Cold Fury. Don Pendleton
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Название: Cold Fury
Автор: Don Pendleton
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Морские приключения
Серия: Gold Eagle Executioner
isbn: 9780008900632
isbn:
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.
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 СКАЧАТЬ