Alarm bells went off in Bolan’s head. “Ackroyd mentioned that name. What is it?” He began to suspect he knew why Brognola’s investigation was being blocked.
“A ghost, like I said. According to the Feds, it doesn’t exist. But whatever HYPERBOREA is, it looks like the Society of Thylea thinks they’ve found it. And that spells bad news, I’d wager.” Kurtzman sighed. “I’m still digging, but we’re getting stonewalled. I’m guessing it’s something that everyone in the know wants to stay buried. How this bunch of nutter-butters found out about it, I can’t say, but it’d probably be for the best if they didn’t get their hands on it.”
Bolan shook his head absently, processing what Kurtzman had told him. “They’re fanatics,” he said, finally. “It doesn’t matter whether they’re praying to Allah, Jehovah or Odin. They need to be put down—and hard.”
“There are tickets waiting for you at the Alaskan Airlines counter, Striker,” Kurtzman said. “We found the flight they’re on, thanks to the information you recovered from the warehouse, and we got you a seat. The flight’s packed, but there’s an air marshal on board. They’ll be waiting for you and will get you on.”
Bolan almost protested. Every fiber of his being demanded that he bring down his quarry then and there, before he left Reno, but Bolan knew that caution was required, especially if Ackroyd’s family was under the guns of whoever Sparrow was working for. There was no guarantee that Sparrow’s progress wasn’t being observed, and if he failed to show up in Seattle, Ackroyd’s family might pay the price.
“And when we land at Seattle, I’ll take him,” Bolan said harshly. “Then we’ll find out what’s going on. Ask Hal to meet me in Seattle, if he can. I have a feeling we’re going to need every marker he can call in on this one.”
“Good luck, Striker,” Kurtzman said. Bolan ended the call and made a sound of disgust. This wasn’t the first time he’d run up against walls built from bricks of bureaucratic silence. Indeed, though he didn’t like to think of it that way, he owed his life to one such situation. If not for Hal Brognola and his supporters in the government, the Executioner would not have gotten a second chance to continue his war.
But in this case, someone, somewhere, was willing to endanger a lot of lives to keep their dirty little secret, and Bolan had no time for such cowardice. Bolan trusted Brognola to protect Ackroyd’s family. It was up to the Executioner to take care of the rest.
When Bolan arrived at check-in, he made his way to the Alaskan Airlines counter. He’d taken the time to quickly change from his scorched and torn fatigues into his civvies, and he’d left his weapons in the car, save for the Desert Eagle which was snugly holstered beneath his arm, its bulk hidden by the hang of the battered denim jacket he wore over his T-shirt. At any other time, in any other situation, he wouldn’t have brought the weapon into the airport, but as Kurtzman had promised, they were expecting him.
The men and women behind the counter looked alternately nervous and excited as he approached. One of the women stepped out from behind the counter as Bolan walked up and said, “Right this way, Mr. Cooper.” He followed her through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and down a back corridor. As they walked, she snuck quick looks at the shape of the Desert Eagle, but she said nothing.
She led him to a room where a number of security personnel stood around a bank of video monitors. One of the security staff—a tall African-American man dressed in a dark suit—turned to greet Bolan. He smiled flatly and introduced himself. “Alvarez, Federal Air Marshal Service. You’re Cooper, right?” His eyes strayed to the holstered pistol, but, as with Bolan’s guide, he said nothing.
“If I wasn’t, would I be here?” Bolan asked.
“Depends,” Alvarez replied. “We once had a delivery man get back here by accident. Poor guy was determined to deliver that pizza, even after we got him into custody.”
“I’m Cooper,” Bolan said, smiling slightly.
The two men shook hands and Alvarez indicated the monitors. “Your guy—Sparrow, was it?—he’s gone through security and he’s in the concourse now, with his pal. We were told you didn’t want us to stop him.” Bolan caught the implied accusation, but couldn’t find it in him to blame Alvarez. There wasn’t a security man in the world that didn’t bristle at the thought of his routine being disrupted. Routine meant everything was going well. Routine meant that everyone was safe. When routine got screwed, so did the security man on whose watch it happened.
Bolan peered at the monitor. “No. We have reason to believe that to do so will result in the deaths of several people.”
“Old man’s under duress,” Alvarez said. Bolan looked at him. Alvarez rubbed his face tiredly. “I’ve been with the Federal Air Marshal Service for almost twenty years, Cooper. I’ve seen my share of forced transports—usually it’s kids or women—and I know when someone is being forced to go somewhere they’d rather not.” He tapped one of the monitors for emphasis.
“His family,” Bolan said quietly. “We’ve got people on it, but there are no guarantees...”
Alvarez grunted. “Figures,” he said. “But you’re planning on taking him in Seattle?”
“If possible.”
“Okay.” Alvarez gestured to the Desert Eagle. “I hope you’re not planning on taking that cannon on board. Justice Department or not, I can’t risk it.”
Bolan bristled, but only for a moment. Sparrow wouldn’t be armed, either. He nodded. “Understood.”
“I, however, will be armed,” Alvarez said, smiling thinly. He caught Bolan’s expression and said, “You didn’t think I was letting some Justice Department cowboy on one of my planes unescorted, did you?”
Bolan crossed his arms. “I’m not complaining,” he said. “A little backup never hurt anyone.”
“Surprisingly reasonable of you—you sure you work for the Justice Department, Cooper?” Bolan smiled and slipped the Desert Eagle out of its holster.
He ejected the magazine and then ejected the round in the chamber, deftly catching the bullet as it arced through the air. Alvarez’s eyes widened slightly. Bolan set pistol, magazine and bullet down on the table. Then, still smiling, he looked at Alvarez.
“Let’s go. I don’t want to miss my flight.”
Chapter 7
Anchorage, Alaska
Kraft sat on the edge of the bed, humming softly, while Mervin talked at length with Sparrow, who’d made the mistake of calling from the Reno airport to report that Mervin’s delicate plans had once again been disrupted. Kraft, no stranger to Mervin’s tantrums, felt some sympathy for Sparrow, but not much.
Sparrow was a good soldier, but he was also a mongrel, as all Americans were. That meant he couldn’t be trusted with even the simplest tasks without supervision. Mervin did not recognize the part purity of blood played in how men acted and reacted. Pure Aryans would have dealt efficiently and permanently with the interfering party. But if Mervin could not see it, he did not consider it.
Kraft pitied him. He was a bright young man, with a mind that was obviously at one with the Vril—the secret life-blood of the universe. But his body—his poor, impure body—was not of the proper stock to handle the god-mind of the soon-to-come ancient Thylea.
Kraft looked at his hands. The tanned flesh was as hard as leather and marred by hundreds of thin scars of varying sizes and shapes. His fingers curled inward and his knuckles popped like gunshots. Mervin glanced at him, startled. Kraft smiled. Mervin went back to berating Sparrow in his calm, monotone way.
Kraft knew he was of the proper stock. Had not his father and grandfather and great-grandfather served the Society of Thylea, even as he did? From the very beginning, the Krafts had served as the strong hands that did the work of kings. They were of the blood of the paladins of old, who had built empires, pale shadows of lost Thylea, to better mankind.
That dream was the r
eason Kraft had given up his rank and left the military to take up his father’s post as castellan of the Society. He was the strong shield that, together with their sword, would enact the vast and far-reaching plans of the Sun-Koh. The Society’s ruling council was scattered across Europe, from Moscow to Vienna to Milan. They were men of wisdom and power, who rarely met in person, preferring to speak as electronic phantoms in locked and hidden places on the internet. Kraft never had much time for computers himself. If he could not touch it or break it, he distrusted it. But like a good soldier—like a true warrior—he recognized his own failings and trusted his fellow paladins, like Mervin, to take up the slack.
Mervin tossed the satellite phone onto the bed. “Fool,” he said.
Kraft looked up.
“Not you. Sparrow.”
“I know,” Kraft said, picking up the phone and placing it carefully back on the desk. “More interference, I take it?”
“The same interference, if Sparrow is to be believed.”
“You doubt him?”
Mervin hesitated. “No. Once is coincidence. Twice is enemy action.”
It was Kraft’s turn to hesitate. “Should we abort the mission?”
“That would solve nothing. We are committed. We must continue.” Mervin’s voice was as flat as ever, but there was an edge to it that Kraft found gratifying. He occasionally wondered about Mervin’s dedication to their cause. It was good that he, too, seemed to feel what Kraft felt. This was destiny, and destiny could not be denied.
“As you say,” Kraft agreed. He slapped his knees and rose to his feet. “Where is Sparrow now?”
“Preparing to board the plane for Seattle,” Mervin said, not looking at Kraft. “He will call again, once he has arrived.”
“Do we have anyone meeting him?”
“No. There was no need.”
“Except now there might be,” Kraft chided. It always paid to be gentle with Mervin. “How much interference did he encounter, exactly?”
“Sparrow is alone,” Mervin replied, sitting on the bed. His fingers twitched. “The others...?” Kraft asked.
“All dead.” Mervin closed his eyes and lay back on the bed, massaging his temples. “One man killed them all. Enemy action,” he added.
“One man,” Kraft murmured. “Interesting...”
Mervin’s eyes cracked open. “No, frustrating,” he corrected. “One man should not have been able to interfere to this extent.”
“Never underestimate the power of a single man.”
“Irrelevant. The man is dead. Sparrow and the others were lazy. Their methods were lacking. They have endangered my plan. When Sparrow reaches Anchorage, dispense with him.”
Kraft frowned. “Why? He is a loyal member of the Society, and he has proven his worth, obviously, by succeeding where the others failed.”
“He has not succeeded—merely survived. He is a weak cog, Kraft, and he must be stripped from the machine. We have plenty of soldiers. One more or less will not make a difference. I want to sleep before we go to the airport.”
Kraft grunted. “You want to smoke one of your filthy cigarettes, you mean.”
Mervin didn’t reply. Kraft sighed and left the room. He closed the door quietly behind him and stood in the hotel hallway for a moment, considering. Mervin had a room to himself, mostly because no one else could stand to bunk with him for any length of time. Even Kraft’s dedication only went so far. He had no illusions as to Mervin’s personality. While his mind was a valuable weapon in the Society’s war with the lesser races, Mervin himself was a nasty little creature. He was spiteful, brusque and petulant. He smoked like a chimney and seemed to subsist entirely on ego and nicotine.
He was not a warrior. Kraft, however, was. He had been a warrior even before he’d been trained to use those instincts. And now he was one of the most dangerous killers the world had ever seen. He had killed Interpol agents and MI6 gunmen in his time. He’d fought jihadists and anarchists, Vory killers and, once, a Yakuza assassin, covered in tattoos and wearing a mask like the devil’s face. That one he had fought amongst the electric pastel stars that lit up the Shinjuku district of Tokyo, and he still had the long, thin scars to remember their lethal dance.
For Kraft, battle was meat and drink. He longed for the scream of bullets sawing through the red mist and the hiss-thud-whack of steel on flesh. He closed his eyes, imagining it. And then he thought of the unknown interferer. He wondered what the man’s name was and whether he was truly dead. Sparrow was competent, but was he competent enough to take out a man who had killed so many of their own? Kraft doubted it.
He felt heartened by the thought. Kraft had been too long without a challenge. He wanted the man, whoever he was, to have survived. If he lived, he would keep coming after Sparrow, after them. Kraft felt it in his bones. He sensed that this man was a fellow warrior. The thought brought a smile to his face. It would be good to meet a worthy foe one last time, before the world ended and began anew.
Kraft flexed his fingers, imagining them sinking into his faceless enemy’s flesh. Then, decided, he moved noiselessly down the hall toward the room he shared with one of the others, a Canadian named Boyd. In the room, Boyd and several of the other men were sitting on the beds, drinking beer, eating pizza and assembling their weapons. The AR-15s had been cheap and easy to acquire, and the handguns, as well. The weapons had been waiting for them at a SunCo subsidiary in Anchorage, labelled as “pest control.” Which, in a sense, they were, he mused.
For a moment, he examined the group. A feeling of pride filled him. They were of varied backgrounds—some had been soldiers and others, like Boyd, had been petty criminals before finding the Society. But they had all come together, united by a common, glorious goal. “Sparrow made it to the airport,” Kraft said, shutting the door behind him.
“Did you doubt it?” Boyd asked as he dropped a pepperoni into his mouth.
“There’s been interference.”
Suddenly, every eye was on him, as he’d intended. Despite Mervin’s assertions to the contrary, Kraft knew that his men were the equal to most global military organizations. He had trained them himself. Boyd, chewing, asked, “How many?”
“One, according to Sparrow,” Kraft said.
Boyd sniffed. A soft mutter arose from the gathered men. Kraft raised a hand. “Quietly, gentlemen,” he said.
“What does the Tick-Tock Man say?” Boyd asked. Kraft gave him a baleful look. Boyd ignored it. Kraft usually gave him more leeway than the others. Boyd was good for morale, being quick-witted and good with a joke. Sometimes, however, he pushed his luck too far.
At times like that, Kraft was forced to discipline him. Kraft moved smoothly across the small distance between them, one long arm unfolding. His hand clamped around Boyd’s windpipe and he jerked the Canadian up and swung him around, smashing him against the wall in one forceful motion. Boyd’s face turned red as Kraft examined him for a moment and then turned his cold gaze onto the rest of the men. “Do not insult Mervin. When you insult Mervin, when you mock him, you mock the Society. You mock the men who have raised us up and placed their trust in a vessel you deem unworthy. Who are you to determine worthiness?”
Having said his piece, he let Boyd drop. The Canadian bent double and wheezed. He rubbed his throat, looked up at Kraft and rasped, “Made—made me swallow a pepperoni.”
A ripple of amusement punctured the tension. Kraft smiled and patted Boyd on the back. “I apologize. Have another slice, please.” He gestured to the pizza box on the bed. “One man, gentlemen,” he continued. “A singular man. Mervin has dismissed him already. We will not. Sparrow says he is dead. Perhaps he is. Mervin certainly believes such to be the case. But Mervin is not a warrior. He does not understand warriors. We are too close to our moment of destiny, my friends. Our enemies gather and in the great, far dark, the Gjallarhorn sound
s.”
Several of his men nodded fiercely at the mention of the war-horn of the god Heimdallr. Others looked blank. Not all servants of the Society knew of the old gods. Not all of those who did believed. Kraft did not worry one way or the other. “We are many, and he is one,” he said. “But all warriors are alone on the battlefield.”
“So who is—was—he?” Boyd asked.
“Unknown,” Kraft answered honestly. “He could be a hitter for a rival organization or an operative for one of half a dozen governments. If he is dead, it doesn’t matter. Even if he’s alive, it doesn’t matter. We are on the sharp end, my friends, and every man’s hand is against us.” He clapped his hands together. “When we reach HYPERBOREA, nothing will matter, save the end.”
His men murmured. They did not know everything, for Mervin had seen no reason to tell them. But Kraft was not Mervin. Kraft was a warrior and it befitted warriors to have no secrets. “Yes, you know that name, my friends. And what we will find there is the answer to this sick world. At HYPERBOREA, we will find Thylea...and the world will at last see our power!”
Chapter 8
Bolan had spotted Sparrow and Ackroyd almost as soon as he’d boarded the Boeing 737. A single aisle ran the length of the cabin, with three seats to the rows to either side. The two men were seated in the middle of the compartment, and Sparrow had Ackroyd boxed in against the window. Bolan was fairly certain that Sparrow had spotted him, as well, if the sickly expression on the other man’s face was anything to go by. But Alvarez had passed by unnoticed and was sitting directly behind them. That gave the air marshal an advantage, if Sparrow decided to try something.
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