Desperate Cargo. Don Pendleton

      “He fixes things. Has connections here. Arranges for people to look the other way so we can get cargo in and out. He works with the top level in the U.K., as well. Yeah, well, Chambers does the hiring and firing here and at the U.K. base, but Hugo Canfield is the real man in charge. Chambers is second fiddle, really. He likes to throw his weight about. Canfield is the man. But you wouldn’t want to tangle with him. He’s too big. Can’t be interfered with. The man has a cop in his pocket. An Interpol agent. Probably even customs officers. Hell, maybe even higher than that. He runs in serious circles. No shit, mate, Canfield is bad news. I’d sooner sit naked in a crate of fuckin’ rattlesnakes than cross Canfield.”

      “What about a database? Names and locations?”

      “Even if I told you, there isn’t anything you can do.”

      “So what have you got to lose?”

      “Only my balls. If they find out I gave them up what they did to your undercover men will be like a slap on the wrist.”

      “One way or another you’re going to tell me. I can walk away and let you bleed to death, or end it with a bullet behind the ear. Believe me when I say I don’t give a damn one way or another. It’s your choice. Your buddies took the hard way. That can be arranged for you.”

      “What about protection? I’ve cooperated. You can get me protection.”

      Bolan took out his cell phone.

      “I can make the call from right here if you give me what I need.”

      “I did hear van Ryden has a database on his computer. It’s supposed to have details on everyone who works for Venturer. Means they can keep tabs on us all. Hold on to all our unsavory little secrets. Keeps it at his home outside the city. Place is watched over by armed security. Only other thing I can tell you about is the farm they use to house people while trade is done. I can give you a location for both places.”

      Bolan made his call minutes later. When Brognola came on Bolan briefed him on the status of the mission.

      “If the task force wasn’t wrapped up in protocols and red tape, maybe they could have gotten further,” Brognola grumbled. “So tell me again about these people you found.”

      “Women and children. One I spoke to said she was snatched in Pristina so I’m guessing this group came from that area. Off-loaded from a container ship. I arrived in time to prevent them being moved off the dock and sent to God knows where. Hal, do you still have people on the ground hereabouts?”

      “Part of the task force is cooling their heels in Amsterdam. You need their help?”

      “The women and kids need looking after. Somewhere they’ll be secure until a decision can be made about them. I also have a survivor from the crew who were going to ship them out. He’s wounded. Needs medical assistance and protection. Your task force might be able to get more info out of him.”

      “I expect you’ve already got what you need?”

      “We exchanged mutual considerations.”

      “I’m sure. Striker, let me talk to our people out there. I’ll come back to you ASAP.”

      Bolan spent time collecting weapons from the dead crewmen. He placed his small arsenal just inside the open container. He kept one of the MP-5s and extra magazines for his own use. He checked out the cab of the big tractor-trailer unit and located a first-aid box under the passenger seat. Using the contents he bound up the Brit’s legs, applying pressure pads to slow any further blood loss.

      “First you shoot me, now you bandage me up. What next? A mug of hot sweet tea?”

      “What do you think?”

      “Sounds like I’m a dead man either way.”

      “Redemption can go a long way to keeping you alive.”

      “Meaning what exactly?”

      “You gave me what I needed. So I’ll keep my word. You’ll be taken into protective custody.”

      “Don’t I have a say about all this?”

      The hardness that etched itself across the big American’s face told the man he had said the wrong thing. The blue eyes were suddenly like chips of ice. He could almost feel the chill emanating from them.

      “I’d be justified to shoot you right now after what I’ve seen tonight. You people are crawling in the gutter. You sleep well at night? Seeing those young kids and knowing the life you’re sending them to? Have you looked at pictures showing how those perverts treat them?”

      “Look, I just work on this part of the business. Collection and distribution. Never seen where they go.”

      “That clear your conscience?”

      “Mate, I’ve been struggling for years to do that. Probably too late for me. I’m just trying to earn a living. Bloody hell, aren’t we all?”

      Bolan didn’t answer. He had all too often heard the excuses, the self-justification, the criminal element came up with to whitewash their activities. He didn’t believe a word of it. He dismissed it as he always did, because if he digested it and analyzed the pathetic reasons he might have turned his gun on them out of sheer disgust.

      Reasoning platitudes were the get-out clauses from the mouths of criminals through the decades. From mass murderers to raving dictators who slaughtered thousands, there was always an excuse. A smiling word that was supposed to wash away the bloodlust and the wanton elimination of entire cultures. The perpetrators never considered they had done anything wrong. It was always the rest of the world that was out of step. That did not understand why a particular horror had been committed. Some odd quirk lodged deep in the homicidal, deranged minds of the despots allowed them to excuse away what they had done. If they explained it they self-purged their conscience. They became heroes instead of maniacal villains. And in many instances they often convinced others to see the justification.

      In Mack Bolan’s eyes a bloody-handed butcher was just that. There was no redemption. No vainglorious explanation that wiped away the needless deaths of men, women and children. Evil was evil. It would never be reconciled as far as he was concerned. It was why the Executioner existed. Why he stood against the monsters.

      Someone had to.

      Because if he didn’t, who would?