Cold Fury

by Don Pendleton

  A more troubling sight was the cluster of twisted corpses lying off to the side by the blade of the idling bulldozer. Two additional bodies lay closer to the four men who were standing. They appeared lax, passing around a bottle and smoking cigarettes, their weapons still slung over their shoulders.

  Bolan advanced a bit more until he was perpendicular to their position. Hopefully, Grimaldi and Case would have successfully intercepted the pickup and its imbibing driver without too much difficulty.

  The backhoe swiveled around, dumped a load of frozen earth from its huge clawlike shovel, then rotated back to resume excavation.

  At least a minute elapsed and Bolan began to wonder if there’d been a problem. He’d heard no gunshots, although the percussive roar of the frantic backhoe might have obscured the report.

  Moments later the answer came as the pickup roared down the road toward the construction site at a high rate of speed, its bright headlights illuminating the four standing men. They whirled and looked up in surprise, saying something Bolan couldn’t discern. More rapid conversation occurred between them as they spread out, unslinging their rifles.

  One of them tossed the bottle to the side.

  Another scrambled to the center of the roadway, yelled something, then brought up his AK-47 and fired a quick burst on full-auto.

  The truck continued barreling forward.

  The man fired a second burst and then a third. By then the truck was almost upon him and not slowing down. Bolan caught a flash of someone behind the wheel, but the silhouette appeared static. The slanted crown of the road caused the truck to veer left suddenly and it bounced up, collided with the snow berm and then headed straight for the backhoe.

  The man in the center of the road stopped firing and ran toward Bolan’s side as the truck zoomed past.

  Surprise registered on the running man’s face as their eyes locked. The gunner started to bring his Kalashnikov up to fire, but Bolan stitched a quick burst across the man’s chest. His target’s legs continued to move with inertia as he made a few slowing steps forward then tumbled face-first to the ground. Two of the other men were still watching the truck as it smashed into the right-side tread of the backhoe. The third man on the ground brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired at Bolan’s position.

  The round pierced the snow berm to the Executioner’s left. Obviously the shooter had jerked the trigger. Bolan squeezed off another quick burst that sent the man sprawling.

  The truck’s movement had ceased, but not its engine, whose clattering whine sounded like someone banging on an oil drum. The other two men were bringing their weapons to their shoulders when Bolan shot each of them, placing a finishing round in the tops of their heads as they dropped. The backhoe swiveled around again, the clawlike bucket arcing above the Executioner and then surging downward toward him.

  Bolan leaped to the side and rolled just as the spikes of the metal teeth dug into the snow to his left, piercing the fluffy whiteness and thudding into the hard ground. The position was a precarious one because it left Bolan exposed to the man in the bulldozer. Rolling on his side and holding his MP-5 close to his chest, the Executioner assumed a prone position and slapped the barrel of the weapon against his arm to dislodge any clinging snow before he fired a burst at the driver of the backhoe.

  The huge bucket rose again as the mechanical arm rotated to a position directly overhead.

  Bolan fired another burst as he sprang to his feet and began wading through the snow as quickly as he could. The claw descended once more, missing him by a few feet. As the rippled end sank into the ground, Bolan whirled and fired again.

  The sputtering of the backhoe’s big diesel engine reduced in intensity and leveled out. The mechanical arm didn’t rise up. The flash of more rounds emanated from the cab of the bulldozer. Bolan returned fire, hit empty, then changed magazines.

  The bulldozer’s blade lifted to shield the driver and the machine rumbled forward, heading for the Executioner like some huge yellow predator. He tried to run in the opposite direction edging toward the side, but the depth of the snow made it impossible. He was caught in a drift. The dozer’s treads smashed through the roadside snow berm and continued bearing down on him, perhaps only thirty yards away and closing fast.

  Bolan strained to pump his legs faster, but succeeded only in slowing his movement.

  The bulldozer was a roughly twenty yards away now and Bolan struggled against the impeding snow. It was like trying to run through molasses. Ice-cold molasses. He glanced over his shoulder. The blade lowered into the white blanket, churning up a huge jangle of swirling snow mixed with dark earth. It was like being chased by an avalanche.

  Bolan could see the maniacal grin of the driver as the machine loomed closer and closer.

  Suddenly the cab erupted in a bright flash and a torrent of flames engulfed the man at the controls. His scream was almost drowned out by the pumping of the diesel engine as he stood and then jerked forward as a shot sounded. He tumbled from the cab and plunged into the snow, twisting and flapping his arms and legs.

  The bulldozer sputtered to a stop and the engine died, its blade about a dozen yards from Bolan.

  Grimaldi and Case stood by the edge of the road, grinning. Bolan pushed through the snow toward the still smoldering man. By the time Bolan got to him, the flames had all but gone out and the man was obviously dead. Bolan saw the remnants of broken glass on the floor of the bulldozer.

  A Molotov cocktail? That smacked of Grimaldi. Always the innovator.

  Bolan made his way back to the road and crawled over the ridge of snow.

  Case was checking the corpses of their adversaries. Grimaldi rotated his right arm a few times in exaggerated fashion.

  “I still got the golden arm,” he said. “But I wish I would’ve had time to check to see if there was any more vodka in that bottle. I had a hunch it was the good stuff.”

  “It probably was.”

  “Yeah, I probably didn’t even need to drain the gas out of the truck to fill it up. The vodka might have done the trick.” He jerked a thumb in Case’s direction. “Dave took out the driver when he stood up.”

  Bolan waved a “thanks” to Case as they walked toward the rest of the carnage.

  “Damn,” Case said, joining them. “That was one hell of a firefight.”

  “These guys weren’t your typical cupcakes,” Grimaldi noted. “That’s for sure.”

  “They obviously had some background in military tactics,” Bolan said. “But that’s not uncommon for soldiers of the Russian mafiya.”

  “Looks like that was all of them,” Case said, his expression solemn. “I found the body of Trooper Roberts over there.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Bolan said.

  Case nodded. “At least it looks like he died quick. I’m not sure about the rest of those guys.” He shone his light over the cluster of at least ten or twelve naked men lying in a tangled heap off to the side. Their chest cavities had been split open, revealing gaping, empty holes. “Looks like we’re dealing with more than just human trafficking.”

  Bolan’s expression was equally grim. “Black market organ dealers.”

  “What a mess,” Case said.

  “Well, we told you these guys played rough,” Grimaldi stated.

  Case nodded, his face solemn as he leaned a bit closer to the Executioner. “So now are you gonna tell me who you guys really are?”

  Chapter Four

  The Alaskan Interior

  The burning oil pots illuminated the parameters of the runway as perfectly as twin rows of landing lights. The plane descended with a roar and bounced slightly as the skis made contact with the snow-packed gravel. The human cargo uttered a collective gasp, followed by a series of intermittent whimpers.

  “Quiet,” Nikoloz Rokva ordered. “We have landed. Everything is fine.”

  The wh
impering lessened, but still continued.

  The mafiya captain felt the tension begin to seep out of him as they coasted to a stop. He always hated these dark landings in this hostile foreign terrain.

  But soon he would not have to worry about them. He glanced out the window and saw the vague outline of the buildings in the grayish twilight. It would be warmer in there and they would have a chance to clean up and rest a bit.

  One of the human cargo sneezed and another coughed. Rokva told Aleksi Galkin and Fedor Udom to get them ready to move to the shelter. There was no sense in letting them stay in this cold and get sick. The next phase of travel would be more difficult. Best to keep them all calm and intact until they reached the final destination. He was already a bit concerned about the ticking clock he was now fighting with the organs they had already harvested. He figured that they would be viable in the containers for around forty-eight hours more. Then they would be trash. Since this was to be the final trip on this route, the profit had to be maximized.

  Rokva smiled. Perhaps it was fortuitous that he now had this unknown American adversary pursuing him. It added an incentive to the game. Just what he needed to keep pushing against the time deadline.

  Udom and the others flipped out their flashlights and began directing the cargo to stand and get ready to exit the plane. As they rose, a collective wave of body odor, fecal matter and other bodily excretions began to waft through the plane’s cabin.

  Filthy bastards, Rokva thought. It would be good to be rid of them.

  “We will take you someplace warm to clean up,” he said. “You will all be fed and you will be given a change of clothes. Now shut up and do as we tell you to do.”

  Rokva reassembled his sat phone and turned it on, deciding to risk another call to Vasilli Denisov. He wanted to know if the task there had been completed, and if the loose ends had been eliminated without any problems. He also wanted to know if the second plane that Lebed had chartered had arrived.

  The phone rang several times but Denisov did not answer.

  That was not good.

  Rokva terminated the call. Through the window he caught a glimpse of a group of illuminated flashlights that signaled the approach of Emil Burdin and his men. He advised Sergei of this, noting, “We will rest for a few hours while the plane is refueled and attended to... I called Vasilli. He did not answer.”

  Sergei shrugged. “He said that ground was like digging in iron, did he not? Maybe it took him more time than we figured to finish up.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps not.”

  He laughed. “You are always thinking. Always playing the what-if game. You should take some time to enjoy life. Like me. I’m going to entertain one of the women.”

  Rokva said nothing as Sergei left him. He stared at the dormant phone. It had been more than ten minutes and he pondered whether to power down the device and remove the battery once more. Denisov should have answered. This was a sure sign that something was wrong. Still, as Sergei had said, the ground was frozen and hard. Additionally, the heavy equipment made a lot of noise.

  The cold was starting to seep through his clothes and he wanted to get into some place that was warm. For the time being anyway. He decided the best course was to send a text.

  Denisov would acknowledge it, or not. If it was the latter, it likely meant that the Americans had found and most likely killed him. Rokva did not think the man would surrender, but he had to consider every possibility, including the fact that his last use of the sat phone had pinpointed his location, after all.

  Sitting in the dark cabin of the plane as Udom and the others hustled the cargo out into the cold darkness, he switched to message mode and typed in Are you there?

  Simple and to the point. He was taking a chance, just like intentionally moving a game piece into harm’s way. A gambit. But the reply, if one came, would make it worth the risk.

  Rokva tried to imagine who this possible, unknown adversary could be. What his face looked like... How intelligent the man was...his capabilities....

  It was like a chess match against an unknown opponent.

  And in a strange way, he welcomed the challenge.

  Let the game continue.

  Eskimo Village

  Wales, Alaska

  After making sure the area was clear and securing the recovered weapons, Bolan and the others gathered the seven dead Russians and placed them in a row apart from the other bodies. A search of their pockets yielded little in the way of information: no passports, some Russian rubles and American currency, cigarettes, lighters, books of matches, four small, metallic hip flasks and an assortment of other nonessentials. The printing on the matchbooks was in the Cyrillic alphabet.

  “Looks like Russians, all right,” Grimaldi said.

  Case picked up a sat phone they’d recovered from the pocket of one of the dead men.

  “This should prove interesting,” he said, scrolling through the call legends. “Anybody read Russian?”

  “Let me see that.” Bolan held out his hand and accepted the phone. Although he couldn’t read the texts, which were also in the Cyrillic alphabet, he did note the numbers and times of the most recent calls. He walked away from Case and Grimaldi, took out his own sat phone and contacted Aaron Kurtzman.

  Once again, the head of Stony Man’s cyber team answered immediately.

  “What’s up?”

  Bolan quickly filled him in on what had occurred.

  “Damn. You two are averaging a shootout every couple of hours.”

  Bolan read off the numbers from the captured cell phone and told him to see what he could find out about any of them.

  “Roger that,” Kurtzman said. He gave Bolan the coordinates from the last call the other sat phone had made. “Looks like he called the phone you’re now holding right before your shootout. Around the time when we were talking before.”

  After terminating the call, Bolan pocketed both phones. He remained deep in thought. Having the coordinates of the last transmission from their main adversary’s sat phone was useful information, but placed him way out of range for the moment.

  So many disemboweled bodies...their organs harvested, most likely for sale on the black market. That put the timetable into double-time. The head of the operation would want to keep moving, lest the organs go beyond the point of viability for transplant sales. Plus, compatibility typing would probably have to be factored into their scheduling.

  Bolan also wondered if more hostages were being transported and what fate was in store for them. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. And he had no way to pursue them at this point. Case wouldn’t be agreeable handing over his police helicopter to give chase, and the range of the aircraft might not be sufficient. He considered calling Kurtzman and telling him to charter a plane so they could give chase, but that would still put them several laps behind their quarry.

  One thing puzzled him. Why had the guy running this deadly parade elected to do the dirty work of opening up his victims here in Wales? Surely there wasn’t black market for organs in this region.

  The distant thrumming of an engine became noticeable and Bolan saw a pair of headlights approaching on the roadway.

  He rejoined Grimaldi and Case at the edge of the excavation site.

  The three of them stood on the ridge next to a pile of frozen dirt. The pit was about five feet deep and thirty feet long.

  An ignominious, unmarked grave, Bolan thought. No markers. Just a final resting spot and food for the worms and other insects once the spring thaw came.

  “We’ve got company coming,” Bolan said.

  “They probably saw the fireworks from the airstrip,” Case commented.

  “Check it out,” the Executioner said to Grimaldi, who trudged off toward the approaching lights.

  Case moved to the three fully clothed bodies and bent to remove the badge from the fallen
trooper. “I’ll make sure this makes our memorial wall,” he said. “We’ve got way too many up there already.”

  “What’s your next move?” Bolan asked.

  Case took a deep breath. “To guard the crime scene and wait. I notified our major crimes unit. They’re en route from Fairbanks. It’ll be a couple of hours.”

  “You know either of these guys?” Bolan pointed to the other two bodies.

  “That one’s Fast Eddie Nome,” Case said, the beam of his flashlight dancing over the nearest corpse. It was a supine Eskimo clad in a parka. His glazed eyes remained open and slightly crossed, as if staring up at the neat, round hole in the center of his forehead. A large pool of blood had mixed with the white snow, forming a ring around his head. “That’s not his real name. He’s a two-bit hustler and crook around these parts.”

  Bolan pointed to the body next to Nome. This one was a heavyset man whose vacuous eyes also stared upward at nothing. He’d been shot in the forehead, as well. A Russian style fur hat lay on the ground next to him. “What about him?”

  Case shook his head and started to move toward the dead man.

  “I’ll see if he has any ID.”

  Bolan suddenly dropped and rolled, raising his MP-5.

  A feminine voice, tinctured with an ever-so-slight accent, called out from behind them. “We are not your enemy. And his name is Greagor Lebed.”

  Case shone his light at three figures standing about twenty feet away. It was clear that none of them was armed. Two were large, stocky males. The third was a stunningly beautiful woman standing arms akimbo. She wore a black parka that she held open in front, displaying a dark blue jumpsuit that hugged the curves of her body. The black fur hat that she wore matched the one lying on the ground next to the dead man, and her hair was a shade darker than the last time Bolan had seen her.

  “Nikita,” he said. “Welcome to Alaska.”

  “It has been a while,” she said, smiling as the trio moved forward.

  Case looked from her back to Bolan. “You two know each other?”