Death Gamble

by Don Pendleton

  “Again with due respect sir, we are warriors. We can stand anything the Americans can throw at us.”

  Kursk exploded with pounding, derisive laughter. Iron Man seemed to shrink a couple of inches as the sound bounced around the big room with its vaulted ceilings and exposed timbers.

  Kursk collected himself. “You can withstand nothing.”

  “You are wrong,” Iron Man said. His eyes flashed anger as he spoke, retreated to uncertainty as he fell silent. His body stiffened visibly as he waited for the fallout from his words.

  Kursk didn’t make him wait long.

  The Russian gangster looked at Iron Man’s companion, who had remained quiet since arriving on the island. The man’s bottomless stare recorded the conflict like the lens of a camera, logging all of it and reacting to none of it.

  Kursk nodded at the enforcer. “Warriors, eh? Perhaps your man would like to prove that.”

  Blood Claw didn’t give his partner a chance to respond. “I could do that,” he said.

  Kursk smiled grimly. Unleathering the Tokarev he always carried with him, he tossed it to one of the dozen or so mercenaries ringing the room. He rolled up his sleeves and joined the Africans on the plastic sheeting. With a wave, he dismissed Iron Man and began sizing up his opponent.

  The enforcer did likewise for Kursk.

  Without averting his gaze, Kursk motioned another guard forward. With his peripheral vision, he saw the guard approach the tarp and set a long-handled machete next to his opponent before backing away. It was the weapon Blood Claw had been wearing when he arrived on the island. A dozen small nicks broke up the blade’s otherwise smooth edge. The Russian assumed the imperfections came from chopping the weapon through the bones of countless victims’ arms and legs.

  Kursk gestured at the weapon. “You can, of course, use the machete.” A smile ghosted his rattlesnake lips. “I don’t need a weapon for you.”

  Never losing Kursk’s gaze, the man knelt and gathered the blade from the floor. Gripping the machete with both hands, Blood Claw eyed Kursk, apparently measuring his opponent.

  Kursk steeled himself for the attack.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  The African surged forward, the machete slicing through air as he approached. Kursk sidestepped the attack, drove a sidekick into the man’s kneecap and popped the joint. The man yelped, faltered. Stepping behind his attacker, Kursk snagged the man’s weapon hand and held it fast. Pushing forward on the shoulder, he pulled on the arm and brought it back at an impossible angle until he felt the gratifying pop of a dislocated shoulder. The machete plummeted to the ground while the man’s groans elevated to screams. Kursk buried the toe of a steel tip boot into the man’s kidneys. Once. Twice.

  Crashing onto the man, Kursk grabbed his head and gave it a vicious twist. A snap of the neck dispatched the man to a oneway trip to hell. His head dropped to the tarp, as his body shuddered one last time before surrendering to death.

  Scooping up the machete, Kursk looked at Iron Man, whose eyes widened as he took a couple of steps back. The Russian raised the weapon and brought it down hard, embedding the blade in the floor between Iron Man’s feet.

  Kursk felt his pulse racing through his charged muscles. He moved toward Iron Man, who flinched.

  Growling through gritted teeth, Kursk felt another rage overtaking him. They always came at times like this, threatening to pull him into a black abyss of bloodlust and madness. Just like when he fought the secret wars in Afghanistan. He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to step away from the edge.

  “Bag,” he said to no one in particular.

  A mercenary stepped next to him and handed a burlap bag to Kursk.

  The Russian snatched the bag from his soldier and held it out for Iron Man. “Take it.” As he waited for the former RUF man to step forward, Kursk noticed his voice was deeper, almost otherworldly. Iron Man hesitated, then finally retrieved the bag, as though snatching a pearl from the coils of a cobra.

  “Take that to Talisman,” Kursk said, still struggling to keep his wits about him. “Tell him the next time I fill it with his head.”

  Iron Man nodded. He gave the dead enforcer one last look. As he backed toward the nearest exit, he kept his eyes locked on the Russian as though the two men were the only ones in the room.

  Kursk stepped from the tarp. A pair of mercenaries began to roll up the plastic floor covering, wrapping the corpse inside.

  “Dump the body in the sea,” Kursk said. “Let the fish feast on it. But bring back the tarp and hose it down. I may need it again before this is all over.”

  Another mercenary brought Kursk a white towel, which the kingpin used to wipe away his sweat. A voice from behind caught his attention.

  “Jesus, remind me never to get you pissed at me.”

  Had he not recognized the harsh East Coast accent, the cigar smoke would have been a dead giveaway. Kursk greeted his new visitor without turning to look at him. Instead he stared out one of his massive windows and watched the surf crash against the beach.

  “I am angry at you, Jack Cole,” Kursk said. “That display wasn’t just for Talisman’s benefit.”

  “So, I’m impressed. Happy? Look, you can bellyache all you want about what happened out there, but you have no idea how it went down.”

  Kursk clenched his jaws and took a moment to respond.

  “Badly is how I’d say it went down, Jack. Very damn badly. I hold you and Talisman personally responsible. You are supposed to be pros. This American made you look like idiots.”

  Cole’s voice went cold. “Back off, Nikki.”

  Kursk stiffened when the American referred to him so casually. It was blatant insubordination, the former black ops man’s stock-in-trade.

  Kursk spun on a heel, dropped the sweaty towel at his feet and glared at Cole.

  The former CIA man was decked out in a pair of camou pants, an olive-drab shirt and black combat boots. He carried a Beretta 92-F holstered on his belt in a cross-draw position. A .44 Magnum Ruger, also in a cross-draw position, balanced things out on his opposite hip. The red-haired American stood about five feet six inches. Kursk knew Cole’s small frame, like his ever-present lopsided grin, disguised his ability to kill with deadly efficiency.

  “Treat me with respect,” Kursk said. “Otherwise, I’ll take two lives today.”

  Cole shrugged and his grin never wavered. But his eyes narrowed and his cheeks flushed, betraying the rage bubbling beneath the surface. His hand rested on the butt of the Beretta as he addressed the Russian.

  “Look, Kursk, you can stand back here on your cushy-ass island playing armchair quarterback all you want. But I don’t want to hear it, okay? I never saw anything like this guy. And don’t bore me with another of your stupid war stories about Afghanistan, ’cause you never saw anything like this guy either. We clear?”

  Kursk hated insubordination, but couldn’t help but respect Cole’s backbone. It was almost refreshing after dealing with Talisman’s band of cowards.

  Almost.

  The gunrunner pinned Cole with a cold stare.

  “Do not overstep your bounds,” Kursk warned. “My patience is waning. This operation is too important for me to tolerate your bullshit.”

  Cole held his ground. “Hey, I’ve got a stake in this, too. All I’m saying is there were too many variables. The whole mission was like a dam exploding. The water spilled over, and next thing you know we’re drowning.”

  Pausing, Cole dug deep into his pants pocket, withdrew a lighter and reignited the cigar that had gone cold in his mouth. Exhaling a white-gray cloud of smoke, he peered at Kursk through the haze. Absently, he rubbed the stubble along his cheek.

  “I guess Talisman told you the woman showed up again?”

  White-hot rage pulsed through Kursk. He clenched his fists and felt the nails digging into his palms. His jaw muscles ached as he ground his teeth together, trying to maintain his composure. Dammit, he didn’t want his soldiers to see how
much the woman worried him.

  “No, Talisman didn’t tell me that,” he said finally. “You mean the woman from Moscow? Natasha Rytova?”

  Cole nodded. “One and the same. You ask me, she’s crazy.”

  Kursk walked to his desk and dropped heavily into his contoured leather chair. He stared straight ahead and thought of the monster he’d created.

  Two months earlier, an explosion had leveled one of his weapons warehouses, costing Kursk a small fortune. His Kremlin contacts had identified Rytova as the culprit. Before the disaster, he’d known she was gunning for him but had underestimated her resolve to settle the blood debt that existed between them.

  Afterward, he’d sworn never to repeat that mistake. But, regardless of his increased vigilance, the woman had destroyed assets in Brighton Beach and Tel Aviv. She’d left behind minimal body counts, but destroyed what Kursk cared about most—weapons, vehicles, diamonds and cash. Each time he almost could hear the woman laughing at his misfortune.

  Kursk was strangely subdued as he spoke. “She’s not crazy, Cole. She’s driven. Driven to kill me.”

  Kursk watched as a smile tugged at the corners of Cole’s mouth.

  “I’ll admit it’s an admirable goal, Nikki, but why does she want to nail you so bad?”

  Kursk ignored the question. “Trevor Dade arrived a few hours ago. I must see him. We have many details to attend to before we make our move overseas.”

  “Your people in Moscow still interested in buying that damn plane?” Cole asked.

  “Yes, along with Iran, China and North Korea.”

  “Fuck North Korea.”

  It was Kursk’s turn to smile. “You’re thinking like an American intelligence agent, Cole. In my organization, that’s a fatal flaw. We are arms traders, not politicians. Our allegiances go to the highest bidder—period. If you cannot stomach that, perhaps you should leave. I’ll keep your portion of the sale proceeds for myself. I hired William Armstrong because he caused me so many problems in Afghanistan. I brought you on because he spoke highly of you. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Cole shot the Russian a hard stare. Kursk felt his muscles tensing, his breath shortening, as he prepared to launch himself at Cole.

  The men had worked at cross purposes for many years—Kursk with the KGB and Cole with the CIA. Their alliance was an uneasy one.

  With two fingers of his right hand, Cole reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a pair of aviator shades. Flicking them open, he slipped them on without averting his gaze from Kursk. “I’m cool, Nikki. No worries here,” he said.

  “Tell Talisman to hunt down the American and kill him. And I want the woman dead, too. Talisman must not fuck this up. There’s too much at stake here.”

  “Gotcha, Comrade,” Cole said. “I’ve got a two million dollar payday coming when all this is over. Hell, I’d sell out the entire Western world for that kind of cash.”

  Turning, Cole left the room. Kursk stared after him and wondered if the CIA man knew just how prophetic his words really were.

  4

  Mack Bolan kept his cool. Stuck in a hot, cramped room at the American Embassy, Bolan had spent the last half an hour trying to get Natasha Rytova to tell him what she knew of Talisman’s boss.

  She’d told him to go to hell.

  With the help of Hal Brognola, Bolan and Rytova had been freed from the peacekeeping soldiers and returned to the embassy in a matter of hours. Bolan’s alias had immediately passed muster, but the Russians had disavowed any knowledge of Rytova. A little more muscle flexing by Brognola had resulted in the woman being released into Bolan’s custody as a material witness in a kidnapping case. The appropriate paperwork had been sent electronically to Sierra Leone before Bolan had finished claiming his belongings. The peacekeeping troops had released Bolan’s and Rytova’s weapons to the embassy personnel.

  The pair sat across from each other at a small table inside a windowless cube. The table, two chairs and a security camera were the ten-foot by twelve-foot space’s only furnishings. Bolan had disconnected the security camera at its source before entering the room.

  He had changed into a pair of black denim jeans, a black polo shirt and leather athletic shoes. He’d left his weapons locked in another room within the embassy. Rytova had washed the blood from her face and scalp, but still wore the same clothes as she had during the assault at Talisman’s compound. Occasionally, she’d grimace as she moved, gingerly touching her ribs, jaw muscles bunching up as she held in the pain.

  Bolan leaned back in his chair and pinned her under his icy gaze. The clock was ticking, and he had little time for verbal fencing. Unfortunately, she was the best lead he had in finding Trevor Dade. And she wasn’t talking.

  “Back at the compound, you said you know who Talisman works for,” Bolan said. “Who is it?”

  She glared at him, repeating what had been her mantra during the short, tense meeting. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

  A satellite phone on the table buzzed and Bolan answered it.

  “Striker?”

  Bolan recognized the voice as that of Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman, leader of Stony Man Farm’s cyberteam. “You still got the lady with you?” the Bear asked.

  “Right,” Bolan said.

  “If she still works for the Russians, we can’t find any evidence of it. We’ve done some major hacking into the SVR and the Kremlin’s computers but found only limited information. We can’t stay in their system too long because of the threats of a reverse trace.”

  “What did you find?” Bolan asked.

  “She worked for the SVR but resigned several months ago. Had a family tragedy, went on leave and never came back.”

  “What happened?” As Bolan uttered the words, Rytova looked at him and scowled, but remained silent.

  “Lost her husband and her dad in an explosion of some kind. The case began as a suspicious death, but within days was closed out as accidental. Press accounts from the time pretty much follow the same line of thinking. One reporter quoting unidentified sources said investigators were examining a link between the deaths and organized crime figures. But it stops short of naming anyone.”

  “Any other mentions of organized crime in any of the other stories?” Bolan asked.

  “Nada,” Kurtzman said. Bolan could hear keys clicking on the other end of the phone. Excitement nudged the timbre of Kurtzman’s voice up a notch. “But get this, within days of that story running, the reporter disappeared. There was no body found, so all anyone can do is point fingers. The Committee to Protect Journalists says the guy is dead and was killed in retribution for the story. Russian authorities say he left Russia and went underground. Anything else is just journalistic histrionics, they say.”

  Bolan felt his gut twist with anger. He knew better than that. “I’m inclined to believe the press on this one,” he said.

  He watched as Rytova began to shift nervously in her chair. She looked up at the camera positioned in the corner of the room. She absently ran her fingers through her hair, drawing it back from her cheek and tucking a lock of it behind her ear. As she did, Bolan noticed a long white scar that began at her left ear and snaked down the line of her left jaw before coming to a stop under her chin.

  She saw him looking, covered the scar with a hand and glared.

  Bolan didn’t break his gaze. “What else you got for me, Bear?”

  “The organized crime ties don’t stop with the mysterious Miss Rytova,” Kurtzman replied. “Seems our scientist friend had his own dealings with the Russian Mob. Albeit a bit more friendly.”

  “Friendly how?”

  “Besides not being able to keep his pants on, Dade also likes to gamble. Seems he made weekly pilgrimages on a private jet to Las Vegas. He’d whoop it up at a couple of strip clubs and casinos owned by one Sergei Ivanov, a Russian mobster who holds considerable power in Las Vegas and Denver. Dade lived like a high roller and lost lots of money to the house.”

  “Dade couldn’t have been in de
bt,” Bolan said.

  “No. Family’s got too much money for him to end up under water. But according to the FBI, he and Ivanov were getting awfully chummy along the way. Pretty sordid, huh?”

  “Sordid,” Bolan agreed. “But it makes sense. The Russian Mafia runs a lot of guns in Africa, so we might be closer to connecting Talisman to Dade. I’m assuming Ivanov isn’t the top of the food chain.”

  “Both FBI and DEA think Ivanov has a handler. Who is the question.”

  Bolan stared at Rytova. “I think I have an idea where to find out,” he said.

  “You figure it out, Striker, you let me know,” Kurtzman said. “Hey, the big guy wants to talk with you. You got a second?”

  “Go.”

  The line went silent for a moment, then Brognola’s booming voice sounded. “How you coming along, Striker?”

  “Slowly,” Bolan told his old friend. “It was a set up from the word go. Dade may have been here at some point, but it was before I ever set foot in Freetown. If he’s still in Africa, he’s not at Talisman’s place and I’d guess he’s not in Sierra Leone. But if we can find Talisman, we might still have a chance of locating Dade.”

  Bolan heard Brognola take a deep breath and exhale.

  “I think you’re right,” Brognola replied. “While you were in jail, the local police found the bodies of the U.S. agents who were supposed to get your back at Talisman’s compound. They’d all been bound with wire and shot execution style.”

  The soldier rubbed his forehead with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and stared at a spot on the desk. A sick feeling seized his stomach. “Sorry to hear that,” he said.

  “Damn shame,” Brognola agreed.

  Bolan felt himself getting impatient. The mission thus far had produced dead ends and more questions. He began to scan through what he knew, trying to see what angle he might be missing.

  Brognola interrupted his thoughts. “The Man’s worried. Telling him that you ran into a possible Russian intelligence agent didn’t do much for his mood. Nor did finding out America’s top laser scientist has Mob ties.”