facing the street was locked, but Bolan took the knob off with a short burst from his Vz. 58 and they were in, confronted by a blank wall with a hallway opening at either end. They split up, Bolan breaking to the left and Reynek to the right.
Bolan reached the corner and stopped before a maze of narrow corridors, the sounds of firing becoming more intense. He picked one hallway, following the sounds, and plunged ahead.
MURTON SUPPOSED the lock box was equipped with an alarm to rouse the guards in residence. It was not audible to him, but he had barely cracked the entry door beside the main bay of the loading dock when two armed men appeared to intercept him. Murton didn’t understand a word they shouted at him, and it made no difference. He fired a short burst at the gunman on his right, cutting the legs from under him, then ducked and rolled as number two returned fire with a shotgun.
It was a close shave, buckshot raking furrows in the nearby wall and raining plaster dust. Murton kept moving, nearly prone, while angling for a shot at his opponent. Swallowing an urge to rush the bastard, Murton palmed one of his flash-bang stun grenades, released the safety pin and made a sidearm pitch that bounced the apple-green cylinder off one wall and downrange toward his enemy. Five seconds later, a thunderclap ripped through the warehouse and Murton charged after it, catching the shooter supine on the concrete, hands over his eyes.
Murton pinned him there with three rounds from his SMG, finished the other gunman with another three and moved on, shouting out his daughter’s name. Doors lined the smoky corridor on either side, and even with the ringing in his ears, he heard a faint voice answer.
“Daddy? Daddy!”
Murton found the door, tried the knob and found it locked. Of course. He knelt beside it, called to Mandy through a slot set in the black steel panel. “Stand back from the door now, baby. To your left. I’m shooting off the lock.”
“Okay,” the small voice answered.
Murton gave her five, six seconds, then stood back and hit the doorknob with a stream of Parabellum shockers, ripping it away. The door swung open and he leaped inside, half-blinded by a rush of tears as Mandy lurched into his arms.
REYNEK HEARD FIRING INTENSIFY from an adjacent corridor and hesitated in the hallway he had chosen to explore, eyeing the dozen silent doors on either side. He tried two, found them locked and called out in the hope of getting a response, but no one answered him.
Did that mean that the rooms were empty? Or that their occupants were drugged or terrified to answer? Were they dead?
His first impulse was to proceed along the corridor, blasting each lock in turn, searching the chambers built as pens of misery, but Reynek focused on his mission, understanding that his partner might need his help. Reluctantly, he turned away, hoping that when the smoke cleared the police would finally sweep through this godforsaken place, after ignoring it for years.
He doubled back, guided by echoes and the smell of cordite as he turned one corner, then another. Never in his life before had Reynek seen a warehouse that felt claustrophobic. This one had been turned into a warren of small rooms where anything could happen, safe from prying eyes or interruption. Moving through its shadows, he felt heartsick for the horrors it had witnessed and concealed.
But it would end on this day.
Rounding another corner, he collided with a running man and stumbled backward, almost lost his balance but maintained a firm grip on his weapon as he saw a submachine gun swinging toward him. Index finger on the trigger, he had target acquisition when he saw a smaller form beside the gunman, cowering, and heard a voice say, “Christ! It’s you!” in English.
Murton let his weapon’s muzzle dip, glanced back over his shoulder as the sound of running feet reached Reynek’s ears and said, “They’re coming.”
Moving up to join him, while the trembling girl hid in her father’s shadow, Reynek cautioned Murton, “Cooper is here, as well. Be careful.”
Murton flashed a smile or grimace, Reynek couldn’t say for sure, as he replied, “I’ve never shot a man by accident.”
Dim lighting at the far end of the corridor revealed two men in black running toward Reynek and the Murtons. Both figures were armed with automatic rifles of some kind.
“Not Cooper,” Murton said.
“No,” Reynek agreed and opened fire on their advancing enemies.
The riflemen both skittered through a jerky little dance, dropping their weapons as they lurched about, careening into walls, then fell together in the middle of the hallway. Reynek did not bother moving in to see if they were dead. It was enough for him that both were down and out of action for the moment, no more threat to him or his companions.
Still thinking of the other bolted doors, Reynek glanced at Mandy Murton, then asked her father, “Could you tell if any more are here?”
Shaking his head, Murton reached down to place a hand on Mandy’s shoulder. “I got lucky,” he replied. “Call it a fluke or fate, whatever. If you want to check the other rooms, go on. We’re getting out of here.”
“You have a car outside?” Reynek added doubtfully.
“Not here,” Murton said. “Close, if we can make it to the boat I rented.”
“Help me find Cooper,” Reynek suggested, “and we’ll go together.”
“Mandy—”
“Will be safer with three guards than one,” Reynek said. “But the choice is yours.”
He turned away, had covered half a dozen strides before he heard the Murtons following.
“All right,” said Murton, coming up beside him. “But for God’s sake, make it quick!”
BOLAN DROPPED HIS EMPTY magazine, reloading on the run, just as his latest target ducked around a corner, out of sight. Three dead men lay behind him, with an unknown number of defenders waiting up ahead, while firing continued from another section of the warehouse. Bolan’s only consolation at the moment was the fact that Lida Werich’s goons weren’t likely to seek help from the police.
But they could call for reinforcements. Might have placed the call already.
No time to waste.
He edged along the hallway, clinging to the right-hand wall. Bolan was ready to be done with this, but not enough to die because he rushed unnecessarily. He still had no idea who’d started shooting in the first place, but some of the ongoing fire sounded like Reynek’s SMG.
Then again, 9 mm weapons generally sounded more or less alike.
He reached the corner where his enemy had disappeared, crouched down and strained his ears for any sound of movement close at hand, then took a leap of faith. Smooth concrete let him slide, scanning for targets, but the man he’d been pursuing was no longer there. Downrange, a door stood open, muffled cries and squeals emerging from behind it.
Bolan rose and jogged in that direction. He had covered half the distance when the thug who’d dodged him moments earlier emerged, holding a naked adolescent girl before him as a shield, one arm around her neck, the other with a pistol pressed against her temple. Whatever he barked at Bolan in his native language was a waste of breath.
Stalling for time and angling for a shot, the Executioner replied, “Sorry. I don’t speak Czech.”
The gunman blinked at him. “American? You want the child, yes?”
Bolan took another cautious step forward, thumbing the fire-selector switch on his Vz. 58 assault rifle to semiauto fire.
“The child,” he said. “That’s right.”
“You papa, yes?”
“The next best thing,” Bolan replied.
Blinking as he retreated, step by awkward step, the gunman didn’t seem to understand—or care, for that matter. “We make a deal, yes? I give you the little girl, and maybe this one, too. You like?”
“I’ll need to see the child,” Bolan advised.
“Sure, sure. I take you, if you promise me I walk away.”
“Why not,” Bolan replied, with no guilt for the lie.
“Okay, we deal, yes? Follow me. No tricks, now!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the Executioner replied.
The shooter backed away from him, keeping his hostage in between them. She seemed dazed, or maybe drugged, her open mouth producing unintelligible mewling sounds. Bolan paid no attention to her nudity, his focus solely on the gunman’s weapon and his face, averted every few steps to make sure that he was backing in the right direction.
“Just around this corner, Papa,” he told Bolan. “Almost there.”
“No tricks, you said,” Bolan reminded him.
“No, no! I play you straight.”
“Sounds good,” Bolan agreed in his most reasonable tone.
He had a fair view off the shooter’s head—well, roughly half of it—above the girl’s right shoulder and beside her face. It wouldn’t be an easy shot, but Bolan had scored hits at longer ranges, under trickier conditions.
“Now I turn the corner, eh?” the gunman said. “And then—”
“Hold it!” a voice ordered in English.
Bolan thought he recognized it, had no time to think about it further as the shooter half turned with his human shield, clearly prepared to kill her if he found himself with no way out. The Vz. 58 cracked once, its 7.62×39 mm round punching a neat hole over his right ear, exploding from the left side of his skull in crimson mist. The dead man dropped and dragged the squealing girl down with him in a tangle of disordered, thrashing limbs.
Bolan was at her side and lifting her by one arm when he saw Reynek and Murton moving toward him with a girl in tow. Bolan removed his jacket, helped the naked captive into it, her back turned toward the new arrivals. When she’d buttoned it, the hem covered her to midthigh.
“We finished here?” he asked the others.
“There may still be more,” Reynek said, glancing back and forth from Murton’s daughter to the older girl.
“We’ll make a call,” Bolan said. “We’re already running late.”
13
The FBI’s legal attaché met Bolan’s party at the U.S. embassy on Tržišt Street, in Prague’s Little Quarter. A pair of armed Marines stood by but made no effort to search Bolan or Reynek for weapons. Andrew Murton, disarmed on their drive from the lock box, spoke when spoken to and otherwise remained as silent as his trembling child.
“Well, you’ve got friends,” the G-man—Agent Larry Wade—declared. “Before you got here, they were burning up the lines from State, Justice, the Hoover Building. I have orders, and I’ll follow them precisely.”
“I suppose we’d better hear them,” Bolan said.
“First thing, I’ve got a medic waiting for the little lady,” Wade continued. “Dr. Karen Brandt. I’ve never seen her stumped, but if there’s something she can’t handle, we’re prepared to out-source through the local children’s hospital. With strict security, of course. It looks like Dad could use a physical himself.”
“I’m fine,” Murton replied.
“Okay, then. If you want to take your daughter on inside, they’ll see her right away and get things rolling.”
Murton hesitated, holding Mandy’s hand, turning to face Bolan and Reynek. “Listen, if you’re ever in New York and you need anything… Hey, never mind New York. If you need anything at all, ever—”
“You’d better go,” Bolan advised him.
“Right. I guess. So long.”
Wade tracked the Murtons out of earshot, then said, “I have a fair idea of what’s been going on here.”
“What more do you need?” Bolan asked.
“At my pay grade? Nothing,” Wade replied. “I’ve felt the urge to go that route myself a time or two. Who hasn’t, when it comes to law enforcement. Hell, with ‘extraordinary rendition’ and ‘enhanced interrogation,’ we’re halfway there already. Maybe more.”
“Let’s hope not,” Bolan said.
“It’s funny you’d say that. Why not?” the agent asked.
“Because we need a moral anchor,” Bolan answered. “Granted, there are times the rule book doesn’t work, but we still need the book to keep us honest. Otherwise, it’s wild-frontier time and nobody’s safe.”
Wade nodded. “Sure, I guess. But what cop hasn’t dreamed of making one good surgical strike in his time?”
“The thing about surgery,” Bolan replied, “is it’s only for surgeons. You wouldn’t ask a taxi driver or your gardener to do a kidney transplant, would you?”
Wade frowned, then replied, “Most cops have decent training these days, lots of them with military backgrounds. They—”
“That’s tactical,” Bolan said, interrupting him. “I’m talking mental and emotional. You take your rage and natural frustration off the table.”
“Oh? Is that what happened here, with Murton’s kid?” Wade asked.
“It was for me,” Bolan replied, almost the truth. “I couldn’t speak for him.”
“Uh-huh. I understand that neither one of you needs any transportation from the embassy, but here’s some free advice.”
“I’m all ears,” Bolan said.
“You’re on the radar,” Wade told both of them. “I don’t know if the PCR has either of your names—hell, I don’t have your names—but you are absolutely being hunted. Hear me? Not just cops, but traffickers. If I said open contract—”
“I’m familiar with the term,” Bolan assured him.
It meant that Lida Werich had a bounty on his and Reynek’s heads, payable to anyone who brought them in, dead or alive.
“If I were you,” Wade said, “I’d catch the next thing smoking out of Prague and out of the CR.”
“We’ve got unfinished business,” Bolan said.
“Okay,” Wade said. “I tried. Good luck, and give ’em hell.”
“YOU DISAPPOINT ME, Josef,” Werich said.
Pavel stood ill at ease before her desk and eyed the pistol on its blotter, likely thinking of the other times he’d seen her vent grave disappointment through a gun barrel.
“The lock box,” she continued, teeth clenched as she spoke. “Not only lost to us, but in the hands of the police. How many living witnesses, Josef?”
“Only four,” he said.
“Oh, only four.” Her tone like acid on his eardrums.
“Three collected in the warehouse raid,” Pavel said. “One left at the Ministry of Justice.”
“On the front steps, I believe. After the media was summoned.”
“Yes.”
Her right hand found the pistol. Covered it. “I don’t recall the last time that I felt such disappointment,” Werich said. “What should I do with you, Josef?”
He mumbled something unintelligible.
“What? Speak up!”
“I said, give me another chance.”
“You were impressive once,” she said. “I thought so, anyway. But now…”
“I’ll find the men responsible!” Pavel declared. “I’ll bring their heads and place them on your desk!”
“Where will you look? Why should they still be here in Prague, now that they have the girl they came for in the first place?”
