Shadow Strike. Don Pendleton

“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.