Shadow Strike

Stepping out of the vehicle, he left the door open and flipped the keys over a shoulder. From a nearby kiosk, a teenage valet rushed forward to snag them in the air, muttering apologies for not being more prompt.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” Bolan chuckled, pulling out a wad of cash. Peeling off a hundred euro note, he let it drop. “Just park it close.”

“Absolutely, sir!” the valet gushed, beaming over the colossal tip. “I wash, too! Good job!” One hundred euros was a month’s wages.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said, dismissing the matter with a wave. “Just don’t scratch the paint or I’ll break your legs.”

“Yes, sir! No, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Heading for the front door, Bolan noticed the armored limousine from the traffic circle parked in a handicap zone. Standing around the vehicle were four large men openly carrying Uzi submachine guns, with spare clips jutting from their belts like samurai swords. One of them had a dead white eye, and a military-style hand mike dangled over the shoulder of his white linen suit. Bolan instantly marked him as the crew chief.

The men watched him closely, shifting to a more aggressive stance, but Bolan ignored the street soldiers as if such a sight was an everyday occurrence. He would wager five-to-ten that the limo belonged to Rezart Kastrioti, the man he was supposed to meet in a few minutes for lunch.

Stepping through a revolving door, Bolan felt as if he was entering another world. The structure was hollow and rose impossibly high, the rooms arranged along the outer rim. By craning his neck, the big American could see straight to the vaulted roof some fifty stories above.

The air was cool and clean, smelling faintly of jasmine. Lush plants grew in orderly abundance, and carpeted steps led to a spacious lobby that stretched nearly the length of a football field. Glass elevators rose and descended at several locations, liveried staff rushed about carrying trays, and soft instrumental music played from hidden speakers. Bolan identified it as something by Debussy. Signs pointed the way to the indoor golf course, water park, brothel, restaurant, casino and skeet shooting range.

A score of elegant people moved through the lobby, the men in tailored business suits, the women in skimpy dresses that showed a wealth of cleavage and displayed long legs. Everybody was deeply tanned, and accompanied by secretaries, assistants, armed bodyguards, aides, butlers and maids, while nannies herded small children or pushed babies in strollers.

Bolan pretended to check his watch, barely able to believe the ebb and flow of people. It was more like opening night at the Metropolitan Opera than a simple Tuesday morning. Was this some national holiday he didn’t know about? That could be a major problem.

That was when he noticed the carefully disguised video cameras. They were everywhere, overlapping one another’s ranges. There was absolutely no way anybody could go anywhere unnoticed. This was prison level security. Bolan realized that this wasn’t merely some random hotel; it had to be owned and operated by the Fifteen Families. The King Zog was most likely the nerve center of Albania, a safe haven of luxury and comfort for the criminal elite, far from the misery and strife they caused.

Instantly, he changed his plans for an emergency escape. There were far too many innocent bystanders in the line of fire to do a blitz of any kind. Which left him only one option if things went wrong. But hopefully, he wouldn’t have to do anything that extreme.

Radiating confidence, he coolly headed for the restaurant. Appearing as if from nowhere, smiling waiters bowed and removed a velvet rope to usher him through to a private section. A young waitress gave a curtsy in passing. Bolan stayed in character and merely grunted in return.

Just past an array of private booths, Bolan found another part of the restaurant had been sectioned off by a wooden trellis covered with a thick blanket of live roses, a secret world hidden within the mob terrarium. Inside the decorative arbor were a dozen tables, all empty except for the largest. That could accommodate twenty, but there were only two settings, on opposite sides. Sitting at the head of the table was a short fat man in a reclining office chair, his dirty shoes on the linen tablecloth. Rezart “The Hacksaw” Kastrioti was puffing on a black cigar, a SIG-Sauer pistol peeking out from a shoulder holster under his tailored suit. The man was clean-shaved, including his head. A diamond twinkled from his right earlobe, and his left shoe had a extra-thick bottom, indicating that that leg was slightly shorter than the other.

Possibly from having rickets as a child, Bolan guessed. Which meant he had been poor once, but wasn’t anymore. He had to have worked his way up the organization, by being either smart or ruthless, probably both. That told Bolan a lot about the man.

“Get your damn feet off the table!” Bolan snapped.

With a start, Kastrioti instinctively obeyed, not used to being ordered about by anybody but his direct superiors in the organization. Then he scowled and started to go for the pistol under his jacket, until Bolan burst into laughter, sat down in a chair and put his own feet on the table.

“Stop hogging all the room.” He chuckled. “Is that how you treat a guest?”

Breathing deeply, Kastrioti did nothing for a long moment, and Bolan started to think he had read the man wrong. Then Kastrioti snorted a nasal guffaw and slapped the tabletop with an open palm.

“I like your style, Yank!” He laughed, pointing a finger across the table. “You take no shit! Me, too! I am Rezart Kastrioti! Welcome to my country!”

Never had Bolan heard that phrase used so accurately. It was his country, every rock, tree and bush. “A pleasure.” He smiled and gave a salute. “Now, do you want to talk business first or—”

“Business always first,” Kastrioti stated, pushing aside a plate to fold his hands on the table. “Afterward we shall have wine, women and song, eh?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Agreed!” He smiled, then went darkly serious. “So…pirates have been bothering your ships. That is not good for profits. How can we help? Do you want armed guards on the ships, or military escorts, or—”

Bolan interrupted. “What I told my representative this meeting was about, and want I really want to talk to you about are two entirely different things.” Swinging his feet to the floor, Bolan slid the briefcase across the table.

Scowling, Kastrioti looked at the case while thoughtfully rubbing a ring on his thumb. Then he reached out to turn the case around and flip up the lid.

“Nice,” he whispered, fingering the stacks of cash before he closed the case again. “Very nice, indeed. Okay, Yank, what is it you really want? Slaves, drugs or guns?”

“Just some information.”

“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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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