Читать книгу: «Cold Fury»

Chapter One

Warehouse DistrictSeattle, Washington

A blanket of darkness and light rain had descended over the array of dilapidated warehouses and the dark areas in between. The wide alley contained little in the way of ambient lighting and a silver of moon was framed against a black sky. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, leaned back in the passenger seat of the nondescript van and waited, occasionally bringing the night-vision binoculars to his eyes to scan the area that bisected the rows of huge warehouses on either side.

The building he was interested in was about fifty yards away. He and Jack Grimaldi had been watching and waiting for the better part of three hours. The tip about the smugglers had been intercepted by the cyber team at Stony Man Farm, the base for the covert antiterrorist and anticrime organization known as Stony Man. Whether the intel would pan out was questionable. This was the first solid opportunity to determine the exact nature and extent of the smugglers’ illegal activities and who their business partners might be.

Grimaldi emitted an extended groan from the driver’s seat. “Think these other guys are ever gonna show?” he asked.

Bolan didn’t reply.

“How many shootouts have we had in this damn city?” the Stony Man pilot continued. “Some of them go way back.”

Just as he was about to offer more words of wisdom, a faint sound caught Bolan’s ear and he held up his hand for silence.

Grimaldi didn’t speak for a few moments. “You know,” he said, “I think I hear a Harley.”

Bolan had heard it, too. The distinctive percussion of the big motorcycle’s engine began to reverberate louder. He raised the binoculars again but switched off the night-vision feature. Soon a lone headlight appeared at the opposite end of the alley, followed by a second set of lights obviously belonging to an automobile.

A big SUV.

This had to be it.

The motorcycle continued toward them, perhaps forty yards out now.

The luminescence of the headlights made using the night-vision impractical, but the SUV’s headlights illuminated the motorcycle in front with enough clarity that Bolan could discern that the Harley was being driven by a heavyset man.

The biker stopped parallel to the overhead door and pounded several times in a rhythmic fashion on the heavy metal panel. Seconds later, the door began to rise. Light spilled out from the building, further illuminating the motorcyclist and the trailing vehicle. The rider looked like a stereotypical biker: huge upper body with a substantial belly protruding through an open denim jacket decorated with a plethora of insignias. The SUV was a dark-colored Lexus. The windows were tinted, so it was impossible to determine how many people were inside.

Bolan lowered the binoculars and stowed them in their pouch. He did a quick weapons check of the Beretta 93-R in the leather holster under his left armpit and of the big Desert Eagle in a cross-draw holster on his right hip. He and Grimaldi had dressed in black BDUs and were wearing level III tactical vests. Bolan’s had a rugged Espada knife with a braided parachute cord attached to the handle above the Beretta. Two stun grenades had been affixed to the vest’s left side. There were two magazines for a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun also sheathed on the front of the vest.

He pulled up the door handle and removed the MP-5 from the floor between his legs. “Time to go EVA,” Bolan said. “We may need to keep this vehicle out of harm’s way in case we have to make a quick exit.”

Grimaldi was reaching for his subgun, as well. “How about I let you take this one and I grab our biker buddy’s Harley?”

Bolan said nothing as he gestured for Grimaldi to cover his flank and began to move forward. He stayed in the shadows and watched for cameras as he covered the distance. When they were approximately twenty feet from the big overhead door, they caught the sound of an approaching diesel engine. The beams from a pair of headlights swerved toward them as a large semi with a boxed, twenty-five-foot trailer swung into the alley. Bolan flattened against the wall and Grimaldi did the same. They managed to edge into a slight gap between the two buildings.

The Executioner turned and leaned out, allowing himself an angled peek around the corner at the vehicle. The heavy transport continued to rumble forward at a slow, deliberate speed, halting in front of the now closed overhead door through which the biker and the Lexus had entered. Bolan could see two men in the cab of the truck, one of whom was speaking on a cell phone. The other man sat motionless, holding the barrel of what appeared to be an AK-47 assault rifle. He then brought something up to his face—a night-vision scope.

Bolan pulled his head back immediately and relayed the information to Grimaldi, who was crouching behind him.

“How are we gonna handle this?”

Before Bolan could answer, the sound of the overhead door rising broke the silence. The box truck chugged forward, going past them and then jerking to a stop. It began to back up, angling so that it moved into the open overhead doorway slot of the warehouse.

“Want to try to follow them in?” Grimaldi whispered.

Bolan mentally weighed the possibilities. They were up against some firepower, though they’d have the element of surprise. There was a substantial amount of risk, but the alternative of losing time trying to find another way in might mean forfeiting any chance of recovering information about the transaction.

“Sounds like our best bet,” he said. “We swing in after the truck as the big door goes down and I’ll use a flash-bang. You take out the passenger with the AK.”

“Roger that.”

Bolan took another quick look around the corner of the building and saw the passenger sweeping the area with what was certainly a night-vision scope. The end of the truck swung into the lighted, open space, the headlights extinguished, and the overhead door began its descent. Bolan flipped the selector switch on his MP-5 to semiautomatic and then removed one of his flash-bangs. He pulled the pin but kept it ringed on his left index finger in case it had to be reinserted if the grenade wasn’t used.

Bolan held it up and whispered, “I’ll release on five after we clear the door.”

They moved forward toward the edge of the big warehouse and ducked under the lowering door.

Along the left wall there were at least thirty Harleys parked in an orderly row. Next to them stood a series of long workbenches cluttered with motorcycle parts, disassembled engines, handlebars, windshields and other bike parts. The smell of motor oil was pervasive. Bolan saw a cluster of legs and feet at the rear of the boxed trailer. He counted eight adversaries there. Plus the two from the truck meant a total of ten.

As he cocked his arm and executed an underhand toss, Bolan saw the passenger step down from the cab of the semi, his face registering surprise as he caught sight of the intruders. He started to bring the AK-47 into play just as Grimaldi cut loose with a burst from his MP-5, stitching the man across the chest. His target momentarily jerked backward but continued to bring up the weapon, his face twisting into a sneer.

Body armor, Bolan thought. These guys had come prepared.

Grimaldi was already crossing behind to make his approach from the opposite side of the truck, so Bolan used his subgun to shoot the passenger again. A red mist burst from the rear of the man’s head as he slumped forward, the AK-47 tumbling out of his grasp and clacking on the concrete.

One taken out, nine to go.

The numbers counted down on the flash-bang and the blast reverberated through the warehouse. Bolan rushed alongside the trailer, his MP-5 held at combat-ready. As he paused at the corner of the trailer, a biker stumbled out in front of him, his hands over his ears. A weapon sounded from the cluster of men and the rounds ripped through the biker’s back, causing bloody spots to decorate the front of his brown T-shirt. As the biker crumpled, Bolan aimed his subgun at another man in a sporty black jumpsuit. He was holding a large-caliber semiauto pistol, apparently unaffected by the flash-bang.

Bolan delivered one fatal shot to his adversary’s head.

The man in the jumpsuit collapsed to the floor as a second, similarly clad man leveled a big pistol and fired at the Executioner. The round went wide, whizzing by his right side. As Bolan started to rotate his MP-5, Grimaldi appeared from around the corner and delivered a shot to the back of the man’s head, dropping him. He then took out two men using a workbench as cover.

A flash of movement in Bolan’s peripheral vision caused him to automatically crouch and step back, avoiding a thunderous blast from a biker’s sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun. The charge missed Bolan completely but clipped two of his fellow bikers. One gripped his chest as a torrent of red began to pour from a gaping hole. The second man, hit in his substantial gut, managed to pull a blue-steel Colt 1911 from his belt.

The Executioner fired two rounds into the forehead of the biker with the sawed-off and the man’s legs twisted together as he did an untidy pirouette to the floor. Bolan then swung his MP-5 back and shot the biker drawing the .45. That one crumpled, as well. Beyond the fallen man, Grimaldi faced the final biker as the last of the Jumpsuits pointed what Bolan saw was a Glock pistol at the Stony Man pilot. Having little choice, he raised his subgun and fired, the round coring his adversary’s head.

Although it seemed that all of their adversaries were down and dead, Bolan and Grimaldi took the time to make sure of that before moving forward, searching and checking the space as they went. It took them several minutes to clear the remainder of the building, which was basically a large space devoid of anything except a collection of Harley-Davidson motorcycles, spare parts, work cubicles and a few empty lockers.

Satisfied that no other adversaries remained, they returned to the center of the large room. An overturned briefcase lay on the floor next one of the motorcycles.

Grimaldi picked up the briefcase, popped open the clasps and lifted the lid. He grinned broadly then emitted a low whistle. The briefcase was lined with stacks of US currency.

“Looks like somebody was buying something,” he said, shutting the briefcase after he was sure Bolan had seen the contents. “Maybe we’ll get paid this time.”

“Yeah, right.”

All of the motorcycles had Washington plates, but the Lexus and the semi had Canadian tags. The SUV had virtually nothing of interest. Neither did the truck’s cab, except for papers listing the owner as Universal Exports out of Vancouver, British Columbia, and a Canadian customs declaration and bill of lading for “prepackaged, sealed food products.”

“Let’s check the back of the truck,” Bolan said. “Then go through these guys for any IDs.”

The Executioner was disappointed that none of the gunners had survived. He’d been hoping to gather some intel, other than what he already knew about the motorcycle gang. Like most one-percenters, these bikers ran the gamut in illegal activities. Their connection to the men in the black jumpsuits was still open to conjecture.

Grimaldi found a crowbar, hopped up on the rear bumper of the trailer and grabbed the handle securing the doors. He stuck the end of the metallic claw between the hasp of the padlock and bore down hard. The metal held for a few seconds then gave way and the base of the lock clattered onto the concrete floor. Bolan brought up his MP-5 and pointed it at the set of double doors as Grimaldi thrust one open and moved aside.

The interior of the truck bed was stacked with cardboard boxes marked Gold Star Noodles. A narrow aisle ran down the center to a solid base of boxes against the rear wall. The trailer was packed so tight that Bolan had to turn sideways to edge toward the rear. He took out his knife, flipped it open and sliced off a portion of the side of one of the boxes. Brightly colored plastic-encased packages of wiry dried noodles were inside. The Executioner began systematically cutting open each box in the stacks on the right side. None yielded anything but packages of noodles. He stopped and glanced at the other stacks. The printed inscription on all of the boxes appeared to be uniform. After replacing his knife, Bolan edged back down the center aisle to the open rear doors.

“Let’s start checking those guys.”

After piling all of the recovered weapons on one of the benches, Bolan and Grimaldi began going through the pockets of the dead men, placing their belongings on top of each corpse. The bikers all carried wallets and the usual assortment of contraband. The men in the black jumpsuits had nothing in the way of identification, but each had a cell phone.

Bolan felt something substantial in the last dead man’s pants’ pocket and withdrew a rather bulky phone. A satellite phone. As he placed it on top of the corpse, it vibrated with an incoming call.

Grimaldi’s face lit up. “Hot damn. Maybe that’ll give us something.”

The Executioner picked up the phone and saw that it was locked. After studying the screen, he determined it had a fingerprint passcode. The holster on the dead man’s belt was on his right side. Bolan pressed the dead man’s right thumb against the home key, but nothing happened. Not wanting to trigger some kind of automatic safeguard that would lock him out after too many unsuccessful tries, Bolan weighed the possibilities before selecting another digit. This time he pressed the dead man’s right forefinger against the screen and the phone unlocked, going immediately to the text section.

Bolan watched as the letters formed on the screen.

“Aw, hell,” Grimaldi said. “Is that language what I think it is?”

Bolan studied the script for a few seconds more. It was the Cyrillic alphabet. He snapped a picture of it with his cell phone.

“Yeah, it’s Russian,” he said.

The Bering Strait

Nikoloz Rokva held the cell phone in front of him for several minutes, waiting for a reply from Yuri. But none came. That troubled him slightly. He hadn’t wanted to split up this shipment, but the fragmented transport had become a necessity due to the inclement weather they’d experienced when meeting up in Siberia. The stopover at the last gulag had proved more problematic and lengthy than anticipated, but Rokva hoped it would be ultimately more profitable this time.

Profit, he thought, was the name of the game.

He removed his thick, oval-shaped glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that the burden of command weighed heavily on one, even though he’d spent his army time as an analyst in military intelligence rather than as a field officer.

The phone in his cabin rang and he picked it up.

It was Fedor Udom. “Some of these assholes are getting sick. The men mostly. They are puking and shitting all over the place.”

“Has Boris finished taking the samples?”

“Hours ago.”

“Good. Just keep them all confined, then. We are almost there.”

He terminated the call, replaced his glasses and took out one of his long cigarettes, mashing the hollowed-out end to form a filter. The briny smell of the sea was omnipresent. Perhaps the earthy resonance of human excretions would be welcome in the hold.

The ship pitched and bounced a bit as the waters were getting rougher, and he wondered how close they were to shore. He pulled the phone from the cradle and pressed the button to speak to the captain.

“How long before we arrive?” Rokva asked, holding his lighter to the cigarette.

“Very soon. Why?”

“Some of the cargo is getting sick.”

The captain’s laugh was a harsh bark. “No sea legs, eh? They should count their blessings we are not on an extended voyage. I could tell you stories of some of the rough crossings.”

“Yes, I’m sure you could. Just advise me when we’re getting close.”

“I will,” the captain said. “But know this. We’re going to leave as soon as we drop you there. There’s a storm coming and we must get back across.”

Not bothering to reply, Rokva hung up, stood and then stretched. He hated sea travel, although the relatively short jaunt across the Bering Strait between Russia and the Alaskan coast was not that stressful. And the rewards were certainly great. He leaned against the narrow bunk and settled his stockinged feet into his boots. He glanced at the phone. Yuri had still not responded and Rokva pondered the wisdom of sending another text.

No, he thought. If the son of a bitch hadn’t answered by now, something had to be wrong. If that were the case, it would necessitate altering the plan. This did not bother him. He always had another plan formulating in his mind. It was what made him a master of the game, be it chess or his criminal endeavors.

One always had to be thinking a few moves ahead.

He blew out a cloud of smoke as he strode to the door of his cabin and pulled it open. He found the small space disgusting because it reminded him too much of his meager upbringing in Moscow. His father had moved the family from western Georgia to the large city in search of work. But instead of the “prosperity for all” the Communists had promised, they’d found only more poverty masked by an inadequate state-sponsored stipend and no motivation to do better. Rokva had found himself always cold and hungry and roaming the streets. Soon he’d realized it was far easier to merely take what he wanted. A loaf of bread, a container of borscht, a piece of fruit. And that was how he’d met Sergei.

He’d been crouching in the shadows of the alley, devouring an apple, when a large shadow fell over him: the man from the market where Rokva had stolen the fruit. The man was large and his face was twisted with an angry scowl.

“You little Georgian thief, stealing from me. I will shove those glasses up your ass.” He raised his arm and was about to deliver a strike that Rokva knew would surely cripple him.

But the blow did not come. Instead, another boy appeared, perhaps a year or so older than him, and much bigger and stronger. The boy swung a thick cudgel into the merchant’s left knee. The man howled in pain and started to turn when the boy brought the heavy stick down on the back of the merchant’s neck. He emitted a low grunt and then fell, keening, onto the ground. Rokva stood transfixed as the other boy brought the stick down again and again until the merchant’s groans ceased and he lay unconscious, a copious amount of blood seeping from the many cuts on his head and face.

The other boy smiled.

“That old bastard gave me a beating yesterday,” he said, holding up the thick wooden cudgel. “So today I brought this.”

“Is he dead?”

The other boy toed the man’s face with his well-worn shoe, causing the merchant to moan.

“Not yet.” He kicked the merchant’s face.

Rokva grinned. “You’re strong. Where did you learn to fight liked that.”

“My father. He was in the army. In Afghanistan. He was Spetsnaz. Soon I will join, too.”

“What is your name?”

“I am Sergei Dankovich. And you?”

“Nikoloz Rokva.” He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.

Sergei’s eyes narrowed. “You are Georgian?”

Rokva nodded. “We came from Kutaisi.”

The other youth smirked. “No matter. I need someone to play with.”

“Come on,” Rokva said. “Let’s go get some more of the old bastard’s fruit.”

And so it began. Their lasting, special friendship was formed... Brothers... But much more than that, enduring even after Sergei and he left for the army, and years later, when Rokva became a low-ranking associate for the mafiya, eventually rising to the position of captain just as a disillusioned Sergei returned from the fighting in Chechnya. Sensing his friend’s weariness and disenchantment with the military, Rokva quickly recruited him to be his soldier. And now they were both getting rich. If this current plan materialized the way he had envisioned, they would soon be a lot richer. He thought about telling Sergei of the special treat that he had for him, the American cigarettes that he enjoyed so much, but decided to wait for the right moment.

He came to Sergei’s cabin and knocked on the door.

“What?” The voice was mixed with exertion.

“It’s me,” Rokva said. “We have a problem.”

“Shit. Wait a minute.”

He could hear a murmuring sound through the door, then a series of harsh grunts, followed by a truncated scream. Then the door was flung open and the naked figure of Sergei stood there, his powerful body covered with a sheen of perspiration despite the cold temperature. Beyond him, in the narrow bed, Rokva could see a nude, moaning woman. He recognized her as one of the prettier ones they’d taken onboard. She lay on her back, making no effort to cover herself, her breathing coming in fits and gasps.

Sergei strode toward a dresser, grabbed a bottle of vodka from the top and took a swig. He returned to the doorway and offered the bottle to Rokva, who shook his head. He preferred to keep his mind clear when business was at hand.

Sergei shrugged, took another swig and then said, “What problem?”

“Yuri did not return my text.”

Sergei inhaled deeply, pondering this. “What is next then?”

“We should be docking soon. Let me see if everything is ready there.” He took out his satellite phone and this time dialed Greagor Lebed’s number.

After several rings, he finally answered.