“Aww, hell,” Grimaldi said, peering out the window. “Looks like we’ve got company on the way. Two trucks and one of them looks like a fuel tanker.”
Bolan stepped to the side door and tried to push it open. It stayed in place. The Executioner stepped back and delivered a powerful kick to the door. It sprang open and he turned and motioned for Kournikova, Dimitri and Markov to leave the cabin.
“The only cover we’ve got is the two airplanes,” he said. “Let’s hope they want that other plane intact more than they want us dead.”
“You don’t know Russians very well,” Kournikova said as she pushed past him and jumped to the ground. She turned and helped Markov down, followed by Dimitri.
“Jack, let’s go,” Bolan said.
“You first,” Grimaldi called back. “I’m still captain of this rig and I’ll be the last man off.”
In no mood to argue, Bolan went through the opening and seconds later felt his feet on plowed tarmac. He pulled out his MP-5, tapped the magazine and slipped the selector switch to semiauto. Grimaldi jumped down and fell into him.
Bolan steadied the pilot. “I thought you said you were all right?”
“I am, for a guy who just survived a crash landing.” Grimaldi grinned. “Again.”
Bolan glanced around. They were at the far end of the runway, but the mounds of snow looked at least ten feet high on both sides. A path about fifty feet away looked to provide an entranceway to the old fort, but there was nothing between it and their current position. He looked in the opposite direction and saw the two trucks barreling toward them. They’d never make it across the asphalt expanse to the path. There was no place to run. Their stand had to be here and now.
Kournikova and Dimitri had already pulled out their AK-47s. Markov was holding the gauze bandage against his head with one hand while attempting to fish his weapon out of his rucksack with the other.
“Help Markov with his weapon,” Bolan said to Kournikova. “Then spread out behind the planes. We’ve got to hold them off from here.”
She nodded and Bolan suddenly had an idea. He slung his MP-5, gripped the sides of the open door of the DHC-6 and pulled himself back inside. The walls looked like a sieve. Through the cracked window, he could see that the two approaching trucks were only about fifty yards away now, and closing fast. The Executioner hurried toward the cockpit and searched for the small compartment he’d seen earlier. It was on the port wall behind the pilot’s seat. He popped it open, removed a flare gun and three cartridges, then hurried back to the side door.
The crackle of automatic rifle fire tore through the air as he jumped down.
Dimitri crouched by the remaining wheel strut of the plane and began firing at the trucks.
Bolan placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him all the way down.
The Russian glared up at him.
“You’ll be less of a target if you’re prone,” Bolan said. “And switch to semi. We have to conserve ammo.”
Dimitri snapped the selection lever of his rifle back to semiauto and flattened out on the ground.
Bolan pointed to the tire of the other plane and indicated for Nikita to assume a cover position behind it. The Executioner then moved to the left, kneeling by Grimaldi, who was prone behind the collapsed wing of their DHC-6.
The two trucks halted about forty yards away, skidding to a sideways stop. Bodies filtered out of the vehicles. One of the trucks had a large, circular bed on the back with worn, black lettering spelling out the words Fuel Caution.
Bolan did a quick count. Nine.
If that was all of them.
A plethora of powerful AK-47 rounds began whizzing by, penetrating the plane and bouncing off the pavement next to him. He returned fire with his MP-5, but realized the 9 mm rounds were useless unless he had a clear shot at an exposed limb. The adversaries were making good use of the cover provided by the two trucks.
A fusillade of rounds rained over them and Bolan flattened out as best he could behind the plane’s tire just as a bullet perforated it, causing the wheel to drop with a thud. He searched for a good target, saw a knee and lower leg jutting from the side of a big truck tire, and fired.
The leg jerked and the man flopped down on his back, holding his knee.
Bolan caught peripheral movement and saw Markov lying on his side, his body shaking spasmodically. He’d been hit.
They were outgunned and getting picked to pieces.
He felt the syncopated slicing of the air even though his combat-stressed ears could barely hear the aircraft, and suddenly it came into view arching over the fort and shining a bright spotlight on the two trucks.
A police helicopter.
It weaved downward, tilting to the side and rotating. A burst of muzzle-flashes came from the right side, sending a flood of rounds toward the Russians behind the two trucks. The helicopter zipped upward.
Now they were taking fire, as well.
Bolan used the respite to get up and run to Kournikova’s position.
“Concentrate your fire on the bed of the tanker truck,” he said.
She nodded in understanding and yelled to Dimitri, whose nose wrinkled. She repeated her command and his head jerked in assent.
Bolan saw the helicopter zooming in for another go-round. His eyes strained in the darkness and he saw what he took to be a double spray of liquid sprouting from the circular bed of the tanker.
The Executioner reached into his pocket and pulled out the flare gun. Breaking it open, he inserted one of the large cartridges and snapped the gun closed.
More rounds danced over the pavement next to his feet.
Bolan ran toward the tilted wing of the DHC-6 and leaned over the top, using the metal to steady his aim, and pulled the trigger. The flare whooshed forward, leaving a trial of puffy white smoke, like an exaggerated tracer round.
Seconds later the tanker erupted into a fierce explosion that sent a concussive wave over them as a massive, yellowish flame fanned out.
The helicopter swooped upward, avoiding the blast, but the men who’d been crouching behind the truck had no escape. Several fell to the ground, their bodies smoldering while the remaining ones did frantic dances as their bodies were consumed with flames. After a few moments, the dancers fell like exhausted moths and all was quiet. The helicopter swooped down over the scene, its spotlight sweeping over the bodies. It seemed about to land when it ascended again and flew back toward the fort.
Bolan wondered what they had noticed, but couldn’t lose track of the still active firefight scene.
He moved to two the Russian agents.
“Markov’s down,” he said, pointing.
Kournikova whirled and immediately went to her fallen comrade. Bolan tapped Dimitri on the shoulder and motioned for him to rise.
“Jack,” Bolan yelled, “we’re going to check the enemy. Cover us.”
Grimaldi held up his left hand, making a circle with his index finger and thumb.
Spreading out, Bolan and Dimitri approached the two trucks at a fast trot. The smell of sulfur and burned gasoline hung heavily in the air. The Executioner moved around to the left. Dimitri went right, and they circled the two vehicles. Nine bodies lay in various positions. All but three of them were totally still, and apparently dead. Bolan began checking the bodies anyway, and was on the third one when he heard the sharp report of Dimitri’s rifle. He’d placed the end of the barrel against the head of one of the once squirming wounded men. Bolan rose as the Russian repeated the movement and again fired a round into another of the dying men. One more remained alive and Bolan moved to intercede, but Dimitri was much closer. He fired into the last man’s head, causing the skull to split open, spilling a flood of grayish brain matter.
Bolan stopped and stared at Dimitri.
The Russian shrugged with nonchalance.
“They were b
adly injured and would have died anyway,” he said. “This way was more merciful.”
Bolan nodded. He had dealt mercy rounds when they’d been needed.
The sound of the helicopter’s rotors once again became evident and the bright lights of the chopper came into view above the fort. The spotlight swept over Bolan and Dimitri, and the Executioner slung his weapon and told Dimitri to do the same. The Russian complied and the spotlight moved away from them.
The aircraft slowly descended and touched down lightly about fifty feet away. The side doors opened and two men got out. The guy on the right side pulled out another man whose arms were obviously secured by handcuffs. All three began walking toward Bolan’s position. As they drew closer, Bolan saw that the largest of them was smiling. The man’s face became more discernible.
“Well, well, well,” Bolan said. “Our old friend, Lieutenant Case. How’d you get over this way?”
Case grinned. “After that fiasco you left me with in Wales, they flew me to Anchorage for an extended debrief and shooting investigation interview. Unfortunately, I got sicker than a dog and was laid up for a while.”
“Sounds familiar,” Bolan said. “Jack and I were sick, too.”
“Anyway—” Case raised his eyebrows “—there was another incident in the interior near an Inuit village. I don’t suppose you guys know anything about that one, huh?”
“Could be.”
“So...” Case continued. “They still hadn’t gotten around to finishing my interview, and then word came out a few hours ago that some DOJ guys needed help, so I beat feet down here with the best police pilot in whole State of Alaska.” He nodded to a tall guy with a rangy build and an infectious smile. “Meet Ron Corbin.”
Bolan extended his hand and they shook.
“That was pretty fancy flying all right,” Grimaldi said, walking up with Kournikova. “I would say that I couldn’t have done it better myself, but that would be bad for my image.”
Corbin grinned and shook Grimaldi’s hand. “People fly airplanes. Pilots fly helicopters.”
“You got that right,” Grimaldi said.
“Who’s this?” Bolan asked, pointing to the handcuffed man.
“Ron caught a thermal image of him running away,” Case said. “We figured we’d better grab him for you.”
Dimitri stepped forward, clasped his big hand around the handcuffed man’s jaw, and muttered something in Russian. The man tried unsuccessfully to pull his face away and said nothing.
“This one is Mikhal Valunski,” Kournikova said. “He is one of the pilots in Nikoloz Rokva’s employ.”
Case acknowledged her. “Nice to see you again.”
She smiled. “Forgive me, but I heard you talking before. I am sorry that the vaccine made you sick.”
“Beats the alternative,” Case said.
“How’s Markov?” Bolan asked.
Her mouth tightened and she shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” Bolan said.
Dimitri pulled the handcuffed man away from the group and forced him to kneel. He leaned his face down close to the other man’s ear and whispered something in Russian. Valunski tried to turn away, but Dimitri slapped him. He began raining harder blows down on the handcuffed man, who slumped over on his side. Dimitri went down on one knee and grabbed the man’s face again with his left hand. His right held a large knife, which he pressed against Mikhal’s cheek, close to his eye.
Dimitri said something inaudible and pressed the tip of the blade into the soft flesh. A ribbon of red streamed down the man’s cheek.
Bolan walked over to them. “That’s not such a good idea.”
“Stay out of this,” Dimitri told him. He then said something quietly to Valunski and shoved the blade in deeper. The other man emitted a guttural moan as the blade got closer to his eye.
Bolan reached down and grabbed Dimitri’s wrist, pulling him upward and twisting at the same time so that the knife dropped from his hand. As he got to his feet, Dimitri began to unsling his rifle, but Bolan grabbed the end of the barrel and ripped it away. As the AK-47 clattered to the ground, Dimitri swung a left hook at the Executioner’s head. Bolan leaned back, slipping the blow and letting it go past him.
“I don’t think you want to do that, pal,” Grimaldi said.
Kournikova shouted something in Russian, but Dimitri ignored her. He rushed forward in a semi boxer’s stance and threw a left-right combination. Bolan avoided the left and then stepped around the straight right, sending a crushing body blow into his opponent’s side. The Russian took two stagger-steps before collapsing to his knees.
Bolan waited a few seconds as Dimitri stayed on his knees, his chest heaving to catch his breath. Then the Executioner sensed the other man was no longer a threat and picked up the AK-47. Kournikova immediately strode over and began a litany in Russian, the nature of which was easily understood despite the foreign tongue.
“I think he got the message already,” Grimaldi said. “Nothing delivers like a shot to the liver.”
“Keep him away from me,” the handcuffed man on the ground said in English. “Keep him away, and I will tell you everything you want to know.”
Bolan went over and helped Valunski to his feet.
“Okay, talk.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Is there anyone else here in the fort?” Bolan asked.
“No. No one. Nikoloz has gone.”
The fact that Valunski had used his boss’s name gave credence to his statement. The Executioner had often used the threat of bodily harm to obtain information from a suspect, but always stopped short of actual torture. This time Dimitri’s brutality, and Bolan’s show of mercy, had elicited the information quickly.
“Where’s he going and how long ago did he leave?”
The pilot’s face wrinkled. “How bad am I cut?”
Bolan gripped the front of the man’s parka and lifted him onto his toes.
“It’s superficial. Now answer my questions or I’ll give you back to your countryman.”
Kournikova helping Dimitri to stand. His eyes bore into Bolan and the other man like twin lasers, but he said nothing.
“He is going to Canada. He left perhaps a half hour before you arrived. Perhaps a little longer than an hour now.”
“Where in Canada?”
Valunski pursed his lips, as if considering whether or not to answer. “Vancouver. He is going to Vancouver.”
Bolan motioned toward the wrecked aircraft farther down the runway. “What’s he flying?”
Silence.
The Executioner tightened his grip on the parka.
“He has a Learjet,” Valunski stated. “It was waiting for him here. I was to fly the others, the ones you killed, in that plane there. We were to meet in Vancouver.”
If this were true, Bolan knew they had to get moving fast.
“Who else does he have with him?”
“Sergei, Oleg, Alexander, Leon. Four of them now... And the others, of course.”
“Others?” Bolan said. “Who are they?”
The pilot’s mouth worked again and he shrugged. “People we smuggled out of Russia. Now only some women and children. No one important.”
“‘No one important,’” Bolan repeated. “How many?”
“Twenty-two.”
“What’s in store for them in Vancouver?”
Again, the man fell silent until Bolan prodded him.
“Okay, okay. He plans to butcher them after they arrive and sell their organs on the black market. He has more body organs that he took from the men before. He knows people in Canada who are ready to purchase.”
Bolan had figured as much, but didn’t know how soon Rokva planned on starting the massacre. Or if he knew that the people he was transporting could be infected with bubonic plague.
/> “Why did he kill the men back in Wales?” Bolan asked.
Valunski blew out a long breath, as if contemplating what to say. “Most of them were sick. He said it was easier to handle them that way.”
Expediency at the price of murder, Bolan thought. Rokva was as cold-blooded as they came.
“Where’s he taking them in Vancouver?”
“I do not know.”
“Come on,” Bolan said.
“It is true. I do not—”
“Dimitri,” the Executioner said. “You ready for round two?”
Dimitri’s face twisted into an even more sinister scowl. He started speaking in Russian.
“Okay, okay,” the pilot said then paused. “I do know. I will take you there, if you promise to let me go.”
“You’ll take us there,” Bolan said. “Or I’ll turn you back over to him.” He jerked his head in the direction of the still scowling Dimitri.
Valunski’s lips compressed into a thin line and he nodded. Bolan pushed him toward the helicopter.
“Ron, can you handle flying the five of us to the Anchorage airport?” he asked.
Corbin canted his head. “You planning on going commercial once you get there?”
“Are you kidding?” Grimaldi chimed in. “If I know our buddies back home, we got us our very own Learjet waiting and ready to go.”
“The only question is,” Bolan said, “how much lead time are we fighting?”
Chapter Ten
Over western Canada
Nikoloz Rokva appreciated the quiet humming and efficiency of the Learjet’s turbines. It was a welcome change from the noisy propellers of the other planes. They were two hours into their flight and everything was proceeding according to his plan.
He had not heard from Galkin or Udom, but that did not trouble him. Leaving them behind was nothing more than another gambit, a move in which one piece or several pieces would be sacrificed to gain the upper hand, and Rokva was certain that was what he now possessed. He was confident that the ambush would be successful, but even if it wasn’t, it would provide enough of a delay that his pursuers would not be able to catch him. The jet was traversing the Canadian mountains now and in another two and a half, perhaps three hours, they would be touching down in Vancouver. The vehicles would be waiting and they would be whisked away from the airport like shadows fading into the night.
Cold Fury Page 14