Cold Fury

by Don Pendleton

  “We shall try not to exhale it in your direction,” Rokva said. “It is still yet another reason to conclude our transaction quickly.”

  Patel’s lips compressed and he nodded.

  “I trust that you have completed all your compatibility tests on the samples we delivered to you earlier?” He flicked his lighter and held the flame toward Sergei, who’d stripped off the extended filter and placed the stubby cigarette between his lips.

  “We have,” Patel said.

  Rokva lighted his own cigarette, acting as though he had all the time in the world. In reality, he was waiting for a signal from Igoshin that the cargo had been sufficiently cleaned and readied for inspection.

  Waving at the row of special blue-and-white medical containers, he said, “Feel free to have your men inspect the goods over there. Everything is numbered to correspond with the tissue samples that you received earlier.”

  Patel said something to his three assistants, burly men who appeared to be Sikhs. They went to the containers and began opening them. One man held some sort of measuring device.

  “I also have four new sets that are being prepared as we speak,” Rokva said. “And twenty-two more, ready for harvesting. These live ones all have their corresponding sample numbers written on the backs of their hands with indelible ink.”

  Patel’s lips pursed into a small knot. “I wish to inspect the cargo.”

  “Certainly,” Rokva said. He looked around and saw Igoshin standing about fifty feet away by the locker rooms. His head moved up and down fractionally.

  “This way,” the Georgian said.

  He, Sergei, Patel and two of the Indian’s assistants walked toward the locker room area. As they got closer, Igoshin knocked sharply on the door and then opened it.

  The cluster of women and children stood in the center of the big room, huddling together. They were all naked and some had towels wrapped around them. Others shivered in their nakedness. All of them had fearful eyes.

  Patel’s head rotated slowly as he surveyed the group. His mouth worked slightly, his lips rolling inward and then out again, as if he were assessing the latest flock of fat sheep to be shorn and slaughtered.

  One of the children, a small boy, suddenly leaned forward and vomited.

  Patel recoiled and Rokva reached over with a gentle but firm grip and pulled the Indian toward the door.

  “Ah, my apologies. They have been in transit for several hours,” he said. “Come. Let us give them some privacy.”

  Patel now seemed eager to exit the room. He practically ran for the door.

  As Igoshin closed the door to the locker room, Rokva raised an eyebrow as he looked down at Patel.

  “You said that the payment was close?”

  The Indian took out his cell phone. “I’ll have my men bring it now.”

  The mafiya captain nodded. Now he had only to count the money and the harvesting could begin.

  Knight Street

  South Vancouver

  The caravan of police vehicles stopped on Kent Street and pulled to the side under the waning light of an overhead streetlight. As he exited the police car, Bolan felt the weariness leaving his body as the adrenaline jolt lifted him with the anticipation of finally closing in on his foes. Grimaldi, Kournikova and Dimitri all stood silent next to him, their weapons at the ready. Eldridge was on his radio and Sharp was standing off to the side. A squad of six ERT officers leaned against the side of a van that obscured their Bearcat from any passing vehicles.

  “Find out anything?” Bolan asked Eldridge as he adjusted the frequency knob on his radio and slipped it back into its pouch.

  “Our surveillance team picked up on some activity in this area earlier,” Eldridge said. “Two of our biker boys on Harleys and another pair in a van. They disappeared into a network of alleys lacing through the warehouse district.”

  “In other words,” Grimaldi said, “they lost them.”

  Eldridge frowned. “It was either drop back or let themselves be seen.” He waved his arm around. “As you can see, this area doesn’t have a lot of traffic in the wee hours.”

  “It’ll be light soon,” Bolan said. “Any indication as to where they are now?”

  “As far as we can tell, they’re in one of those buildings in that section. My base is checking the records now for that company name you gave me.”

  As if on cue, Eldridge’s cell phone chimed. He removed it from a zippered pocket in his vest and touched the screen.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here’s the address.” He read it off then said, “Interestingly enough, not only does it come back as being rented by Universal Exports, but it’s been shut down for renovations for the better part of a year.”

  “How far away from it are we?” Bolan asked. Then a pair of headlights flickered in his peripheral vision. Instinctively the police all moved to the other side of their vehicles and merged into the shadows as a big, navy blue Lincoln zoomed down the street.

  Eldridge brought his binoculars up and then called in the plate. Seconds later the response came back to him as he listened to his ear mic.

  “It belongs to Surgeonetics Medical, Incorporated,” he said, then listened again. “My base is doing some digging on that one. They’ll get back to me.”

  Bolan watched as the Lincoln made an abrupt right turn into a wide alley a few blocks down.

  “Is that in the direction of our Universal Exports address?”

  “I believe so,” Eldridge replied.

  “Okay,” Bolan said. “Drop us at that alley and we’ll take a look around.”

  “And you’ll call me with anything you observe, right?” Eldridge said.

  “Absolutely.”

  A minute later Bolan, Grimaldi and the Russians were speeding down the street in pursuit of the Lincoln. When they neared the alley, the Executioner caught a glimpse of the Lincoln’s taillights. The vehicle was parked about five hundred feet away in the alley, facing a large overhead door.

  “This kind of smacks of déjà vu,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan nodded. “Drop us over there.”

  The van slowed to a stop and Bolan and company went EVA. As they grouped together, the Executioner told them to conduct a final equipment check and then to switch to the tac frequency on the radios that Eldridge had given them.

  “It’s best if we approach on foot,” he said. “Follow my lead and stay in the shadows as best you can.”

  With that, he took off at a quick trot, heading toward the Lincoln. The others followed.

  The large door began to rise, spilling bright light into the still darkened alley.

  Bolan signaled a halt. They froze behind a Dumpster and the Executioner edged a sliver of his face around the metal corner.

  The Lincoln pulled into the warehouse and a man holding an AK-47 peeked out, scanning each direction. He stepped back inside as the door began to lower.

  “I think we’ve found the right place,” Bolan said, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. He switched the frequency on his radio and called Eldridge.

  “The vehicle entered the target building,” Bolan said. “At least one occupant armed with an AK-47 stationed at rear overhead door.”

  “Roger that. Stand by while I contact base.”

  Bolan scraped his thumbnail over the mic and then said, “Say again. You’re breaking up.”

  Eldridge repeated his message and asked for an acknowledgment.

  “Funny how you can never rely on these damn things when you need to,” Grimaldi said, grinning.

  Bolan scanned the building. It was a two-story structure with piles of debris lying along the rear section adjacent to the overhead door. At the far end, he saw a metal staircase, which had probably been designed as a fire escape at one time. Now it simply led to a narrow walkway on the second floor.

  “I’m going t
o move up to that staircase,” he said. “You three move in close and get ready to enter when the cavalry gets here, if I give the signal.”

  “How are we supposed to get in?” Kournikova asked.

  “If it’s clear, I’ll raise that overhead door for you. Brief Eldridge when he gets here and be ready to move in on my command.” He paused and looked at each of them. Grimaldi’s face showed the familiar combination of anticipation and fatigue. Kournikova’s features looked a bit wan, as well. The wild card, Dimitri, looked sullen and dispassionate. Bolan hoped he would see all three of them on the other side of this.

  “And remember who we’re dealing with here,” he said, gripping his MP-5 before departing at a fast clip.

  * * *

  Rokva watched as Bram Patel’s men began loading the medical containers with the organs into the biker’s van. He turned to the Indian, who was directing one of his men to open the large suitcase they’d removed from the trunk of the Lincoln. The big Sikh unfastened the catches. The organized display of several rows of banded US currency, all hundred-dollar bills, pleased him. Nevertheless, he still wanted to count it.

  He called out to Oleg in Russian and directed him to check the bundles.

  “What is this?” Patel said. “Do we not trust each other?”

  “Trust, yes. But verify.”

  Patel pursed his lips and gave a quick nod.

  “Very well,” he said. “But may we get started with the next round of extractions? I assume that you have a sufficient supply of containers?”

  “But of course,” Rokva said, forcing a smile. “We are in a medical supply warehouse, are we not?”

  He turned to Sergei. “It’s time to begin the harvest. Do you want to participate?”

  Sergei shrugged. “I’ll tell Wladimir and Leon to start. I want to take a piss first.”

  He turned and began walking toward the locker room where the rest of the cargo was waiting.

  * * *

  Bolan used his Espada knife to force open a window on the second floor. As he crept through the opening, he could discern voices below, but little else. The room he had entered was dark and musty. Slices of light filtered through the cracks of a framed window made virtually opaque by a patina of filth. Dust motes danced in the beam of his mini flashlight.

  The voices intensified. It sounded like Russian. Then a scream. A woman’s. More shouting, punctuated by the sound of a fist striking flesh. Then another scream.

  Bolan moved to the window and scraped away the dirt. A walkway partially blocked his view, but a good portion of the first floor was visible. About fifty feet below, next to another set of rooms secured by a solid metal door, one man stood holding a struggling woman, who was naked. Another man held a naked child. A second woman’s nude body was on all fours a few feet away, blood dripping from her mouth.

  A third, barrel-chested man with a huge mustache pointed a Tokarev pistol toward the head of the squirming woman. His other hand held a knife.

  He shouted something in Russian.

  Bolan checked the trajectory, raised the muzzle of his MP-5, poked it hard against the glass with a shattering impact, and then shot the mustachioed man through the head.

  His huge body twisted into a heap as he spiraled downward. The man holding the woman threw her to one side and grabbed a nearby AK-47, his eyes scanning the second floor. The child broke away from the other man and ran into the nearby aisle stacked with cartons. Both women scurried away, as well.

  Bolan keyed his mic. “They’re getting ready to kill the hostages. Move in.”

  Rounds tore through the window and wall, sending splinters of glass, wood and disintegrated drywall into the air like a whirling dust storm. This section of the building had apparently once been a collection of side-by-side offices, but now the walls were littered with huge, gaping holes.

  Bolan was able to push through one of them and get into the adjacent office. From there he sprinted to the door on the front wall. It was still in place, but the hinges had been removed. Letting his MP-5 rest across his chest on its sling, Bolan grabbed the door, twisted it through the jamb and found himself on a narrow second-floor walkway about fifteen feet wide. He crouched as he ran, holding the door toward the railing on the right side, hoping it might provide some cover as several rounds ripped through the solid wood just above his head.

  He was nearing the end of the walkway and saw three men rushing up the stairs. Each was holding an AK-47 assault rifle.

  Bolan stopped running, released the door and went to one knee against the wall of offices. One of the men on the stairway began to zero in on Bolan. But the Executioner acquired his target first and fired a quick 3-round burst. He then rotated and shot the second man. Both tumbled onto the stairs, their rifles clattering. The third gunner turned and began running back down the stairs, but Bolan cut him down, too.

  The bolt of his MP-5 locked back and he dropped the empty mag and inserted a fresh one.

  More bullets pierced the wall close to Bolan’s head. He flattened and crawled to the edge of the walkway. At least a dozen men scrambled forward on the floor below. He picked off two before they began to take cover. More bullets chipped the concrete edge of the walkway and the Executioner rolled back, edging along the wall. For the moment, he had the high ground, but nothing in the way of decent cover. He crawled a bit farther, his ears ringing from the noise of the gunshots. Another group of three moved in the direction of the stairway, accompanied by volleys of rounds being fired upward.

  They were using cover fire to advance.

  It wouldn’t be long before the enemy gunners would be working their way up to him before he could find a position to return fire.

  Bolan attempted to roll toward the edge of the walkway again, but the fusillade was unceasing. The group of three rushed up the stairs, scrambling over the dead bodies, with the gunner at the base laying down cover fire. Bolan picked off the lead man, who twisted and fell over the metal banister.

  But the others kept firing.

  * * *

  Rokva drew his Tokarev, pushed the cowering figure of the Indian to the rear of the Lincoln, and tried to see what was going on. The five Sikh bodyguards had pulled out their weapons, as well. Two were crouching by the side of the biker’s van in front of them. The other three had taken cover behind the van Patel had brought. All of their eyes were on the far wall of the warehouse. The Georgian looked in that direction.

  More gunshots erupted and a dark-clad figure moved along the walkway at the opposite end of the building, firing down at three of his men. The man moved with the speed and grace of a panther.

  “What’s happening?” Patel said, his face pinched with terror.

  Rokva felt like putting a bullet in the pathetic bastard immediately, but he had to figure this out first. Had Patel betrayed him? Planned a double-cross?

  Pulling the Indian behind the cover of the Lincoln, he leaned close to him, pushing the pistol into his ribs.

  “Are you responsible for this?” Rokva asked. “You intended to betray me?”

  The terrified Indian shook his head. “No. No. I swear to you.”

  But the mafiya captain did not believe him. There was no way anyone could have traced them here. It was not possible. So it was either the bikers, or Patel, and the bikers were dead. It had to be the Indian.

  “You should have planned things better,” Nikoloz said, placing his mouth next to the other man’s ear.

  He pulled the trigger of the Tokarev. Patel’s body jerked and his face contorted. Then he went limp.

  Rokva let him fall to the floor and turned, aiming at the Indian’s five bodyguards. He shot the first one squarely in the back. The big man’s body collapsed. As the others started to turn to confront the threat, Rokva continued to shoot. But none of the four remaining ones fell; they began to return fire. Bullets shattered the side window of the Lincoln
, showering the Georgian with glass. Ducking down, he cursed at his sudden bad fortune. He had only three rounds left.

  The king was in check, he thought.

  The sound of more gunfire echoed throughout the building. Not the crack of the AK-47s, but a pistol, and much closer.

  Rokva slowly elevated his head and glanced through the window of the luxury vehicle. Only one Sikh was left standing, and his body was turned away from him now. The gun the bodyguard held slipped from his hand as he did a strange dance, the front of his shirt blossoming with flowers of crimson. Then Rokva saw why that had happened.

  Sergei stood about thirty yards away, holding his Tokarev, a wide smile on his face. The slide of his pistol was locked back, signifying it was empty.

  He ran to Rokva and knelt beside him. “Are you hit?”

  He shook his head. “That bastard Patel betrayed us. That must be his man up there.”

  “I will kill him,” Sergei said.

  A huge explosion suddenly erupted by the overhead door.

  Rokva glanced at Sergei and, for the first time, felt fear running up his spine.

  “Take the suitcase.” He indicted the one Patel had brought, and then pointed to the last aisle by the locker rooms. “There is a side door over there. We must escape.”

  “First, I am going to kill that bastard,” Sergei said and headed toward the walkway.

  “Sergei, no.”

  But it was too late. Rokva watch his former Spetsnaz commando go off to do what he did best.

  Gripping the suitcase, the Georgian headed for the rear exit. With a little luck, he could still make it out with something.

  And Sergei would surely follow. Wouldn’t he?

  Regardless, the king had to be protected. It was time for a castling move.

  * * *

  The explosion had ripped through the side door at the opposite end of the expansive floor. Bolan saw Grimaldi and two ERT members burst through, their weapons spitting rounds. Moving to the wall, the Stony Man pilot glanced up and punched the button on a wall outlet. What was left of the big overhead door began to rise then fell back down, some of the panels askew. Then the Vancouver Police Bearcat crashed through it and continued toward the parked Lincoln, knocking the luxury vehicle forward. More ERT officers poured in behind it.