Old Town was closer, and he had no time to waste. Each passing moment grated on his nerves like steel wool on a sunburn, while he pictured Mandy in the hands of monsters.

  “Daddy’s coming, baby,” Murton told his grim reflection in the Peugeot’s rearview mirror. “Just hang on, no matter what.”

  He cruised the street in Old Town where his target stood between a barbershop and what appeared to be some kind of campaign headquarters, its windows filled with posters of a grinning man with both arms raised, a pose that brought to mind old news footage of Richard Nixon. Murton boxed the block, checking parked cars along the way for enemies, then gave it up and found his own space at the curb close by his destination.

  Walking toward the shop, he braced himself for anything that might occur. What he could not afford to purchase, he would have to take by force. Resistance was predictable, and Murton’s injured ribs would be a handicap, but once a Navy SEAL…

  No other customers were in the store as Murton entered. The proprietor came up to greet him, craggy features broken by a smile and speaking Czech.

  “Sprechen sie Deutsch?” Murton asked.

  “German? Certainly. How may I help you, sir?”

  “I’m interested in your special stock.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Murton dropped a name, saw recognition in the dealer’s eyes and didn’t stop to think that he was burning bridges for a friend who’d trusted him. The only person in the world who mattered was Mandy. All the rest were obstacles, expendable.

  The dealer smiled and said, “I understand, sir. If you’ll come with me…”

  FEUERSTEIN HAD SPILLED his guts before he died, directing Bolan and Reynek to his private list of customers with “special” needs. The list included mailing addresses, phone numbers, email links—enough, in short, to pinpoint Feuerstein’s perverted clients and reach out to touch them where they lived. Somewhere in Prague, the others scattered far and wide with addresses in the United States and Canada, Great Britain, France and Germany, Australia and Japan.

  Nearly twelve hundred names in all.

  They bought a take-out lunch to go and ate it in the Volvo, parked outside the Myslbek Shopping Gallery, set between Old Town and New Town, on busy Na Píkop Street. Bolan compelled himself to eat the foot-long sandwich as they talked, despite the queasy feeling Feuerstein’s parting words had left with him.

  “You think that I’m so bad?” the travel agent had demanded in a fruitless bid to save his life. “You don’t think everybody does it, all over the world?”

  Well, no. Not even close.

  And for the time being, there was one less to make it easy for the bottom-feeders seeking tender prey.

  “We can’t reach most of those,” Bolan observed, while Reynek scanned the list of freaks. “I’ve got a contact who can tip the FBI to Feuerstein’s clients in the States, and they’ll contact the Mounties, up in Canada. If we provide the other names to Interpol, they should be able to connect the dots.”

  “And those in Prague?” Reynek inquired.

  Three dozen names, at least. All active pedophiles, according to the travel agent, though he claimed they did their hunting far from home.

  As if that made a difference.

  “Report them to the PCR,” Bolan suggested, “if you think that it will get results.”

  “I can’t be sure,” Reynek replied, sounding disgusted.

  “Then I’d say we have two options left. One way to go, drop by and visit them ourselves, which stalls our move on Werich’s operation.”

  “Or…?”

  “Gamble and feed the media their names. TV, the major newspapers. With any luck, someone will grab the ball and run with it. Find out how germs like living in the spotlight.”

  Reynek smiled at that. “I like it,” he declared. “I know a crime reporter with the Prager Zeitung and a news anchor at Prima Televize. They’ll take the information seriously and investigate it, if it comes from me.”

  “Okay,” Bolan said. “We can find a copy shop and fax the other lists to Washington and Interpol headquarters in Lyon.”

  It was a sideshow to the main event, but smoking out twelve hundred child molesters definitely counted as a public service. Whether any of the scabrous lot wound up in prison wasn’t Bolan’s call—but he could always keep a copy of the list for future reference. A little something for the road on his travels.

  And who could say when one of them might meet the Executioner?

  “Then, back to Lida Werich,” Reynek said.

  “I wouldn’t want to keep her waiting,” Bolan granted.

  Back to Werich and the missing child, if there was any hope at all of finding her alive.

  Far stranger things had happened, but he wasn’t counting on it. False hopes benefited no one, in the long run. In the short term, though, it didn’t hurt to have a goal.

  Bolan had two.

  Retrieve the young girl if possible. And punish her abductors, either way.

  Only one thing was guaranteed: Prague, the tarnished “Golden City,” could expect to see more blood.

  ONCE HE WAS ARMED, Murton began his search in Perlovka, the unofficial red-light district thriving between Narodni Trida and Stavotske Divadlo, flanked by Old Town on the north and New Town to the south. He didn’t count on finding any street-walkers at large in broad daylight, but blogs available online listed addresses for the best-known brothels operating in the neighborhood. Despite the fact that all were technically illegal, nothing he had seen so far in Prague suggested that the local cops were overzealous in pursuit of pimps, madams or working girls, much less their paying customers.

  Murton went slowly, took his time, assuming that by this point his name and face were known to anyone associated with the Werich syndicate, and perhaps beyond that. He had been photographed soon after he was bagged the first time, cell phones snapping photos of his face before the sluggers went to work on him, but whether he’d be recognizable to anyone who’d glimpsed those shots presumably depended on the circumstances of the viewing and how much attention they had paid.

  No matter.

  Murton wasn’t using his own name and didn’t plan to ask about his daughter. Not until he’d found someone he thought might have the information he required, that is. But when they were alone and had a chance to talk in private…well, all bets were off. He would have answers then, no matter what it took to wring them from the pigeon he selected for interrogation. And if two or three or more were needed to complete the inquisition, then so be it.

  Working the streets in any town is more or less the same. You need to find a guy or gal who knows a guy or gal who knows another guy or gal, and so on, up the food chain to the character you’re after. Every outlaw operation, big or small, requires some kind of hierarchy. Worker bees exhaust themselves in service to the hive, all for the benefit of one. A king or queen who rules the roost.

  Murton had tried the obvious his first time out, asking police for Lida Werich’s address, getting blank stares in return. His next step, nearly fatal, had been asking that same question on the streets of Prague. It was a rookie’s error, born of panic for his missing child, but he had managed to survive with some assistance from an unexpected source. Back on his own again, a bruised but wiser man, Murton would not repeat the same mistake.

  Step one: he hired the ugliest, seediest taxi driver he could find and posed the questions that seemed normal for a horny tourist on the town, with time to kill and cash to burn. The cabbie smirked and offered names. This pimp had mostly Asian girls, another dealt primarily in Africans, and so on. Mention of a younger clientele produced a snicker and a leer reflected in the taxi’s rearview mirror.

  “For the little ones,” his driver said, “you want Alén Konpek, at Klub íši Div.”

  Club Wonderland.

  Of course, it was closed until evening. But if you wanted to reach Konpek before then—

  Murton did.

  The man lived in a flat off íjna Street, in Old Town, up two flights of stairs in a three-story building with no elevator. Having ditched the cabbie, Murton wasted no time driving to his destination, well aware that his informant might try double-dipping with a heads-up to Konpek.

  As it was, though, he surprised the pimp—woke him, from all appearances, and brought him to the door with grumbled curses on his lips. The pistol Murton showed him ended that phase of the conversation. Murton shoved his way inside and locked the door behind him, verified that Konpek spoke German and proceeded to confirm that no one else was lurking in the small apartment’s other rooms. That done, he steered Konpek toward a swaybacked couch.

  “Sich setzen,” he commanded. And when Konpek was seated, said, “We need to have a little chat.”

  8

  The sat-phone link was clear, six hours earlier in the Virginia suburb of Washington, D.C., where Hal Brognola answered on the second ring, clearing his throat before he spoke.

  “Don’t ask me if I have Prince Albert in a can,” he growled.

  “I hadn’t planned to,” Bolan answered.

  Sounding wide-awake suddenly, Brognola said, “Hey, what’s happening at…nine o’clock? Where you are?”

  “We’re keeping busy.”

  “We. Still got your sidekick with you,” Brognola observed. A rustling on the far end of the line told Bolan the big Fed had left his bed to seek more privacy.

  “It’s working out so far,” Bolan replied.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Brognola said.

  That put a frown on Bolan’s always-somber face. “What’s up?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Word from Paris is that your package didn’t make the flight to JFK,” Brognola said.

  “Damn it!”

  “I know. They sent some kind of amateur to handle the transition, and he had an accident.”

  “How bad?” Bolan inquired.

  “He’ll live,” Brognola said. “Whether he’ll keep his job or not’s another question.”

  “So they’ve lost the package altogether?” Even with the phone’s scrambler engaged, Bolan preferred to take no chances.

  “In the wind,” Brognola told him. “If I was a betting man, I’d say it’s likely headed back your way. Return to sender.”

  Just what Bolan needed at the moment. “If it goes unclaimed,” he said, “there’s not much I can do about it now.”

  “Agreed. It sounds like one for the dead-letter office.”

  “We’re still working on the smaller item,” Bolan said. “No luck so far.”

  “Maybe it’s time to close the shipping operation down.”

  “I’m leaning that way, too,” Bolan agreed.

  “Here’s something that may help you,” Brognola suggested. “You remember when we talked about those junkets?”

  Sex tours. “Right,” Bolan said. “I was talking to a travel agent just this morning.”

  “Name of Feuerstein, by any chance?” Brognola asked.

  “The very same.”

  “I don’t suppose he mentioned what he’s got on for today?” Brognola asked.

  “We went another way,” Bolan replied. “It must’ve slipped his mind.”

  “Okay. I’m not sure whether this will help or not, but there’s a charter flying into Prague today, at half past noon your time. I meant to call you in an hour or so, but since you’re on—”

  “A charter,” Bolan said.

  “A dozen happy campers on a Gulfstream IV from Boston via London, booked at fifty grand a head for first-class treatment all the way. The company’s Sunshine Charters,” Brognola went on. “I’m guessing as in ‘Little Miss.’”

  “You wouldn’t find a Lida Werich on the paperwork, by any chance?” Bolan asked.

  “Bingo. That tie in with your deal?”

  “It does,” Bolan confirmed.

  “Hey, is that synchronicity, or what?” Brognola said.

  “If you were holding any Sunshine stock, I’d sell it soon,” Bolan replied.

  “Wouldn’t you know, my broker missed it. Maybe next time.”

  “Has anybody called the local embassy about that missing package?” Bolan asked.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Paris dropped a dime.”

  “And the post office?” Meaning cops in Prague.

  “I doubt it,” Brognola replied. “That would invite embarrassment.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Stay frosty, eh?”

  “The only way to be,” Bolan replied.

  A moment later, he had broken the disturbing news of Murton’s disappearance to Reynek. “He’ll be coming back to find his child,” the sergeant said.

  “I would,” Bolan agreed.

  “Are we supposed to stop him?”

  “Only if we see him,” Bolan said. “Meanwhile, I found us something else.”

  He told Reynek about the charter flight, its passengers and their arrival time. Reynek considered the information and said, “Nearly a quarter of a million dollars. Losing it would sting, I think.”

  “Add close to forty million for the plane, if we could take it out,” Bolan replied. “I’m guessing that would send Werich into shock.”

  “A bit ambitious, don’t you think?” the sergeant asked. “Considering airport security?”

  Bolan had done it once before, a lifetime earlier and far away, before the numbers 9/11 had become a code for tragedy.

  “You never know,” he told Reynek, “until you try.”

  ALÉN KONPEK DENIED knowledge of Werich’s address to the bitter end, insisting that he only had a cell-phone number, which he finally provided after thirty minutes of interrogation. Werich always told him when and where to meet her, Konpek insisted. He was not among the privileged few who knew where the black widow lived or kept her headquarters.

  But there was something else.

  Around the sixty-minute mark, when Murton had been tiring from his labors and was worried that the neighbors would begin to wonder what was happening in Konpek’s apartment, the pimp offered a gem in a last-ditch attempt to secure his release.

  Sunshine Charters. A service provided for A-list customers who could afford it, including pampered travel and assurance that their every sick desire would be fulfilled upon arrival. Bookings averaged fifty grand, American, and some cost more, depending on the patron’s special kink. With no holds barred on what became of a specific lust object, the price might double—even triple—that. Subtract the start-up costs and jet fuel, factor in the overhead from hotels owned or leased by Werich’s syndicate worldwide, and every freak who flew Sunshine Charters was putting thirty-five to sixty grand in Werich’s pocket.

  That was valuable knowledge. But the real news: Konpek knew where and when the next flight was supposed to land. High noon, at Prague Ruzyn International.

  When the information fell into his hands, Murton had fifty-seven minutes left before the flight touched down.

  He thanked Alén Konpek in the only way that seemed appropriate, by canceling out his pain. A kitchen knife sufficed, and Murton left without considering the downstairs neighbors, who would soon report an ugly ceiling stain.

  As for the Sunshine Charters flight, he’d have to give some thought to that. Two approaches came to mind. He could attack the plane directly, or hang back and trail the passengers in hope that Werich might appear to welcome them. That seemed unlikely, when he thought about it, but she might still send a flunky who’d report back to her when the meet and greet was finished.

  Might. As in a nagging maybe.

  Problems rose to mind at once. A fourth appearance at the airport—and his third this day—gravely reduced the odds of Murton passing through unseen. As far as packing heat into the terminal, it could be tantamount to suicide. Beyond that, Murton faced a possibility that once the Sunshine fliers left the terminal they’d scatter, heading off to different hotels. Tracking one group or individual, in that case, made it even more unlikely that the trail would lead him back to Werich.

  No choice, then. It had to be the plane.

  More problems.

  He took for granted that the jet would have some kind of logo to identify it, but he couldn’t guess which of the airport’s two active runways it would use on landing. Murton guessed the longer of the two would be more likely, positioned as it was to take advantage of prevailing western winds. In any case, the two runways weren’t all that far apart; they crossed at one point, granting him a fair yardstick for reference.

  He had the weapon that he needed in the Peugeot’s trunk: an RPG-7D he’d taken from the Old Town armorer along with other toys. It was the paratrooper’s model of the classic RPG-7, capable of being broken down at a moment’s notice into two component parts. Despite that, it would hurl rocket-propelled projectiles weighing four to nine pounds at three hundred seventy-four feet per second. Its accuracy rate, as tested by the U.S. military, was a hundred percent at fifty yards, ninety-six percent at a hundred yards, fifty-one percent at two hundred yards—and beyond that, wishful thinking.

  Not a problem.

  If he had a chance to make the shot at all, Murton would be within the launcher’s comfort zone. And if he didn’t…well, he’d have to think of something else.

  Because, whether he lived or died, he wasn’t going home alone.

  REYNEK THOUGHT he had adapted well to Cooper’s brand of warfare, but he presently had a problem and raised it on the drive to Prague Ruzyn International. “You understand this is an act of terrorism?” he asked the man behind the Volvo’s wheel.

  “How so?”

  “Well…think of it. Your plan is to attack—indeed, destroy—an airliner on the main runway of a major European airport. What else would you call it?” Reynek responded.

  “I’ve always operated on the standard definition of terrorism,” he said. “That’s use of threats or violence in pursuit of political aims. You can substitute racial or religious for political, assuming there’s any real difference, but it all comes out the same. A terrorist acts to change public policy. That isn’t me. Isn’t us.”

 

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