Shadow Strike

“What kind of information?” Kastrioti asked in a calculated manner, pouring a crystal goblet of dark red wine. He took a sip and waited.

“Somebody stole my property,” Bolan said, letting a hint of anger enter his voice. “I want it back.”

Kastrioti gave a nod. “As is only proper.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know who has it,” Bolan said, observing a subtle movement on the other side of the rose trellis. His combat instincts flared, and he casually slipped a hand into his pocket to press the button on the remote control.

“That is a shame,” Kastrioti said.

“But you do know how it is.”

“Indeed,” the man replied, twirling the glass to inspect the wine in the overhead lights. “And I have this information because…?”

“Because they just made a sizable deposit in a Spanish bank,” Bolan said. “Your bank.”

“Me? I do not own a bank.” Kastrioti laughed, looking over the rim of the goblet. “But I may have a cousin who does. Several cousins, in fact.” He took another sip. “What does this thief look like?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then how—”

“He just deposited several million in gold bars,” Bolan stated, resting his elbows on the table. “That can’t happen every day, even to the Fifteen.”

Sipping more wine, Kastrioti gave no reaction to the mention of the organization. “No, it does not,” he said, setting the goblet aside. “Yes, I am aware of this person. The sum was truly impressive. But there is a small problem.”

“Which is?”

“You have not paid me anywhere near as much as he has deposited. Thus, he is more valuable to me than you.”

There was more movement on the other side of the roses, and Bolan distinctly heard the telltale click-clack of an arming bolt being pulled into place. Once again he changed the escape plan. Yes, this was a private little world, perfect for some bloody business far from the view of everybody else.

“At the moment, you’re correct,” Bolan said smoothly, shifting his weight. “But you see, in regards to the billions involved—”

“Billions?” Kastrioti interrupted in surprise.

Bolan smiled. “Of course! Did you—” Instantly, he surged upward, heaving against the heavy table with all his strength.

The candles and silverware went flying, while the heavier plates and wine bottles slid toward Kastrioti to crash in a noisy pile. Snarling curses, the Albanian toppled backward in his chair, but came up in a roll with the SIG-Sauer drawn.

“Freeze,” Bolan gritted, pressing his Beretta into the base of the fat man’s neck.

Startled that the voice came from behind him, Kastrioti started to turn, then stopped, easing his finger off the trigger of the deadly pistol.

“Smart move,” Bolan said. “Now drop it.”

“This is not good business, Yank,” Kastrioti muttered, letting go of his weapon. It hit the soft carpeting with a dull thud. “Simply tell us who you are working for, and you can leave alive.”

“Do the other one, too,” Bolan ordered, digging the barrel in deeper.

Kastrioti reached down to pull a small.32 Remington from an ankle holster.

“You really shouldn’t have put your feet on the table,” the soldier said, tapping the weapon out of the hands of the other man with the Beretta’s barrel. “Now, kick it away.”

Sullenly, Kastrioti complied.

“Okay, call off your boys,” Bolan commanded, watching the shadows move on the other side of the trellis. “Or you’re the first to die.”

For a moment, Kastrioti did nothing, panting deeply from the exertion of controlling his anger. “Not a chance in hell,” he growled, and dived to the floor.

A split second later, the entire trellis exploded as a dozen automatic weapons cut loose, spraying a hailstorm of high-velocity lead across the private alcove.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mazagón, Spain

“Bah, this smells like death,” a man announced, sniffing the stiff collar of his British uniform. An L-85 assault rifle was slung from his shoulder as per regulations, and a canvas belt of spare 5.56 mm magazine clips was strapped tightly around his waist.

Placing both hands behind his back, Thorodensen stood rigidly at attention. “Nonsense! All these uniforms have been thoroughly washed several time. They are absolutely clean.”

The man wearing the uniform of a CPO gave no reply, but his expression clearly stated that he completely disagreed with the former Icelandic ambassador, as did several other members of the group.

“I love this heat!” a large woman said, smiling into the warm sun.

“Dear God, I miss snow,” a small man growled in reply, wiping a sheen of sweat off his brow.

The ancient ridge of cooled lava had been smoothed over time by the crash of the gentle waves, yet the landscape still held a certain aspect of raw power that reminded the people of their distant home.

The dozen armed members of Penumbra stood in an orderly row, NATO equipment bags stacked neatly off to the side. Behind them rose a hulking concrete building situated at the extreme end of a rocky peninsula. Every door to the NATO disposal facility was made of solid steel, with three different types of locks. There were no windows whatsoever, and two massive chimneys rose from the middle of the structure like the horns of a demon. The entire grounds were enclosed with an electrified fence topped with razor wire, and a radar antenna spun nonstop on a nearby hill, where a SAM bunker was hidden.

The shore was lined with antipersonnel mines, a sunken WWI battleship blocked the narrow harbor, and a state-of-the-art NATO sonar sensor was hidden among the barnacles, rust and colorful coral.

The best way to approach the place was along a narrow road, a twisting ribbon of asphalt studded with concrete tank traps, edged with more land mines, and lined with rows of steel spikes fully capable of rendering even bulletproof tires into ragged shreds.

The exit ramp from the main highway was normally closed with a steel barrier designed to stop a modern-day tank, along with a secondary spread of steel spikes jutting from the pavement that would shred tires.

“I hope everything goes well this time,” Professor Vilhjalms said, hunching her shoulders. “Brooklyn was a disaster.”

“Yet we did get the mines, correct?”

“That is true,” she hedged. “But still…”

“Everything will be fine, Lily. The staff of the facility accepted my credentials, did they not?” Thorodensen said, minutely adjusting his cap. The insignia of a commander was stitched on the bill. “And why should they not? The papers are real enough. They were just not assigned to me.” He turned to smile at her tolerantly. “Everybody is gone, and we’re here alone. What could possibly gone wrong?”

“The unknown is what frightens me,” Vilhjalms said, glancing out to sea. Their Hercules seaplane was moored just over the horizon, well past the reach of any ground-based radar. If all went well, they would be gone within the hour. If not, escape was only minutes away. That gave her some solace.

Nervously, she tugged on the heavily starched uniform again. This had been the largest shirt among the dead sailors. However, it had been designed for a man, and it simply didn’t fit conformably across her more ample feminine contours. In an effort to flatten her breasts, she had removed her brassier. That helped, but not much, and now every step produced a very undignified jiggling effect. Everybody was trying not to notice, and she deeply appreciated the courtesy.

Trying not to be obvious, Vilhjalms glanced at Thorodensen, standing so close that she could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. The white uniform fitted him perfectly, of course. But then the man was built like a Norse god of war, and she wouldn’t have minded at all if he had noticed her unbound freedom. Not even a little bit. On impulse, she bumped a soft breast into his bare forearm.