Cold Fury. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ