Rokva grabbed the extended finger and bent it backward, forcing Nome to his knees.
“I do not like to repeat myself,” he said, bringing more pressure to bear. “Do not ever use that tone with me. And never question my instructions again. Do you understand?”
Nome’s face contorted in pain as his head bobbed up and down.
Rokva maintained his grip for a few seconds more before releasing the man with a sudden push.
The American tumbled backward onto his backside, glaring upward with hatred in his eyes, but saying nothing.
Nikoloz unzipped his parka a bit more and pulled it open, displaying the 9 mm Tokarev pistol that he wore in a shoulder holster.
After a few more seconds of silence, Nome looked away and slowly got to his feet. “Okay, man,” he said. “I’m sorry, okay? No disrespect meant.”
Rokva nodded. He had already made the decision that this vermin had outlived his usefulness. Their route had obviously been compromised. It was time to take care of loose ends.
“But look...” Nome said, brushing the snow off the back of his pants. “I still got a right to know what’s going on, don’t I?”
The Georgian took out his cigarettes again, leisurely removing one from the pack and sticking it between his lips. As he raised his lighter, the stillness of the night was interrupted by a distinct crack.
A gunshot.
Sergei had apparently found the trooper.
“What the hell was that?” Nome asked.
“Nothing that is of concern to you,” Rokva said. He held the flame to the tip of his cigarette.
Nome Airport, Alaska
A myriad of tiny white flecks of snow crashed against the windshield as Bolan surveyed the lighted tarmac before them. The airport wasn’t very large and a one-story tan building in the center formed the main hub. Bolan assumed the row of hangars lay beyond that.
Once Grimaldi had taxied up as close as he could to the terminal, he shut the jet down and coasted to a stop as the ground crew came running forward to meet them. The Stony Man pilot yawned as he unbuckled himself.
Bolan unfastened his seatbelt, stood and stretched. Unable to adequately rest during the flight, he was feeling the unwelcome vestiges of fatigue and stiffness residing in his tight muscles. After sitting for over three and a half hours, it felt good to stretch a bit. He wondered if the lingering fatigue was a byproduct of the cramped conditions or the lack of sleep. Both he and Grimaldi had been on the go since early the morning of what was now the previous day, and he could use a cup of hot, strong coffee.
Grimaldi worked the lever to unlock the door and release the stairway so they could deplane. The cold air engulfed them as soon as the door was fully open.
“Jeez, I shoulda brought an extra pair of long johns.”
Bolan picked up the two backpacks that contained their weapons and tossed Grimaldi his.
As soon as he stepped out onto the platform, the blast of frigid air engulfed Bolan like a blanket of ice. It was a vivid reminder of how inadequate their clothing was for this climate and their need to restock before they could proceed any further on this mission. He hoped Kurtzman had taken care of that, but at the same time he assumed everything had been set in place. He had never let the Executioner down.
As they made their way across the tarmac, Bolan caught sight of a big man in a brown parka and dark stocking hat waiting at the entrance to a hangar. The bright colors of the Alaska state trooper patch decorated the man’s left shoulder. Also visible was a conspicuous bulge on the big man’s right hip—a weapon, no doubt. As he and Grimaldi drew closer, the trooper grinned, his white teeth flashing from under a bushy reddish mustache.
“I’m Lieutenant Dave Case,” he said, extending his hand. “Alaska State Troopers.”
Bolan shook Case’s hand. “Matt Cooper, Justice Department.” With his left hand, he held up the false DOJ credentials that he routinely used as a cover. Grimaldi showed his faux ID, as well.
Case barely glanced at them, instead staring into Bolan’s eyes.
“Welcome to Alaska,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting the guys who had enough clout to wake up my district supervisor in the middle of the night and then have him send me out as a welcoming committee.”
“From the size of you, big guy,” Grimaldi said with a chuckle, “committee’s an appropriate term.”
Case snorted. “Yeah, you know what they say. Everything’s bigger in Alaska.”
“I take it your supervisor mentioned that we’re on the trail of some human traffickers?” Bolan asked, steering things back to business.
“He did. We dispatched a man up to the Wales area to check things out.”
“One man? The guys we ran into in Seattle played pretty rough. Russian mafiya from the looks of it.”
Case’s face took on a serious expression. “That’s what I was told, but up in these parts we don’t have an unlimited number of personnel to send on any given call. We’re used to working alone.”
“Has your man gotten there yet?” Bolan asked.
“He radioed Dispatch that he’d arrived at the airstrip and was going to checking things out. But that was a while ago and we haven’t heard back from him.”
“Well,” Grimaldi said, jerking his thumb toward the now vacant Learjet, “as soon as that baby’s fueled up and ready to go, I’ll fly us up there.”
“I take it you haven’t been up here before,” Case said.
“We’ve been all over the world,” Grimaldi replied. “Although this place hasn’t exactly been on my bucket list. But an airport’s an airport in my book.”
“You could hardly call what’s up that way the kind of airport you’re used to. It’s a gravel strip about four thousand feet long that’s usually plowed, depending on the weather.” He gestured toward the jet. “I doubt you’d have enough room to land that thing on it without a tail-hook. Not to mention the gravel getting sucked up into the turbines.”
Grimaldi pursed his lips, said nothing.
“Lieutenant,” Bolan said, “we need to get up there ASAP. We’ve been tracking this group for several hours and your man might need backup.”
“I agree,” Case said. “But we don’t always have a ton of equipment at our disposal.” He pointed toward a blue-and-white helicopter. “That’s one of ours, and it’s ready to go, but we’re waiting on a pilot.”
Grimaldi cleared his throat loudly. “Well, you got one. I’ll go start my preflight check.”
“You can fly a copter?” Case asked.
“In my sleep, wearing a blindfold over one eye.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a different ballgame up here,” Case said. “With the weather conditions and the mountains and—”
“I know all about carb-heat, bud,” Grimaldi said. “Listen, if it’s got wings or rotors, I can fly it, and that includes anyplace on the planet. Now, excuse me.” He began walking toward the helicopter.
“He’s a cocky son of bitch, isn’t he?” Case said with grin. “Can he back it up?”
“He walks the walk,” Bolan said, feeling the effects of the brutal temperature starting to numb his body. “I believe you were supposed to get us some appropriate cold-weather gear, as well, weren’t you?”
“Oh, right.” Case stepped to the side and indicated that he should step into the hangar. “It’s a bit warmer in there.”
Case pointed to three large duffel bags, each stuffed with equipment. A black elliptical case, apparently containing snowshoes, was draped over each one.
“There are also survival rations in the copter.”
“I appreciate your efforts.”
“Nothing but the best for the DOJ,” Case said. “You brought your own weapons I take it?”
Bolan held up his backpack and nodded before heading into the relative warmth of the hangar. The pervasive cold s
till lingered like an unwelcome adversary. He went to a duffel bag and opened it. A heavy parka had been packed on top and Bolan pulled it out and slipped it on. The fit was pretty good.
“We’ll need some extra ammo, too,” he said to Case. “Nine millimeter, if you can spare it.”
“Not a problem,” the trooper replied. “What kind of guns you guys carrying?”
Bolan didn’t answer. He had no desire to explain why they were both equipped with two MP-5 submachine guns as well as their sidearms. Instead, he went to the other duffel, pulled out an identical parka and walked it over to Grimaldi.
“Here you go, Jack,” Bolan said, tossing his partner the parka.
Grimaldi caught it and slipped it on quickly. He rubbed his hands together and then covered his ears. “I need a stocking hat, too. Or maybe that balaclava.”
Bolan nodded and went to Grimaldi’s backpack, which was lying on the ground a few feet away. He unzipped the side panel and took out the black balaclava. It was made of a thin material that expelled perspiration but allowed the wearer to feel warmth in colder climates while maintaining comfort in unbearably hotter ones. He gave the mask to Grimaldi, who slipped it on and went back to his inspection of the chopper.
Bolan was digging in his own backpack when Case came up beside him.
“I didn’t know you DOJ agents did field investigations like this,” he said. “Aren’t you guys more into the white-collar stuff?”
Grimaldi paused with his inspection and pulled open the parka, gripping the dark collar of his BDU blouse with his thumb and forefinger. “Does that look white to you?”
Case said nothing.
“We’re more in the tactical investigative branch,” Bolan said.
Case looked from one to the other and nodded. “Okay. I get it.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.
Bolan wondered whom the man was calling, but didn’t ask. Case spoke loud enough for him to gather that the call was to the central dispatch regarding the trooper sent to the Wales area.
After a few moments, Case frowned and terminated the call. “My trooper still hasn’t checked in again from the scene,” he said. “How soon can you get that thing ready?”
“Give me about ten more minutes,” Grimaldi said.
Case nodded and went to a Jeep Cherokee with Alaska State Police markings. He opened the door and removed a duffel bag and an AR-15 that was sitting on top. He slid the rifle into a black leather sleeve attached to the side of the bag. Bolan was glad to see that the weapon had a thirty-round magazine.
In a few minutes they would be underway and hopefully on the trail of some answers.
Chapter Three
Somewhere over the interior of Alaska
Nikoloz Rokva stared out of the small window of the plane. He could see little more than darkness beyond the faint reflection of himself and knew that sunrise was still hours away even though the night would be ending shortly. They had been in the air for approximately forty minutes and he hoped that by now Vasilli Denisov was nearing the completion of his tasks.
Rokva did not like the idea of leaving him there waiting on the second plane, or telling him to deal with the drunken Greagor Lebed. It was time to cull the herd and dump that fat idiot along with the rest of the loose ends that had to be tied up with the Eskimos. It would be a good test of Denisov’s capabilities. It was time to start anew.
Still, the thought of abandoning this now established trail was not a pleasant one. It had a certain historical appeal, traveling back to the land that was once regarded as the Czar’s Westernmost Empire. But he knew the change was necessary. The route had no doubt become compromised and would be of no further use. He had always held to the hard and fast rule never to become too attached to anything, be it an established practice or a person.
“Maintain nothing that you cannot walk away from in an instant and without regret,” Arkadi Delusovich, his mentor, had said when Rokva was coming up through the ranks of the organization. “And never be lulled into complacency by the comfort of the routine.”
And the Georgian had always held to that. With one exception: Sergei.
Their friendship had persisted through their formative years and their bond was strong. Not that there was anything perverse about their relationship. Sergei loved women and Rokva often took his pleasure there, as well. But his tastes were more varied. Still, he knew Sergei was disgusted by what he viewed as the decadence of the West and was convinced it would eventually lead to its downfall. Rokva did nothing to discourage that view. However he secretly felt that it never hurt to dance with the devil occasionally, so long as you did not become one of his permanent guests.
He smiled. Perhaps someday, under the right circumstances, he would reveal his darker side to Sergei. But perhaps not. Until that time, he would take full advantage of the opportunities the decadence and indulgences that the West afforded. It was supply and demand, and he had an endless supply of merchandise. He heard a cough and glanced back at the figures huddling together in the cargo bay of the plane. A few of the women were silently weeping. Possibly, they sensed that the forced separation back at the village had dire consequences for some members of their party.
Rokva removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. So many variables to juggle, as the clock continued to tick. He glanced around, almost appreciating the vagueness of the soft, myopic blur, before replacing his glasses and bringing everything back into sharp focus.
Sergei ambled toward him, stooping because of the low ceiling of the plane. He sat beside Nikoloz and blew out a breath.
“Things are getting fucked up this time, aren’t they?” Sergei said.
The mafiya captain shrugged. “It does not matter. It was time to formulate a new route anyway. Routine spells predictability, and that is never a good thing.”
Sergei nodded in agreement. “I just checked on the containers. Everything is good.”
“Excellent. The long nights and short days make for ideal conditions for our journey.”
Sergei was staring at the huddled group several feet to their left.
“What about these? We sell or use?” He spoke in his broken English, apparently so the cargo would not be able to understand even if they could hear over the persistent roar of the plane’s twin engines.
“Whichever way we can make the most money,” Rokva said. “As they say, time will tell.”
Over the Seward Peninsula
Although sunrise was still a few hours away, the sky had lightened enough to provide a view of the terrain below. Bolan knew it was referred to as Civil Light up here. It was not quite daylight but neither was it like total darkness. The winter solstice was fast approaching but was still about a month away, which meant things would remain mostly in the grasp of the grayish twilight, the days growing shorter each day, until eternal night took over. After that, spring would arrive and sunshine would eventually banish the darkness.
He assumed that the traffickers knew these cycles well and used them to suit their own purposes. Operating in prolonged darkness had its advantages, although the weather windows had to also be considered. Most likely this would be their last trip this year, which meant that catching them now was probably the only chance to stop them. He thought about the frightened expressions he’d seen on the faces of the captive women in the truck and of the deplorable conditions. They’d been treated more like commodities than human beings.
It was high time to put an end to this group of unscrupulous criminals, but he was also aware of the time factor.
Out of deference to Case’s rank, Bolan had allowed him to take the copilot’s seat next to Grimaldi. The Executioner sat behind him, and all three men had headphones so that they could communicate. At the moment, however, Case had removed one of his so that he could make a call with his satellite phone. After a brief conversation, which Bolan couldn’t deciph
er, the big Alaskan cop terminated the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. When he replaced his headset, Bolan asked him if he’d had any updates.
“Nothing,” Case said. He bit his lower lip. “Roberts, the trooper they sent up there, still hasn’t reported in. It’s been over two hours, which in itself is a breach of protocol. He’s not the type to break that rule.”
“He’s a pretty capable officer?” Bolan asked.
“Former army ranger. Been with us for six years and he can handle himself. He knows what to do, all right.”
“You tried contacting him by radio?”
Case shook his head. “No repeaters up this way. Once we land, I’ll try, but the range of these things is pretty limited. I already tried his sat phone and nothing.”
Bolan considered that and figured it meant the worst. “What’s the layout like where we’re going?”
“We’ll land at the Wales airport,” Case said, “which is state owned and about a mile or so from the next nearest settlement. It’s an Eskimo village directly on the coast. Primarily a fishing town.”
“Eskimos, huh?” Grimaldi said. “How cooperative are they likely to be?”
“It varies,” Case said. “Basically, they’re a decent, hardworking people whose ancestors were here forever. Back in 1971, the government gave them large patches of land under the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act. They used it to set up their own communities and territories.”
“Sort of like the Indians in the lower forty-eight?” Grimaldi asked.
“Yeah, except that the Eskimos don’t like to be called Indians.” Case snorted a laugh. “And farther inland, the Inuit get insulted if you call them Eskimos.”
“Can’t tell the players without a program.”
Case laughed. “It takes some getting used to, but there’s a lot more complexity to this place than most people realize.”
Grimaldi blew out a long breath. “Well, I got to tell you, I don’t see nothing down there except a whole lot of treetops and snow. You guys ever need to use this thermal scanner for anything more than just tracking the wildlife?”
Cold Fury Page 4