Raised voices caught Bolan’s attention. They came from his left. Bolan knew it would not be long before those voices became solid shapes as the Russians came at him.
He ducked out of the door, moving right along the porch, taking a leap over the end rail. He landed hard, let himself tuck and roll, keeping the shotgun tight to his chest. As he uncurled, he saw the moving Russians heading in his direction, then running up onto the porch.
Rising to his feet, Bolan faced his attackers and let rip with the auto shotgun, riddling the porch and the men with 12-gauge death. He saw his shots hit home, blood and flesh misting the air as the Russians tumbled awkwardly. Their screams and shouts were lost in the boom of the lethal shots. Behind the falling Russians, Bolan saw two figures draw back, away from the porch, and move back in the direction they had come from.
As one of the dead Russians flopped loosely over the edge of the porch his SMG slipped from slack fingers. Bolan dropped the shotgun and snatched up the weapon, checking the magazine as he skirted the edge of the porch in pursuit of the survivors. He had to keep up the pressure. Maintain his advantage, thin as it was.
Bolan sprinted across the front of the cabin. Saw one of the Russians as he picked up the sound of pursuit, turning to face Bolan. Bolan triggered the SMG, stitching the guy hard across belly and chest. The Russian staggered under the impact, still fighting on. Bolan had to hit him again, slugs coring in and tearing at his throat and head. The guy went down hard.
IN THE DARKNESS, farther back from where Bolan had left his own vehicle, the surviving Russian had reached a pair of high-spec 4x4s. He caught sight of the American closing in, searching for him. He moved quickly, dipping into deep shadow, using the bulk of the two vehicles to conceal him. He knew what he was doing, falling back on evasive maneuvers drilled into him during a long stint in the Russian military. He watched the man he knew as Cooper sliding from shadow to shadow, acknowledging the enemy’s skill. He could understand how Cooper had defeated every one of Kendal’s and Koretski’s men. He was a warrior. An elusive fighter. A man to be respected and feared. To be treated with caution.
The Russian, named Borodin, eased his way around until he was behind the American. It took all his skill and nerve. And it took time, something Borodin had only a little of to spare. He was thinking about the Logan woman. The target of the foray into the forest. He had seen her taken inside the store, but she had not come out. If she was still in there, waiting for Cooper, there was a chance of capturing her alive. That was his sole reason for being here. To take the woman and deliver her to his employer—Maxim Koretski.
Koretski would get the woman to talk. To tell where the evidence the cop had gathered was. Everything centered around that evidence. Right now nothing else mattered.
Only the woman.
The evidence.
Borodin saw a figure emerge from inky blackness.
Cooper.
A smile edged his lips. The man was closer than he had realized, and Borodin was still behind him. Two, three steps, and he would be close enough to touch the big American—close enough that a quick burst from his SMG would end the affair. Borodin held off from the trigger. Shots might only startle the woman into reacting. Perhaps cause her to run before he could reach her. Borodin’s mind worked quickly. His only weapon was the SMG. He had no knife, no handgun. So he would have to use what he held in his hands.
The Russian rose to his full height, taking a long step that brought him closer to the tall American. Borodin swung the SMG in a powerful arc, smashing it against the rear of Cooper’s skull. He heard the man grunt from the solid impact, and just to be sure, he struck again, even harder, and Cooper fell to his knees, then went facedown on the forest floor.
Borodin stood over the motionless figure for a moment. He saw blood glistening beneath the thick black hair. He would have liked to have gotten to know the big American. To have spoken to him. He imagined Cooper would have been an interesting conversationalist.
The Russian stepped away, turning in the direction of the store, and went to find the woman.
Chapter 18
It took Bolan no time at all to find Tommy Logan. The boy had done exactly what he had been told—run and hide. His understanding was that Bolan would come and find him when the danger was gone. Which is what he did. The boy was concealed deep in a tangled thicket and even Bolan didn’t see him until his call brought Tommy to his side.
“You have blood running down your face,” Tommy stated, pointing at where it had seeped from his hairline.
“I think I upset someone.”
Tommy shook his head. “You seem to do that a lot, Mr. Cooper.”
Bolan smiled, despite the savage headache left behind after the Russian had laid him out. He needed to tend to the wound. His first response when he woke up had been to go to the store and look for Rachel, but he’d suspected she would already be gone. When he had stepped inside the store his suspicions were confirmed, and Bolan was confronted by the dead. He ignored the Russians and the man called Lohman. His only concern was for Sarah Kenner and her husband. He stood over their bloody bodies, a feeling of outrage growing at their senseless deaths. Two good people who had, by a simple chance of fate, been dragged into the ugly world of Tyrone Kendal and Maxim Koretski. Violent death had been visited upon two innocents, and Bolan was once again left to mourn their passing.
Bolan located a stack of blankets on one of the shelves and gently covered their bodies. He stood, head bowed, and made them a promise.
“They won’t go unpunished. I promise you that.”
He retrieved his weapons, and that was when a sound behind Bolan made him turn, Beretta in his fist. One of the Russians had made the sound, almost a whisper that might have gone unnoticed if there had been any other noise inside the store. Bolan went to stand over the man. He was bloody and weak from the .357 slugs Bolan had put into him.
“Help me,” he said in a grating whisper.
“You first,” Bolan said, crouching by the man. “Where were they taking the woman?”
The Russian stared at Bolan as if he didn’t understand. He was close to death and most likely didn’t care about Rachel Logan.
“You know what I’m asking,” Bolan said. “You get nothing until I have an answer.”
“To Koretski’s base. You call it the Cascades.”
The Cascade Mountains. Up country. Plenty of isolated areas.
“Where in the Cascades?”
Bolan received no answer. He bent over the Russian. The man had expired.
On his feet Bolan stood for a moment, swaying as a dizzy spell swept over him. He let the moment pass, then turned and went back outside to get Tommy.
He took the boy into the store by the rear door and got him seated in front of the hearth by the burning log fire. He then closed the door that led through into the store.
The living area incorporated a neat kitchen, which Bolan made use of by putting water on the stove to heat.
“Mr. Cooper, where’s my mom?”
It was the question he had been anticipating. Bolan had dampened a towel and had it pressed to the gash in his head. “Those men took her away, Tommy. They did bad things here and took her away before I could stop them.”
“You going to help get her back? Like you did before?”
“I’m going to get her back, Tommy.”
“Then that’s okay.”
Bolan wished reality was as cut and dry.
He had lost his sat phone somewhere along the way during the hectic and bloody events, so he picked up the Kenners’ landline phone and tapped in a long number sequence. He hadn’t used the number for a long time but it still worked and eventually he was connected to Stony Man Farm.
He spoke to Barbara Price, telling her what he needed. “This has to be
fast, Barb. I need to be on the road as soon as possible, but I can’t leave a ten-year-old boy here on his own. Work through Hal. Get local Feds up here—the works if you need to. But I need Hal to know I can’t be held while they ask their questions. Pull Leo in if you have to. Justice can work the strings.”
“Hey, slow down, Striker. You sound like you’re wired. Are you okay?”
“I took a whack on the head is all. I’m brewing up some strong coffee. I’ll be fine once I down a couple of pints.”
“How long do you think you can go on like this? And just what is going on out there?”
“I don’t have time to explain everything. I want you to talk to Bear. He’ll give you exact directions that you can pass on to the Feds to get here.”
Price disregarded all protocol. “Mack, I’m worried about you. Please take care.”
“Don’t I always?” The moment he said the words, Bolan tried to imagine what Price would say if she learned about everything he’d been through recently. “Have a talk with Bear. He has a little background on this.”
“Great,” Price said. “Gee, I’m only the mission controller so what do I know?”
“This blew up fast,” Bolan said. “Didn’t leave me much time to brief everyone.” He gave Price Ray Logan’s location at Doc Madsen’s and what he had arranged. “If you really want to know the skinny, have a talk with Ray. He’ll tell you everything. But keep it under the radar. Inside The Farm.”
“Got it, Striker. Anything else you need from the Feds?”
“I lost my sat phone. It went missing during…along the way.”
“Sit tight. I’ll get the local Seattle field office to take a call from Hal and Leo.” There was a pause, then, “Take care, Striker.”
The call ended and Bolan put down the phone.
“Mr. Cooper. Is Barb your girlfriend?”
A candid question that could only have come from a ten-year-old.
“Sometimes,” he answered.
Bolan made a pot of coffee. He sat down, feeling like the top of his head was about to explode. He emptied his mug and went for a refill. When he passed the couch he saw that Tommy was asleep. He looked down at the boy. That was the way to do it, he decided. Put all your problems on hold and sleep. He downed a second mug of coffee.
A thought was turning over in his mind. A possible solution to a problem he had even forgotten to take up with Stony Man Farm.
Bolan draped a blanket over Tommy, then made his way out through the store and walked to where the Russian SUVs had been parked. Only one remained. A big black Chevy Suburban. The other would have been taken by the man who had snatched Rachel.
He slipped into the driver’s seat and powered the vehicle up. As the dashboard lights came on Bolan spotted what he was looking for—the built-in navigation system. He checked out the display. It showed the SUV’s present position. Bolan tapped the touch screen and from the list of destinations he chose the one marked Home. He watched the display change as the satellites began to chart the designated return route. It showed the main highway with the previous route in reverse, and in a few moments Bolan had his way to Maxim Koretski’s base on screen.
TWO HOURS ON AND Bolan was burning rubber north as he took up the route that would deliver him to Maxim Koretski’s home base. While he had waited for the cavalry to arrive he had transferred his ordnance and luggage from his own rental to the Chevy SUV. The vehicle was the top-of-the-range model, fitted with everything any self-respecting Russian Mafiya member could want. Koretski obviously didn’t hold back when it came to outfitting his work crews.
After his call to Stony Man Farm, Bolan had retired to the bathroom and cleaned up the gash on his head. It wasn’t easy but any more medical assistance would have to wait. At least the wound had stopped bleeding and the pounding headache had slowed to a bearable level. He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he toweled his face dry after a wash. He was showing a number of bruises and scrapes and he needed a shave.
“This line of work isn’t doing much for your good looks,” he said to himself, offering his battered image a wry grin.
In the store Bolan took some bottled water from the chill cabinet and added a handful of nutrient bars. He went out and placed them in the SUV, checked his watch and went back to move Tommy. He wrapped the sleeping boy in his blanket and carried him out to the SUV, laying him across the rear seat. He fired up the Chevy’s engine and drove it to the fuel pumps near the store. Bolan filled the tank to the top. Back behind the wheel he swung the SUV round and headed back down the dark trail until he reached the main highway where he parked and waited.
THE AGENT IN THE LEAD CAR of a convoy of five, all showing flashing lights, stepped out to meet the man he was to know as Matt Cooper. He was a fair-haired man around Bolan’s height, wearing an FBI jacket over his suit. He took a long look at Bolan’s dark attire and weapons but said nothing after introducing himself as Harry Jessup.
“Look after the boy,” Bolan said. “He’s had a rough time.”
A female agent took Tommy to the FBI car. “He’ll be fine,” she said.
Jessup handed Bolan a sat phone. “I was asked to give you this, Cooper.” He hesitated. “And told not to ask questions.”
“That make you feel out of the loop?” Bolan asked lightly.
Jessup smiled. “Kind of.”
“When you reach the store up along that trail you’re going to have plenty to pull you back in again.”
Bolan raised his hand as he turned and headed back to his parked SUV. Moments later he had pulled onto the highway, the Chevy’s powerful headlights carving his route through the darkness.
Bolan put in a call to Stony Man Farm and the cyber unit. Kurtzman answered his call.
“Thanks for getting me chewed out by the fair Barbara. She can let off steam once she works it up. So what can I tell you this time, Striker?”
“That you have an update on Maxim Koretski. About his home base up in the Cascades.”
“House used to belong to some megarich businessman back in the 1930s. Shipping magnate. Built the place to impress his second wife. It didn’t work. The house was too isolated so she upped and went back to high society. Since then the place has had a number of owners until Koretski’s buyout a few years ago. Big mansion. Sits in its own grounds so you can’t just walk up to the front door and ask to be let in.”
“Got it.”
“So what’s going on, Striker?”
“A cover-up? Too much happening that’s a little too convenient? Makes me wonder, Bear. Or do I just have a suspicious mind?”
“Yes, you do. And it usually turns out to have the truth in there somewhere.”
Chapter 19
Jakob Binder had started the whole thing off. He was into Maxim Koretski for a fortune. Binder had a chronic gambling obsession. He was the kind of man who would bet on the fall of a leaf dropping from a tree. The unfortunate thing was that he lost more than he won. A couple of times he had made good, but his weakness was his inability to take his winnings and quit while he was ahead. He had to go for the next jackpot, and without fail he would gamble his winnings away.
Binder’s other weaknesses were drink and a pretty face—a lethal combination when coupled with his gambling. One of Koretski’s girls, a delightful, elfin-faced young beauty named Katrina, had hooked him early. She’d flattered him, seduced him and encouraged his vices. When Binder got in too deep, she introduced him to Koretski, who made sympathetic noises, promised he would help, and opened a credit line for the man. Binder was allowed to make a few wins, but over a two-month period his losses mounted until he owed Koretski enough money to have bought a midsize condo.
That was when the trap snapped shut.
Binder was so much in debt, his markers in Koretski’s possession, that his
life belonged to the Russian. His situation was finally brought into the open the day Katrina took him for a meeting with Koretski at his office on the top floor of the Russian’s business HQ overlooking the Seattle waters.
“What does Maxim want?”
Katrina, standing beside him in the elevator, smiled. “He has a little surprise for you,” she purred. Her soft voice, with its hint of an accent, matched her looks. “You must wait and see.”
Binder couldn’t see her face at that moment. If he had, he might have been shocked at the cold, unfeeling look in her eyes. She walked out of the elevator ahead of him, directly into Koretski’s sprawling office. A wide, panoramic window looked out across the city and the bay. The office was expensively furnished, with a reception area to one side.
Koretski lounged in a large, soft leather executive chair, a welcoming smile on his face. There were four other men in the room, watching Binder.
One of them seemed vaguely familiar. Binder stared at him for a few moments, then realized he was looking at Senator Tyrone Kendal. The sight of the senator made Binder uneasy. He knew of the man’s reputation. Kendal was an uncompromisingly hard man who worked tirelessly for his constituents, but harder for his own aggrandizement. So what was he doing in the company of someone like Koretski?
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