That way, Kurti could avoid expensive, time-consuming searches that exposed his men to greater risks from both their unknown enemy and the authorities. He had been lucky so far, with the FBI and DEA, whose focus on Albanians had cracked the Rudaj syndicate in Queens but left the group that Kurti served intact.
That luck had been too good to last, perhaps, but Kurti meant to take advantage of it while he could.
By this time tomorrow, he hoped to have good news for Rahim Berisha at home.
And to save his own life in the process.
VOLKOVA USED a piece of motel stationery to sketch a map of Lorik Cako’s place in the Pine Barrens, giving Bolan a bird’s-eye view of the spread and its lone access road.
“You’ve flown over the place?” he inquired.
“But of course,” she answered, smiling. “Several companies advertise tours of the region. I chose Jersey Devil Airlines. Their pilot was most attentive.”
“I’m not surprised. No photos, though?”
“I did not wish to give him food for thought, yes?”
“Right. Good thinking.”
Bolan guessed that he could trust her memory, considering the fact that she was set to bet her own life on it. What the drawing didn’t offer was a head count of the staff on-site or any hint concerning Cako’s possible security precautions.
“It’s a good-size house,” he said. “And that’s a barn?”
“Apparently. Of course, it may have been converted into lodging, or for other purposes.”
Like selling kidnapped women off as slaves.
Or chopping captives into bite-size pieces for the local forest scavengers.
“It’s too bad that I lost my rental car,” Bolan observed. “I had some gear stashed in the trunk that could’ve come in handy.”
“More than this?” she asked, half smiling, as she nodded toward his carbine and assorted other hardware piled beside his chair.
“More ammunition,” Bolan said. “A sniper rifle. And an M-32 MGL.”
“The grenade launcher? Forty millimeter, I believe.”
“That’s it,” Bolan concurred.
“It would be useful. I suggest we go back for your car, after we sleep.”
He had to frown at that. “Sounds like we’re wasting time.”
“Cako will need that time to calm his customers, if they’re still with him. If they’re not, we have lost nothing.”
“Nothing but the women,” Bolan said.
“You think he will dispose of them?”
“He might.”
“Cako may be a zhopa—what you call an asshole—but he’s first a businessman. He won’t dispose of valuable merchandise without good reason. More importantly, his masters would resent it.”
“After last night, he may think he has a reason,” Bolan said.
“I doubt it. Certainly, he faces inquiries from the authorities. His house may need repairs. But who can link him to the women or even prove they exist? In his mind, I assure you—and in Arben Kurti’s mind, as well—the living women still have value. Now, if they were rescued by police and were prepared to testify…”
She didn’t have to finish it.
“Okay,” Bolan agreed. “Let’s say you’re right. I have to get it done this time. Clear out the hostages and deal with Cako, then take Kurti out before he slips away.”
“You’re an ambitious man,” Volkova said.
“I dropped the ball tonight,” Bolan replied. “Call it damage control.”
“And I will help you.”
“Won’t your people be upset?” Bolan inquired. “I don’t imagine you were sent to hunt down the Albanians this way.”
She shrugged and told him, “My superiors appreciate results. There was no realistic prospect of collaborating with your FBI toward prosecution of Kurti or Cako. I’m more likely to be charged myself, for some infringement on homeland security.”
“I take it you don’t have a diplomatic pass?”
“Only a simple tourist visa, as it happens.”
Simple tourist. Right.
“Okay. We give the other side some time to pacify their customers, then see about my car when everybody’s heading off to work. Sound fair?”
“I’ll change now,” Volkova said, “to save some time.”
He watched her take some items from a dresser drawer and disappear into the small bathroom. Ten minutes later she was back, dressed in a tight black turtleneck and matching jeans, hair tied back in a ponytail. All that she needed was some war paint to cover her peaches-and-cream complexion, but Bolan wasn’t complaining.
“You’ve come prepared,” he said.
“I do,” she told him, ducking to retrieve a duffel bag from underneath her bed. She set it on the bedspread, opened it and pulled out an AKS-74U carbine. The U stood for Ukorochenniy—“shortened,” in Russian—and the stubby piece lived up to its name. It was a standard Kalashnikov AK-74 assault rifle, truncated to fire from an 8.3-inch barrel, with a skeletal folding stock. Ammo-wise, it chambered 5.45 mm rounds with the same magazines holding thirty or forty-five cartridges, with an effective range of six hundred yards and a full-auto cyclic rate of 650 rounds per minute.
“You didn’t pack that flying coach,” Bolan said.
“Indeed not,” Volkova replied. “The diplomatic pouch is good for something, yes?”
“Seems so. About that sleep…”
“We are adult enough to share the bed, I think.”
“Suits me,” the Executioner agreed.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Pine Barrens
Lorik Cako seethed internally but dared not let his anger or embarrassment be visible. He viewed Kurti’s surprise arrival as a calculated insult, an expression of his leader’s sense that Cako couldn’t handle any of the problems that confronted them, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.
Not with Kurti’s hard-eyed men surrounding him.
Cako was forced to smile and nod and play along, ever the dutiful subordinate who wouldn’t harbor any disloyal thoughts regardless of the provocation. Total crap, but
