Blood Play (Don Pendleton's Mack Bolan)

by Pendleton, Don

  Now, as the morning sunlight tried to pry its way through gaps in the plywood slab blocking the window, Gwen and Frankie both stirred and began to awaken. Colt kissed the back of his wife’s head and tousled his son’s hair.

  “Good morning,” he whispered to them. “I’m glad you both got some sleep.”

  “What about you?” Gwen asked.

  “I rested my eyes,” Colt said.

  “Does that mean you didn’t sleep?” Frankie said.

  Before Colt could respond, he heard footsteps in the outer hallway. The chair creaked and dragged slightly across the hardwood floor as the guard bolted to his feet. There was an exchange of words as Colt heard a key slide into the dead-bolt lock and turn. Colt sat up as the door was pulled open. Zhenya Ilyin stood in the doorway. He ignored Colt’s gaze and stared at Gwen, who’d pulled the blanket around herself as well as her son.

  “You and your boy can eat in a few minutes,” he told the woman.

  “What about my husband?”

  “He’s coming with me.” Ilyin turned to Colt. “We have plans for you.”

  Outskirts of Santa Fe, New Mexico

  AFTER BEING RESCUED FROM Healer’s Ravine, Mack Bolan and his former ravine companions had been airlifted to an urgent care facility located just off the highway a half-mile south of the entrance to the reservation. Homicide Detective David Lowe had arranged to have a smaller APD police chopper flown to the facility so that he and the Stony Man crew could swap the bulky Skycrane for something more maneuverable. While they awaited the arrival of the replacement helicopter, Bolan’s team had split up to deal with the transients. Jack Grimaldi had accompanied Astro into the clinic and, with Aaron Kurtzman’s long-distance assistance, was making the necessary financial arrangements to have the homeless man treated for his bullet wound. Kissinger was similarly befriending Rafe and Leonard, securing registration for them at a franchise hotel across the street. Bolan, meanwhile, leaned against the side of the discarded bathtub that had served as a precarious shuttle cab for him and the transients during the airlift. The Executioner had borrowed Grimaldi’s cell phone so that he could touch base with Barbara Price back at the Farm.

  “You need to cut down on the water sports out there, soldier,” Price told Bolan once he’d accounted for the long hours he’d been missing. “Gladly.”

  “Hal sends his regards and apologizes for calling in Carl.”

  “No apology needed,” Bolan replied. “It was the right call. Besides, with everything going on here we’ll take all the backup we can get.”

  Price quickly filled in Bolan on the latest developments, both in Taos and at the reservation. Bolan was intrigued by the news that Alan Orson had been killed in what the local police were convinced was a murder-suicide rampage carried out by Donny Upshaw. Hearing that Cecil Farris had been killed along with the other tribal police officers during the shootout at Franklin Colt’s property left the Executioner every bit as unsettled as learning that Gwenyth Colt and her son were missing along with the two men who’d taken responsibility for driving them to safety. The way Price described the forensics team activity near the gateway leading to the property, Bolan feared the foursome had run into foul play, likely care of the same men responsible for the attack he’d barely managed to survive.

  When told that Captain Brown had failed to identify him as a federal agent during her aborted press conference, Bolan said, “I guess that would explain why they came gunning for me.”

  “Maybe,” Price said, “but I don’t see how she could’ve made that kind of slipup. It’s not like you barged onto the reservation unannounced.”

  “You’re right. I’d like to hear her explanation.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Price told him. “Apparently she’s getting the third degree by somebody from BIA even as we speak.”

  “What about this whole thing with the nuclear waste plant here?” Bolan asked. In addition to Rafe’s mention of the facility, Kissinger had also told the Executioner about his run-in with a female private investigator Alan Orson had hired to look into possible illegal activity at the site as well as the casino.

  “The cyberteam just started in on that,” Price informed him. “So far they haven’t turned up any red flags other than a laundering scandal at the casino a few years ago.”

  “Shiraldi Management?”

  “Yes,” Price said. “We’re looking at them as well as the outfit that took over things. Global Holdings. Like I said, nothing’s turned up yet but it’s still early.”

  “How about something we can run with?” Bolan asked. “We should be ready to roll within the hour.”

  “We’ve had a breakthrough of sorts as far as what happened at the airport,” Price said. “Bear went through surveillance camera footage and used Profiler to get a possible ID on the guy who drove you off the road in Colt’s Nova.”

  “Good job.”

  “His name is Viktor Cherkow,” Price said. “He showed up in Interpol’s database as a member of Dolgoprudnenskaya.”

  “Russian Mob,” Bolan said. “Moscow, right?”

  “That’s right,” Price said. “He started out running drugs for them but apparently got some kind of promotion when they got into the gambling racket.”

  “That fits if you consider Colt works at a casino,” said Bolan. “New Mexico’s a long way from Moscow, though.”

  “We’re still trying to connect the dots on that front,” Price told him. “There’s nothing on Cherkow after the Russian goverment clamped down on casinos, so it’s all speculation for the moment, but we’re working on the theory he got himself a forged visa and came stateside to ply his trade.”

  “And Colt somehow found out about it?”

  “Like you said, it fits,” Price replied. “Because of the drug angle, we’re also looking to see if he can be linked to the heroin they found at Upshaw’s place in Taos. For that matter, we’re not ruling out that he had a hand in the murders there and framed Donny Upshaw.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Bolan said. “It sounds like Upshaw’s father was killed around the same time Colt was abducted in Albuquerque. Cherkow couldn’t have been in two places at once.”

  “Our theory is that he didn’t come to the States alone,” Price said. “He probably brought a crew with him.”

  Bolan flashed back to the sequence of events at Albuquerque International as well as his fleeting glimpse of the only shooter he’d encountered during the altercation at Colt’s place. It felt like the pieces were beginning to fall into place.

  “What does Cherkow look like?” he asked.

  Price gave Bolan a quick description based on the surveillance camera still frame Kurtzman had run through Profiler.

  “You’re right about him having a crew,” Bolan told her afterward. “Cherkow was in on my shootout. He nearly put a slug through me right after the bison showed up.”

  “We thought that might be the case,” Price said. “I have to tell you, though. We leaned on BIA for a description of the shooters who were killed there. Cherkow wasn’t one of them.”

  “He got away.”

  “It looks that way,” Price said. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m a little wary of seeing ‘Russian mobsters’ and ‘nuclear waste plant’ in the same sentence.”

  Santa Fe, New Mexico

  “HE GOT IT WRONG,” Viktor Cherkow told Hedeon Barad as he drove Alan Orson’s repainted Chevy Silverado along the bowlegged stretch of Interstate 25 running between Glorieta and the state capital. The Russian’s face and forearms were bandaged where he’d taken glass and shrapnel hits the previous night. His cracked ribs were taped, and he was wearing a knee brace that extended all the way up to the dressing that had been applied to the hip wound he’d received from Cecil Farris before gunning down the officer. The cumulative pain had been dulled somewhat thanks to the drugs he’d taken before setting out from the javelina farm. The painkillers also filled him with a sense of calm not shared by Hedeon, who was concerned abo
ut the way they’d disobeyed Mikhaylov’s order that they drive the back roads to dirty up the vehicle before driving into Santa Fe.

  “Wrong or not, that’s the way he wanted things done,” the mechanic protested.

  “Think about it,” Cherkow reasoned. “If we took the back roads and splashed through every mud puddle along the way, we’d have to clean off the bumpers before we could put on the stickers, right? They’d stand out like sore thumbs. The same with the camper shell. What makes sense is to buy everything first and go on ahead to Algodones. That way any dirt we pick up will spread around evenly.”

  Hedeon had no ready comeback and rode silently a ways. Cherkow got off at the Old Pecos Road exit and started north toward Quail Run golf course.

  “Besides,” he finally went on, “it’s not like he’s following us to make sure things get done his way. If we come back with the heroin and the truck looks the way he expected, that’s all he’ll care about.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Hedeon said.

  “I’ll take bets if you want,” Cherkow offered. “Ten to one.”

  Hedeon had no interest in taking Cherkow up on the wager. He stared quietly out at the golf course, allowing Cherkow some time alone with his thoughts.

  Cherkow was glad for the opportunity to make the run to Algodones after tending to the Silverado. Drug deals, after all, were his strong suit, something he had experience at going back to his mobster days in Moscow. Kidnapping and home invasions were matters he’d rather leave to others, especially in wake of the past night’s debacles. He hoped Mikhaylov had learned his lesson and would now leave him to concentrate on what he did best.

  After a few miles, Cherkow pulled into a suburban strip mall anchored by a used auto parts store boasting the widest selection in all of New Mexico. When they went inside, Hedeon brought along the attaché case containing the money for the heroin. Cherkow led the way, limping slightly as they roamed the aisles, finally tracking down three different camper shells compatible with the pickup. Cherkow opted for the one with the most wear. When he pointed out a nearby spinner rack loaded with bumper stickers, Hedeon brought up Mikhaylov’s insistence that they make that purchase at a separate store. Cherkow rolled his eyes and glanced around the store.

  “Funny, I don’t see him anywhere,” he scoffed. “What, you think he’s going to ask for receipts? I’ll give you twenty-to-one odds on that.”

  Again Hedeon balked at taking the bet.

  Cherkow paid for the shell in advance, arranging to have it installed while he and Hedeon skimmed through the sticker selection. They settled on a University of New Mexico sticker, one reading Support Your Local Police and another featuring an American flag emblazoned with the words Don’t Tread On Me. Afterward, they walked to a Mexican restaurant at the far end of the strip mall and ordered breakfast to go. By the time they returned to the Silverado, one of the store employees had just finished securing the camper shell to the pickup’s rear bed.

  “You’re all set,” he told them.

  “Any problems?” Cherkow asked.

  The employee, a Hispanic man in his fifties with the name Ozzie stitched on his shirt pocket, shook his head.

  “Nope. It fits like a glove.”

  When the worker stayed put looking the men over, Cherkow sighed and fished a wadded-up dollar bill from his pants.

  “Here,” he said. “Good job.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ozzie headed off. Cherkow and Hedeon got in the Silverado. Cherkow rolled his eyes as he started the engine.

  “Guy expects a tip for doing his job?” he wisecracked. “What’s he think this is, a casino?”

  Hedeon indulged Cherkow with some token laughter as backed out of their parking spot.

  “Guess what?” Cherkow told him. “Just for you, I’m going to follow the boss’s orders and drive a few blocks before we put on the stickers.”

  OSWALDO GONZALEZ PEERED out from inside the store as the Silverado pulled away, then took out his cell phone as he beelined down a long aisle stacked on either side with used hubcaps. By the time he reached the employee lounge, he’d dialled 9-1-1 and gotten through to a dispatcher.

  “My name is Ozzie Gonzalez,” he said, “I work at the Value Auto Part store on Riddoch Road, and I was just installing a camper shell on a 2008 Chevy Silverado some men bought here. It’s dark green, but it looks like a new paint job. By accident I nicked off a little paint and underneath it’s white.”

  “What’s the reason for your call?” the dispatcher asked with the tired voice of someone who’d long lost patience with callers seemingly unaware that 911 was to be dialed only in the case of extreme emergencies.

  “I read in the paper about some murders up in Taos last night,” Ozzie said. “There was something about a missing white Silverado.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Rosqui Pueblo, New Mexico

  Police Captain Tina Brown paced angrily inside her office on the second story of RTPF’s headquarters, located adjacent to the Roaming Bison Casino. From her window she could see the casino’s main entrance as well as its half-filled, three-acre parking area. Just across road, safely off the reservation, much of the media throng she had addressed earlier had reassembled along the shoulder. Several new crews from the major networks had arrived, as well, and at least two reporters were giving live updates, backs turned to the road so that the casino would feature prominently in the background while they re-hashed the events of the past few hours. Brown was certain that included somewhere in the reports would be sound bites from her press conference as well as a few veiled digs at the way she’d abruptly ended her remarks and ordered everyone’s vehicles searched as they were leaving the property.

  The media circus, however, was only a minor aggravation compared to the heat Brown was receiving on other fronts. Pueblo Governor Charles Stuart had accused the captain of antagonizing the press for no good reason and demanded that she make some sort of conciliatory gesture. The sentiment had been echoed by Michael Fisk, the BIA Supervisory Criminal Investigator who’d heard the press conference on his car radio while en route to the reservation. In addition to insinuating himself into the investigation of the shootout at Franklin Colt’s estate, Fisk had informed Brown that there would be also be an inquiry into the abbreviated skirmish at Healer’s Ravine insofar as it involved a federal agent Brown had misidentified as a suspected perpetrator. After all, Fisk had reasoned, the agent had received security clearance before entering the reservation and had been accompanied to Colt’s residence by several of Brown’s own officers.

  Brown had defended herself on the latter issue, claiming that she’d been off duty at the time and that proper protocols hadn’t been followed when the agent had received his clearance. Neither Brown nor Fisk had yet been able to question the agent, though they’d managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of him as he was being airlifted from the ravine along with three transients involved in the confrontation.

  And then there was Frederik Mikhaylov, who’d pressured Brown to dispatch two of her undercover officers to Algodones to help set up one of his own men as the supposed mastermind behind the attack at Colt’s home. With Russell Combs already off the reservation tailing the mystery woman Brown had spotted during the press conference, that meant she now had three officers taking the law into their own hands outside the pueblo’s jurisdiction.

  And soon I’ll be the fourth, Brown thought to herself.

  The woman was still staring out the window when one of her officers showed up with the file she’d been waiting for. She dismissed the officer, sat down at her desk and began to go through the file, which contained documentation on all drug-related arrests Franklin Colt had made at the casino over the past six years. Setting aside those involving patrons caught smoking marijuana, she was left with only three arrests involving other substances. Of those, two involved heroin. One of the arrestees was still doing time at the state penintentary. The other, Marcus Walker, had been released less than two months
ago, having had his sentence reduced for cooperating with authorities in an unrelated investigation. His parole forms listed his current residence as a halfway house in a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts Pueblo Santo Domingo, less than thirty miles away off the highway leading to Albuquerque. Brown managed a half smile when she turned to the offender’s booking mug shot. Marcus Walker was black.

  “Perfect,” she whispered to herself.

  Brown unlocked her desk file drawer and pulled out a photo of Viktor Cherkow she’d earlier downloaded and printed from a file sent to her by Mikhaylov. She paper-clipped Cherkow’s photo to Walker’s and slipped them into her purse, then pulled out a dog-eared, palm-size address book filled with various contacts she’d cultivated over her years on the police force. She thumbed through the book for the number of Buddy Carman, a freewheeling entrepreneur who ran a series of roadside stands near Pueblo Santo Domingo. Carman didn’t pick up when she called, so she left a message for him to get back to her as soon as possible. She stressed that it was urgent.

  There was still one piece of unfinished business for Brown to attend to. On her laptop the captain had already composed a press release in which she’d buried a halfhearted apology to the media amid news that no new evidence had been found at Colt’s property, and that Missing Persons reports had been filed for both Gwenyth Colt and the family’s two-year-old son, Franklin Jr. She’d additionally mentioned a joint resolution just drawn by Stuart and Roaming Bison’s Public Relations Director Elizabeth Penbrooks offering a two-million-dollar reward for the safe return of all three Colt family members and an additional million for information leading to the arrest of those responsible for Colt’s abduction at Albuquerque International and the subsequent shootout on his property.