Talisman groaned, sank to his knees. Rolling onto his back, he sliced the air with wide strokes. The blade kept Bolan at bay, but the unfocused swings told him that the man had lost most of his steam. A kick from the soldier knocked the knife from Talisman’s grip, sent it skittering across the floor.
Clearly defeated, Talisman did the unexpected: he laughed.
Bolan retrieved the Beretta, reloaded and charged the weapon, drawing down on Talisman’s head.
The gunrunner’s laughter degenerated into coughing, and blood began to froth at his lips. When the hacking subsided, he regained his composure and his smoldering eyes bored into Bolan’s own.
“You’ve won the battle, but you lost the war,” he said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Talisman smiled. “You’ll find out. There are things in motion that you just can’t stop.”
Bolan wasn’t in the mood for games, especially from this murderer. “I’ll find out now,” the soldier said in a graveyard voice. “It’s the only way you’re leaving this room alive.”
“If I talk, my life’s not worth a damn. Kursk will see to that.”
“We can give you protection from him,” Bolan said.
Talisman stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “There is no protection against Nikolai Kursk.”
“At this moment, I’d say he’s the least of your worries,” Bolan replied. “Where is he?”
“He has an island.”
Bolan tightened his finger on the trigger and never let his gaze waver from Talisman’s bloodied face. He was bargaining with the one chip he had—Talisman’s life—and he was ready to take it all the way. “Where?”
Another pause, a last bit of token resistance, and then Talisman gave him the coordinates.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, catching Bolan’s attention. The Executioner kept the Beretta trained on Talisman, but peered over his shoulder and saw an assault rifle’s muzzle protrude through the doorway. An anxious Nigerian soldier wielded the weapon.
“Put down the gun and slide it toward me,” the soldier shouted.
Bolan complied. The soldier yelled that the room was all clear and a second figure, a Nigerian officer with a red beret, appeared in the doorway. He scowled at Bolan, and the Executioner realized he’d met the man earlier in the aftermath of his previous battle.
“You? I’ll be damned if I let you walk away from this, too. I don’t care who you are,” the peacekeeper said.
Suddenly the foot soldier’s eyes widened and his weapon’s muzzle shifted a few inches to Bolan’s left. At the same time, something scuffled behind Bolan. An icy sensation washed over him as he realized he was unarmed.
The assault rifle cracked three times. Bolan watched as the slugs pounded into Talisman. Two ripped open the man’s chest while a third pierced his left shoulder. Talisman had produced a stubby automatic pistol from somewhere, and his dead finger tightened on the trigger once in a final reflexive move. The small pistol’s report filled the room, and a bullet tore into the floor inches from Bolan’s feet.
Keeping his hands partially raised, the big American stepped to the corpse and kicked the weapon away. It seemed like the only thing he could do.
NATASHA RYTOVA PITCHED to the side and drew down on the gunman with the hostage. The weapon bucked twice in the Russian woman’s hand, and the twin reports echoed through the narrow chamber. Slugs ripped open the gunman’s cranium and covered the woman and the walls with a crimson spray. His weapon slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.
The woman fell to the ground, clutching her child and sobbing. She curled up on her side and wrapped her body around the baby to shield it from harm. At the same time, she screamed and tried to kick the gunman’s corpse away from her.
Rytova wanted to help but knew the second gunman remained at large. A Nigerian soldier brandishing an AK-47 bolted up the stairs and inserted himself between the young mother and any potential danger. The muzzle of his kalashnikov rifle centered on Rytova’s midsection. A second soldier also sprinted up the stairs and drew down on her, rooting her to the spot.
“Put down the gun,” one of the soldiers ordered.
Rytova hesitated for a moment. The scuffle of footsteps and a slamming door caused her heart to sink.
“The other man,” she said, “he’s getting away.”
The soldier’s voice got louder. The second soldier shouldered his assault rifle and centered it on her head. She knew only too well the damage a round from the rifle could inflict on unprotected flesh. “The gun,” he said, “now.”
She set down the SIG-Sauer and raised her hands.
6
The army of killers was ready to move.
Inside a hangar on the island’s southern tip, Nikolai Kursk stared at the two dozen fighters assembled before him in three neat rows of eight. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it to the concrete floor. Despite the early-morning hour, heat and humidity already permeated the island, dampening his short-sleeved shirt against his thick torso.
None of the men were armed, but canvas bags stuffed with MP-5s, AK-47s, Uzis, Berettas, web gear, night camouflage and other tools of war lay at their feet.
They all knew the plan, had drilled it mercilessly for months.
“The helicopters will take you to the mainland,” Kursk said. “You’ll disperse and take separate flights from different countries and converge on America. You’ll travel completely unarmed and will do nothing to arouse suspicion. If you are caught, I promise you’ll not survive a single night’s incarceration. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the soldiers shouted in unison.
“We reconvene in Nevada in two days. You will meet with our liaison and his team at 2100 hours. He has gathered two Black Hawk helicopters. You will use them to storm the base. The facility has six Apache helicopters, two in the air at all times. The advance team will disable the grounded choppers, communications and radar before you land. Securing the base is your problem. So is getting the pilot to the airplane. If he gets caught in the crossfire, scuttle the entire mission.”
He paused, leveling his gaze at the men.
“And if that happens, don’t bother coming back. I’ll find you. Trust me.”
The men stayed inscrutable, but Kursk could sense fear rising up from them like mist from the ground.
Kursk continued. “You’ll have to kill people. The base is full of civilian workers. We want no witnesses. You will have to murder what some would call innocent people. Can you handle that?”
The mercenaries shouted as a single chorus. “Yes, sir.”
Kursk smiled. Greed made men malleable, allowed them to rationalize otherwise abhorrent behavior. They were selling their souls to him in exchange for a few million dollars.
“Make this operation seamless. Kill anyone who could compromise our success. That includes one another. Otherwise you stand to lose what has been promised to you. Would that be acceptable?”
The response rattled the hangar’s metal roof. “No, sir.”
“Just remember,” Kursk said, “the plane gets off the ground first. You stay behind until it has gotten away safely. Then and only then will the helicopters return to pick you up. You have a very short window of time in which to make this happen. If any one of you fails, we all fail.”
He passed his gaze over the front row, pinning down select soldiers as he did. He sensed their discomfort, reveled in the rush he gained from intimidating others, especially warriors such as these men.
Many of these same men had been inside his study when he killed Blood Claw. They knew he was cold and ruthless. Gallons of blood stained his hands and would never wash away.
Every man was only as good as his last mission, ultimately expendable.
He paid them handsomely when they succeeded.
They paid in blood if they failed.
This time they’d pay with their lives, regardless of the outcome. He’d set in motion a
plan to make sure that happened.
He dismissed the troops and watched them scramble from the hangar to the choppers awaiting them on the tarmac.
This mission would end in a firestorm. One that would tear at the heart of America, and bathe in hellfire anyone unlucky enough to come in contact with Kursk, the Nightwind or the Nevada base.
It would be a horror show. And the Russian knew he’d enjoy every last minute of it.
JACK COLE STOOD outside the island’s main house, watching as screeching gulls reached the apex of their flight and dived just out of sight behind the security wall surrounding the compound. The tide crashed steadily against nearby rocky beaches, but as Cole listened he felt anything but soothed. Instead, his jaws clenched tight like a pit bull clamping down on a rag, and acid churned in his stomach.
Cole didn’t consider himself a tree hugger, and most days he all but ignored the wealth of natural beauty that surrounded him. But with Nikolai Kursk’s death threat still booming in his brain, he couldn’t help but pick up the rhythmic sounds, sniff the brine-tinged air with new attention. Every little sound, every move, every smell, registered on his internal radar like a fleet of enemy aircraft carriers moving within striking distance.
Despite his cool demeanor, Cole hadn’t taken Kursk’s threat lightly. Without a doubt, the Russian was a psychopath, and one of a short list of people Cole couldn’t charm or intimidate. That made the man doubly dangerous. It also hastened the moment when Cole would have to tender his resignation either by flashing Kursk the middle finger or putting a bullet in his psychotic head.
Leave quietly or escape soaked in Kursk’s blood, it mattered little to Cole.
He just wanted his damn money. The promise of a big payday tied him to Kursk and his organization. Once he got the two million dollars the Russian had promised him, he’d pound sand. Preferably, he’d saunter away with Kursk’s death rattle reverberating in his ears.
Cole plucked the cigar from his mouth, absently flicked some ash from the smoldering tip and smiled at the image. There was little love lost between himself and the Russian. But Kursk did respect Cole’s prowess for psychological warfare and black ops. Since joining Kursk’s organization, Cole had enjoyed Kursk’s ear and a blank check whenever he needed it. Or at least he had until yesterday’s debacle at Talisman’s compound.
The American’s intervention had cost Cole more than a couple of fighters. It had cost him credibility.
The big American had made Cole look like a moron. Left him to fret about saving his own ass and preserving the biggest payday of his life rather than enjoying the downhill ride as the merc team traveled to America to handle the heavy lifting.
But death seemed to follow this guy everywhere. Word was Talisman and four of his guys had died at the apartment building while a sixth escaped. That weasel Moeller bought it, too. Cole felt goose bumps rise along his skin and a chill passed down his spine.
Enough, he told himself. You’re acting like a scared old woman. If that bastard came here—and Cole had no reason to believe he wouldn’t—then he’d burn the guy down. With that done, he might mutiny against Kursk, solve two problems in one day….
A voice sounded behind him. “Jack, we’ve got a problem.”
Cole turned and saw Daniel Emmett approaching. Emmett was reed slim. He kept his reddish hair cut well above the ears and collar. A neatly trimmed red beard peppered with white and gold covered the lower half of his face.
Cole exhaled acrid cigar smoke, peering through the cloud at the man. “What the hell’s gone wrong now?” he asked.
“Iron Man contacted us. The American has disappeared from Sierra Leone. He and the Russian bitch are coming this way.”
“They using air or sea?”
“We’re thinking the sea. Guys have been watching the airports and haven’t seen a damn thing. They could have him on a boat and near the island in a couple of hours. Probably dump him off in a rubber raft and let him paddle or swim the rest of the way here.”
Cole nodded. “Makes sense. You get any more intel on the guy?”
Emmett grinned. “Not from Iron Man. Nobody talks to that son of a bitch, especially now that Talisman’s dead.”
Cole returned the cigar to his mouth and spoke around it. “But you got something.”
“Yeah. Our contacts told me he’s U.S. Justice Department. Name’s Matt Cooper. At least that’s what he told the peacekeeping troops.”
“You don’t buy it?”
Emmett shrugged, scratched his beard absently as he spoke. “I sent the name to Washington. And I gave it to Armstrong to run. No one could find the first thing on the guy. But he’s obviously got connections. He whipped through Freetown like a hurricane and walked away. Not many have that kind of clout. We were both with the Company long enough to know that. Personally, I don’t think there is a Matt Cooper.”
“He exists,” Cole growled. “Trust me.”
“Agreed. I just don’t think his name is Cooper.”
“Does it matter?”
Another shrug, more scratching of the beard. “Depends on who he really is, who sent him and how much they know about Nikolai Kursk and Trevor Dade.”
A handset clipped to Emmett’s belt trilled for a moment. He plucked it, raised it to his mouth and began to speak. The deeper into the conversation Emmett went, the more his forehead creased, the more his scowl deepened. He killed the connection and let the hand holding the walkie-talkie hang by his side. “We had a boat stop about two miles out from shore, stay long enough to dump someone off and then leave. Guy’s probably coming here even as we speak.”
“How soon?”
Emmett shrugged. “Thirty minutes. Maybe longer.”
Cole nodded grimly. “Gather the troops. Let the dumb bastard come to shore. Then take him down. I want confirmed kills. Both of them.”
“Right. You got any ideas on the guy’s next move? Any thoughts on how to get him?”
Cole’s forehead creased for a moment as he thought. He imagined himself in the Justice guy’s position. A scenario unfolded before him in his mind.
He grinned. “Bet your ass I do.”
AS HE AWAKENED from a fitful sleep, Trevor Dade sucked in a deep breath of air fouled by stale smoke, spilled whiskey and body odor.
Rolling onto his back, the scientist wiped grit from his eyes, then shielded them from the slivers of yellow sunlight slicing into the room from around heavy drapes. He tried to raise himself from the bed, but found flaccid muscles unwilling to respond. He decided to stay put and have a cigarette.
Another day in paradise, he thought.
He heard soft breathing next to him and looked over at the dark body sharing his bed. One of Kursk’s whores had fallen asleep with her feet on the pillow next to his and her head resting at the foot of the bed. Another hooker lay on the floor, immersed in a drug- and alcohol-induced slumber.
An image of last night’s party filled Dade’s head and he allowed himself a smile. The Russian was a bastard, but he did know how to treat a guest.
Dade almost laughed out loud at that one. Guest? When he’d first arrived in his room, the door slammed behind him and a dead bolt had been thrust into place with the startling report of a rifle shot. The scientist had drawn back the drapes and been treated to a gorgeous ocean view interrupted by five vertical steel bars.
Kursk could talk all he wanted about the two of them being partners. But Dade was a realist; he was a prisoner. Forget that he’d agreed to fake his own kidnapping and had willingly let Kursk’s people spirit him away from his home. He’d been duped, and now he found himself under the Russian’s yoke.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Kursk had promised him a fresh start and enough money to make his bulging trust fund seem squalid. And, of course, the scientist had jumped at the chance to stick it to Sentinel Industries before company officials could fire him.
Screw Kursk and Sentinel Industries. Dade decided he’d show everyone just how destructive one man c
ould be.
He crushed the cigarette’s glowing red tip against the tabletop. With a grunt, he brought himself to a seated position at the edge of the bed, set bare feet against the plush carpeting. Standing, he crossed the room stiffly, plopped himself onto a couch and turned on a small table lamp.
“What the hell?” the woman on the bed said. With a bare arm, she shielded her eyes from the intrusive light. Dade recalled her saying something about being from Las Vegas. Kursk and Ivanov shipped women here to entertain the troops, let them do short tours of duty for big bucks. A sleazy USO tour for an army of bloodthirsty psychos.
The hooker’s voice softened. It was her professional voice. “Turn that light off, baby. Come back to bed.”
Enraged, Dade picked up an ashtray and heaved it across the room at the woman. The heavy glass object hit her square in the back, causing her to yelp.
“Shut the hell up, woman,” Dade yelled. “I’m trying to think here.”
An unsure grin played on the woman’s lips as she studied Dade’s face. Grabbing a sheet from the bed, she wrapped herself in it and walked over to the second woman. She nudged the woman with the toes of her left foot, but kept her eyes locked on Dade. The other woman finally stirred.
“Get up, Cindy,” she said. “Nikki stuck us with another freak.”
Still groggy, the second woman got to her feet and wrapped herself in a blanket. After two sharp knocks on the door accompanied by some yelling, a guard opened the door, allowing both women to leave. Still intoxicated, the second woman had to lean on the first for support as they walked out.
The guard slammed the door shut, sealing Dade back inside with the dead bolt.
Finally, he was alone.
The longer he considered Kursk’s plans, the more the scientist seethed. Ultimately, Dade didn’t care whether Kursk stole the plane or committed mass murder. Fine, he could live with that. But Kursk thought he could play Dade—one of America’s greatest minds—for a fool.
Let him try. No one played Trevor Dade for a fool, period.
From a vial, he dumped some white powder onto a small mirror. Steadying the rectangular piece of glass with the thumb and index finger of his left hand, he picked up a razor blade with his other hand. As he ran through his plight in his mind, he absently began chopping up the cocaine.
Death Gamble Page 10