Lustrum was a little off at first, but then the light dawned on him, and he quickly changed expressions. “Well, yeah, of course.”
“I was sent here to protect the club. And you. I was sent to protect all of Mr. Haglemann’s assets.”
“To protect us? Sent by who?” demanded the other guy Bolan had saved from a faux destruction.
“Our mutual Russian friends,” Bolan said quietly as he engaged the safety on the carbine.
A brief and panicked silent exchange occurred between Lustrum and his guy. The man then raised the pistol he still held and leveled it at Bolan.
“Hey, what’s with the hostilities?” Bolan asked. “I just saved your ass back there, and you point a gun at me? I’m not the one who blew up your club, friend, and obviously I wasn’t the one shooting at you.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about what’s going on here for hired help,” the pistol wielder said with an expression that Bolan read as unconvinced.
“Dumyat, put that gun away!” Lustrum snapped.
The guy called Dumyat looked surprised at first but finally complied, keeping one eye on Bolan at all times.
Lustrum gave Bolan his full attention. “So, let’s suppose you’re telling me the truth. Why the hell would the Russians send you, an American, to do their work? Why not one of their own?”
“It could be because there was some trouble on Unalaska yesterday morning,” Bolan said.
“How come I didn’t hear about it?”
Bolan shrugged. “What your boss chooses to share or not share with you is none of my affair, Mr. Lustrum. I’m just here to do a job and get paid. Once the job’s done, I’m gone, and you can do whatever you want.”
“Does Davis know about your assignment?”
Bolan shook his head. “I’ve never even met Mr. Haglemann. I think our mutual benefactors would prefer to keep my involvement as quiet as possible.”
“Why would they want to do that?”
Bolan jerked his thumb over his shoulder and replied, “Because of what happened back there. Somebody’s been poking their nose into whatever you have going on here. Again, that’s not really any of my business. I was brought in to...fix the situation. There are a lot of people starting to look at Adak in the course of this most recent emergency, and it’s my job to stifle their curiosity.”
“What emergency?” Dumyat asked with a scowl. It was hard to tell, though, since a sneer was what seemed to be more of his usual expression.
So Haglemann wasn’t keeping his men apprised of what was really going on. Unless Dumyat was really sharp and knew how to play coy well, which Bolan highly doubted, it seemed Haglemann hadn’t been completely forthcoming regarding his relationship with the Russians. Was it possible Corsack had been right all along? Were Haglemann’s people merely pawns in a grander scheme? If so, what did they figure was the real relationship between Haglemann and the Russians? Perhaps another business venture to make them all wealthier. Until he knew for certain, Bolan couldn’t risk killing any more of Lustrum’s men.
There had already been enough bloodshed at the moment.
“I think we should go straight to Davis and get this all worked out right now, boss,” Dumyat said.
Lustrum considered the suggestion for a long time, looking at Bolan with thoughtful assessment. Finally he said, “Yeah, I think you’re right. We need to find out what’s going on.”
“I think it’s better I do it alone, then, first,” Bolan said.
“And why’s that?”
“Because if you take me in there, he might think you’re the reason for all of his problems. Letting an outsider in so easily won’t go well with Haglemann. But if I go in and explain you had nothing at all to do with it, that I’m here at the request of his business associates, your name stays out of it, and he thinks you got it all under control.”
“You make a good point,” Lustrum said.
“But, boss—!”
Lustrum’s face reddened. “I said he makes a good point, Dumyat! Now shut up!”
Dumyat fell silent, but the muscles in his neck and jaw twitched visibly.
Lustrum looked at Bolan. “Okay, Blansky. You got it your way. I’ll get you a meeting with Davis this morning.”
Bolan nodded.
“But if you cross me, Blansky, I’ll cut you into fish bait and dump your carcass in the bay. We’ve got a good system here, and I don’t need you screwing it up. My men, the workers here, they come first. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” the Executioner replied.
Semisopochnoi Island
COMMANDER LOUIS DUCATI sat in the corner of the massive steel cage and watched the activities around him with unwavering interest. A good part of his diligence was so he’d be able to provide intelligence if anyone managed to make contact with him or a member of his crew. He’d done everything he could to keep up their spirits through the ordeal, an especially difficult task given nobody would have classified Ducati as socially adept. He loved his crew, to be sure, and gave full attention to their needs and requirements. He wanted them to have the very best in their careers and personal lives.
He’d never remotely suspected that concern would extend to a circumstance like this.
What he hadn’t been able to figure out yet was how their captors managed to cut off communications, or why they’d chosen to sink the Llewellyn. It didn’t make sense. They’d also killed the security team members but left the remaining crew alive, except for the first officer who had attempted to resist and was killed in a hail of gunfire. Ducati couldn’t get the images from his mind, watching as Gareth Keller’s body jumped and twitched under the dozens of bullets that had struck him. Ducati had never been in action, not once during his entire career in the USCG.
Maybe this was all his fault. If he’d been more experienced, perhaps he would have been better equipped to repel the men who had boarded his ship. It burned as he swallowed back the bitterness and the complete sense of worthlessness. A good commander would never have let the enemy take his ship.
Don’t think like that, he scolded himself. Hold it together for the rest of your crew.
Indeed, Ducati had attempted to remain strong and vigilant. He’d already appointed his operations officer to second-in-command, and he’d been coordinating with his other command staff to come up with plans of action if he could find a way out of their makeshift prison. So far, their situation looked bleak. Ducati couldn’t get a handle on what their captors had planned.
What he didn’t know was much more than what he did. The soldiers and their leader spoke in Russian. One of his communications officers had confirmed as much, since she spoke Russian. She hadn’t been able to catch much as the captors were careful not to speak about anything specifically. They’d been given water but no food, and they’d only been permitted one at a time for bathroom privileges on a timetable. When they were being put in the cages—the twin, steel monstrosities could only have been constructed once inside this massive cavern, since the entrance they’d come through would not have allowed access in whole—two of the men had resisted, and they’d been beaten severely. Both men had regained consciousness, and Ducati had sternly warned the rest of the crew after the incident not to resist unless escape was a strong possibility.
They’d lost enough good men and women, and he didn’t intend to add to the body count.
Ducati thought he’d identified the leader, someone his communications officer had thought they called Vlad, but that was it. There was another one who had accompanied the leader everywhere, and he was certain that one went by Alexei. He didn’t have any other names. He estimated more than thirty-six hours had passed since their encounter with the Russians, although he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure about it. Everything metal or electronic had been taken from their persons. They’d even removed the metal ran
k insignia from the officers because the sharp ends could be used as a weapon.
At best count, their captors numbered somewhere in the area of twenty, and they were all armed. The guards alone carried sidearms and machine guns of various makes. Ducati couldn’t put his finger on their origins, though. No specific Russian terrorist groups came to his mind, and these men didn’t really act like military troops, anyway. More like criminals. Thugs. It just didn’t make sense.
“Sir?”
The voice of his new XO, Chris Rastogi, resounded in his ears and shook Ducati from his ruminations. “Yes, Chris.”
“I just finished talking with Corbett.”
Ducati reached into his memory and quickly brought up a mental image of Corbett. He was the senior officer they’d left in charge of the crew in the other cage.
“What’s the story?”
“They’re all fine except for Gross, sir.”
Petty Officer First Class Jeff Gross. The name immediately came to mind, a fine enlisted man and consummate leader. He worked the engine room as a shift supervisor.
“What’s wrong with him, XO?”
“Can’t be sure, but he’s not doing too well, according to Corbett. Got sweaty skin, and his color isn’t so hot, either.”
“It’s no wonder,” Ducati said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. “So damned hot in here, it’s a wonder we’re all not dehydrated. Unless he’s got some sort of complication that’s surfaced from his bowel problems. You know, he was recently on shore leave for intestinal inflammation, but they released him with a clean bill of health.”
“He says it’s nothing like that, sir. He’s just feeling sick to his stomach, and the last piss break he said it burned. And he swears it’s not a woman.”
The bit of crass humor actually brought a grin to Ducati’s face. “I’m sure it isn’t. Maybe he’s not drinking enough water. I’ll see if we can get some extra, but if our captors aren’t feeling particularly beneficent we’ll have to ration some extra for him next round. Meanwhile, let Corbett know I’ll see what I can do.”
“Aye, sir.”
It seemed good fortune might be on their side, because as Ducati was about to call on a guard to get someone, the leader of the group happened to walk from an adjoining cavern that led to what might be anybody’s guess. Ducati flagged the attention of the man by waving his arms and calling out. At first it looked as if he planned to ignore Ducati, but then he seemed to think better of it and decided to approach. “Are you in charge here?”
The man said nothing at first, instead choosing to reply with a smug grin.
“Speakee English?” Ducati tried.
“You’re rather flippant for a military officer,” the man said. “And, yes, I speak English quite well.”
Ducati had to agree, although he noted the heavy Russian accent. “One of my men is sick. I was wondering if I could request some extra water for him. I think he may be dehydrated.”
“You have all the water you’re going to get. I won’t give extra and let one of my men go without.”
“Well, then, you may have to cart a dead body out of here soon.”
“Come again?”
“It’s blasted hot in here, man! You can’t expect us to sit here with only water and no food and survive for any length of time.”
“Perhaps your survival isn’t part of my plan.”
“Well, if you’d thought to kill us, I would have assumed you’d done it by now,” Ducati challenged. He knew it wasn’t good to rebut the guy, and being sarcastic probably wouldn’t buy him any good will. Still, he had to let the guy know the terms of the situation. “If you want me to keep these people quiet and not give you any trouble, you have to work with me. Be reasonable.”
“Be reasonable? Like your countrymen were reasonable with my people, perhaps? I do not think you would care much for that type of reasonability, Mr....?”
“Ducati. My rank is commander with the United States Coast Guard. But then, I assume you already knew that, so I’ll skip reciting all the rest of it like service number and current billet, and so forth.”
“I see you’re not a foolish man,” he replied. “My name is Vladimir Moscovich.”
“And you’re in charge here?”
“I am.”
“When are you going to let us go? Or do you plan to ever let us go? After all, you just gave me your name, and if it’s your real name you’ll never let me leave here alive knowing it.”
“I’ve not decided yet,” he replied. “And you knowing my name, well, I know yours, and it’s only fair, yes?”
“I suppose.”
“Besides, knowing my name won’t be of much good. When this operation is through, I will most likely be dead. And if I die, it is reasonably assured that you will perish along with me. In fact, it’s likely you’ll perish even if I live.”
“Why are you doing this?” Ducati demanded. “Do you realize what you’ve done is an act of war? America won’t stand for this!”
“I don’t imagine it will,” Moscovich said. “But then, I don’t really care. You see, it makes little difference to me. America has made a mistake sending its agents to interfere with my organization.”
“And what organization is that?”
“It’s hardly important. What is of importance is my mission, and I will accomplish it this very day. There is nothing you’ll be able to do about it. As to your fate, I will most likely not decide this. I will instead let the commander of the submarine that’s on its way here now decide this. I’m sure you would rather appreciate one military man deciding how to deal with another and its crew. No?”
As Moscovich turned on his heel, Ducati said, “What about the water?”
Moscovich stopped, and it seemed as though his shoulders hunched. Finally he turned to one of his men and jerked his head in the direction of their cage. Ducati didn’t know what it meant, but when he glanced over at his communications officer and saw the look on her face, he knew it wasn’t good.
A moment later, two guards appeared in front of the locked gate of the steel cage. A third opened the padlock attached to the chains, and the two men stepped inside. Each grabbed one of Ducati’s arms and dragged him forcefully from the cage. Rastogi rushed forward to engage them, but the guard standing by struck him in the side of the head with a well-aimed butt stroke from the stock of his SMG. Rastogi’s head reeled from the blow, and his body toppled backward into the waiting arms of several crew members.
Ducati immediately shouted for Rastogi and the others to stand down, adding as he was dragged away, “Just keep your heads, people. That’s an order!”
CHAPTER NINE
Adak Island
Jack Grimaldi had watched helplessly as the enemy drove away with Bolan, even though it had been their plan from the beginning and had come out exactly as Bolan hoped. The Sarge could take care of himself, he knew, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned about his old friend. Their relationship had been forged through many years combating some of the worst evil imaginable.
As soon as the guns had cleared out and the convoy departed, Grimaldi packed the assault rifle and other gear in the hard gun case he’d bought. He then packed it in the trunk of the vehicle that Corsack had managed to borrow from a friend on the docks, climbed behind the wheel and immediately proceeded to Corsack’s house. He didn’t worry about anybody looking for him; neither did he worry about the cops showing up. The last place anybody would think to look for him would be Corsack’s place, which was exactly why Bolan had executed the plan the way he had.
Once he was inside with the equipment, Grimaldi sat at the small kitchen nook. He took the cup of hot cocoa Corsack offered him.
“So, what’s next?” she asked after shoving the mug in front of him.
Grimaldi no
dded his thanks and said, “Now we wait.”
“Seems to be sort of what I’ve been doing a lot of when it comes to Mike.”
That brought a chuckle from Grimaldi. “When you know him as long as I have, you get used to it.”
“How did you get all wrapped up in this?” she asked.
“That would be something I can’t discuss.”
“No, of course not.”
“You, however, got involved in this under rather strange circumstances.”
“Not really,” she replied. “I’m just a working girl. I care about this place, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about Haglemann and his cronies.”
“And you think that most of the other people on the island don’t really know what they’ve been up to?”
“Right. Especially the part about these Russians. What’s the story with these guys, anyway? They sound like nothing but thugs.”
“They are thugs,” Grimaldi replied. “But there’s a little bit more than that. They have resources and connections. We put them down once before but apparently not hard enough to keep them down.”
“And so this time around, it’ll be different.”
“Oh, yeah. This time it’ll be permanent.”
* * *
HAGLEMANN’S ESTATE WAS nothing short of magnificent. The grounds were extensive, the house constructed from the finest materials and the landscaping exquisite. And from what Bolan saw as they passed through the security at the front gate, it boasted a top-of-the-line electronic surveillance system. Coupled with the pairs of sentries patrolling the perimeter, it would be a challenge to penetrate the grounds undetected.
The Executioner wasn’t impressed; he’d gotten into and out of more secure facilities than this. For one thing, he was certain Kurtzman had provided him with a bag of tricks that contained nothing but the best in surveillance countermeasures. Moreover, a roving guard typically meant regular intervals in the patrols. Human habits were the greatest detriment to security. The guards were uniformed, which made it easy to pick out friend from foe. No, this place wouldn’t pose much of a problem for Bolan. It would all just come down to a matter of striking at the right place and the right time. A short stint inside the organization would provide him with all the information he needed.
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