“While we have done good work here, I fear that the authorities may not agree. We should hurry.”
Bolan nodded. “One down, but there are still too many of these we need to track down. Can you carry part of this to your car?”
The Russian gave him a look of disdain. “Please, I have carried more than this for Lana.”
Despite the urgency, Bolan couldn’t resist a grin. “Good, because we’re not finished yet. We can’t leave this behind, but we can’t leave at all until we’ve mopped up a little.”
* * *
HADES AND VISIGOTH had the HKs they had taken from the guards concealed under blankets. Hades appeared to be carrying one, while Visigoth had his on the top of the laundry hamper, his hand snaking underneath to grip the weapon while he tried to keep the basket moving steadily.
“Help him, asshole, or I’ll blow you a new one,” Hades snarled.
Nils bent and took hold of one end of the hamper. It was heavy from the weight of Ripper, concealed inside, and that made it difficult to maneuver. “This is no kind of a plan—” he began through gritted teeth.
“You’re right. It is no kind of a plan,” Hades interrupted, “but that’s probably because we’re not terrorists. On the other hand, it’s still better than you selling us down the river. And remember, shithead, if we go down in a hail of bullets, you will, too.”
Nils said nothing, just kept pushing. So far they had managed to negotiate several yards of corridor without coming across anyone. That had been pure luck. There was no way they would get to the outside without being stopped, and he still hadn’t been able to think of a way he could get himself out of this without either side ripping him to shreds in cross fire.
They turned a corner. Ahead of them were three armed guards. They were deep in a conversation, and didn’t notice the three men and a laundry hamper until they were almost on them. It was then that the guard who had seen them first turned to face them, looking puzzled.
“Nils? What are you doing, man? Why can’t that lazy one push?” he asked, indicating Hades. “If you get caught, then it’ll be your balls, especially on a day like this—”
He was halted midharangue by the sound of an alarm piercing the interior of the building. The guard looked up, then at his fellows.
“That’s the cells—someone must...” His voice trailed off as he realized what was happening. He was a fraction behind the other two guards, one of whom was yelling at Hades and Visigoth to get down. Both had their SMGs raised.
Caught in the middle, and still slow to react, the guard could only stand mute as fire from both sides blasted by him, somehow miraculously missing him. The two guards fired bursts that went wide of the mark as both Norwegians took evasive action, bringing their own weapons into the open and into play. They were less experienced gunmen but had been more prepared for this and were given an extra edge by their fear and desperation. Their bursts hit home, stitching both guards and putting them out of action.
The guard in the middle stood still, too dazed and confused to react fully. He could only stare dumbly when Nils started forward to grab his HK. Instinctively he pulled it to him, trying to bring it up to aim as Nils wrestled with him.
The confusion did neither man any favors. Hades fired two bursts into them that forced them apart, the guard falling dead while Nils clutched at a wound in his stomach.
“Jeez, man, what did you do that for?” Visigoth yelled. “We’ve got no hostage without him.”
“Dude, we don’t have time for that now. Change of plan.” He flung open the laundry hamper, grabbing the HK that had fallen between the guard and Nils in the struggle and throwing it to Ripper as he tumbled out of the hamper. “We’ve just got to run like hell and hope for the best.”
With that as the best course of action he could come up with, Hades led his two compatriots on, taking the left fork, but not without stopping to aim a final kick—partly from sheer frustration—at the blood-soaked and dying Nils as he lay on the ground.
* * *
“COOPER, THIS IS NOT the best idea you’ve ever had. I’ve probably said that before, and to be fair I’ve probably meant it. But this has just got to be the not-best idea that is worse than all the rest,” the Russian gritted out as he guided the sedan into the area around the courthouse. There were armed men and armored trucks all around them, and every second a vehicle seemed to be stopped and searched.
Bolan chuckled. Dostoyevsky was probably right. Bolan was making his comrade-in-arms drive into the heart of a gathering of security personnel and government types, headed toward a prison break, with a disarmed ex-Soviet nuke sitting in the trunk along with enough regular hardware to start a small war. There was no way they could begin to explain what was going on, and there was also no way that Hal Brognola could ever admit to having heard the name Matt Cooper should the ordure hit the fan.
But there was also no way Bolan was going to let a cache of ex-Soviet ordnance head east when there was a chance of getting intel, and no way he was going to leave the corresponding ordnance in the trunk sitting on an Oslo street to be found and puzzled over by anyone else.
So far they had been lucky. The roller coaster was going his way right now, and hopefully he would be able to ride it to the end.
The Russian guided the sedan into the streets leading directly to the courthouse entrance. He cursed as an armed soldier gestured them to stop.
“I hope you have a plan, Cooper,” he murmured.
“No,” Bolan said simply, eliciting a puzzled glare from the Russian. “I don’t think we’re going to need one.”
As the Russian started to pull over, the area to the rear of the court erupted into life. A siren could be heard, and men began to rush from all points toward the service road leading down the back. The guard who had waved them over listened to his earpiece and then waved them on, yelling at them not to stop and to clear the area.
“I knew something would kick off if we waited long enough,” Bolan murmured. “Pull over as soon as you can—we need to extract one of the three for interrogation.”
“Why is that?” the Russian queried as he pulled into a space just beyond the immediate area. They were ignored by the men rushing past, and the soldier who had tried to move them on was out of sight.
“Sundby or one of the other two band members—we need all that they know about Freedom Right and the setup in Estonia. Get one out, get him to a safehouse and get our people in.”
“Your people,” the Russian replied. “You don’t set us much of a task, Cooper,” he added with mild sarcasm before getting out of the car. As they headed toward the courthouse, he added, “How the hell do they think they’re going to get out when it’s being closed down like this?”
“I don’t think they know. I figure they were set up, and they’ve bitten the hand that feeds them. They’re flying blind, and maybe we can help them.”
Bolan led the way down the service road. Chaos reigned as the armed forces tried to squeeze themselves into the cramped area. Bolan and Dostoyevsky were helped by the presence of plainclothes security as well as those in uniform. The air of authority that the two men exuded in the midst of the confusion allowed them to pass almost to the courthouse entrance without question.
Not that anyone around them was in any position to stop men going in. They were far more concerned with stopping anyone coming out. One thing was for sure, as paramedics rushed past and men with gunshot wounds were treated in the midst of an ongoing firefight, the unschooled and desperate Norwegians had caused the chaos.
* * *
RIPPER ROARED WITH an almost berserker bloodlust as he forged forward, firing wildly into the space beyond the doorway to the courthouse’s yard before dodging back to cover, followed by more careful fire laid down by Hades and Visigoth, providing a background that enabled Ripper to let loose the anger that wa
s stored inside him.
“Man, we’re not getting out of here,” Visigoth screamed. “There’s too many of them to get through.”
“We take them with us then,” Hades replied. “They’re not doing that great, right?”
After cutting down the three guards and the alarm going off, the three Norwegians had made rapid progress toward the exit. Their lack of guile and the fear factor had driven them onward, firing at first sight of a guard. They had cut down men and driven them back toward the exit, while at the same time riding their luck and escaping with no wounds.
Now they were on the threshold, and the sheer weight of numbers held them back. It was a stalemate; something was needed to break that deadlock.
* * *
BOLAN AND THE RUSSIAN were able to get close to the front of the battle without being noticed. Because the Norwegians were also nearby, there had been little attempt to use gas or smoke to flush them out. The chances of either drifting across the enclosed yard—being counterproductive—was too strong. That was exactly what Bolan wanted. He indicated to Dostoyevsky that he should insert nose plugs and then produced a smoke grenade that he lobbed into the doorway.
As it went off, it was as though the two intruders were suddenly noticed. Armed men turned toward them, momentarily thrown. Bolan nodded to the Russian, and as the smoke began to spread across the yard, as Bolan had wanted, he and Dostoyevsky struck out around them, clearing a space by unarmed combat. The element of surprise worked in their favor long enough for them to allow the Norwegians to make their move.
Without understanding what was happening, or caring, the three young men took advantage of the confusion, charging into the yard toward the vehicles.
Bolan knew they had no chance of making it. Even in the midst of the confusion, the three men could easily be killed by the mass gathered beyond the immediate smoke-filled area. Bolan let them pass before he turned toward the last man in line. A blow to the back of the head knocked the guy to the ground as the others continued onward into an exchange of gunfire that cut them down.
As the smoke gave Bolan and his comrade cover, they took paramedic jackets from two men who had been taken down in the melee and slipped into them. They loaded the unconscious Norwegian onto a gurney and moved through the throng gathered around the dead bodies of the two remaining Norwegians and those they had had taken out along the way. Bolan barked at them to move, and they automatically complied, hardly noticing the paramedics and the body on the gurney.
As the initial confusion around the breakout rippled toward the road outside the courthouse, Bolan and the Russian and their “patient” were able to escape, with no one thinking to challenge them as they took a casualty away from an ambulance and toward a sedan.
Swiftly they bundled the unconscious Norwegian into the rear of the vehicle and took off.
“Where are we headed?” Dostoyevsky queried, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror.
Bolan took out his smartphone. “Let me find out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Do you know how many strings Hal has had to pull?” Kurtzman asked in passing, before adding, “This is global news, Striker, and the Norwegians are already pissed enough at what’s been going down.”
Bolan decided to save his reply for when he got a blast from Brognola, but the big Fed would more than likely know better.
The safehouse was in the center of the city, occupying the fourth floor of a wooden building used as a social and business center. It had enough comings and goings to hide activities in plain sight, while the floor on which the U.S. and Norway Folk Heritage Exchange Center was located had enough hidden security visible only to the trained eye to keep it locked down when the need may arise.
Bolan and Dostoyevsky carried the semiconscious Sundby from the back of the sedan, making loud jokes about too much alcohol to cover his grogginess as the two comrades hauled him into the building. Three men descended the wooden stairs loudly, joining in the faux good humor as they helped drag Sundby to the safety of their office space. Bolan heard the reassuring click of an electronic lock as they entered.
Two other men were inside. All five were dressed casually but carried themselves in a manner that spoke of military training to the experienced eye of the soldier and the Russian mercenary. They made only the briefest of exchanges before they hauled Sundby away, leaving the two fighters alone with a change of clothes, food and beverages in a comfortably furnished room overlooking the street.
“Grabbing the guy was not a complete waste of time,” Dostoyevsky said as he clapped Bolan on the shoulder. “There may still be something we can get from him that will make it worthwhile. Look at it this way—the manner in which the Norwegians were handling the situation would have led to a siege, and there would have been more deaths. At least we probably saved a few police and soldiers from an untimely end at the hands of these.”
Bolan looked out the window at the busy Oslo streets below. In a few hours this part of the city had seemingly returned to normal, with no sign of the heavy security presence earlier in the day.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said at length. “But men died down there, and this guy has given us nothing so far.”
“So far,” Dostoyevsky replied. “Wasn’t it you who said to me that maybe he knows something he doesn’t know? It just hasn’t been tapped, that’s all.”
Bolan shrugged. It was scant consolation for all that had gone down. Dostoyevsky’s unmarked and unnoticed sedan had been able to pull away from the chaos and get clear of the scene before the cordon had closed, once it had been noted that Sundby was missing. Bolan’s call to Stony Man had elicited the address of this safehouse, used by security services from the U.S. Embassy for any activities that needed to be kept from foreign officials.
As Bolan and Dostoyevsky tried to unwind, they were interrupted only twice. The first time was by one of the men who had assisted them into the building. With few words he briefed them on progress: Sundby had been brought round and pumped full of the requisite drugs to force truth from him, but so far he had proven to know very little. Indeed, he seemed remarkably ill informed about the organization that he had allied himself to, although he had brokenly described the circumstances surrounding the deaths of all four members of Abaddon Relix.
It seemed so long ago since Bolan had watched four young men, full of piss and vinegar, making an unlistenable racket that had led to their demise. No matter how awful Bolan felt their music had been, at that moment he fervently wished that they had kept to that alone.
But no matter. There were other things that were of greater urgency. Bolan requested that the men ask Sundby about Estonia, and the people Sundby had dealt with—anything that did not relate to the politics of Freedom Right.
“You figure any incidentals might reveal something he doesn’t realize is of importance?” the security man said heavily.
“You are quick. You will go far. I hope...” the Russian murmured with barely concealed sarcasm. His reward was a look that told him the Cold War had never died for some Americans, before the security man left without another word.
The second interruption came shortly afterward from Bolan’s smartphone.
“Hal, let me have it,” Bolan said, prepared for a wave of criticism from the big Fed.
He was surprised by Brognola’s mild tone in reply. Weary, perhaps, might have been the best description.
“Striker, even after all this time I never get really surprised by the uproar you can generate in trying to clean up a town—”
“That’s the key word, Hal. Town. You put me in a place where the local authorities cooperate or aren’t needed, and I can make it quick and clean. The trouble comes when these guys think they have the full picture, and they think I’m one of the bad guys.”
Brognola sighed. “I know. You don’t have to tell me. I just get tir
ed of trying to explain this to people higher up the food chain. But it gets better. Our attempts to keep things under wraps have been blown to crap. There’s nothing more irritating than a political group that gets ideas above their station and then tries to carry them out.”
“Careful, Hal, that’s how half the revolutions in human history got underway,” Bolan said. It did, at least, elicit a wry chuckle in reply.
“Maybe. Point is that we’ve got only a small part of the ordnance we wanted, and the very thing we wanted to avoid most of all is happening right now.”
“The Russians?” Bolan queried, shooting a glance at Dostoyevsky. The Russian mercenary looked suitably baffled.
“We wanted to keep the ordnance out of Russia’s hands, right? Its president was actively putting out unofficial feelers for it, right?”
“Yes...” Bolan said slowly. “So what’s changed?”
“Those terrorists are giving him exactly what he wants. They’re waltzing it all over to him.”
“I don’t understand, Hal. They hate him, blame his country for their own being subject to miscegenation. Why would they want to give those weapons back to him?”
“They’re not exactly doing that. They announced that the Oslo strike was a dry run to test how seriously they were taken, and that there had been no intention of harming their Norwegian allies—”
“That’s quick thinking, I’ll give them that,” Bolan stated.
“Maybe, but I think they used all their brain cells on that one, because they’ve announced the real target is Moscow. And they’re not bluffing. The trace you requested Stony Man put on them has shown the armory vehicle is taking a route that will lead them right into the heart of the city—”
“Where—knowing they’re on their way—the Russian president’s boys will be welcoming them with armed military types,” Bolan finished, shaking his head.
“Oh, it gets better,” Brognola said wryly. “They announced this a couple hours ago, and since then the fiber optics of Europe have been glowing white-hot. I’ve had the Farm monitor as much as possible, but the traffic is immense. It’s possible that every right-wing crackpot terrorist group on the continent has seen the YouTube videos of the bunker and knows what these guys recovered and has figured out what it can do.”
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