“You know, I should be really upset with you two,” Marker said. “Hell of a chase you led us on. And look how many of my boys you took out. Mr. Granger has been put to a great deal of trouble.”
“I’m all broken up hearing that,” Bolan said.
Marker smiled easily. He glanced across at Dukas.
“Nothing to say this time, Erika? No? There’ll be time for that later. On your feet. Let’s get out of here.”
“He’s hurt,” Dukas said. “He can’t just—”
One of the armed men laughed.
“You hear that, Lee? Aw, he’s hurt. Maybe we should send for a rescue chopper.”
“And maybe I should off this bastard right here and now,” Marker said, his light mood vanishing in an instant.
He stood over Bolan, the muzzle of his M-16 lining up with Bolan’s head.
“Please, no,” Dukas screamed, her voice high and shrill.
The terror in her words drew attention. Even Marker shunted his gaze to her for a split second.
And knowing he had been offered a chance by the outburst, the Executioner took it.
19
Bolan knew his wound was bleeding again. The tearing burn registered as he snatched up the M-16 that lay partly concealed at his side. He turned the muzzle in Marker’s direction. He ignored the pain because if he didn’t he was going to be dead anyway.
Reactions were often dictated by the mood of the moment. With Bolan under his gun, Marker was feeling good. The woman’s plea only added to his enjoyment of the moment, and like many who thrived on the strength of gaining power over others, he glanced her way to savor the fear in her face.
But when saw her face—the gleam of triumph in her bright eyes—he knew he’d been tricked. There was no fear. No terror. Only a mocking expression.
Marker brought his attention back to Bolan and realized he had committed a lethal mistake.
The heel of Bolan’s boot slammed hard against Marker’s left knee, the impact knocking him off balance. Bolan rolled to a crouch, his finger stroking the M-16’s trigger repeatedly. His bursts hit Marker’s backup team, kicking them off their feet. They sprawled across the shelf of rock, bodies squirming under the impact of Bolan’s shots. He put final head bursts into them, ensuring there would be no comeback.
Bolan met Marker as the man recovered his balance and hauled his own weapon back into play. There was no hesitation as Bolan swung the M-16 around in a savage arc that clouted Marker across the side of his skull. The blow dropped him to his knees, leaving him gasping in pain. Bolan hit him a second time, driving him facedown on the rock, blood pouring from the gash in his head. The soldier bent forward and retrieved the disks.
The Executioner stepped back, clenching his teeth against the surge of pain from his side. He leaned against the rock face as Dukas moved to his side, concern in her eyes.
“That wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had,” she said.
Bolan looked beyond her to the sprawled bodies, then down at Marker’s prone figure.
“Your performance worked,” he said. “We got a result. Go clear their weapons.”
She moved to the bodies, bringing back the guns they had been carrying. Then she did the same with Marker.
“Check his backpack,” Bolan said.
Marker carried extra ammunition, a powerful transceiver and a bundle of plastic restraints.
“He brought them for us,” Dukas said.
She knelt beside Marker and pulled his hands behind his back, using one of the plastic restraints to bind his wrists and not being gentle in the process.
Bolan had slid down the rock to a sitting position, holding one hand to his bleeding side. Sweat beaded his unshaven face.
“Now what?” Dukas asked.
“I’m considering our options.”
Bolan examined the transceiver in his hand. It was a state-of-the-art model, with a digital readout. He switched it on and heard someone speaking.
“Lee…I heard shooting…talk to me…”
Bolan keyed the transmit button.
“He’s tied up at the moment. That you, Granger?”
“Who is this? What are…Cooper? Is that you, Cooper?”
“You must be running out of options, Granger. And men. Even with your clout you can’t snap your fingers and make them appear.”
“Cross me, Cooper, and I’ll make you pay.”
“Tone it down, Granger. Threats don’t impress me. Or intimidate. Big man on the Washington circuit? When we see exactly what you were involved in you’ll be closing up shop.”
“I don’t think so. I’m too important. Contract work I do for the military isn’t going to be stopped because of something that happened more than ten years ago. You’d be surprised what is overlooked in the cause of national security. I’ll be protected. I’ll buy my way out,” Granger shouted.
“Understand, Granger. It isn’t the military you have to account to. It’s me. And I don’t plea bargain. Or compromise,” the Executioner replied.
The pause was enough. Granger was considering Bolan’s words. He was unsure who he was dealing with, but disturbed by the chilling words he had just heard.
“Go to hell, Cooper…”
Bolan heard the unit click as Granger switched off.
“Sounds as if you touched a nerve there,” Dukas said.
“He still thinks he can worm his way out of this. Now that all his partners are dead he only has to save himself.”
Bolan slowly pushed to his feet and stepped out from the overhang. He stood upright, feeling the chill rain on his upturned face. The sound of engines powering up told him exactly what he had expected. It was Granger’s helicopter lifting off. The man was leaving, abandoning his people and making his escape.
Bolan glanced back and saw Lee Marker raising his bloody head. The expression on Marker’s face told Bolan he had heard the sound too.
“Loyalty’s such an endearing quality in a person,” Bolan said.
BOLAN SAT WITH HIS BACK TO the rock as Dukas made an attempt to repair the damage he’d done to his bandaged side. He was scrolling through the frequency band on the transceiver in an attempt to make contact with someone, anyone, though he knew it was a near-futile exercise because of presettings.
The voice coming through made Dukas look up.
“…Striker…respond…Striker…”
The unmistakable voice of Jack Grimaldi.
“J.G., this is Striker. Talk to me. Where are you?”
“Striker, stay on air so I can get a fix on your position. Christ, Sarge, your voice never sounded so good. You guys okay?”
“Both of us. A little shop-soiled, but we’re good.”
Grimaldi broke off for a moment. “Okay, I got you on-screen. Five minutes from your location.”
“Any joy on Casper?”
“Sorry, Sarge. I couldn’t locate him. I’ve been sweeping the area. Bodies, sure. Even a couple of downed choppers but no Bud.”
“He was a good friend.”
“The way things have been going, Sarge, I’m glad I found you two. Hey, Bud would have gone down fighting. It was the way he was.”
Bolan spoke to Grimaldi over the transceiver until the Stony Man pilot hovered over the ravine, lowering a winch cable and harness. Dukas went up first. When the cable returned Bolan strapped it to Marker and waited for its return before he was hauled out of the ravine. The moment he was inside, Grimaldi retracted the winch and closed the hatch. The pilot eased the chopper away from the ravine and put it down on solid ground. He joined Bolan.
He had been expecting Bolan and Dukas to be in rough shape. When he saw them, he tipped his cap to the back of his head and gave a sigh.
“What in hell have you guys been up to? Looks like you crawled over the Rockies on your hands and knees.”
“What’s a girl to do?” Dukas said. “Not a beauty salon open between here and D.C.”
She had dropped onto one of the side seats, clutching her arms around her b
ody as she tried to get warm. With the secession of activity over, her body was starting to react to the hardship and exposure it had been through.
Grimaldi, sensing her condition, moved into action. He opened lockers and produced blankets and thick coveralls.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” he said. “You too, Sarge. Where to?” Grimaldi added.
“Maple Lake. We can leave him there.” He turned to indicate the silent Lee Marker. The man had slumped down on one of the side seats, staring out through the side port.
“Never mind him,” Dukas said. “We need to get Cooper, here, to a doctor.”
Grimaldi had seen the bloody patch on Bolan’s side. He hadn’t missed the other severe bruises and cuts both of them were exhibiting.
“And did you get your package?” he asked.
Bolan reached into the pocket of his discarded coat and brought out the disk holder.
“He got it,” Dukas said.
Bolan reached across and took her hand.
“We got it.”
Maple Lake, Colorado
BOLAN HAD ESTABLISHED A computer link with Stony Man. “Were you able to read the files I sent,” he asked.
“Took awhile,” Kurtzman said over the voice link. “Pavlic had the film buried in an encrypted file. But we opened it up. It’s as good as an indictment as you’ll ever see.” He hesitated. “You want to see it?”
“Go ahead,” Bolan said.
He felt the Maple Lake police force had a right to see what was behind the trouble that had descended on their community.
Bolan felt Dukas rest her hand on his shoulder as the screen filled to show the segment. Behind Bolan and Dukas the Maple Lake law force stood and watched the scene as the six prisoners were led from a parked truck to stand on the edge of a rain-sodden pit. Behind them stood an armed trio and off to the side more figures watched. There was a brief exchange of words. The female of the six prisoners had a heated outburst before the abrupt and final act as the armed men opened fire, from no more than a few feet. The six victims toppled into the pit. There was an added surreal quality there being no sound, like some old silent newsreel. Only these digital images were in color, the images sharp and detailed. Detailed so that the perpetrators of the massacre were fully identified as the cameraman focused on each one in turn so that there was no mistaking any of them. Ten years back they had been thinner, with more hair, but there was no denying who they were. Bolan noticed that through the entire sequence Pavlic kept his gaze averted and would not look at either the victims or in the direction of the cameraman he knew was there. His filmed record, rather than protecting him, had in fact been the catalyst that brought about the deaths of those involved.
Full circle.
After the scene faded there was an uncomfortable silence in the office. Sheriff Garrett sat slumped in a chair and shook his head at what he had seen.
“We are a sad excuse for a species sometimes,” he said. “Poor bastards there slaughtered so a bunch of dirtbags could line their pockets.”
“All of us here were affected by them,” Dukas said.
“I’d say there’s a whole mess that’s going to need cleaning up when all this comes out,” Garrett said.
Bolan nodded. “Once all the names are verified and past and current deals brought into the open.”
“They’re starting to come through now,” Kurtzman said over the link. “Since we spoke to Sarajevo and downloaded a copy of the film they’ve already identified a number of people. The findings agree with what we’d already pieced together. Including the victims. One of them, the woman, was an undercover operative already digging into the group’s activities. Sarajevo police are looking to arrest the one remaining guy who stayed behind to mind the store, Sev Malik. There is another one, in a coma after an accident. He might have been hit by his own friends. Maybe some fallout within the group. Colorado State Police were called to an airstrip following the discovery of a body. They were on alert to information we put out through Justice. When they checked ID the guy turned out to be Karel Medusku. Double tap to the back of the head. Federal agents are dropping in on Granger Industries as we speak. He won’t be able to buy his way out of this.”
“Okay,” Bolan said. “We’ll be back ASAP once we get checked out. I’ll bring the disk with me. Thanks.”
He cut the connection.
“Hell of a day,” Sheriff Garrett muttered into his coffee mug.
BOLAN WATCHED DUKAS AS SHE moved to a quiet corner of the office. She slumped in a chair, hugging a thick parka around her body, staring down at the floor. He crossed to join her, crouching beside the chair.
“Hey, you shouldn’t frown like that, young lady.”
She looked at him, smiling wearily.
“No.”
She leaned forward and touched his face, kissing him gently. Bolan saw the tears in her bright eyes.
“That was from the two of us,” she said. “From me and Tira.”
ISBN: 978-1-4603-7419-1
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.
DEADLY CONTACT
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