Infiltration

“Out here,” the Executioner said.

He sat in his rental and studied the harborside café and surroundings, watchful for anyone out of the ordinary. Chances were slim to none that Volkov would follow his instructions to come alone, and if he did have additional men, Bolan knew they’d be professional enough to make themselves conspicuous. The soldier figured if he played his cards right he’d walk away from the meet. He’d picked the place at random out of a phone book, after checking with a local shop owner for a decent public venue to conduct an impromptu business meeting. The shop owner had taken one look at Bolan with an expression that implied he wasn’t buying the whole business meeting story. Obviously, this area was used more to conduct meetings between unsavory characters than Bolan had first surmised. Still, the shop owner’s recommendation had seemed acceptable.

Bolan kept one eye on the storefront and checked his watch. Ten minutes until the meet was supposed to go down, and so far he hadn’t seen anything to alert him that trouble brewed in the near future. But again, he couldn’t rely on that alone. The Wolf hadn’t survived this long without being careful, and he would most certainly bring backup, even if he bought Bolan’s cover and story as a down-on-his-luck enforcer looking for work.

The entire thing was thin at best, but Bolan knew he didn’t have any other options. Without this charade he stood almost no chance of getting inside Godunov’s operations. Even this move wouldn’t necessarily put him in the center of things unless he could convince Godunov that some “outside force” threatened the operation. That would be the crux of his story to the Wolf, and maybe, just maybe, Bolan could pull it off.

He scanned the crowd in front of the café again, and this time he spotted the mark. The man was tall and muscular, his conditioning visible through the tan slacks and black T-shirt he wore. It wasn’t so much how he looked as how he moved that allowed the Executioner to pick him out of a crowd. Trained and experienced combatants carried themselves in very specific ways, and while those telltale signs weren’t obvious to the untrained observer, they spoke volumes to a professional like Bolan. This was definitely the Wolf.

The soldier got out of his sedan, locked it and proceeded straight toward him. He reached the café just as the mercenary stepped inside and began to scan the crowded tables.

Bolan came up behind him and quietly said, “Looking for me?”

The Wolf, aka Volkov, turned and glanced at him in surprise. They were about the same height, although the Russian might have had an inch or two on Bolan. His blond hair and cool blue eyes reminded Bolan of Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Able Team’s fearless leader, but that’s where the similarities ended. Where Lyons possessed a humoring demeanor just beneath the cynical surface he wore, there was nothing even remotely gregarious about Volkov. Bolan guessed there was only hard, cold granite in the muscular chest of this guy, and a psychopathic nature born from a love for killing—and it was obvious Volkov had done a lot of it.

“Not a good start, sneaking up on a potential employer,” Volkov said with a sneer.

“Funny, I didn’t think I was ‘sneaking’ up on you,” Bolan replied with an equal amount of acid in his voice. He had to be conciliatory, but he also needed to maintain the aura of a hardened Mob enforcer. It was important in his role that he show Volkov he wouldn’t just flip over and show his belly to anybody; such a move would cause him to lose any and all credibility in the Russian’s eyes, and more than likely lead to trouble.

Bolan glanced outside, and although he didn’t spot anybody, he said, “I see you didn’t come alone like I told you.”

“You seem to have forgotten your place here, Frankie,” Volkov replied. “You’re here asking me for something, not the other way around. I do whatever the fuck I want to do. You get me?”

Bolan made a show of looking uncertain, letting Volkov think he’d taken him off his guard, and then he smiled. “Yeah, sure… I get you, pal. No need to get your shorts in a bunch. I was just feeling you out, is all. I’m pretty careful when it comes to choosing the people I work for. I don’t want to end up getting my throat cut because the crew I’m with or its leader has no jewels. Know what I’m saying?”

Volkov nodded. “So what is it you want?”

“Well, since you know my name, then I assume our, uh, mutual friend contacted you and told you I was looking for a new crew.”

“I saw some tables out there,” Volkov said. “Let’s sit outside.”

Bolan nodded and the two men made their way to a table on the fringes of the patio. The rest of the harborside dock was busy, as lunchtime had finally arrived. Longshoremen and suits from nearby businesses had started to flood the area, cramming like sardines into every coffee shop, deli and grill they could find along the harbor. The sun streamed down onto the dock and took much from the bite of the slight breezes off the water. It actually turned out to be a pretty nice day for mid-February in New York.

When they were seated, Bolan got straight to business. “So I understand you may be looking for some additional hands.”

Volkov nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Hey,” Bolan said, “those guys that your boss sent after me in his office… I hope they weren’t your guys. Because I was just defending myself. Guy’s got a right to do that, huh?”

“I don’t provide private security for Mr. Godunov,” Volkov said. “I operate, shall we say…independently. And yes, I’m in the market for new talents. But I’m not sure you’re going to work out.”

“Why not?” Bolan splayed his hands in true Italian fashion and said, “What’s the beef you got with me? We barely know each other and you’re already backing down.”

“I’m not backing down,” Volkov said, his gaze roving among the crowd. “I’m just saying that I don’t know if your type of skills and training would fit into the outfit I run. You’re used to doing things a certain way, and anybody I bring on board would have to adjust to doing things my way. Your résumé says you’re a little on the wild side, taken to doing things your own way, and I cannot afford that kind of risk. It’s a liability to me and to the people I work for.”

“Hey, listen, pal, I get results.”

“That may be,” Volkov replied, now meeting Bolan’s gaze directly for the first time. “But I don’t want results at the cost of compromising my position. I want loyalty. I want obedience. I expect you to do things my way and only my way. Do you think you can do that?”

Bolan appeared to think about it for a while, and then said, “Yeah, I suppose I could give it a try.”

Volkov stood. “Oh, you’ll have to give it more than a try, Frankie.” He slid a card across the table. “Be at that address tomorrow morning, 0600 sharp.”

“Oh-six what?”

“That’s six o’clock in the morning.”

“Uh, kind of early.”

Volkov raised a finger. “Remember our agreement. My way.”

“Yeah, yeah… Your way.”

So just like that, Bolan was in. Although there was one small problem: it had been a little too easy.

And the Executioner knew he was about to find out why.

CHAPTER SIX

Eduardo Capistrano had made his fortunes on the philosophy there was a sucker born every minute.

He didn’t see how this made him any different than the hundreds of other traders and foreign investors. After all, dealing with companies in other countries—particularly those in the E.U.—had always been more lucrative. There weren’t the regulations to deal with that he faced in the U.S., and he didn’t have the IRS crawling up his ass every tax season. No 1099 interest statements or foreign income investment slips; nobody from the Securities Exchange Commission sniffing around, crapping on his lawn and the like.

No, all Capistrano had to do was sit back and watch the cash roll in.

Sure, every once in a while he’d have to field a complaint from some yuppie calling from his mansion up in the Cape, take the occasional panicked call from a rich bitch sunbathing her sculpted body courtesy of modern medical science. But a kickback here or a few grand in interest dividends usually kept them at bay.

After all, they didn’t need to know Capistrano was pulling down over a mil-and-a-quarter a month. He’d given up his personal integrity and kept his mouth shut, and it had definitely paid off.

And it wasn’t just the cash. There were the other perks to think of, like the young, dark-haired Hispanic woman squirming her head deeper into his lap as she stretched her sensuous, athletic body on the sofa. His sixty-inch plasma televisions with the wireless internet and the high definition picture-in-picture. The vacations to exotic locales like Cancun, Rio de Janeiro and Greece, or the “business trips” twice a year to Paris. Ah yes, and how he could he forget Italy? Eduardo Capistrano had never thought such a lifestyle could be his, but it was there for the taking if one was willing to take a few risks.

Despite the fact the activities weren’t exactly on the legit side, Capistrano had never worried about repercussions. The people with whom he did business—rumors flew around circles that it was the Russian mob, but nobody really had any proof—weren’t willing to show their faces in public. They couldn’t afford that kind of scrutiny, so it didn’t much matter what he said or did. He could go where he wanted and when he wanted, and the people who took his money had nothing to say about it.

Capistrano enjoyed the very best life had to offer. He worked from home, kept his nose clean and attended all the latest social events. He had two kids in a posh Catholic school. He went to the best parties, wore the best clothes and rubbed elbows with others as rich as him—although they were typically a bit more famous. And he never allowed himself to be in the limelight.

There were two men he paid who were responsible for making sure he stayed that way. They accompanied him just about everywhere he went, made sure his path was clear and that nobody was putting his nose in Capistrano’s business. His men were more than just bodyguards; they ran his errands, maintained round-the-clock security on his home and prevented anyone from getting too close when he was in public.

Capistrano never allowed anyone to photograph him and he didn’t do interviews. Hell, even the half-dozen companies he owned were managed by boot-lickers who got their jollies from driving their BMWs to work and throwing wild poolside parties with others of their species. As long as they did what they were told and signed the papers they were ordered to sign, Capistrano didn’t give a shit what they did.

But all of that lent to his surprise when a tall, distinguished looking type showed up at his front door asking to speak to him. Capistrano’s security chief told the man to go away, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. He wasn’t an overly big man, tall but lean, and not very dangerous looking, so Capistrano thought about telling his man to throw the guy out on his ear. Still, discretion was the better part of valor, and so he let Nick show the guy into the parlor, Capistrano still lived in a part of the world where houses had parlors, near the Hudson River.

“What can I do for you, Mr….”

“My name’s Godunov, Yuri Godunov,” the man said.

Capistrano could feel his blood run cold at his extremities, and he had the sensation of a marble being lodged in his throat. He had only a moment to decide how to react, and he decided not to react at all. But the very name alone told Capistrano just about everything he needed to know. He hadn’t really believed the rumors about the Russian Mob, but this guy, his accent and his name and just every damn thing about him, screamed of Russian until it practically dripped from his pores.

“And what can I do for you, Mr. Godunov?”