Arctic Kill

by Don Pendleton

  “Mervin, let her go,” Kraft said.

  “Give them to me.” Mervin shook her hard enough to cause her jaws to click. She flung out a hand, indicating one of the tents, tears streaming down her features.

  “I was just—I couldn’t—I didn’t...” she wailed. Mervin slapped her and let her fall.

  “Shut up,” he said. His voice was once more a calm monotone. Addicts were all the same, regardless of the addiction. He went to the tent, ransacked it and found a pack of filtered cigarettes. Pinching the filter off one, he shoved it into his mouth and lit it. Kraft was waiting for him as he stepped out.

  “Are you finished?” the big man asked.

  “For now,” Mervin said.

  “Was this because you actually had a plan, or because you needed your nicotine fix?” Kraft demanded. Mervin stared at him for a moment.

  “I always have a plan, Kraft,” he said. “You would do well to remember that.”

  Chapter 18

  Bolan balanced the laminated map on his knees as the motorized raft trundled along the river. The Noatak wasn’t as wild as some rivers Bolan had traversed, but it wasn’t exactly a Sunday afternoon leisure trip. He estimated that Kraft and the others were only a few hours ahead. The Society of Thylea soldiers had left behind most of their supplies, which meant they were having to stop sooner and waste time locating food. Bolan had found the remains of an improvised fish snare and several trench fires when he and Blackjack had made camp. Thanks to their quarry’s supplies, Bolan and Blackjack had all the food they needed.

  Mervin’s two rafts were also weighed down with at least seven men, explosives and other equipment. Blackjack was no lightweight, but she was nowhere near as heavy as a fully armed terrorist. Bolan had been pushing the motorized raft as hard as he dared to make the most of their advantage.

  Another day, maybe two, Bolan thought, tracing a line on the map with one finger. Longer, possibly, if the coordinates Ackroyd and Ferguson had provided were off somehow. He still wasn’t certain how to eliminate the threat HYPERBOREA posed, after Kraft and the others were dealt with. Explosives would be the most efficient means, but that’d run the risk of releasing the very thing he wanted to bury forever.

  He looked up. Blackjack crouched at the front of the raft. She had been casting a look back at him the entire time he’d been getting his bearings. By the fourth such glance, Bolan started to get annoyed. “What?” he asked.

  “Why’d he leave the raft?” she said, frowning. “Why not disable it?”

  For a moment Bolan didn’t reply. In truth, he’d been wondering the same thing himself for the past two days. The trip had been made mostly in silence; Blackjack had spoken little since killing Bolan’s attacker. She didn’t seem unduly bothered by it, but it was hard to tell. This was the first time she’d outright asked him anything since that night.

  “He wants to fight me,” he said.

  “So he’s suicidal?”

  The Executioner smiled slightly. “I’ve met men like him before. They need challenge the way you and I need air. They pit themselves against dangerous opponents and relish the pain that follows.” He scratched his chin. “A nastier sort of adrenaline junkie, I guess you could call them.”

  “I flew one of them ‘man versus wild’ types out here one time,” she said, not looking at him. “He wanted to be dropped off in nothing but some clothes he’d hand-made with a stone knife and an ax. He paid me good money, too.” She met his amused gaze and smirked. “His wife paid me to go find him when he didn’t turn up where he was supposed to.”

  “Did you?”

  “More or less,” she said. Her smirk faded. “He near about froze to death.”

  Bolan looked at her. “He must have been thankful.”

  “Not so you’d notice,” she said, turning away.

  “Thank you, by the way,” Bolan said.

  “For what?”

  “Saving me,” he said. “I didn’t say it properly before.”

  She shrugged. “You’d have handled it, I expect.”

  “Possibly, but you showed up at the right time. So...thank you.”

  “First time I ever killed a man,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear it. Bolan carefully folded his map and stuck it back into a pocket.

  “The first time is always the hardest,” he said.

  “You’ve done it plenty, I expect.” Water splashed up over the side of the raft, slopping between them. Bolan blinked spray out of his eyes and nodded tersely.

  “I’ve done it when I had to.”

  “You keep track?”

  Bolan hesitated. “No,” he said, after a moment.

  She grunted. “That many, then?”

  Bolan fell silent. She wasn’t far off. In his War Everlasting, he’d killed more men than he liked to consider. “I’ve never killed a man who didn’t deserve it,” he said finally.

  “And these guys—they deserve it?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Bolan said.

  “Good.” She shook herself and smiled grimly. “I didn’t feel guilty, you know. But I was wondering whether I should’ve.”

  “Ms. Blackjack—Ida—the day you need to worry is the day you stop wondering,” Bolan said. He looked up at the sky. It was getting dark. “We’ll find a place to make camp and settle down for the night.”

  Blackjack leaned forward. “That’s— Hey! Looks like somebody is in trouble!” She glanced back at him. “There’s a guy out there, hip-deep in the river, trying to flag us down. Looks like he needs help,” she said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Bolan said. He cursed. His instincts were screaming “trap,” but whether it was or not, it was a delay. Nonetheless, if someone was in trouble, Bolan couldn’t turn a blind eye. “Get back here and take the raft in. They haven’t seen me yet.” He unholstered his Desert Eagle and pressed it into her hand. “Just in case,” he said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to make sure everything is on the up and up. Take the raft in and see what he wants from us, but if anything funny happens, try not to get shot.”

  “You got a comforting way with words, Cooper.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Bolan slipped into the river. Holding tight to the side of the raft, he allowed it to pull him along for a bit before letting go and submerging himself. The water was cold, but Bolan was used to it. Carefully and quickly, he made his way to the rocky shore. As Blackjack took the raft toward the distant figure, he slithered out of the water and into the brush. Scanning his surroundings briefly, Bolan moved into the trees. He could smell a campfire and cooking beans. He moved closer to the camp. There were two tents and a fire crackling merrily. Three people sat around the fire, their body language and faces betraying a bone-deep fear.

  Quietly, he began to circle the camp. Some instinct caused him to freeze in midcreep and he hunched low against the ground, peering intently at a lump of brush. The Executioner’s eyes narrowed as he saw the briefest flash of movement. An improvised ghillie suit; Bolan was almost impressed. He faded back into the scrub as noiselessly as a cat.

  The raft’s motor had cut off, and he heard the sound of voices—Blackjack’s and someone else’s. Would they have left just one—no. Bolan willed himself to absolute stillness as he spotted the second man, moving between the tents. His rifle was slung, and he had a pistol in his hands. He stepped out with his weapon raised as Blackjack was led into the camp. “Freeze, bitch,” he snarled. He froze for a moment, as he realized that Bolan was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he?”

  “Where’s who?” Blackjack said. She raised her hands. “You wouldn’t happen to have the keys to my plane, would you?”

  “Shut up!” the gunman snapped. “Where is he? Where’s the bastard at?”

  “Only bastard I see is the one in front of
me,” Blackjack said. The gunman reached her in one quick stride and struck her in the belly. She folded over and sank to her knees. Bolan tensed, but he couldn’t move until he knew for certain there were only two of them. Hold on, Ida, he thought. He flexed his fingers. The one in front of him hadn’t moved. They were smart enough for that, at least.

  “Where is he?” the gunman snarled, grabbing a handful of her hair. The man who’d led her into camp—a young black man—started forward, but backed off as the gunman waved his weapon at him. “Get over there with the others, now!”

  The one in the ghillie suit shifted slightly, tracking the young man as he sat down. There were a fair few black eyes and bruises spread among the group; the campers, whoever they were, weren’t helping by choice.

  Blackjack wheezed and began to climb to her feet. As she came up, her hand moved behind her back, beneath her coat, and reappeared with Bolan’s Desert Eagle. The gunman cursed and stepped back in surprise, his own weapon coming up. Both pistols went off at once. Blackjack went over backward and Bolan’s heart sank. He’d waited too long. He lunged at the camouflaged killer, and landed square on his back. Bolan’s knees dug into the man’s spine and his hands snaked around his head. The man bucked and began to struggle, clawing at Bolan’s hands.

  Bolan gave a rapid jerk and the man’s neck snapped. Their struggles had alerted the other gunman, however, and he scrambled toward the fire, his pistol growling out several shots at the scrub where Bolan was. Or rather, where Bolan had been, for the Executioner was already on his feet, the dead man’s AR-15 in his hands. He sprang from the brush and hit the ground, shoulder first, rolling to his feet even as his weapon lit up the gloom, spitting death.

  The gunman gave a cry but didn’t stop. He crashed through the campfire and into the campers, who tried to get out of the way. One of them wasn’t quick enough and the young man yelped as the wounded killer slid behind him, laced an arm around his neck and pressed his pistol to the side of his head. “Stop, stop or I kill him!” the killer howled.

  “No,” Bolan said. He pivoted, firing at the campfire. Hot embers and ash sprayed up, catching both men. The camper yelped and twisted, as did his captor. They swayed apart, just for an instant. Bolan took the shot. He fired once, and the gunman fell back, face a red ruin. Bolan waited, counting to ten. When no other enemies presented themselves, he went to check on Blackjack.

  He crouched beside her and reached for her wrist. Her eyes popped open and the Desert Eagle swung up. Bolan twisted aside and caught her wrist, shoving the pistol away from his face. “Whoa!”

  She coughed and he helped her sit up. “Are you hit?” he asked, not quite able to believe his eyes. She shook her head and tugged at a hole in her thick coat.

  “Didn’t even come close,” she wheezed.

  “You have a funny definition of close,” he said, helping her to her feet. He turned to look at the campers. One of the young men was hugging the woman. The other two were looking at him as if afraid they had traded one set of captors for another. “Folks, I’m with the Justice Department,” Bolan said. “You’re safe now.”

  He questioned them quickly. They knew nothing, beyond that a group of men had surprised them earlier in the day, taken them hostage and forced them to act as bait for him and Blackjack. Bolan knew that it had been nothing more than a delaying tactic. It was a stall, meant to slow him down. And it had. Kraft and the others were likely already at HYPERBOREA. He hefted the AR-15 and checked the magazine then he looked at the group of frightened people. “Do any of you have a phone?”

  One of the men nodded. “We brought it for emergencies.”

  “I’d say this qualifies. I’m going to give you a number. I want you to call it as soon as I’m gone, and tell the person who answers that Striker is making his play. They’ll ask for your coordinates, and I want you to give them as clearly as you can. Then sit tight and wait.” He looked at Blackjack and added, “That goes for you, too.”

  “What? But—” she began. He took the Desert Eagle from her and checked the magazine before holstering it. He went to the body of the first man he’d killed and snagged an extra magazine for the AR-15.

  “But nothing,” Bolan said. He tossed her the rifle and the magazine and picked up the rifle the gunman had dropped in his rush toward the hostages. “You’re staying here. That close call was your last.”

  “And what about you?” Blackjack demanded.

  “I’m taking the raft.” Bolan met her angry gaze and said, “You’ve gone above and beyond, Ida. But from here on out, I’ve got to go it alone.”

  Chapter 19

  “Hurry up and get the rafts tied off!” Kraft bellowed, shouting to be heard over the crash of water spilling across the rocks. Kraft looked over at Mervin, who stared at the slithering waterfall with wide eyes. “What is it?”

  “The government made this reservoir,” Mervin said absently. HYPERBOREA was a great skeleton of a place, all red-tinted metal painted in weatherproof paint. It was situated just so in the side of a crag that curved upward from the river like a sharp fang of rock. The waterfall ensured that it was partially hidden by a curtain of water, which pounded down from somewhere above and smashed into the deep waters of the small lake that spread out around the research base.

  “Like a moat, yes, so you said. They had to displace the water to get back into the cave systems,” Kraft said, passing up a satchel to one of his men who climbed a rusty ladder. The ladder rose from the dark water and up into the web of struts and girders that acted as the structural support for the bulk of the facility. Above the ladder was a wide gantry that led to a heavy bulkhead which was, if Mervin was to be believed, the entrance to HYPERBOREA.

  “That’s not supposed to be there,” Mervin said hesitantly, gesturing at the waterfall. Kraft looked at it more closely. The upper reaches of the crag had that peculiar look some rocks got, like a loaf of bread that had too much baking soda added to the mix. The rocks had been forced aside by several decades of water pressure, and the whole crag had a loose look that Kraft instinctively didn’t like.

  “Well, it’s here, and there’s nothing we can do about it,” he said.

  Mervin shoved a cigarette into his mouth and looked at him. “Can’t you feel it? This whole place is unstable. It’s coming apart.”

  “As long as it holds together while we get what we came for, I don’t particularly care,” Kraft said, passing up another satchel. The ladder whined as his men climbed up and down. A loud groan of straining metal drifted down from above, and everyone froze in place. Kraft expelled a breath and said, “Hop to it, gentlemen. We’re on a clock.”

  “I knew the structure would likely be unsound, but I never expected...” Mervin’s face was white and his expression was strained. He shook his head, scattering ash from his cigarette. “There’s no guarantee that the quarantine is even still functional.”

  “If not, wouldn’t we already be sick? We’ve been heading upriver. If there was contamination, we would have already begun vomiting out our intestines, no?” Kraft said, clapping Mervin on the shoulder. Mervin twitched away.

  “It’s not safe,” he said. “If we use the explosives, this whole structure could collapse!”

  “It’s your plan, Mervin.”

  “I know! But there are variables I was not aware of!”

  “Yes, that is becoming a habit with you, eh?” Kraft said harshly.

  Mervin whipped around to glare at him. “What?”

  “You heard me,” Kraft said. “This whole affair has been riddled with problems. You seem to have taken little of your usual care in crafting your schemes this time. Usually you are so precise...but this time, your mistakes may cost us everything.”

  Mervin’s cigarette drooped. Kraft snatched it and flung it aside. “You and your damn cigarettes and your petty, precise little plans,” he said. He could feel
the others watching but for once he didn’t care. Mervin had pushed him too far. He was tired of the little man’s weaknesses and his constant whining and complaining. “Why did you come, Mervin? This would have been easier without you.”

  “You needed me,” Mervin snapped.

  “Did we? Or did you simply want to think we did? Did you see your use coming to an end, Mervin? The ascension of Thylea looms, and the Tick-Tock Man is frightened because he is suddenly no longer necessary. It will be a new world, born from the ashes of the old. A world where only the strongest can survive, where a man’s blood and the power in it are all the advantage he will need. That frightens you, doesn’t it, Mervin? Or maybe you felt the need to prove yourself, eh?” Kraft eyed him. “That’s why I agreed to let you come, after all.”

  Mervin stared at him, and for the first time, Kraft had no problem telling what the little man was thinking. He smiled. “Hate makes us strong. Now get up the ladder.”

  Mervin did as he was told, and without complaint, which was suspicious. When Kraft reached the gantry, he grabbed Picher by the shoulder and handed the man his remaining magazines of ammunition. “Here, take these. I want you in among those struts. Our nameless friend will be along shortly. See that he has some difficulty, eh?”

  “You think he’ll get past the others?” Picher asked, doubtfully.

  Kraft shrugged and looked out at the river. “I think we can’t rely on things working according to plan. Do what you can. Don’t get cocky.” He clapped Picher on the shoulder and turned to see Mervin glaring at him. He had heard the exchange. Kraft didn’t particularly care. “Heinrich, Adams, get the explosives out. We’ve wasted too much time as it is—”

  The structure shuddered. Kraft staggered but immediately righted himself. Metal groaned and from somewhere within the nest of struts, he heard rivets pop and rattle. Mervin’s glare vanished as panic replaced anger. “We have to get out of here!” he shouted, stumbling in Kraft’s direction. “I won’t die here! It’s not worth it!”