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  Six snowmobiles skidded to a halt about forty yards away. The lead man held up his arm, said something inaudible, and aimed a finger toward the plane. They all brought up AK-47 rifles and pointed them in the plane’s direction, but they didn’t advance.

  Bolan waited, hoping that Kournikova’s group would have the restraint not to open fire prematurely.

  Let them get a bit closer, Bolan thought.

  The whining motors of more approaching snowmobiles became audible.

  The second wave was arriving, and Bolan knew it was better to see how many there were before engaging.

  Six more snowmobiles pulled up, interspersing themselves within the first group. One of the vehicles seemed to contain two men. Bolan realized it was just one man, but he was a giant. The AK-47 looked like a toy in his huge hands.

  A stocky-looking man with a bushy mustache and fur hat wound his snowmobile through the cluster of vehicles. He stopped and conferred with the man in front. After a brief conversation, the man in the fur hat turned and motioned for two of the others to move forward.

  This guy was obviously the leader.

  The two men drove with caution toward the plane, which had settled at an odd angle.

  Bolan watched as the leader reached into the pocket of his heavy jacket and removed a metal flask. He unscrewed the cap and took a few swallows. The Executioner doubted it contained soda pop. Obviously, these guys weren’t elite soldiers.

  The two men stopped their snowmobiles by the plane and moved toward it. They had no snowshoes, so the trek was cumbersome as they labored to wade through the snow. One of them apparently noticed the tracks leading away from the plane and shouted something.

  They began rapidly moving back toward their snowmobiles, yelling and pointing in the direction indicated by the trail.

  Three of the other snowmobilers revved up their motors and took off toward the tree line, joining the first two at the plane. They stopped midway, shouldered their rifles and began laying down an undisciplined barrage of fire into the wooded area.

  Bolan watched the scene, hoping that Kournikova’s group would not return fire and give away their position too soon.

  His hopes were quickly dashed as a flash of automatic fire burst from the tree line. Snowmobilers in front stopped their advance and took cover behind their machines.

  Three snowmobiles from the main group sped quickly down the roadway toward the plane. They were apparently going to try a pincher movement, advancing from two sides.

  The sound of more gunfire tore through the stillness of the morning air.

  Bolan figured it was time to move. He also knew that in a chaotic situation like this, careful and controlled fire would be more effective as opposed to the radical automatic spraying of his adversaries. After moving up a few more feet, he sighted in on the man in the fur hat with the flask. The leader. He was watching the ongoing firefight with an amused look on his face. As he brought the flask up again, Bolan sighted in just below the hat and squeezed the trigger of his weapon.

  The flask tumbled from slack fingers and the man fell forward, still halfway mounted on his snowmobile.

  Bolan shot the giant next. The big man, attempting to rise, grabbed the side of his barrel-like chest and fell over. The Executioner quickly sighted in on the remaining two, who had begun firing wildly in his direction, and dispatched them with a succession of two quick shots.

  Four down and eight to go, Bolan thought. He rolled a few feet on the padding of needles to change positions and sighted the weapon once more.

  Two of the advanced assault force were apparently down for the count. They lay at awkward angles next to their vehicles.

  Six more enemy guns, Bolan thought.

  He sighted in on the closest one and took him out.

  Five more.

  The assailant in the next snowmobile turned and saw that his cohort was down. He glanced around and began yelling wildly. The others mounted their vehicles and began to pull away. They fired their assault rifles as they went, bearing down on Bolan’s position. The incoming fire was so blistering and nonstop that the Executioner had to hunker down as low as he could. Needles flipped up as the rounds danced next to his body then stitched the thick tree trunk to his left. The snowmobiles stopped several yards away, in a row. Bolan managed to roll to the other side of the big pine tree and switched to full-auto before returning fire in the hope that it would stop their advance.

  His rounds glanced off one of the snowmobiles. Another assailant bent forward and tumbled into the snow. The others, however, seemed unaffected. They sent another volley toward Bolan’s coniferous niche and this time the rounds came within inches of his head. He ducked and rolled onto his back, using the base of the tree to shield himself. His first instinct was to get up and move to a new position, but suddenly his legs felt incredibly weak.

  Had he been hit?

  No, he felt no pain similar to a wound. It was rather a general weakness, accompanied by the unceasing cold. His entire body was getting numb and the areas where he’d perspired through his undergarments felt like blocks of ice against his skin.

  The barrage continued and suddenly the method to their attack became clear. They had pinpointed his position and were advancing with cover fire to take him out. It was the standard counter ambush tactic. Bolan knew he had little chance of surviving as the rounds continued to pepper the earth on both sides of the tree trunk.

  More rounds sounded, single shots interspersed with the automatic fire. Then the firing ceased momentarily before resuming. But no bullets seemed to be coming in his direction.

  Kournikova’s group had apparently broken cover to draw the fire away from him, and Bolan wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. He took a quick peek, sighted in on one of the assailants and fired a quick burst.

  The man shook as the rounds zipped across his chest, then fell.

  Bolan rose to his feet and darted to the right, acquiring target acquisition on another assailant and flipping the selection lever back to single shot.

  He fired again.

  Another enemy gunner went down.

  The remaining hardmen whirled toward him. Bolan fired two rounds, taking out his foes, and then all noise ceased.

  Several seconds of stillness hung in the air, which was laden with the heavy scent of burnt gunpowder. Bolan glanced to his left and saw Dimitri and Markov advancing on the downed enemy, their rifles pointed at the unmoving men.

  Bolan executed a combat reload and advanced toward the group closest to him, checking to see if they were all dead before tossing their weapons aside.

  He found none still breathing and moved to the original group. The leader, the man in the fur hat, lay off to the side of his snowmobile, which idled quietly. The flask rested atop a pile of snow, the cap still dislodged. After removing the rifles of the other men, Bolan went to the giant who lay a few feet away.

  As he pulled the rifle from the outstretched arm, a huge hand lashed out and grabbed Bolan’s snowshoe, sending him sprawling. He broke the fall with his arms, which sank elbow-deep into the snow. Twisting as he tried to regain his footing, he saw the big Russian rise, his massive fingers twisting the snowshoe on Bolan’s right foot, causing the wood to splinter and crack.

  The big guy had been playing possum, Bolan realized as the pain shot up his leg.

  He tried to bring the MP-5 around, but the giant moved with an almost preternatural quickness, his other hand closing around the barrel of the weapon, pushing it away from his huge body. Bolan went with the flow, allowing the inertia to help him regain a modicum of footing, but the giant whirled his substantial body weight, as well, sending the Executioner to the ground once more.

  Bolan managed to hold on to his weapon as the big Russian released his grip on Bolan’s snowshoe and delivered a powerful punch to his right shoulder. The force of the blow knocked Bolan downwar
d and he felt himself buried face-first in the snow. His shoulder felt deadened and on fire at the same time. A huge weight bore down on top of him, pressing him farther into the numbing coldness, cutting off his air.

  Struggling to breathe, Bolan felt the force of two powerful punches crash into his back. Black dots briefly swarmed in front of his eyes then vanished. His hands still held the MP-5. Twisting as much as he could, he brought the weapon up under his left arm, hoped it would be aimed at the proper angle, and squeezed the trigger. A 3-round burst fired before the gun jammed, but it was enough to stop the enormous pressure against him.

  Surging upward, Bolan turned and tried to clear the weapon malfunction, but the giant was upon him again, raining a powerful blow onto Bolan’s left collarbone. Bolan released the weapon and delivered a quick series of body blows to his huge assailant’s midsection. It was like hitting a bag of cement and seemed to have no effect. The giant’s arms worked in windmill fashion, sending crashing blow after crashing blow downward. Bolan’s fist went lower, catching the big man’s groin. He emitted something resembling a growl and then the two massive hands encircled Bolan’s neck.

  The pressure was tremendous and immediate. Again, black dots swam in front of the Executioner’s eyes. The giant’s arms extended, putting Bolan’s fists out of range. A feral grin twisted back the big man’s lips, displaying a row of crooked teeth coated with blood.

  Bolan couldn’t reach him, nor could he gain purchase to bring one of his legs up to kick. He tensed his neck muscles and used a move from his army combat training. Extending his right arm straight up, he brought the stiffened arm down across the giant’s wrists, breaking the stranglehold. He pushed the huge man’s left shoulder, spinning him slightly, while at the same time lunging up on the big man’s back.

  Bolan tried to encircle the giant’s neck with his left arm, but the big man lowered his chin to his chest. Grabbing for the giant’s hair, he pulled, causing the huge head to momentarily tilt back before going forward again. Bolan’s right hand moved downward, grabbing the large, flaring nose and twisting it.

  As the massive head nudged upward, the Executioner was able to slip his left forearm under the prodigious jaw. He then grabbed his right arm with his left hand and squeezed with all of his strength. The giant reared, trying to shake him off or twist him away, but Bolan managed to hook his right foot, the one with the broken snowshoe, onto the pillar of a right leg. He jammed the broken end of the snowshoe into the giant’s thigh and continued to exert all the pressure he could on the large neck.

  Seconds seemed like minutes, until finally the giant’s breathing became rasping grunts, his movements slowing and his probing hands falling to his sides.

  Bolan continued to squeeze.

  Two more crackling gasps and the giant toppled forward.

  Bolan fell on top of him, still maintaining his grasp until he was certain the behemoth had stopped breathing. He then released the man and tried to regain his footing. His head was spinning and, as he tried to move away, he fell into a snowdrift. His arms and legs felt leaden as he struggled to move.

  Movement flashed in his peripheral vision and he saw the giant stirring. Bolan struggled to get to his feet, but his arms and legs felt like two-ton appendages. The giant’s face twisted into an ominous rage as he managed to stand upright before Bolan could fully rise.

  As the massive man-mountain lumbered forward, a crack sounded and a red fountain burst from the gigantic head. The dark eyes crossed and the Russian crumpled. Bolan managed to turn and see Kournikova standing about forty yards away holding a rifle, a wisp of grayish smoke trailing upward from the barrel.

  He tried to wave thanks, but found himself falling into the snow again. The back dots returned to cloud his vision and this time they achieved a total and lasting eclipse.

  Chapter Seven

  Inuit Village

  The Alaskan Interior

  Consciousness returned to Bolan gradually, in small bits and pieces, and he wasn’t sure if it was real or a dream. Warmth and softness embraced him like a pair of arms, accompanied by a pale, glowing light. The textures felt good against his skin, then it all faded away as quickly as it had appeared and he felt himself drifting again. He was floating on air... No, not on air. In water. Warm water. A luscious pond. The air smelled strange. A smokiness laced with something else that he couldn’t quite determine. A fragrance. Familiar, yet strange.

  Then he was lost again in that nebulous state.

  Burning.

  Floating.

  Cooling.

  His breathing quickened. He felt pressure, then release, like he had fallen off a cliff.

  After a time, consciousness returned and he became cognizant that another body lay intertwined with his... It was Nikita Kournikova. And she was naked. So was he. They both lay under heavy layers of animal skins in some kind of large hut with walls made of mud and tree branches and woven tarps. The bright coals of a fire glowed under a chimney of sorts about six feet away, adjacent to a large, trimmed tree trunk in the center of the hut that acted as a support beam for the angled sections of roofing. Four oil-burning lamps flickered in the semidarkness, providing fairly good illumination.

  “So, l’vionak, you are awake. How do you feel?”

  He looked at her face, which was inches from his.

  “What is this? Where are we?”

  She put a finger over his lips. “We are in an Inuit village,” she said. “They call you the man-wolf. A great warrior.”

  “How did this happen?” he asked.

  “They were watching our battle. They brought us here afterward.”

  “Why?”

  Kournikova smiled. “You and Jack had very serious reactions to the inoculations. You collapsed and were burning up with fever. After the Inuit brought us here, we tried bathing you both in cooling water. Then your temperatures began dropping. You became so cold, we thought you were going to die. It became necessary to keep you warm by providing the warmth of another next to you.”

  Bolan felt the softness of her breasts pressing against him.

  “Which you did.”

  “Yes. It was the only way to save you.” She traced her finger over his face and down his chest. “Apparently, it was successful. How do you feel?”

  “Better. What about Jack?”

  “He is all right and in another hut, a little more sick than you. But of course, you had that long period where you were running around without your parka in the frigid weather. It no doubt made things worse. Much worse.”

  Bolan looked down at the substantial coverings on top of them.

  “Did he get this same treatment?”

  “He did,” she said then laughed. “But not from me. I had one of the Inuit women, an old grandmother, stay with him.”

  She slowly separated herself from his body, pulled back the coverings and got to her feet. Bolan marveled at the beauty of her nakedness. She made no attempt to cover herself. He did not avert his eyes as she picked up her garments and began dressing without the slightest trace of modesty.

  “How long have I been out?” he asked.

  “About six hours,” she said, fastening her bra and then pulling on a thermal under shirt.

  “That gave our buddy Rokva a bit of a head start.”

  She nodded and picked up a pair of long johns. He watched as she placed her foot into the leg of the garment and slid it up over her thigh. The whiteness of her skin looked almost opalescent in the flickering light.

  “Dimitri and Markov went back to the logging camp to retrieve some fuel,” she said, slipping on a pair of wool socks that were hanging on a stick next to the fire. “We should be ready to take off in the plane, once we figure out where it is we have to go.”

  “I’ll check with my base,” Bolan said. “Maybe Rokva used his phone again.”

  Kournikova folded the und
erwear, doubling it over around her waist, and then picked up her cargo pants. “Your clothes are over there,” she said. “Next to the fire, so they could dry out. You phone is with them. I shut it off to conserve the battery. Hurry up. There is no time to lose.”

  Fort Mason

  Southeastern Alaska

  Nikoloz Rokva watched and waited while Boris Kazak continued to vomit the bloody contents from his stomach into the bucket. The walls of the old latrine area were filthy and stained with the crust of disuse and abandonment. The toilets had long since ceased functioning, but somehow a metal bucket had been left behind and Kazak was putting it to good use.

  The military compound, once called Fort Mason, had been closed down over thirty-five years before. It had gradually slipped into that realm of the forgotten after the core to the nuclear reactor had been removed and transferred to another site. And so it now stood now dilapidated repose, the perfect location for the penultimate stop on their trafficking route.

  The six men that Rokva had stationed here had maintained the important sections, the airstrip, the administration building and the generators well enough in his absence. It made this stopover almost a pleasant one, compared to the primitiveness of the old logging camp.

  Kazak bowed his head and vomited again, adding more bloody sputum to the collection already partially filling the bucket. He looked up at his boss with a pitiful expression, the corners of his mouth twisting downward in deliberate fashion.

  “I must get to a hospital,” he said. “I am certain that this is a symptom of something very serious.”

  Rokva felt a surge of mirth at that last statement. One did not need to be a disgraced physician to make such an obvious pronouncement. But he kept his expression neutral. He removed his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “You merely need a bit more rest. Both Sergei and I were sick and then recovered. You will do the same.”