Blood Vendetta Read online

  She clamped them shut. The memory of another face came to her. Her face, but not her face. Though they’d been twins, Jessica’s features always had differed slightly, especially as they’d aged. Her cheekbones were sharper, her lips fuller. A smoother forehead, the slight upturn at the corners of her lips, reflected her more carefree attitude. Would Jessica have wanted this for her twin sister? Living as a fugitive, using false identities, separated from family and friends?

  Davis had entertained this question before, albeit briefly. Deep down, she knew the answer, hated it, ran from it. No, her sister wouldn’t have wanted this for her. Just like Davis knew she’d never wish her life on anyone else. The people she’d allied herself with through the years knew the risks, made their own decisions. But even so, she’d only let any of them become involved as much as necessary, shared only as much as they needed to know. The rest, she’d kept to herself or shared with Maxine Young or, to a lesser extent, Nigel Lawson.

  No, clearly, Jessica would never have wanted any of this for her twin sister, Davis had told herself more than once. She’d imagined them living a few blocks apart from one another in some suburb with perfect houses, husbands, kids and dogs. Hell, on the rare instance when Davis allowed herself to think about it, she admitted that she’d wanted that, too.

  Unconsciously, she drew her knees up toward her chest, looped her arms around them to hold them there. She looked around at the bland walls that surrounded her, the door with no knob, and realized just how trapped she really was. Pull it together, girl, she admonished herself. This may not be what you wanted, but it’s what you have. You can sit here, wait on them to probe your mind like a science experiment, probably inject you full of more drugs, torture you. Or you can do something.

  Sure, she told herself. But do what?

  Chapter 13

  “Cooper?”

  Bolan nodded. The CIA guy flashed Bolan a big toothy grin, swung open the door and gestured for him to enter. A brass nameplate on the door identified the office’s occupant as Charlie Parker, which Bolan knew was an alias.

  The Executioner entered the office while the man closed the door behind him. Bolan guessed the agent to be a few inches less than six feet. The top of his head was an exposed dome of shiny pink skin, blemished by an occasional freckle. The gray hair that remained on the sides and rear of his skull had been shorn close to the skin. His khaki pants were neatly pressed as was his blue-and-white striped dress shirt. His black wingtip shoes gleamed like the skin of his exposed scalp.

  The man extended a hand and Bolan took it.

  “Mauldin,” the other man said as they shook hands.

  “That your first or last name?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes,” Mauldin said. He gestured toward a pair of leather armchairs separated by a circular coffee table. “Have a seat.”

  Bolan took the hint, left the question at the door and lowered himself into the nearest chair.

  Movement to Bolan’s left registered in his peripheral vision. He turned and saw a large gray bird walking sideways across the carpet, bobbing its head.

  “It’s an African gray parrot,” Mauldin said. “Name’s Charlie Jr.—I bring him to work every day. Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  Grinning, Mauldin knelt down. He held out his hand, fingers extended, but pressed together. He held the hand sideways, the index finger jutting forward, the other three fingers curled. The bird bobbed its head once again, then raised a talon, clamped it around Mauldin’s index finger and did the same with his other talon.

  Mauldin returned to standing, eyes fixed on the bird.

  “C’mon, you big ’fraidy cat,” he said. He carried the bird to a large square cage that stood in the corner. He slipped it inside the cage, and it disembarked from his finger onto a wooden rod that ran across the length of the cage. Shutting the cage door, Mauldin turned toward Bolan.

  “He’s scared of you,” he said. “Nothing personal—he’s scared of everyone.”

  Bolan nodded.

  “You got the Beretta?” Mauldin asked.

  The soldier pulled aside the left edge of his black leather bomber jacket, exposed the Beretta 93-R he carried in a shoulder rig. It had been waiting for him in his hotel room when he’d arrived.

  “Stupendous,” Mauldin said. “You checked it, didn’t you? Doesn’t happen often, but occasionally housekeeping finds a package like that, it disappears. They sell it for a few rubles. Good for them, bad for me. Right? Once in a while, one of them actually has a conscience. They take it to the police...who turn around and sell it on the black market.”

  “Who can you trust?” Bolan asked rhetorically.

  “That’s all I’m saying,” Mauldin replied. He set a cup of coffee on the table in front of Bolan. “You take it black, right? You look like a guy who takes his coffee black.”

  The soldier picked up the cup and sipped. The coffee was good.

  Bolan swept his gaze over the room. In some ways, it was unremarkable. A large desk, the wood stained a deep amber color, stood a few feet from the back wall, which was lined with bookshelves. A couple of abstract paintings that reminded Bolan of dog vomit were posted on two of the walls. However, a large poster of Charlie Parker, the jazz musician, framed and behind glass, hung on another wall. There also were a half-dozen paintings of birds—a flock of geese, a bald eagle, etc.—moored to the walls.

  “Like the bird motif?” Mauldin asked. “Figure if I’m going to use Charlie Parker as an alias, I may as well take it all the way. So I am a jazz fan with the good fortune to be named for a jazz great. And I’m so caught up in it, I have to surround myself with birds, too.”

  He noticed there were no windows.

  “Place is locked down as tight as the proverbial drum,” Mauldin said, as though reading Bolan’s thoughts. “No windows. Secure doors, phones, computer systems. Completely soundproof. Three guys from the embassy come over and sweep the place twice a day for bugs. They use three because, maybe the Russians will turn one, possibly two, but never all three. You couldn’t be safer if you were in your mommy’s womb.”

  “Good to know,” Bolan said. “What did Langley tell you?”

  “I’m supposed to help,” Mauldin said. “Give you weapons, intel, the usual.”

  “They tell you why?”

  Mauldin shrugged. “They told me it involves Yezhov. I know him. He’s a prick. He’s torched more than one of my assets in his day. Bring me his head and I’ll use it for a doorstop.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Bolan said.

  “Do that. This other thing? About the Sindikat? Sorry, chief, but I think that is a bullshit sandwich. I’ve been here for a decade. We’ve got Russian mob. We’ve got crooked politicians. We’ve got Islamic terrorists. I don’t know anything about the Sindikat.”

  “Never heard rumors?”

  “Sure, I’ve heard rumors. I’ve heard rumors Joseph Stalin was an alien, sent to take over the world. I’ve heard rumors they keep Adolf Hitler’s brain alive in a jar somewhere, use mediums to talk to it. Never found an alien. Never talked to Hitler’s brain. I tend to deal in facts.”

  Nodding, Bolan leaned forward and set his mug on the table.

  “The Sindikat exists,” the warrior said. “Trust me on that.”

  “Fair enough,” Mauldin said. “I’m not saying it doesn’t. But I have no real information telling me it does. Believe what you want. If you’re out to prove they exist, I have no intelligence that can help. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Understood,” Bolan said.

  “Good. What I can do is point you to some people who do know. Unfortunately, they won’t be happy to see you. They’ll likely put up a hell of a fight. Nothing a strapping young man such as yourself can’t handle. And I can provide you with more weapons.�
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  Mauldin drew a quick sip from his mug, set it down and gave a satisfied sigh. He held up his right hand, index finger extended skyward. “That reminds me,” he said. “I have something for you.”

  He rose from his chair, made a beeline for his desk and walked around behind it. Bolan watched as he opened a drawer. Even though he thought he knew what the guy was doing, the soldier immediately tensed and, without thinking, looked harder at the agent. The Executioner moved in a world of shadows populated by betrayal. He had no reason to distrust Mauldin, but no reason to trust him, either. He was neutral on whether this man was neutral.

  The CIA man drew out a rectangular box that, from a distance, looked as though it was made of black plastic or some composite material. With his other hand, he drew out a cloth sack, the fabric pulled taut by the weight of its contents. He returned and handed the box to Bolan, who took it. The soldier set it on his lap, unsnapped the latches and popped the top open. A .44-caliber Desert Eagle was inside the case.

  “Nice gun,” Mauldin said. He’d returned to his seat, legs crossed, and he was torching the tip of a cigar with the flame from a stainless-steel lighter. “Hope you don’t mind. I took it out, fired a box of shells through it. The guy I buy weapons from, he always gives me Grade A stuff. I trust him. It doesn’t hurt to trust, but always verify.”

  He nodded toward the cloth bag that lay at Bolan’s feet. “Extra clips and a holster.”

  Bolan nodded his thanks. He fed a magazine into the butt of the Desert Eagle, chambered a round and set the safety. Reaching inside the bag, he drew out the holster, clipped it onto his belt at the small of his back.

  “I’ll need more guns. And other things, too.”

  “Give me a list,” the man said, dragging from his cigar.

  “Right.” Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle. He settled back into the chair with his coffee.

  “Langley told me almost nothing. But they said these pukes have a hostage.”

  Bolan nodded. “Yes, a woman.”

  “This a personal thing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She a girlfriend, a fiancée? A wife? You don’t have a wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean anything. Not necessarily. I know married guys who don’t wear wedding rings. Some don’t want to call attention to it, don’t want to put their families at risk. Others are just tomcats. She a side dish to your heaping helping of married life?”

  “You talk a lot,” Bolan responded.

  “My style.”

  “Engaging.”

  “Look, you seem really intense. Maybe you’re always that way. You don’t strike me as a funny-nose-and-glasses guy. I get it. Just thought you might have some kind of personal stake in it.”

  Bolan nodded.

  “I do. I told her she’d be safe with me. She wasn’t. That’s unacceptable,” Bolan said.

  “A damsel in distress.”

  The soldier shook his head. “She’s not helpless. But she needs help. Besides, I made a promise.”

  “There’s also the national security thing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s a secondary consideration,” Mauldin said, posing it more as a statement than a question.

  Bolan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was used to asking questions, not fielding them. Still, he thought about what Mauldin was asking.

  “Try coequal considerations,” he said after several seconds. “I swore to protect my country. Letting something happen to it would be unacceptable. Letting something happen to her would be unacceptable. And, in this case, it would put the country at risk, too.”

  “Fair enough,” Mauldin said. “Okay, after Langley called, I cast out my lines. Let’s reel a couple in and see what we find.”

  * * *

  THE FIRST FEW CALLS had yielded nothing. Bolan was now drinking his second cup of coffee while Mauldin worked the phones. The soldier began to feel restless. In sniper or surveillance scenarios, he could sit for hours, moving only as much as necessary. He could forgo sleep, food and water for hours. Sitting still didn’t bother him, but sitting still while someone else took action did.

  Mauldin killed the connection on his phone, slammed it down on the desktop.

  “Damn!” the CIA man muttered.

  “Nothing?” Bolan asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You sure talked a lot for nothing. You were on the horn, what, thirty minutes?”

  Mauldin leaned back in his swivel chair, pressed his palms against his eyes and let out a frustrated groan. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  Suddenly, he pulled his hands away from his eyes, a grin playing on his lips. “Got it,” he said.

  Mauldin picked up the phone, punched in a series of numbers, pressed it against his ear and listened to it ring. He glanced at Bolan and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Freelance pilot. One of Moscow’s best.”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Alexi? It’s Charlie Parker. Yeah, the bird guy,” Mauldin said, using his alias. “Life good? Good. My life? Shit sandwich without the bread, my friend.” Mauldin, laughing heartily at his own joke, leaned forward and retrieved a fresh cigar from a hand-carved box sitting on his desk. The CIA agent, the phone squeezed between his ear and his shoulder, slipped the cigar’s tip into a single-bladed guillotine and trimmed it. He lit the cigar with his stainless-steel lighter, but continued talking.

  “Yeah, I said Yezhov,” Mauldin snapped. “What are you deaf? So, you doing any work for him? What’s that? You don’t know him? Two minutes ago, you knew him. What the hell changed in the last one hundred and twenty seconds? You get amnesia?”

  Mauldin fell silent and Bolan could hear the man on the other end of the line speaking rapidly.

  “Oh, I see. You don’t want to piss him off. Look, I won’t tell him where I heard any of this.” More rapid speaking on the other end of the line. “You feel uncomfortable telling me this? Really? Okay, listen, Alexi, I didn’t want to play this card, but you leave me no choice. Let’s talk about the pictures. Hey, don’t scream at me. You’re the one who got drunk and hooked up with a prostitute. That’s on you. I just happened to get pictures of the whole thing. You’re not exactly a prize to look at.”

  With his free hand, Mauldin pulled the cigar from his mouth and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. He let Alexi rant for a couple of minutes before he cut him off.

  “You feel better? No? Tough. I’m not your damn therapist. Hey, tell me something, anything, about Yezhov. I’ll go the hell away. Promise. My word is my bond.”

  Mauldin held up his left hand so Bolan could see the first two fingers were crossed.

  Mauldin said, “Okay, now you’re talking, Alexi.” He pulled the cigar from his mouth and set it, smoke curling up from the tip, in a clear-glass ashtray. Picking up a disposable blue ballpoint pen, he scrawled some notes on a small memo pad. After a few minutes of talking, he thanked Alexi for the information, said goodbye and hung up the phone.

  “What did he say?” Bolan said.

  Mauldin retrieved the cigar from the ashtray, dragged on it for a couple of seconds and returned it to the ashtray.

  “My source said some of Yezhov’s people were sniffing around for people to make last-minute flights for him.”

  “I thought Yezhov had plenty of planes.”

  “Apparently not,” Mauldin said, shrugging.

  “Maybe. What was the destination?”

  “Alexi didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know or didn’t want to say?”

  Mauldin smirked. “Listen, if you’d ever met Alexi’s wife, you wouldn’t ask. Seriously, she’s small, but she’s got an acid tongue that could burn through battleship steel. Even worse, she has three brothers each bigger and crazier than the last. If she saw the photos I have, Alexi would be begging to live in
a gulag, I kid you not.”

  The CIA man paused. He leaned forward and, forearms resting on the desktop, interlaced his fingers. Bolan noticed the guy was staring right at his face, scrutinizing him for some clue about what the Executioner was thinking.

  “You don’t believe me,” Mauldin said.

  “I believe you believe what you’re saying,” Bolan replied. “But that doesn’t make it true.”

  “Look, I know I act like a buffoon,” Mauldin said, his voice lowering in volume and slowing in tempo. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve been running operations in Moscow for years. Before that, I ran them in Beirut and Riyadh. I could tell you chapter and verse everything happening in the Saudi ruling family. Who was getting a little ass on the side. Who lost his monthly stipend gambling in Las Vegas. Who had an addiction to internet porn. I know when an asset’s shining me. I know when the other team’s using a dangle operation to throw me off track. Alexi’s not doing that.”

  “You believe that?”

  Mauldin nodded. “Bet your ass I do. He’s not an honorable guy. He’s not a nice guy. But he is someone focused on self-preservation. If I drop those pictures in the mail, he’ll end up floating facedown somewhere. His brothers-in-law are small-time hoods, but they’re connected enough that they could kill Alexi and never have the police say ‘boo’ about it. Of that, I am certain.”

  “Okay, assuming Yezhov needed pilots and planes, what did he need them for?”

  “Supply run,” Mauldin replied. “Ferry food, vehicles and gear. Yeah, that kind of gear. Alexi told me the guy who approached him about it mentioned that they’d be carrying guns and ammunition.”

  “And take it where?”

  Mauldin shrugged. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Unfortunately, Alexi doesn’t know. They had a special protocol for it. You agree to do it, they tell you the destination, not the other way around.”