The German shook him, and Bolan lost his grip on the Beretta. “Go, Sparrow!” the German shouted as he squeezed Bolan hard enough to make his ribs creak. “Take the old man and go. I will handle this fool! Vril-YA!”
Bolan grunted and drove his head back, into the German’s face. He heard bone crunch and the grip on him loosened. Bolan slithered free and dropped to the ground. He twisted around and drove a hard blow into the German’s belly. The man gasped and staggered, but didn’t fall. His fists smashed down on Bolan’s head and shoulders like hammers. The Executioner lunged forward, tackling his opponent. They crashed against the wall.
The German was strong and he knew how to fight. But Bolan knew how to win. Two swift, savage strikes to the German’s kidneys made him gasp in agony. He responded with a knee to Bolan’s groin. The Executioner caught the blow and sank his fingers into the meat of the man’s knee, twisting savagely as he rammed his palm into a momentarily vulnerable windpipe. The German fell back against the wall, gagging. Bolan didn’t let him recover. He unleashed a rapid salvo of precise hammerblows to the man’s belly and sides.
The German stayed on his feet with a tenacity that was almost impressive. Wheezing, he lunged. His fingers clawed at Bolan’s face and throat, and the Executioner found himself forced back until his spine connected with the rail. Bolan shoved his arms up and swatted aside the German’s hands. The heel of Bolan’s palm struck his opponent’s already mangled nose, forcing fragments of splintered cartilage and bone up toward the man’s brain. Bolan spun as the German pitched backward with a gurgle.
The Nebraskan—Sparrow—hadn’t wasted any time. He’d dragged Ackroyd down the stairwell on the other side of the walkway and shoved the old man into the SUV. He was climbing in himself when he saw Bolan looking down at him. Sparrow cursed and raised his weapon. He fired, driving Bolan back from the rail. The SUV’s engine growled to life and gravel crunched beneath its tires. Bolan sprang to his feet, caught the rail and swung his legs over. He dropped onto the SUV as it backed out of its parking spot, the force of impact radiating upward through the soles of his boots to his skull. Unprepared, he was flung off his feet as Sparrow twisted the wheel, whipping the vehicle around. Bolan rolled off the roof and slid down the windshield, striking the hood. He scrambled desperately to keep from slipping off and falling beneath the vehicle’s wheels.
Then, in a squeal of rubber, the SUV cut a sharp turn and hurtled out of the parking lot, taking the Executioner with it.
Chapter 2
Anchorage, Alaska
Saul Mervin stubbed out his cigarette. On the television, the President was addressing Congress. Mervin looked at the digital timer on the television set that occupied one wall of his hotel room. Nevada was an hour ahead of Alaska, he recalled. That meant Sparrow’s call was only an hour late. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think. There could be many reasons for the delay.
Mervin was a spare man, lacking any excess flesh or muscle. He was a thing of narrow specifications, with a chin like a scoop and eyes the color of faded dollar bills. He lacked distinguishing features, the work of years and a careful attention to detail. No agency had his fingerprints or photos on file, and his DNA was sacrosanct.
Without opening his eyes, Mervin reached over and plucked a cigarette from the silver case on the nightstand, popped it between his thin lips and lit it with a cheap lighter. As soon as he’d arrived he’d pulled the smoke detector off the wall and opened a window. He needed nicotine more than warmth. The feeling of smoke slithering through his lungs helped him organize his thoughts.
If Sparrow were any other man, Mervin would suspect a distraction—a woman or an accident. But Sparrow was Sparrow. He was single-minded and utterly devoted to the Society. The others with him were equally dedicated, if not so single-minded. That left the possibility of interference. Mervin frowned. He had factored in sixteen possible points of interference for the Reno operation. Seventeen, if he counted betrayal. Immediately, he discarded the thought. Sparrow was Sparrow. He would continue with the mission regardless. The man was determined, if nothing else.
He mentally flicked through the remaining sixteen, weighing the variables and considering the likelihood of each. Interpol wasn’t likely—he had organized the Viennese operation specifically to distract them. The FBI was a leaky sieve; Mervin would have gotten word of their interference through the usual channels. On and on he went, rapidly considering, weighing and discarding the possibilities.
He had always possessed the ability to process and analyze with computer-like efficiency. Even as a child, numbers and calculations had proven no mystery to him. He saw the patterns that no one else could see. He saw the bigger picture. It was the only picture that mattered—his picture.
But now his plans were threatened. His cheek twitched and he inhaled carcinogens. Like a spider whose web was damaged, he could repair it, but only by acting quickly.
Someone knocked on the door. “It’s open, Kraft,” he called out. Only one person would bother to knock. The door opened to admit a heavy, long-limbed shape. Rolf Kraft was a big, dangerous-looking man, as befitted a former member of the Kommando Spezialkrafte. Kraft had been one of the best the German Special Forces had to offer. Now he was Mervin’s nursemaid.
Kraft’s nose wrinkled as he caught sight of the cigarette. With a grunt, he plucked it from between Mervin’s lips and stubbed it out. “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you,” he said. Kraft had barely the trace of an accent, making it easy for him to blend in in most Western countries. He spoke fluent English, French, German and Russian. And like Sparrow, he was utterly and completely dedicated to the aims and goals of the Society of Thylea.
Kraft had killed on behalf of the Society for a number of years. Academics, historians, explorers and government agents had died by his hands, or the hands of those he’d trained. He could pluck a fly from flight with a rifle, or plant an explosive device so cunningly that its presence would be overlooked, even in the aftermath. He also had little compunction about engaging in more close-up work; indeed, he preferred it. That preference had seen him drummed out of the Special Forces and into the waiting arms of the Society.
“Smoking helps me think,” Mervin said. His tone skirted petulance, and a flash of annoyance rippled across the surface of his amazing brain. Kraft could get under his skin simply by choosing the wrong moment to exhale.
“You think too much. Also bad for you,” Kraft said. Another flash of annoyance; Mervin looked at Kraft and calmed himself by calculating the six points of weakness by which Kraft could be disabled from their current relative positions.
“Probably, but that is why I am in charge,” Mervin said, sitting up. That was true, as far as it went. But he had no true authority. Kraft was the muscle, and if the muscle failed, not even the most efficient brain could make it work. He picked up another cigarette, caught sight of Kraft’s face and stuck it behind his ear. “Sparrow hasn’t called.”
Kraft’s face betrayed nothing, but his eyes slid to the satellite phone on the desk in the corner. “Interference,” he said. He knew the routine as well as Mervin did. Better, most likely, though he would never say so. Kraft’s loyalty was like iron. He appeared to regard Mervin as a sibling, someone to be protected or coddled. Whether that was due to the orders of their immediate superiors—who, Mervin knew, valued him—or because of some snag in Kraft’s emotional makeup, Mervin did not know, nor did he care.
“Possibly,” Mervin said. “We will act as if that is the case.” He pulled an old-fashioned pocket watch out of his coat pocket and opened it. It was his only memento, a gift from his mother. Or so he assumed. He had not known her well and barely recalled her voice. “We will give them an additional hour. If they haven’t called by then, we continue with the plan.” That, too, was part of the routine, a routine Mervin had spent years crafting. The servants of the Society of T
hylea operated like well-oiled clockwork. If one gear slipped or was stripped, another took its place. Mervin appreciated clockwork. Besides nicotine, only the click of clockwork could soothe his mind when it skipped its track. The regular rhythm settled his heart rate and helped him slide his thoughts into their proper alignment.
“Without Ackroyd, it’s going to be difficult,” Kraft said. He scraped his palm across his freshly shaved chin, thinking. Mervin hated the sound flesh on stubble made. It grated on his nerves. He snapped the watch closed.
“But not impossible.”
“No,” Kraft agreed. He smiled. “Nothing is impossible for us. It will be a great day, the day after it is done. It will be a new era for the pure peoples, Vril-YA!”
“Yes, yes, Vril-YA,” Mervin agreed. He wished, sometimes, that he had Kraft’s devotion to the Promise of Tomorrow. But the ruthless, implacable logic that made Mervin useful to the Society also prevented him from fully buying into the Nazi bedtime story that had propelled them for almost a century.
Facts shifted in the Rolodex of his mind. Where Kraft was an engine of destruction, Mervin was an engine of calculation, and as such, he collected facts and fancies with a glutton’s instinctive frenzy. The Society had first flown the banners of Thylea in 1918, envisioning a hyperborean mega-continent of ice-sculpture citadels and pure-blooded Nordic giants linked to the Vril, the life-blood of the cosmos. A Jotunheim Utopia, where gods and giants were one and the same, that ruled over the past and future of the Aryan Race. The Society of Thylea had been founded on the principles of that nonexistent continent, and was ruthless in seeking to bring about their particular melanin-based Ragnarok. They longed to create the Aryan utopia only dreamt of by frantic xenophobes, believing that it would bring a sacred peace to the world.
It was all rot, of course. In Mervin’s opinion, there was no more truth to these tales than to the stories of the Bible or the Koran. Stories told to justify and rationalize a campaign of murder and obfuscation that had been going on for almost a hundred years. Men like Kraft clung to the stories of Thylea with brutal naiveté. But Mervin was a man of logic. He saw little need to waste energy on self-justification. Not when there were more important matters at hand.
In the aftermath of World War II, the Society of Thylea had gone underground, as had so many groups and persons with ties to the Nazis. Unlike those groups, however, the Society had money, and lots of it. Even today it had its financial supporters. And using the resources of those supporters, the Society had, for decades, hunted for weapons it could employ in its battle against the lesser races. It had sought to find the singular spear of destiny it could thrust into the heart of sub-humanity.
And, eventually, it had found something, in a place called HYPERBOREA.
It was pure poetry, that name. And a fair amount of serendipity, too.
Mervin was growing tired of the Society. More, he was growing tired of Kraft. He looked at the big man, his expression bland, imagining Kraft broken, bloody and dead. There was no particular reason for his enmity. It was simply his nature. Familiarity bred contempt. He was good at hiding it, he thought. If any of them suspected, they said nothing.
“Are the others ready?” he asked.
Kraft frowned. “If not, I’ll have their hides.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Kraft grinned. “So precise,” he said. “Yes, they are ready. The charter plane has been booked. We will deal with the pilot on the day, given that we don’t need her.” He made a face. “She is a native. Likely a bad pilot, anyway.”
“Given the reviews of her business, I doubt that,” Mervin said. He sighed as he caught Kraft’s deepening frown. “A bad pilot is statistically unlikely to care for his plane, or to have a reputation that guarantees noninterference. Neither of those things would be of help to us. I chose the best pilot available. Ergo, she is a good pilot.”
“I meant no insult,” Kraft said, smiling slightly. He patted Mervin’s shoulder. “And what if Sparrow calls?”
“Then we follow through with the current plan. We will meet the others at the airport and escort Dr. Ackroyd to the charter plane. You will dispose of the pilot in front of Ackroyd, as an object lesson, and then we will go to meet our destiny.”
“Object lesson, eh?”
“Waste not, want not,” Mervin said. Kraft laughed heartily. Mervin hated that laugh.
The Society thought HYPERBOREA would mean a new beginning.
And for Saul Mervin, it would.
Chapter 3
Reno, Nevada
Bolan’s fingers scrabbled at the hood of the SUV as he fought to hold on. The vibration of the engine thrummed through him and he felt as if his teeth might rattle loose from his jaw. Horns blared as the vehicle bulled through traffic, weaving back and forth across the median as it roared toward Reno’s commercial district. Bolan hooked his feet into the front grille and tried to shove himself up, but the SUV was simply moving too fast and his own weight was acting against him. He grabbed for the hood ornament and it snapped away in his hand. His arms and legs ached with tension and he knew it was only a matter of time until he lost his grip or was dislodged from his perch by a speed bump.
Traffic whipped around the Executioner in a blur of lights and sounds. The SUV jerked to the side and, caught by surprise, Bolan half swung off the front end, cursing, before he crashed back against the vehicle and regained his grip. He had to get off the SUV and soon. He could make out the thin squeal of distant sirens. The police weren’t far behind. The way Sparrow was driving, he wouldn’t be able to avoid their notice. Maybe he didn’t intend to. Bolan met Sparrow’s furious gaze through the cracked windshield. The kidnapper wasn’t happy about his stowaway. Bolan wasn’t exactly enthused himself. If he’d been thinking more clearly, he’d have let Sparrow go and simply followed. But there hadn’t been time to think. He’d been determined to bring down the last of the kidnappers, and now he was clinging to the front of an erratically driven SUV. If Bolan had his KA-BAR combat knife, he might’ve been able to punch a hole in the radiator, but as it was, he was at the mercy of gravity and physics and unless he acted—and soon—he was going to suffer the same fate as every unlucky insect ever to strike a windshield.
The SUV began to weave again. A four-door sedan was brushed aside in a scream of crumpled metal and shattered glass. Bolan hunched forward. The SUV drifted to the side and Bolan realized that Sparrow was trying to scrape him off. Twisting his head, he saw that they were approaching the Virginia Street Bridge. That would have to be his stop. Bolan felt a twinge of regret at having to leave Ackroyd in the hands of his captor, but there was nothing for it. He wouldn’t do Ackroyd much good smeared across downtown Reno. I won’t do anyone much good that way, he thought grimly. Too much was depending on him.
With a grunt of effort, Bolan began to make his way down the grille. Grit thrown up by the wheels stung his eyes and face. His shoulders and hips burned. Moving carefully, the Executioner lowered himself between the front wheels of the SUV. He was only going to get one shot at getting off this ride. Luckily, he’d been in similar situations before. He wedged his lean frame between the wheels and hooked his feet around the rear axle. Clutching the bottom of the SUV’s frame, Bolan began working himself toward the back of the speeding vehicle, his body mere inches from the street. Exhaust filled his mouth and lungs. His muscles were screaming by the time he reached the back end of the vehicle.
The SUV bumped as it drove onto the bridge. Bolan nearly lost his grip and he felt something in his shoulder pop. His legs struck the street and for a moment he was being dragged behind the SUV on his back. The road seemed to rise up to meet him like a hungry predator, and the hard, hot surface kissed his back. His shirt and pullover were shredded and his body armor seemed to provide no protection at all. With a hiss of pain, he flipped himself around. The throbbing in his shoulder grew and was
joined by a dull ache between his shoulder blades. His eyes found the license tag and, acting on impulse, he reached out and hooked it with his fingers. He tore it free with a single, sharp jerk and then, after checking behind him for oncoming traffic, let go.
Bolan curled into a ball as he rolled across the bridge, tucking in his arms and legs. He struck the rail, hard, and all of the air whooshed out of his lungs as he uncoiled. He still held the SUV’s tag. Bolan grabbed the side of the bridge and hauled himself to his feet. Pain sparks burst and spun across his eyes and he felt like a water-balloon punctured by a stick. The bridge was two lanes wide, coming and going. The Truckee River was a placid, dark mirror running beneath it. Bolan spat blood. His lip was mashed and torn, and his body was bruised up one side and down the other. He’d made it off in one piece, but just barely. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blue lights. He needed to move, and fast.
Ignoring his protesting muscles, and clutching the license tag, the Executioner grabbed the wrought iron railing that lined the bridge and jumped over it. He hit the water feet first, crossing his arms over his chest. The water wasn’t deep, but it was enough to cushion his landing. As he surfaced, he saw a low, ornate rock wall that lined the opposite bank. Above, on the bridge, horns honked and sirens wailed. The police were in pursuit, but it was too much to hope that they’d catch Sparrow. Spitting water, he headed for the rock wall.
It took him an hour to get back to his designated Reno safe house; it was a rare taxi that wanted to pick up a bedraggled, sopping-wet bum, much less one that was bleeding. When he’d finally caught one, it was already late afternoon.
Arctic Kill Page 2