Don Pendleton - Infiltration

“Put yourself in my shoes,” Godunov replied, spreading his arms. “You show up here, armed, with something that doesn’t really belong to you. You tell a crazy story about how you wrested this man, whom you do not know, away from a group of armed U.S. Customs agents—”

“Not a group,” Bolan interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

“You said I took him from a group of agents. Not true. He was with just one man when I found him.”

“And who was this man?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Bolan said. Inside, though, the statement confirmed his suspicions that Godunov—or someone in his employ—had a mole inside the U.S. Customs offices.

“And how did you even know where to look?”

“I got my sources,” Bolan said. “Listen, let’s cut out all the BS and get right to the chase. I have some inkling of who you are, and you can, and most likely will, find out who I am before too much longer. Hell, I wouldn’t doubt you got cameras all around this room right now, and you’re running that high-tech face recognizing stuff. Well, fine with me, then we don’t have to waste a lot of time. Now I’ve got something here you want, and I went to a lot of risk to get it. The question is, are you willing to pay for it, and if so, how much? That leads to another question, and that is whether or not you’re impressed enough with my work that you might want to offer me a job.”

“You’re looking for work?”

“No,” Bolan said flatly, “I’m looking for an opportunity. You can provide something solid, then we talk. Otherwise, I’m walking out of here now and taking your prize with me.”

“Then I guess there’s nothing more to discuss,” Godunov said.

That’s when Bolan’s senses went into high gear.

The pair of goons who emerged from two separate panels hidden in the walls came bearing sound-suppressed .22-caliber pistols. Bolan half expected a bit more firepower, but Godunov would have had trouble getting anything more past building security. Bolan had counted on that, and it looked like he’d proved his theory.

They came hard and fast, but the Executioner was ready. Bolan brought the sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R smoothly into play and took the first hood with a 9 mm Parabellum slug to the chest. The impact spun the gunner into the thick plate-glass window of the big corner office, and he bounced off, leaving a bloody splotch as the only evidence of his presence. The goon from the panel about sixty degrees to Bolan’s left tried to flank his position, but the Executioner found cover behind a leather couch that provided him with a good defensive posture.

Bolan got the second target with a double-tap to the head. The first round punched through the gunman’s face even as he was taking aim: his finger curled reflexively against the trigger and a bullet discharged into the carpeted floor. Bolan’s second round creased the top of the guy’s skull as his body started to topple, and deposited a patch of blood and flesh on the wall behind him.

The subsonic cartridges from the Beretta 93-R had suppressed any significant reports. Coupled with their distance from the front desk and the fact that the heavy door was closed, Bolan figured the fight hadn’t been heard. He doubted that anyone even occupied the adjoining offices, but if they had it still might not have made enough noise to cause alarm. Either way, Bolan now had another hurdle to overcome with Godunov.

“This isn’t what I came here for,” Bolan said as he leveled the pistol at the Russian. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

Godunov’s voice was icy. “Then you shouldn’t have come here with your deals.”

“I guess I shouldn’t have,” Bolan said.

He looked at Lutrova and said, “Let’s go, pal.”

They were nearly at the door when Godunov said, “Wait!”

Bolan turned and eyed him.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t be reasonable,” the man continued with a mock smile. “After all, only a fool wouldn’t explore all his options. Such relationships are built on an equal measure of trust.”

“Trust and loyalty aren’t my problem,” Bolan said. He grabbed Lutrova’s arm and thrust him into a nearby seat. Lutrova hit it with surprise on his face, and glanced at Bolan, who pretended as if he wasn’t there. “I’m a freelancer. I’ve built a reputation on getting a job done. You want what I have, then you have to pay for it. Keeps things simple.”

“Then you won’t mind giving me your name,” Godunov replied.

Bolan made a show of considering it, and then shrugged. “Guess I’ve got nothing to lose. Name’s Frankie Lambretta. I used to work for the Righetti Family until this last stint in Otisville.”

Godunov nodded knowingly. “The upstate New York prison facility. I’m familiar with it. But surely you have a parole officer you answer to.”

“Not anymore,” Bolan said with a cool smile. “He met with an unfortunate accident.”

“You are a man of style then.”

“I’m a man of profit, plain and simple. Now are you interested in doing business with me or not?”

Godunov sighed and took a seat. “What’s your price?”

“I’ll take twenty-five g’s for the genius there,” Bolan said. “And a job.”

“I’m not sure I have a place for you directly in my organization,” Godunov replied.

“Don’t be sly, pal.”

“Not at all.” Godunov reached carefully for a card on his desk and extended it to Bolan. “But I believe I know someone who would be interested in your work.”

Bolan cast a cautionary glance at Lutrova before walking to Godunov’s desk and snatching the card. He studied it a moment, a plain white card with only a phone number. “What’s this supposed to do for me?”

“Call that number and ask for the Wolf.”

Bolan cocked his head with skepticism. “You pull anything on me and I’ll kill you, friend. You can bank on it.”

“Again, we agreed that any relationship should be built on trust.”

Bolan gestured toward the two corpses on the carpet. “Like that? That’s your idea of trust?”

“Surely a man of your talents must understand my position. I have gotten this far by being cautious. The people I work for absolutely demand this. If I weren’t, neither my life nor that of our friend here—” he waved at Lutrova “—would be worth anything.”

Bolan nodded and pocketed the card. “Fine. I’ll just hold on to my catch until you have the money.”

“No need.” Godunov reached into a drawer, again careful not to make any sudden moves, and withdrew three one-hundred-dollar-bill bundles. He tossed them on the desk and said, “There’s thirty thousand in cash. Let’s call the added five a measure of my good faith.”

Bolan didn’t hesitate before scooping them off the desk and pocketing them. “Fine. Consider us square.”

He wheeled around and headed for the exit.

“One more thing,” Godunov said as Bolan reached the office door. “I will be looking into your background. If you are not who you say you are, I will find out. And when I do, you would be better to take the money and disappear rather than attempt to deceive me.”

Bolan flashed a cocksure grin and replied, “Yeah. You do that.”

ONCE BOLAN LEFT the building, he walked several blocks past the parking garage to check for marks. Nobody appeared to be tailing him, so he circled back to the garage and retrieved his rental. He contacted Stony Man after putting some distance between him and Godunov’s offices.

Barbara Price answered. “How did it go?”

“I think I’m in,” Bolan said. “I need another favor. Do some looking into any mercenary groups operating in the U.S.”

“Sure. Are we looking for anything in particular?”

“Not certain yet, but I have a moniker called ‘the Wolf.’ I don’t know if it means anything, but I if you cross-reference it with known freelancers, you may come up with something solid.”