Survival Mission

Staying well beyond arm’s reach, Reynek lowered his pistol. “I am undecided as to that,” he said. “This case has…complications.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. Your name?”

“Matt Cooper.”

“With papers to support it?”

“If you’d like to see them,” Bolan answered.

“Maybe later. You’re American, like Mr. Murton. Sent, no doubt, to rescue him where Czech police could not?”

“Before you take offense,” Bolan replied, “that’s how it played.”

“You’re right again. And I take no offense. Nor do I take responsibility for others when they fail. You represent the FBI? Perhaps the CIA?”

“Neither,” Bolan answered. Walking on the razor’s edge of truth as he said, “I’m a private contractor.”

“Ah, Blackwater!”

“Without a private army or religious motivations,” Bolan said.

“A purist. I salute you for succeeding where so many of my colleagues proved inadequate.”

If that was meant as sarcasm, Reynek needed to work on his delivery. He’d come off sounding too sincere, a feeling reinforced by the expression on his dour face. He glanced back toward the Citroën, seeming relaxed and heedless of the ALFA autoloader still in Bolan’s hand.

“These kreténi, I suppose, are Mr. Murton’s kidnappers?”

“Some of them,” Bolan said.

“Where might I find the others?”

Bolan saw that he had nothing left to lose. He said, “Check out a place called Oskar’s. It’s a gym for boxers.”

“It’s a pigsty,” Reynek said. “Owned by the Werich syndicate. You know them?”

“Not offhand,” Bolan replied.

“If we had time, I might enhance your education,” Reynek told him. “But your friend needs medical attention and he needs to leave the country.”

Murton’s shuffling footsteps closed on Bolan from behind. “Not goin’ anywhere widout my daughter,” he told Reynek.

“In which case,” Reynek said, “I shall be forced to place you in protective custody. You are, at the least, a material witness to multiple crimes. Perhaps you’re a suspect yourself. When we find Mikoláš Zeman—”

“You won’t,” Murton replied, voice growing stronger, clearer by the second.

“And now, a confession of murder.” Reynek shrugged at Bolan. “I’m afraid your companion leaves me no choice.”

Murton came forward in a stumble-rush, growling, but Bolan intercepted him and marched him backward to the Volvo. “Stay right here and keep your mouth shut,” Bolan ordered. “We might walk away from this if you don’t screw it up.”

“I’m here for Mandy, damn you!”

“And you blew it!” Bolan answered harshly. “Get your mind around that, will you? You’re half-dead, about to be arrested, and you never came within a mile of her. If anything, you’ve made her situation worse.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Murton challenged.

“She had value on her own,” Bolan replied, voice lowered almost to a hiss. “It’s hard to live with, but you know it’s true. Now, thanks to you, she’s turned into a fatal liability. Get it? She may be dead, thanks to your vigilante-daddy act.”

The words took Murton down like body blows. His knees sagged, leaving him to clutch the Volvo for support. Bolan could hear him sobbing as he leaned in and repeated, “Right here. Mouth shut.”

Back with Reynek, he asked, “So, what comes next?”

“It’s getting late,” the sergeant said. “If I deliver you and Mr. Murton, I’ll be lucky to see home again this time tomorrow. I propose we take him to a doctor known for personal discretion, then arrange for Mr. Murton’s safe return to the United States. His wealthy friends will no doubt wish to hold a grand reception.”

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