Contagion Option Page 2

  The wounded guard gurgled, trying to gain his breath, but several inches of steel had pierced his lung, making speech difficult as the organ flooded with blood.

  Bolan’s captive enemy struggled to break his grasp, forgetting about his guns. Panic had overtaken the smuggler, and if he had his wits about him, he would have reached for any of his weapons, or even one of Bolan’s pistols, and ended his torment—and the Executioner’s intrusion—with a pull of the trigger. However, fingers like steel savagely crushed his windpipe and jugular, making the Vietnamese resort to primitively hammer against Bolan’s forearm. Given the big man’s musculature, it was akin to trying to punch through a thick oak tree branch.

  The Executioner pulled the Beretta and shot his captive’s partner through the forehead, finishing the man’s suffering before his lung completely filled with blood and he drowned. Then he pushed the suppressor between his adversary’s lips and grated in the man’s native language, “You make a sound, you die, even slower than your friend.”

  He eased the pressure on his captive’s throat, and the man nodded.

  “How many are in the hold?” Bolan asked, pulling the gun back so his hostage could speak.

  “We started out with one hundred, but four died already,” the guard said.

  Bolan pushed the Vietnamese’s head hard against the unyielding bulkhead. The result was that the pirate’s almond-shaped eyes crossed. “How did they die?”

  “Two were already sick…another cut her wrists…and the last one…Captain Tinopoulos beat her to death.”

  Bolan’s jaw locked as he put a stopper on his fury. He needed more answers. “How healthy are the rest?”

  “They’re still in good shape,” the sentry said. “But some are seasick. At least, they’re throwing up, and they have a fever. We had them belowdecks for two days before we set out.”

  Bolan knew it wasn’t seasickness. If these young victims were being sent to Korea, then that meant they were discards from the Thai sex slavery trade. Many of them were probably suffering from heroin or opium withdrawal. The Thai flesh peddlers often used drugs as a very short leash to keep their slaves under control. “Take me to them.”

  The guard nodded. “My name is Pham…”

  Bolan squeezed his throat more tightly. “I’m not interested.”

  Pham coughed and sputtered, “Sorry.” Finally, Bolan released the pressure.

  “Shut up,” Bolan said. “You’re not going to get any sympathy from me by telling me your name.”

  Pham’s lips pulled tight. “But—”

  “You joined in on raping these girls…”

  “They’re just pros—”

  Bolan’s fingers tightened and Pham’s eyes widened in horror as his feet left the deck. The pressure on his throat was enormous, not only from the crush of the Executioner’s grasp, but the weight of his own squirming body. Pham’s fingers dug into Bolan’s forearm, trying to pry it away to relieve the force of his own mass on his windpipe. “They never chose this life. Not that someone like you would care.”

  Bolan let go and Pham crashed to the floor. The guard reached for his weapons, but somewhere along the line, probably in one of those moments when the air was being squeezed out of him, the tall, grim avenger had disarmed him. He crawled on all fours when Bolan stepped on his ankle, pinning him between two hundred plus pounds of muscle and sinew and crushing steel grating. Pham grit his teeth to keep from crying out. Bolan’s hand laced into the Vietnamese’s hair and yanked him up to a kneeling position. “I can find the hold myself. I don’t need a tour guide.”

  Pham whimpered. “All right…all right…”

  Bolan let go and Pham crawled to his feet. He walked with a limp, but by now, his spirit had been broken. Pham had no will to escape.

  “Give me the knife and drag your dead friend into this cabin,” Bolan ordered.

  Pham obeyed without a hint of protest. He pried the blade out of the corpse and handed it, pommel first, to Bolan. The soldier put the blade back in its quick-draw forearm sheath.

  The Executioner wasn’t a cruel man, but he was practical. A display of just how much pain he could inflict was often enough to prevent an enemy from pushing his luck. It also had given the big warrior the opportunity to vent his rage somewhat.

  Bolan had encountered sex slavers before across his career, from Las Vegas to Bangkok, and all points in between. He’d begun his crusade when his teenage sister had been pressed into prostitution by an organized crime group, and the fallout had resulted in his family exploding from within. Those who profited from adults were already scum, but it took a special kind of evil to engage in selling and destroying the innocence of adolescents and children. Bolan still thought of Cindy as a kid, even though she was in her late teens when she’d been forced into “the life,” so this was one crime that the Executioner felt very close to. Though the world was too big for the Executioner to focus on any one brand of evil, he had been lucky enough to get a tip from an ally in Thailand about a large shipment of slaves being shipped to another nation. Bolan figured that he’d deal himself in for this hand. It wouldn’t take long out of his War Everlasting, and he didn’t have any urgent, upcoming missions right now.

  It was time the underworld learned once more that trading in human lives was a fatal mistake.

  Pham limped along, sufficiently cowed. Since Bolan had demonstrated facility at understanding two of the languages the young man spoke, he doubted Pham would try to warn his friends in another language. Instead, he went silent, sullenly walking what he expected to be his final mile. Bolan wouldn’t have any compunctions if the young smuggler stopped a bullet, but someone would have to live to spread the word to the underworld that an executioner still stalked those who traded in flesh. Every battle Bolan fought, even though it was a very secret war, left a footprint, spreading fear and terror among those who didn’t fear the law.

  “Play your cards right, Pham,” Bolan told him in Vietnamese. “I need a messenger to tell the world what happened here. You might just limp away with only a broken ankle.”

  After seeing what happened to his partner, Pham considered a broken ankle a small price to pay. As they reached the hold, Pham stopped and looked back at Bolan.

  “There are already guards on shift here,” Pham said. “We were just supposed to pick up a couple of girls.”

  Bolan nodded. He took Pham’s rifle, dropped its magazine and emptied the chamber. He flicked on its safety and stuck the magazine back in. “It’ll take you too long to cock and get this rifle ready to fire. Don’t even think about it.”

  Pham nodded. “I told you, because I don’t want to stop a bullet.”

  “Good idea.”

  Pham led the way into the hold where the guards were playing cards and smoking cigarettes. The smell of Turkish tobacco assaulted Bolan’s nostrils and he saw several more men of Western European heritage as well as a couple of Asians. Apparently, the Greek and Italian crewmen were sharing some of their vices with their Oriental counterparts. One Asian puffed on a Turkish cigarette, blowing smoke rings as the others laughed.

  Shielded by Pham and staying in the shadows, Bolan hadn’t been noticed yet as the Vietnamese smuggler limped along toward the group.

  “Hey, the captain wants us to bring up a couple of girls,” Pham called.

  “What happened to your foot, Pham?” the smoke-ring-blower asked.

  Pham shrugged. “Stupid. I slipped on a step coming down.”

  “And Coy?” the ringmaster asked.

  “Cap sent me,” Bolan answered in Italian.

  One of the Italians squinted through the shadows. “Who—”

  Bolan answered with a 9 mm bullet through the Italian’s forehead, his brains exploding out the back of his skull. The others were frozen in shock at the gory death of their compatriot.

  Pham swung his rifle around and smashed the smoke-ring-blower across the jaw with its butt, then tossed aside the relatively useless weapon, dropped to the deck and curled up
into a ball as Bolan cut loose, flicking the Beretta to burst mode. The Vietnamese sentry had bought the Executioner another heartbeat, and Bolan charged hard into the breech, tribursts of 9 mm slugs chopping into two of the Asian crewmen before they could grab their rifles. Corpses flopped to the floor, weapons clattering atop them when two swarthy Greeks lunged at Bolan.

  The Executioner got off a burst into the gut of one of the sailors before the other tackled him, hands clamped around Bolan’s forearm and the Beretta tumbled away. He snaked his foot behind the Greek’s ankles and pushed hard with his forearm, toppling the hapless smuggler to the floor. With a pivot, Bolan buried his heel into the downed smuggler’s solar plexus and pulled his forearm knife. The fallen Greek vomited blood as shattered ribs slashed through his lungs.

  A third man, an Italian, reached for the Beretta holstered on his hip, but being only a stride away, the Executioner speared him under the chin with the wicked forearm knife. Sharp steel tore through soft flesh, tongue and the roof of the goon’s mouth before coming to a halt in his brain. Dead on his feet, the gunman toppled backward. Bolan scooped the unused handgun out of the corpse’s insensate fingers and turned the pistol against a third Asian who rushed at him in a blur of speed.

  Before Bolan could pull the trigger, a hard kick rammed his forearm. The 9 mm slug speared into the chest of a fourth sailor who was still trying to make sense of the melee, despite the revolver that was clenched in his fist. Bolan whirled with the force of the kick and dropped to one knee. His other leg swept out like a broom and caught the Asian across the knees, hurling him to the floor. The Executioner brought up the Beretta with both hands and fired two bullets into the downed martial artist before he could recover, both slugs smashing through his belly and tearing up into his rib cage.

  The wounded man with the revolver coughed up blood and cut loose at the Executioner, but wounded and confused, his gunfire flew wildly. Pham yelled out and wrapped his arms around the sailor’s legs, throwing his balance off even more. Bolan snapped off three shots into the gunman’s head. The slugs crushed bone and burrowed into gray matter.

  The hold fell eerily silent.

  The Executioner retrieved his machine pistol and holstered it. He lowered the hammer on the handgun in his fist and walked over to the Vietnamese captive. He tapped his toe against Pham’s thigh.

  “You can let go. It’s over,” Bolan said.

  Pham looked up, eyes bloodshot, forehead damp with sweat. Hair was matted against his bronzed skin, and he took a deep breath.

  “Thanks for the assistance,” Bolan said, and helped Pham to his feet.

  “I don’t want to die,” the smuggler explained.

  Bolan looked at the pommel of his knife poking out the jaw of his third opponent, and considered the blade buried too deep to retrieve easily. He left it pinioned through the skull of the smuggler like some form of cannibalistic shish kebab. The man Pham had hit with the butt of his rifle hadn’t moved, and Bolan felt for a pulse. There was nothing, and the Asian’s neck rolled with nauseating ease on the floor at the slightest touch.

  “Broke his neck,” Bolan told him.

  Pham shrugged. “Eh. The bastard kept stealing my cigarettes.”

  Bolan shook his head. He looked at the containers and from the infrared scans of the ship, he knew which ones were occupied. He didn’t have an accurate map, but it was a good place to begin.

  Then he paused, looking into the darkness. The musky scent of livestock filled the air and he realized that half the containers that had registered heat were full of cattle.

  “Livestock?” Bolan asked.

  “Yeah,” Pham said, limping along. “I don’t get it, either. You’d think the Koreans would find an easier way to get hamburger meat.”

  Bolan frowned and looked at one of the livestock cars. An animal looked at him from within, large brown eyes blinking lazily in response. The soldier frowned. “These aren’t Thai livestock.”

  “I know,” Pham replied. “It’s weird. All kinds of cattle in Africa and the Middle East, even in Southeast Asia, and the Koreans want European or American stock.”

  Bolan looked at the limping smuggler. There was a long moment when Pham looked at the loaded revolver in a dead man’s fist, before stepping away. The Vietnamese smuggler had gotten the hint. One man against several, and he’d come out with only a few bruises, despite being disarmed at one point. If Pham had any fight left in him, he was reserving it for anyone who was going to screw up his survival, not the tall wraith who killed with bullets, blades and bare hands.

  “Come here, Pham,” Bolan said.

  The sentry limped over as Bolan pulled a plastic cable tie from his harness.

  “Turn around and hold your wrists behind you.”

  Pham nodded and Bolan pulled the cable tie firmly, but not painfully, around the Vietnamese man’s wrists. “You don’t want the girls to notice me?”

  “If there’s any fight in them, they’ll take it out on you,” Bolan said.

  “And I’m your messenger,” Pham replied.

  “Yeah.”

  Pham swallowed. “And you’re going to break my ankle.”

  “It’ll keep you out of the way,” Bolan replied. “Your dues for the pain you’ve caused.”

  Pham nodded. “Thanks.”

  Bolan leaned in close. “If we ever meet again, and you’re still on the wrong side, you won’t get a third chance.”

  With a stomp, Bolan snapped Pham’s ankle.

  The Vietnamese guard’s teeth ground against each other, but he reminded himself that he’d gotten off easy. He’d see the sun again. Coy and the others wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Park City, Utah

  Stan Reader looked up the tree-lined snow trail, cold air biting his cheeks. He took a deep breath, flexed his feet in his ski boots, then lurched forward, taking long loping strides to get up to speed.

  Reader cut a narrow path through the powdery snow, little rooster tails puffing up as he moved along. He bent back a pine branch and let it go, leaving a cloud of fine flakes in his wake. Reader then settled into his long, usual pace, ignoring the bounce of the stainless-steel Model 63 .22-caliber rifle against his back. The Taurus 63 was a relatively new rifle, and one he wouldn’t normally use in biathalon competition, but this was just a day for exploring new woods and plinking his rifle at impromptu targets, deftly keeping to the narrow trail between trees. Trunks rolled lazily at his slow, cross-country skiing pace, and Reader lost himself in the moment, his long lean legs and his ski poles swinging in a steady, repetitive motion. This was a one-man sport, and it allowed Reader to get some exercise while freeing his consciousness for other thoughts, such as complex physics formulas or mathematical equations. At various points, he would stop, unsling the rifle and take aim at a small target. On an official course, it would be a five-inch steel plate, and he’d have had to foster his endurance so that his breathing and heartbeat wouldn’t throw off his aim of the sensitive .22 target rifle.

  Off to his right, another figure lurched into view, keeping pace with him. It was Kirby Graham, his best friend from college and the military. The big, brawny FBI agent skied alongside Reader for about thirty yards before they spotted an outcropping.

  “Race ya, Stretch,” Graham said.

  Reader smirked and increased the pace, loping along, arms digging in with the poles to spread the effort of motion to all of his limbs. Graham was bigger, so he had a longer gait that could drive him faster, but Reader, despite being tall, was lean and gangly enough that his wind resistance was lower. Reader sliced ahead of Graham, then cut around the outcropping. There was a dropoff, and the biathlete slashed through the powder for thirty feet. Since gravity was doing its thing, Reader allowed his limbs to relax as he plummeted down the slope at full speed, only switching and altering his balance to keep from crashing into pine tree trunks in his path. Landing upright on crosscountry skis was a testament to his skill.

  Stan Reader was a polymath. By ag
e twenty-four, he’d earned degrees in four different sciences, was a pilot and had managed to be an alternate on the Olympic biathalon team. Reader had put his scientific knowledge to good use in the United States Navy, serving on a nuclear aircraft carrier as an engineer. During his military career, the brilliant young man had also become an expert marksman with both handguns and rifles, competing against Marines and Navy SEALs in both sponsored competition or just shooting for cases of beer.

  Graham, one of the Marines Reader had competed against, grumbled that Stan would never need to buy another alcoholic drink for the rest of his life, thanks to everyone who had lost to him. Graham had been an F-18 jockey, spending the early part of his career risking his life enforcing the Iraqi no-fly zone and splashing four MiGs before being signed on for the Navy Blue Angels. After that, Graham mustered out and joined the FBI as a special agent. But it wasn’t competition that had forged their friendship.

  Reader had been a sixteen-year-old geek in college, easy prey for bullies and frat boys. Graham had been a football player in danger of losing his scholarship. They were unlikely roommates, the skinny, nerdy Reader and the big, gruff Graham. But, Reader had helped focus Graham’s studies, putting him on the honor roll. And nobody wanted to give Reader any trouble with a brick wall like Graham as a guardian angel. It was Graham who’d introduced Reader to skiing in New York state, and to rifle shooting. The biathalon was a wonderful mix of the two sports Reader fell in love with. Long, quiet hours, in quiet serenity across snows, punctuated by a display of marksmanship for five shots, and then moving along. If only someone could combine this sport with Star Trek, Japanese monster movies and professional wrestling, he’d have been in absolute heaven.

  Graham had graduated with honors and repaid his college education in the United States Marine Corps. Reader, by contrast, had joined the military simply because he’d thought it would be a challenge. Both men had served on the same carrier, which cemented their friendship.

  Now, Special Agent Graham was on station for the FBI in Salt Lake City, and Reader had officially come to Park City to engage in the Nordic Games. Reader had a job to offer his friend, something that could challenge the brawny pilot and get them working together.