ARCTIC FIRESTORM

A mass grave in an icy Alaskan field. A murdered state trooper. And maximum-damage Soviet weaponry at the scene indicates to the Executioner that he’s after something more lethal than just a smuggling ring. And he’s right—as a ruthless Russian colonel transports his diabolical cargo across the Arctic, he also threatens to unleash a deadly biological agent on American soil. With time running out, the Executioner must rescue the innocent and destroy the evil crime ring with hellfire justice!

#386 Crucial Intercept

#387 Powder Burn

#388 Final Coup

#389 Deadly Command

#390 Toxic Terrain

#391 Enemy Agents

#392 Shadow Hunt

#393 Stand Down

#394 Trial by Fire

#395 Hazard Zone

#396 Fatal Combat

#397 Damage Radius

#398 Battle Cry

#399 Nuclear Storm

#400 Blind Justice

#401 Jungle Hunt

#402 Rebel Trade

#403 Line of Honor

#404 Final Judgment

#405 Lethal Diversion

#406 Survival Mission

#407 Throw Down

#408 Border Offensive

#409 Blood Vendetta

#410 Hostile Force

#411 Cold Fusion

#412 Night’s Reckoning

#413 Double Cross

#414 Prison Code

#415 Ivory Wave

#416 Extraction

#417 Rogue Assault

#418 Viral Siege

#419 Sleeping Dragons

#420 Rebel Blast

#421 Hard Targets

#422 Nigeria Meltdown

#423 Breakout

#424 Amazon Impunity

#425 Patriot Strike

#426 Pirate Offensive

#427 Pacific Creed

#428 Desert Impact

#429 Arctic Kill

#430 Deadly Salvage

#431 Maximum Chaos

#432 Slayground

#433 Point Blank

#434 Savage Deadlock

#435 Dragon Key

#436 Perilous Cargo

#437 Assassin’s Tripwire

#438 The Cartel Hit

#439 Blood Rites

#440 Killpath

#441 Murder Island

#442 Syrian Rescue

#443 Uncut Terror

#444 Dark Savior

#445 Final Assault

#446 Kill Squad

#447 Missile Intercept

#448 Terrorist Dispatch

#449 Combat Machines

#450 Omega Cult

#451 Fatal Prescription

#452 Death List

#453 Rogue Elements

#454 Enemies Within

#455 Chicago Vendetta

#456 Thunder Down Under

#457 Dying Art

#458 Killing Kings

#459 Stealth Assassin

#460 Lethal Vengeance

#461 Cold Fury

Cold Fury

Don Pendleton

Special thanks and acknowledgments are given to Michael A. Black for his contribution to this work.

COLD FURY

ISBN-13: 978-0-008-90063-2

Copyright © 2019 by Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2019 by Worldwide Gold Eagle, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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“What’s on the satellite feed?”

“Striker, I’m seeing thermal images of six figures on each side of the airstrip,” Kurtzman told him. “Looks like an ambush.”

The Executioner glanced out the window. Ahead, the airstrip was visible, a series of burning oil pots lining each side. “Roger that.” To Grimaldi, he said: “Jack, it’s no good. This is a trap.”

“Hold on,” Grimaldi told him, then pulled back on the yoke, sending the nose of the plane upward. “Got to get over those damn treetops.” The fuselage began to vibrate as the engines quivered.

Bolan’s eyes shot to the left. Grimaldi’s face was a frozen grimace, covered with a brocade of sweat.

“You need help?”

“Pull back on the yoke until we clear the trees.”

Bolan gripped it, but they were heading for a solid wall of branches. He braced for impact.

Human trafficking is a scourge, a crime against the whole of humanity. It is time to join forces and work together to free its victims and to eradicate this crime that affects all of us, from individual families to the worldwide community.

—Pope Francis

Criminals have no mercy, no shred of decency. As long as predators stalk the shadows to inflict misery on the innocent, I will work tirelessly to stop them.

—Mack Bolan

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Introduction

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

About the Publisher

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.

“Why did it take you so long to answer the damn phone?” Rokva demanded.

“I am busy. You think I was out admiring the moon?”

Lebed’s insolence sent a spurt of anger through him. “Don’t be a smart-ass. Is everything ready?”

“As ready as it can be. One of the planes has mechanical problems. It is down.”

Rokva felt his anger heighten. “Why was I not advised of this sooner?”

“Listen, you try dealing with these damn Eskimos. They are difficult.” Lebed’s voice sounded weary yet tinctured with a slur. The son of a bitch must have been imbibing again. Rokva decided Sergei could deal with the drunken bastard when they arrived.

“Charter another plane,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Another DHC-6. Make sure it can hold at least twenty-five.”

Lebed snorted. “Oh, all right. Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Is Wladimir with you?”

“Of course.”

More insolence. This flippant asshole was going to pay for his effrontery.

“May I assume the third plane is ready for him?” Rokva asked.

He heard Lebed heave a heavy breath before answering. “Yes.”

“Good. I want him to be ready to leave with the samples as soon as we arrive.”

“Anything else? Boss.”

The impudent lilt in Lebed’s voice as he added the last word sealed his fate. Rokva waited a few beats before responding to be certain he had eliminated any trace of the building rage in his reply. “We will be there soon. Keep me apprised of the situation.” He then terminated the call and looked back at Sergei, who was smirking.

“Drunk?” he asked.

Rokva nodded.

“I told you before, did I not?” Sergei held up the bottle of vodka. “Some men can handle the juice, others let it handle them.”

“We will deal with that idiot later. Find Boris Kazak and make sure he has everything properly labeled and categorized. And tell him to get ready to split up the shipment for a partial harvest. We’ll need to alter our plan.”

“That is my Nikoloz,” Sergei said. “Always planning ahead.”

“Life is like a game of chess. A true master must always be thinking several moves ahead of what is before him on the board.”

Seattle, Washington

“Russian,” Grimaldi said, nodding. “Yep, I had these guys pegged from the get-go. But I thought the bikers and the Russians didn’t get along up around these parts?”

Bolan was aware that a rather protracted and brutal conflict had occurred between Russian organized crime and the biker gangs in Seattle and Vancouver several years ago, but he also knew that new profits and criminal enterprises often supplanted old grudges and rivalries.

“Maybe they’ve patched things up,” Bolan said as he walked the length of the truck.

Something was bothering him. He used his secure cell to contact Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm. The cyber wizard answered on the second ring.

“What’s up, Striker?”

He gave Kurtzman a quick rundown of what had transpired and gave him the plates on both the SUV and the truck. “But before you do that, we’re going to call you on the dead guy’s sat phone. See if you can run a trace on where the last call came from. I’m also emailing you a picture of a Cyrillic text.”

“Okay, piece of cake.”

Bolan handed the dead Russian’s satellite phone to Grimaldi and told him to call Kurtzman’s number.

“Aaron, give me a call back when you get something,” Bolan said.

“You want to hold on? It shouldn’t take me that long. You’re talking to the fastest keyboard on the east coast.”

“Just call me back,” Bolan said. “I want to check something out.”

Grimaldi finished dialing and made a thumbs-up gesture.

“Okay,” Kurtzman said. “I’m getting your unidentified sat phone call. I’ll get back to you.”

Bolan terminated the call and returned his cell phone to its pouch. He walked to the back of the trailer, pulled open the rear door and stared into the boxed bed.

Grimaldi joined him. “What, you got a taste for noodles?”

Bolan partially closed the rear door and leaned back, studying the outside of the truck and then looking back inside.

“What?” Grimaldi asked.

“Cover me,” Bolan said, hopping up into the rear compartment and taking out his knife. He moved down the narrow center aisle again, going slowly and measuring his steps. When he got to the end, he looked back at Grimaldi, who was holding his MP-5 at combat ready. Bolan turned and drew his arm back, pressing the blade into one of the boxes at the end of the aisle. It went in only a few inches and stopped. He withdrew the knife and began feeling the other boxes, stopping about halfway down and pressing the blade into the cardboard again. This time when the blade hit something solid, the Executioner rotated the knife, cutting away the surface material. A lever-like handle became visible.

Bolan cut vertically on the boxes on both sides of the aisle and then slashed the top and the bottom. He pulled the false wall of cardboard away and tossed it to the rear. Grimaldi reached in with his left hand, grabbed it and jerked it out of the truck. He immediately brought the submachine gun up to the ready again as Bolan withdrew his Beretta 93-R and switched on the flashlight attachment. With his left hand, Bolan grabbed the lever and twisted it, pushing the door to the right. It slid behind the façade of stacked cardboard boxes, revealing a hidden compartment.

As Bolan shone the light inside, his nostrils were assailed with a combination of body odor and human waste. The beam swept over twelve frightened women. They shielded their eyes from the brightness and Bolan saw that they were all relatively young and clothed in filthy garments. One muttered something in what Bolan felt certain was Russian.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said in Russian. “We won’t hurt you.” He motioned for them to exit the confined space.

Once the women had filed out, Bolan swept the light over the inside of the cramped enclosure. From the smell of it, they’d been confined in there for some time. Two buckets full of what appeared to be human waste had been pushed to the side, contributing to the rank odor. Plastic water bottles were scattered on the floor along with torn noodle packages. Apparently the women had been subsisting on hard, uncooked noodles. Bolan shook his head as he moved back to the opening at the rear of the truck.

The women had encircled Grimaldi and he was busy trying to calm them.

One of the women saw the dead bodies lying around and screamed. A buzz of conversation shot through the group, accompanied by looks of sheer terror on many of their faces. Three of them bolted.

Grimaldi took a few steps after them then stopped. “Aww, hell,” he said, turning back to the others. “They got no place to go anyway.”

Bolan’s phone rang. It was Kurtzman calling back. The Executioner answered immediately.

“Okay,” the cyber expert said. “I traced that sat phone number, but it comes back as a burner originating out of Russia.”

“I figured as much,” Bolan said. “Could you trace the originating location of that text?”

“Yeah. In fact, while I was hacking into it, they used it to make another call. It originated on a ship in the Bering Strait. They called someone in Wales, Alaska. Looks to be in Yup’ik territory on the coast.”

“How long ago did they make the call?”

“Couldn’t have been more than ten minutes ago now.”

“Were you able to translate that text?” Bolan asked.

“It’s Russian. ‘Has everything been completed? I’m waiting on your update.’”

“What about those Canadian license plates?”

“Both came back to Universal Exports in Vancouver,” Kurtzman said. “I’m digging into it, but it appears to be a shell company of some kind. Probably created just to take advantage of Homeland’s FAST program.”

“Fast?”

“Yeah. It’s an acronym for the Free And Secure Trade program. It’s designed to expedite commercial vehicles crossing the border. What were they carrying?”

“Dried noodles and a dozen Russian girls.”

Kurtzman whistled. “I guess all that tightening they’re trying to do down south on the border hasn’t been applied to the 48th parallel yet.”

Bolan watched as Grimaldi read something on his smartphone and smiled. The women had quieted down and had pressed around him, listening intently. Apparently he’d found the app he needed to translate English into Russian, although Bolan wondered if his attempt at pronunciation would be understandable.

“Okay,” Bolan said. “Go through our special channels and advise the local authorities in Alaska that we’ve got some info on a possible human trafficking case. That ship coming into Wales might be involved. Ask them to try to intercede and hold the crew and all aboard until we can make our way up there. Use our standard Department of Justice cover. And Seattle PD should be called in to this location.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“We need transportation,” Bolan said. “See if Hal can pull some strings at the nearest airport around here to charter us a plane. We’ll need some cold-weather gear, too.”

“Roger that, Striker,” Kurtzman said. “I’ll get right on it.”

Bolan thanked him and terminated the call, studying the group of women. The three who had run off after seeing the bodies had reappeared on the far side of the warehouse, crouching behind the row of Harleys and peeking at the others. The thoughts of what had probably been in store for these women brought back unpleasant memories for the Executioner. His sister had been exploited many years ago, and that had instilled a fervent determination to relieve this type of human suffering and bring those responsible for causing such misery to justice...his own brand of justice.

Chapter Two

Over Canada en route to Alaska

They’d been in the air less than forty minutes, zooming through the velvet darkness, when Grimaldi suddenly began singing “North to Alaska.”

Bolan, who was in the copilot’s seat, rolled his eyes and said, “Do I have to put my earplugs in?”

“What? You got something against that song? It was the last big hit for Johnny Horton back in the day.” Grimaldi clucked his tongue. “It came out right before he got killed in a plane crash.”

“Not exactly a great song choice, then.”

“You know, I take that back. I think it was a car accident.”

Grimaldi quit singing and sat in silence for several minutes before clucking his tongue once again as he checked the instrument panel of the Learjet 85.

“Man, those cops who arrived sure didn’t look too happy about the mess we left them,” the Stony Man pilot said.

Kurtzman had called Seattle PD and explained that two federal agents had come upon a shootout between a biker gang and some Russian gangsters, and that there were also some human trafficking refugees on scene. After identifying himself as DOJ Special Agent Matt Cooper, Bolan had handed over the processing of the scene to the first responders, saying that he and his partner had to leave to investigate another aspect of this case.

“I wonder what’ll happen to those gals?” Grimaldi said.

“They’ll no doubt be offered some kind of temporary asylum.”

“Regardless, it has to be better than what they were running from.”

Bolan could only agree. He couldn’t get the image of that small, stinking compartment out of his mind; it brought home the desperation of the women seeking to escape the bleakness of their existence in their homeland. A desperation that was so great they’d succumbed to the false promises of a new life. Little had they known that they were most likely exchanging one version of hell for another, probably one much more degrading than what they were fleeing.

He thought, too, about the man who’d sent the text. Obviously the crew Bolan and Grimaldi had encountered reported to that individual, someone likely involved with the Russian mafia. The man was probably high up the food chain if he was in charge of a human trafficking operation. Bolan decided he was going to take particular pleasure in running him to ground and stopping whatever nefarious scheme he was hatching.

Near Wales, Alaska

Rokva waited while the ship’s crew tied down the mooring lines to the massive pilings then began fitting the gangway into place. He could see Greagor Lebed, Wladimir Igoshin and “Fast Eddie” Nome at the end of the dock, the glow of their cigarettes standing out like three crimson dots against their silhouettes.

Luckily, despite it being early November, the temperature had not dropped dramatically in the last several days, allowing for a smooth docking without the danger of the ship being damaged by ice. Soon it would be a different story. Rokva had already planned on this being their last trip until the spring. The air was cold and, along with the pervasive salt smell of the ocean, it burned his nostrils. The gangway was almost in place. He took out his cigarettes and removed one from the pack.

“Give me one of those,” Sergei said, coming up behind him as silently as a ghost. Stealth movement was only one of Sergei’s many talents that he’d honed to perfection during his time with the Spetsnaz. Like his father, Sergei was a legend in the Russian special forces. It was rumored that during his tour in Chechnya he had racked up so many kills on covert operations they had stopped counting them. He wore his customary black jumpsuit and had an AK-47 with a metal folding stock dangling from a lanyard against his chest. He also had a Tokarev pistol in a low-slung holster on his right upper thigh. The man looked like the devil’s chief enforcer.

Rokva held out the pack and Sergei pulled one out. He snorted, tore off the elongated hollow filter and tossed it into the dark water. “Shit, it is fucking cold,” he said, leaning down to put the tip of the cigarette into the flame of his old friend’s lighter. “It is even worse than Moscow.”

Rokva smirked. “Welcome to Alaska.” He dropped the lighter and the cigarette pack into the pocket of his parka, and he and Sergei strode down the gangway.

“I’m concerned with Greagor’s drinking,” Rokva said.

“So what? The poor son of bitch has to do something to keep warm in this place.”

“It is interfering with his duties. He was insolent with me on the phone. And the second plane is down. He is supposed to keep things ready.”

“Do you want me to discipline him?”

Rokva considered that. He was already formulating a new plan in his mind, taking into consideration the limitations they now faced with travel options. “Not yet,” he said. “Perhaps I will send him back on the ship and perhaps not. In any case, I don’t want him running once he gets back to Russia.”

“He can run,” Sergei said, his lips curling back over his teeth, “but he cannot hide.”

The wood of the pier felt good under Rokva’s feet. He hated sea travel and always felt better being on solid ground, even if it was in this godforsaken place.

As they got to the starting point of the pier, Nome smirked. The Georgian could see the line of idling trucks on the road about fifty feet up the snow-covered embankment. Behind him, his men, all armed with AK-47s, had already started ushering the cargo off the ship. Two of his most competent men, Aleksi Galkin and Vasilli Denisov, were supervising. There were thirty-five people, of which only nineteen would fit comfortably on one plane, but he was certain they could get at least twenty-two of them, considering some of them were children. If he eliminated the men, that was.

Boris followed, carrying his medical satchel in one hand and the sample case in another. Behind him, two of the others guided a cart stacked with the special medical containers down the gangway.

“Took you long enough,” Nome said, extending his hand to his boss. An attached mitten dangled from the sleeve of his parka. “I guess your buddy here already told you we got a slight problem with one of your planes?”

Rokva looked at Lebed, who seemed to wither visibly as his gaze went from his superior to Sergei’s imposing form.

Apparently the vodka did not supply him with enough temporary courage to be disrespectful in person, Rokva thought. But then again, who would be so in front of Sergei?

“I am sorry, boss,” Lebed said, quickly lighting a cigarette and dragging on it. “I have made arrangements for another, as you instructed. It is coming from Anchorage.”

The mafiya captain glared at the man. “That is quite a delay.”

Lebed raised his arms. “It was all I could get at such short notice.”

“No matter,” Rokva said. “I am leaving a few men here to complete something. When the plane arrives, you can follow with them.”

His subordinate blew out a prodigious cloud of smoke mixed with his frosty breath. “But I am eager to accompany you. Is that not our plan?”

Rokva didn’t bother to reply. Instead he turned to Boris, who was a few feet away.

“Give the samples to Wladimir,” Rokva said to him and then turned to the third man in the group. He looked like a walrus with his large, unkempt mustache and round face.

“You have the smaller plane standing by to take you to Anchorage?”

The man’s head bobbled up and down.

“Get going now. As soon as you arrive in Vancouver, take these samples to Patel. Tell the Indian we will be arriving with the shipment within thirty-six hours.”

Igoshin nodded and accepted the sample case.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Rokva snapped, the irritation evident in his voice.

As he tucked the case under his arm, Igoshin headed for the idling vehicles.

“Hey,” Nome asked, “what you got going with the Indians?”

Rokva allowed his expression to reflect a benign composure as he realized that while they’d spoken primarily in Russian, he’d said the word Indian in English.

“Not one of your Indians,” he said. “From India. He is our connection in Canada.”

The skin around Nome’s eyes wrinkled slightly as he nodded. “I told you before, you can’t trust them. Not the ones around here, anyway.”

“Apples and oranges. We will need the use of one of your houses. One with several clean rooms. For a few hours.”

“Not a problem,” Nome said before his head jutted forward. “Hey, what the hell?”

The Georgian turned to see several of the cargo males stopping to bend over and vomit. They were about ten feet away now. Another was retching, as well, and then the first dropped his pants and began depositing a blast of diarrhea over the edge of the pier.

“What the hell’s wrong with them?”

“They never got their sea legs,” Rokva said.

Nome frowned, wrinkling his nose. “Christ, they stink.”

“Which is why we will need a shower or bathtub facility.”

“Wait a minute. No way. If you think I’m gonna clean up after all those assholes, you got another think coming.”

Before Rokva could speak, Nome’s cell phone rang and he quickly answered it. More of the cargo males began to vomit. Another pulled down his pants as the more healthy ones, the women and the children, hurried past.

“Pull up your damn pants, you pigs,” Rokva yelled in Russian. “You disgust me.”

Galkin heard his boss’s statement and kicked the bent-over man in the rump. He went flying.

“Greagor, go make yourself useful in herding those cows into the trucks.” He then shouted instructions to separate the men from the women and children and put them in different vehicles. One of the men who’d been vomiting teetered on unsteady legs then collapsed.

“Pick him up and carry him,” Rokva shouted. “Now.”

“Why are you separating us?” one of the other men shouted in Russian.

“Shut up and do as you’re told, asshole,” Denisov yelled. He punctuated his command with a swift strike of the stock of his rifle. The man fell on all fours, his head bobbling back and forth like a child’s yo-yo.

“What are you waiting for?” Rokva said, looking at Lebed.

He mashed his lips together then shuffled off toward the group.

The mafiya captain turned back to Nome, who was still talking on his phone. After a few more muttered utterances, he terminated the call and stared at the Georgian with a worried expression.

“We’ve got trouble,” Nome said. “An Alaska state trooper just got here and is asking a bunch of questions.”

“What kinds of questions?”

Nome shrugged. “I don’t know. About any new arrivals most likely.” His tongue darted over his chapped lips like a nervous lizard. “Wait till he gets a whiff of your brigade. Shit, I can’t afford this kind of trouble.”

“How many are there?”

Nome shrugged again. “Looks like just one, as far as I know.”

“Where is he at?”

“By the airstrip, I guess.”

Rokva usually preferred to avoid contact or conflict with the authorities, but in this case their timetable had been affected by the unavailability of the second large plane. He was also concerned that his text to Yuri in Seattle had never been answered.

That could mean the police had intercepted him and the first shipment of women, and had in turn notified the authorities here in Alaska. Had Yuri talked? He didn’t think that was a probability, but how else could they have traced them here? Then it dawned on him: his phone. Perhaps the authorities had been able to trace the call.

He immediately took out his phone, turned it off and removed the battery. He considered tossing it into the water, but hesitated. He needed it to contact the rest of the group along the route. Besides, if the police had been using the phone’s frequency to trace him, perhaps he could use it to turn things to his favor... Use it to lure them into a trap.

For now he would keep the phone, but it would remain turned off.

“How the hell did they find you guys?” Nome asked. “Now I got the cops on my tail.”

“No matter. It will be taken care of,” Rokva said. He turned to Sergei, who had obviously been following the conversation. Since Sergei’s English was not very good, he said in Russian, “The police are in the village. By the airstrip. Go take care of it.”

“Do you know how many?” Sergei asked, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it.

Rokva shook his head. Through his business dealings, he knew the Alaska troopers were grossly understaffed. Most of the time they worked by themselves or with one other person. Either way, it would be child’s play for Sergei, and it would also give him a chance to shake off any rust he might have accumulated during the sea voyage. He watched as his friend trotted quickly toward the row of trucks. Despite the constant smoking, the former Spetsnaz commando could run like a racehorse, never getting tired.

Sergei got into the first truck. After a brief moment, the vehicle started down the road, past the row of nearby unlighted buildings, and headed toward the village.

“Hey, what’s he gonna do?” Nome asked. “I don’t need no dead cops around here. That’ll just bring more heat.”

“I should think that a little heat would be welcome in this inhospitable climate,” Rokva said, allowing a slight smile to creep over his lips. He took a final drag on his cigarette, flicked it away, and called out to Aleksi Galkin, who was the next most competent man in the squad after Sergei.

He hurried over, holding his Kalashnikov at port arms. “Yes, boss,” he said.

They spoke in Russian, the Georgian not wanting Nome to be privy to the conversation.

“Separate all the men from the group. Take them to the building he will show you—” Rokva gestured toward the American “—and bring the equipment.” He called out to Boris Kazak. The heavyset, squat man lumbered forward, holding his medical bag to his chest like an old woman carrying food from a market. He paused on the pier, stared down at one of the dark puddles littering the surface, shook his head and then walked over to his boss.

“I do not like the look of this,” Kazak said. “There are traces of blood in that excrement.”

Rokva shrugged. “It seems to be just the men. The ones we got from the gulag. Aleksi is separating them from the rest for you.”

“I still do not like it.”

“You do not have to like it. Just do what you’re supposed to do.”

“I need to get someplace warm,” Kazak said, tucking his medical bag under one arm to find his cigarettes. “This cold is numbing my hands.”

“They will take you to warm house. Then you can get to work.”

Kazak placed a cigarette between his lips, pulled off his glove and fished in his pocket for a lighter. “How much time do I have?”

“We will take off in two hours.”

He recoiled. “Two hours? I am a doctor, not some idiot working in a butcher shop.”

“Work faster,” Rokva said. “Aleksi will have some of the men assist you.”

Kazak lit the cigarette and blew out smoke. “Very well. Let us get started, then.”

Rokva looked to the transport trucks and saw that the last of the male cargo was being loaded.

“Take the women and the children to the airstrip,” he ordered his men. “They can wait in the hangars. And have someone make sure the plane is fueled and ready to go. We will leave in two hours.”

“Da,” Galkin said. The big Russian then headed toward the trucks, his boots crunching on the crusty snow.

“Hey,” Nome said, “what were you guys talking about?”

The mafiya captain turned to the American. “You will show Boris to the building we are going to use for the cleanup. Those over there will suffice.”

“The fisheries?” Nome began to shake his head. “No way. I already told you—”

“We will also need to make use of some of your heavy equipment,” Rokva added. “A backhoe and a bulldozer.”

“I’m not doing anything until we get something settled first.” Nome poked his index finger against the other man’s chest. “This is gonna cost you double the usual.”

Rokva grabbed the extended finger and bent it backward, forcing Nome to his knees.

“I do not like to repeat myself,” he said, bringing more pressure to bear. “Do not ever use that tone with me. And never question my instructions again. Do you understand?”

Nome’s face contorted in pain as his head bobbed up and down.

Rokva maintained his grip for a few seconds more before releasing the man with a sudden push.

The American tumbled backward onto his backside, glaring upward with hatred in his eyes, but saying nothing.

Nikoloz unzipped his parka a bit more and pulled it open, displaying the 9 mm Tokarev pistol that he wore in a shoulder holster.

After a few more seconds of silence, Nome looked away and slowly got to his feet. “Okay, man,” he said. “I’m sorry, okay? No disrespect meant.”

Rokva nodded. He had already made the decision that this vermin had outlived his usefulness. Their route had obviously been compromised. It was time to take care of loose ends.

“But look...” Nome said, brushing the snow off the back of his pants. “I still got a right to know what’s going on, don’t I?”

The Georgian took out his cigarettes again, leisurely removing one from the pack and sticking it between his lips. As he raised his lighter, the stillness of the night was interrupted by a distinct crack.

A gunshot.

Sergei had apparently found the trooper.

“What the hell was that?” Nome asked.

“Nothing that is of concern to you,” Rokva said. He held the flame to the tip of his cigarette.

Nome Airport, Alaska

A myriad of tiny white flecks of snow crashed against the windshield as Bolan surveyed the lighted tarmac before them. The airport wasn’t very large and a one-story tan building in the center formed the main hub. Bolan assumed the row of hangars lay beyond that.

Once Grimaldi had taxied up as close as he could to the terminal, he shut the jet down and coasted to a stop as the ground crew came running forward to meet them. The Stony Man pilot yawned as he unbuckled himself.

Bolan unfastened his seatbelt, stood and stretched. Unable to adequately rest during the flight, he was feeling the unwelcome vestiges of fatigue and stiffness residing in his tight muscles. After sitting for over three and a half hours, it felt good to stretch a bit. He wondered if the lingering fatigue was a byproduct of the cramped conditions or the lack of sleep. Both he and Grimaldi had been on the go since early the morning of what was now the previous day, and he could use a cup of hot, strong coffee.

Grimaldi worked the lever to unlock the door and release the stairway so they could deplane. The cold air engulfed them as soon as the door was fully open.

“Jeez, I shoulda brought an extra pair of long johns.”

Bolan picked up the two backpacks that contained their weapons and tossed Grimaldi his.

As soon as he stepped out onto the platform, the blast of frigid air engulfed Bolan like a blanket of ice. It was a vivid reminder of how inadequate their clothing was for this climate and their need to restock before they could proceed any further on this mission. He hoped Kurtzman had taken care of that, but at the same time he assumed everything had been set in place. He had never let the Executioner down.

As they made their way across the tarmac, Bolan caught sight of a big man in a brown parka and dark stocking hat waiting at the entrance to a hangar. The bright colors of the Alaska state trooper patch decorated the man’s left shoulder. Also visible was a conspicuous bulge on the big man’s right hip—a weapon, no doubt. As he and Grimaldi drew closer, the trooper grinned, his white teeth flashing from under a bushy reddish mustache.

“I’m Lieutenant Dave Case,” he said, extending his hand. “Alaska State Troopers.”

Bolan shook Case’s hand. “Matt Cooper, Justice Department.” With his left hand, he held up the false DOJ credentials that he routinely used as a cover. Grimaldi showed his faux ID, as well.

Case barely glanced at them, instead staring into Bolan’s eyes.

“Welcome to Alaska,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting the guys who had enough clout to wake up my district supervisor in the middle of the night and then have him send me out as a welcoming committee.”

“From the size of you, big guy,” Grimaldi said with a chuckle, “committee’s an appropriate term.”

Case snorted. “Yeah, you know what they say. Everything’s bigger in Alaska.”

“I take it your supervisor mentioned that we’re on the trail of some human traffickers?” Bolan asked, steering things back to business.

“He did. We dispatched a man up to the Wales area to check things out.”

“One man? The guys we ran into in Seattle played pretty rough. Russian mafiya from the looks of it.”

Case’s face took on a serious expression. “That’s what I was told, but up in these parts we don’t have an unlimited number of personnel to send on any given call. We’re used to working alone.”

“Has your man gotten there yet?” Bolan asked.

“He radioed Dispatch that he’d arrived at the airstrip and was going to checking things out. But that was a while ago and we haven’t heard back from him.”

“Well,” Grimaldi said, jerking his thumb toward the now vacant Learjet, “as soon as that baby’s fueled up and ready to go, I’ll fly us up there.”

“I take it you haven’t been up here before,” Case said.

“We’ve been all over the world,” Grimaldi replied. “Although this place hasn’t exactly been on my bucket list. But an airport’s an airport in my book.”

“You could hardly call what’s up that way the kind of airport you’re used to. It’s a gravel strip about four thousand feet long that’s usually plowed, depending on the weather.” He gestured toward the jet. “I doubt you’d have enough room to land that thing on it without a tail-hook. Not to mention the gravel getting sucked up into the turbines.”

Grimaldi pursed his lips, said nothing.

“Lieutenant,” Bolan said, “we need to get up there ASAP. We’ve been tracking this group for several hours and your man might need backup.”

“I agree,” Case said. “But we don’t always have a ton of equipment at our disposal.” He pointed toward a blue-and-white helicopter. “That’s one of ours, and it’s ready to go, but we’re waiting on a pilot.”

Grimaldi cleared his throat loudly. “Well, you got one. I’ll go start my preflight check.”

“You can fly a copter?” Case asked.

“In my sleep, wearing a blindfold over one eye.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a different ballgame up here,” Case said. “With the weather conditions and the mountains and—”

“I know all about carb-heat, bud,” Grimaldi said. “Listen, if it’s got wings or rotors, I can fly it, and that includes anyplace on the planet. Now, excuse me.” He began walking toward the helicopter.

“He’s a cocky son of bitch, isn’t he?” Case said with grin. “Can he back it up?”

“He walks the walk,” Bolan said, feeling the effects of the brutal temperature starting to numb his body. “I believe you were supposed to get us some appropriate cold-weather gear, as well, weren’t you?”

“Oh, right.” Case stepped to the side and indicated that he should step into the hangar. “It’s a bit warmer in there.”

Case pointed to three large duffel bags, each stuffed with equipment. A black elliptical case, apparently containing snowshoes, was draped over each one.

“There are also survival rations in the copter.”

“I appreciate your efforts.”

“Nothing but the best for the DOJ,” Case said. “You brought your own weapons I take it?”

Bolan held up his backpack and nodded before heading into the relative warmth of the hangar. The pervasive cold still lingered like an unwelcome adversary. He went to a duffel bag and opened it. A heavy parka had been packed on top and Bolan pulled it out and slipped it on. The fit was pretty good.

“We’ll need some extra ammo, too,” he said to Case. “Nine millimeter, if you can spare it.”

“Not a problem,” the trooper replied. “What kind of guns you guys carrying?”

Bolan didn’t answer. He had no desire to explain why they were both equipped with two MP-5 submachine guns as well as their sidearms. Instead, he went to the other duffel, pulled out an identical parka and walked it over to Grimaldi.

“Here you go, Jack,” Bolan said, tossing his partner the parka.

Grimaldi caught it and slipped it on quickly. He rubbed his hands together and then covered his ears. “I need a stocking hat, too. Or maybe that balaclava.”

Bolan nodded and went to Grimaldi’s backpack, which was lying on the ground a few feet away. He unzipped the side panel and took out the black balaclava. It was made of a thin material that expelled perspiration but allowed the wearer to feel warmth in colder climates while maintaining comfort in unbearably hotter ones. He gave the mask to Grimaldi, who slipped it on and went back to his inspection of the chopper.

Bolan was digging in his own backpack when Case came up beside him.

“I didn’t know you DOJ agents did field investigations like this,” he said. “Aren’t you guys more into the white-collar stuff?”

Grimaldi paused with his inspection and pulled open the parka, gripping the dark collar of his BDU blouse with his thumb and forefinger. “Does that look white to you?”

Case said nothing.

“We’re more in the tactical investigative branch,” Bolan said.

Case looked from one to the other and nodded. “Okay. I get it.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.

Bolan wondered whom the man was calling, but didn’t ask. Case spoke loud enough for him to gather that the call was to the central dispatch regarding the trooper sent to the Wales area.

After a few moments, Case frowned and terminated the call. “My trooper still hasn’t checked in again from the scene,” he said. “How soon can you get that thing ready?”

“Give me about ten more minutes,” Grimaldi said.

Case nodded and went to a Jeep Cherokee with Alaska State Police markings. He opened the door and removed a duffel bag and an AR-15 that was sitting on top. He slid the rifle into a black leather sleeve attached to the side of the bag. Bolan was glad to see that the weapon had a thirty-round magazine.

In a few minutes they would be underway and hopefully on the trail of some answers.

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