“So close,” he muttered.
Colt was about to check the magazine on his assault rifle when he heard the unmistakable drone of an approaching helicopter. Turning, he saw the chopper dropping toward the road. Recalling Mikhaylov’s arrival the previous night, he assumed the worst and called out to his wife. “Get down!”
Colt circled to the front of the Camry and crouched behind the front grille. The sun was behind the copter, making it difficult for him to distinguish its make. There was no doubt, however, that it was closing in on him. He had readied the rifle and taken aim when he saw someone lean out the passenger window. They weren’t holding a weapon, however, but rather a bullhorn. The voice that boomed out at him seconds later was slightly distorted, but he was able to recognize it.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” John Kissinger called out to him.
MIKHAYLOV SAW THE HELICOPTER, as well. He knew it wasn’t one of his.
To the east, at long last, he finally spotted the train’s caboose. There were still at least twenty boxcars between it and the crossing. The Russian was suddenly in no hurry for the train to pass by.
Placing the Makarov on his lap, Mikhaylov put the Hummer into Reverse, backing up just far enough that he could make a U-turn without running over the shattered crossarm. Once he was facing the farm, he pressed the accelerator and sped off. Other than retreating, before he turned from pursuer to prey, he had no idea what his next move should be and could only hope it would come to him by the time he rejoined his men. He figured he would have at least twenty of them at his disposal and enough firepower to fend off an initial assault. If they could put down an undermanned force, there might still be time to flee the area and regroup elsewhere.
Mikhaylov continued to rally himself as he cleared the straightaway and negotiated the first turn in the soon-to-be winding road. Two turns later, the Russian ceased his plotting, brought back to the moment by the sight of Dmitri Vishnevsky. Mikhaylov’s would-be successor had made it to the road and was walking along the shoulder, back turned to the Hummer. As Mikhaylov drew closer, however, Vishnevksy slowly turned to face him, reaching for his shoulder holster. Mikhaylov found himself in the similar quandary as before: should he pick up his hated rival in hopes another soldier might help ensure that he live to fight another day? Or should he bypass the man and leave him as an offering to the people who had rescued Colt and his damnable brood?
Mikhaylov was within twenty yards of the other man when Vishnevsky recognized him and drew his pistol, prompting the Butcher to consider a third option. He eased off the gas a fleeting second, then suddenly floored the accelerator and yanked on the steering wheel, veering onto the shoulder.
Caught flat-footed, Vishnevsky wildly raised his gun and put a shot through the windshield, but not before Mikhaylov had lined up the Hummer so that it would strike his nemesis the way he’d hoped the train engine would have struck the Camry: dead center.
“THAT’S FANTASTIC!” CARL Lyons said, speaking with Jack Grimaldi by way of AirFox I’s cockpit transceiver. Phil Ramon was at the controls, guiding Alan Orson’s speed chopper over a course due west of the route taken by Vishnevsky’s Cessna Citation before the Russian had parachuted from the jet. They’d been called off chasing the Cessna and advised instead to rendezvous with the JetRanger in preparation for storming the SVR’s Glorieta compound. Lyons had just been informed that the rendezvous point had been changed to a rail crossing near the Glorieta train yards, where Bolan, Kissinger and Grimaldi had just tracked down the missing Colt family.
“They’re safe and in one piece,” Grimaldi reported, “but they were in one royal fender bender and Colt wants his wife and kid airlifted somewhere so they can get checked out.”
Lyons glanced at Ramon. The test pilot nodded and told him, “No problem.”
“We’ll be there shortly and they can hitch a ride on the AirFox,” Lyons told Grimaldi. “What about Colt?”
“He says he’s fine,” Grimaldi said. “He’s wearing Orson’s armored suit so he figures he’s suddenly indestructible.”
“Which means he wants to stick around and go back there?”
“Yep. He says he has a score to settle.”
As Lyons clicked off, he saw a trio of SFPD police choppers heading eastward toward what he assumed was the SVR hideout. Lyons had been told that APD was sending aerial units, as well, and out to their right on Interstate 25 there were at least two dozen black-and-whites bound for the Glorieta exit from both directions, rooftop beacons flashing.
“We usually like to wrap these things up on our own,” Lyons told Ramon, “but I guess the locals must’ve felt they were missing out on all the excitement.”
“That’ll probably be the case again,” Ramon said, shifting course slightly to align himself with a back road leading to their rendezvous point. “A show of force like this and my guess is there’s going to be a quick surrender.”
“That or a massacre,” Lyons said. “Let’s hope they’re not that stupid.”
The AirFox was flying toward one of the final turns in the side road when Lyons glanced down and spotted an untended parachute sprawled across an open field.
“What do you think?” he asked Ramon. “Vishnevsky?”
“If it is, it doesn’t look like he got very far.”
Lyons looked where Ramon was pointing and saw a man lying by the side of the road. Judging from his contorted position, Lyons guessed he hadn’t just dropped dead in his tracks.
“Let’s take a quick look,” he said.
As they drew closer, the men spotted a late-model Hummer half-submerged in a drainage ditch just off the road twenty yards from the body. Ramon veered toward the SUV and brought the AirFox down to where they could see through what was left of the front windshield. The driver was still behind the wheel. He wasn’t moving. His face was smeared with blood, but not enough that Lyons wasn’t able to recognize him from several descriptions he’d received over the past hour from Aaron Kurtzman back at SOG heaquarters.
“Mikhaylov,” he said.
“He’s their ringleader, right?” Ramon said.
Lyons replied, “Not anymore.”
EPILOGUE
Antwerp, Belgium
Once Evgenii Danilov’s chauffeur reached Antwerp International Airport and passed through the necessary checkpoints, he drove the financier’s Lincoln Town Car down the small access road leading to a private hangar. The building was shared by GHC and a handful of other large corporations, and in addition to Danilov’s Learjet 31 there were three other luxury aircraft lined up and being readied to board passengers.
“I suspect they’re all bound for business meetings and not running off somewhere with their tails between their legs,” said Alek Repin, who sat beside Danilov in the backseat of the Lincoln.
Danilov sighed philosophically. “If they’re in business long enough, they’ll all have reason to make a strategic retreat at some point or another.”
“Maybe so,” Repin said, “but I’ll bet you whatever mess they leave behind won’t match ours.”
“You’d be surprised.”
The Lincoln finally pulled to a stop along a curb already lined with two limousines and another Town Car. While Danilov waited for the chauffeur to circle the vehicle and open the door for him, he revisited his regret over having invited Repin to fly with him to Isle St. Louise. The SVR deputy director had been obsessing nonstop about the travails that had befallen Operation Zenta back in New Mexico.
Inwardly, Danilov was every bit as devastated by the news that Roaming Bison and its nuclear waste facility had been snatched from his grasp by American bureaucrats hiding behind badges, and the idea that most of his corporation holdings were about to follow suit was equally troubling. But he knew that what happened couldn’t be changed or reversed, and therefore he was determined to go into exile with the notion that, like another of his military heroes, the great Napoleon Bonaparte, he would one day return to glory. In the meantime, at least he was
free, which was more than could be said for Mikhaylov’s underlings in Glorieta, who’d meekly surrendered.
When his door was opened for him, the silver-haired financier grabbed the small briefcase containing his more valuable papers and stepped out onto the curb, only to find himself facing, not his chauffeur, but rather a pale-faced man who’d somehow managed to appropriate the uniform of Danilov’s personal pilot. The chauffeur had been intercepted behind the Town Car and was being placed in handcuffs, as was Alek Repin on the other side of the vehicle. The arresting officers wore the uniforms of the AIA security force, but Danilov had a feeling they were no more legitimate than the man who was just now slapping a set of cuffs on his own wrists.
“Sorry, sir,” Phoenix Force leader David McCarter told Danilov as he produced another set of handcuffs. “Your flight’s ready for boarding but I’m afraid there’s been a slight change of itinerary.”
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“WHAT CAN I SAY?” Hal Brognola said with a shrug. “After I convinced Diaz to turn stoolie on Mikhaylov, I figured I was on a roll and decided to go after the top banana.”
The SOG chief was sitting with Barbara Price in the dining alcove down the hall from the Annex Computer Room. They were both sipping coffee from cups they just used to toast the success of SOG’s inadvertent mission in New Mexico as well as news that Danilov and Repin had just been apprehended by McCarter and PF commandos Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo at the GHC honcho’s private hangar in Antwerp.
“Let me guess,” Price said. “You dusted off your Geography 101 and figured since Belgium was just a couple airfields away from Germany you’d have Phoenix hop over and play errand boys for Interpol.”
“Well, actually, I only used half the team,” Brognola said. “The others stayed behind and kept the ball rolling on the missile front. They’ll all be back together in time to do whatever’s needed next.”
“I suppose I should be upset,” Price teased. “Moving our people around usually falls under the category of mission controller.”
“I won’t let it happen again,” Brognola promised. “Besides, if I remember correctly, you were up to your elbows in chess pieces at the time.”
“True,” Price admitted. “Speaking of which, I better get back to it.”
“And I’m due back in Washington,” Brognola said. “When you talk to Striker, tell him to pass around some high fives for me. He and the crew there did one hell of a job.”
“I’ll do that,” Price promised. “Right now, though, I think he’s out of phone range.”
Rosqui Pueblo, New Mexico
“AH, HOME SWEET HOME,” Rafe said as he climbed out of the JetRanger and set foot amid the squalor of Healer’s Ravine. Leonard and Astro had already disembarked from the chopper. Bolan and Grimaldi remained aboard the aircraft and would soon be heading back to pick up Kissinger at the Santa Fe hospital where the Colt family was being treated for the minor injuries they’d sustained during their ordeal of the past twelve hours. Lyons had already boarded a flight back to Takoma so he could meet back up with his Able Team partners.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Bolan asked. “I’ve got a few more strings I can pull for you.”
“No, thanks,” Leonard said. “I had some lousy room service and there’s nothing good on TV out there, so why bother? We like it better here.”
“And once they weed out the tribal Gestapo, I won’t have to worry about being used for target practice again,” Astro piped in. He patted the bandage around his upper arm and added, “I’m gonna need a new tattoo to disguise that bullet hole, though. You could spring for that if you want.”
“Done,” Bolan said. “And I’ll put in a word with Governor Stuart about having some of the trash hauled out of here so you’ll have room to plant more herbs.”
“I could go for that,” Leonard confessed.
“I guess that’s it, then,” Bolan told them. “Unless you want your clothes back after I change.”
“Nah, you keep them,” Astro said. “Seems like they brought you good luck.”
Bolan thought back over the gauntlet of adversity he’d just come through and realized that, sure enough, the moment he’d donned the transient’s clothes had been a turning point in his quest to make sense of Franklin Colt’s kidnapping and see to his safe return.
“You’re right,” he told Astro.
“Maybe you should think about making it your official uniform,” Rafe suggested.
Bolan grinned at the men and shook his head. “I don’t think I’d go quite that far.”
ISBN: 978-1-4268-6058-4
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Ron Renauld for his contribution to this work.
BLOOD PLAY
Copyright © 2010 by Worldwide Library.
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Blood Play (Don Pendleton's Mack Bolan) Page 28