Cold Fury Read online

  “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, reminding himself that the burden of command weighed heavily on one, even though he’d spent his army time as an analyst in military intelligence rather than as a field officer.

  The phone in his cabin rang and he picked it up.

  It was Fedor Udom. “Some of these assholes are getting sick. The men mostly. They are puking and shitting all over the place.”

  “Has Boris finished taking the samples?”

  “Hours ago.”

  “Good. Just keep them all confined, then. We are almost there.”

  He terminated the call, replaced his glasses and took out one of his long cigarettes, mashing the hollowed-out end to form a filter. The briny smell of the sea was omnipresent. Perhaps the earthy resonance of human excretions would be welcome in the hold.

  The ship pitched and bounced a bit as the waters were getting rougher, and he wondered how close they were to shore. He pulled the phone from the cradle and pressed the button to speak to the captain.

  “How long before we arrive?” Rokva asked, holding his lighter to the cigarette.

  “Very soon. Why?”

  “Some of the cargo is getting sick.”

  The captain’s laugh was a harsh bark. “No sea legs, eh? They should count their blessings we are not on an extended voyage. I could tell you stories of some of the rough crossings.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you could. Just advise me when we’re getting close.”

  “I will,” the captain said. “But know this. We’re going to leave as soon as we drop you there. There’s a storm coming and we must get back across.”

  Not bothering to reply, Rokva hung up, stood and then stretched. He hated sea travel, although the relatively short jaunt across the Bering Strait between Russia and the Alaskan coast was not that stressful. And the rewards were certainly great. He leaned against the narrow bunk and settled his stockinged feet into his boots. He glanced at the phone. Yuri had still not responded and Rokva pondered the wisdom of sending another text.

  No, he thought. If the son of a bitch hadn’t answered by now, something had to be wrong. If that were the case, it would necessitate altering the plan. This did not bother him. He always had another plan formulating in his mind. It was what made him a master of the game, be it chess or his criminal endeavors.

  One always had to be thinking a few moves ahead.

  He blew out a cloud of smoke as he strode to the door of his cabin and pulled it open. He found the small space disgusting because it reminded him too much of his meager upbringing in Moscow. His father had moved the family from western Georgia to the large city in search of work. But instead of the “prosperity for all” the Communists had promised, they’d found only more poverty masked by an inadequate state-sponsored stipend and no motivation to do better. Rokva had found himself always cold and hungry and roaming the streets. Soon he’d realized it was far easier to merely take what he wanted. A loaf of bread, a container of borscht, a piece of fruit. And that was how he’d met Sergei.

  He’d been crouching in the shadows of the alley, devouring an apple, when a large shadow fell over him: the man from the market where Rokva had stolen the fruit. The man was large and his face was twisted with an angry scowl.

  “You little Georgian thief, stealing from me. I will shove those glasses up your ass.” He raised his arm and was about to deliver a strike that Rokva knew would surely cripple him.

  But the blow did not come. Instead, another boy appeared, perhaps a year or so older than him, and much bigger and stronger. The boy swung a thick cudgel into the merchant’s left knee. The man howled in pain and started to turn when the boy brought the heavy stick down on the back of the merchant’s neck. He emitted a low grunt and then fell, keening, onto the ground. Rokva stood transfixed as the other boy brought the stick down again and again until the merchant’s groans ceased and he lay unconscious, a copious amount of blood seeping from the many cuts on his head and face.

  The other boy smiled.

  “That old bastard gave me a beating yesterday,” he said, holding up the thick wooden cudgel. “So today I brought this.”

  “Is he dead?”

  The other boy toed the man’s face with his well-worn shoe, causing the merchant to moan.

  “Not yet.” He kicked the merchant’s face.

  Rokva grinned. “You’re strong. Where did you learn to fight liked that.”

  “My father. He was in the army. In Afghanistan. He was Spetsnaz. Soon I will join, too.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I am Sergei Dankovich. And you?”

  “Nikoloz Rokva.” He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.

  Sergei’s eyes narrowed. “You are Georgian?”

  Rokva nodded. “We came from Kutaisi.”

  The other youth smirked. “No matter. I need someone to play with.”

  “Come on,” Rokva said. “Let’s go get some more of the old bastard’s fruit.”

  And so it began. Their lasting, special friendship was formed... Brothers... But much more than that, enduring even after Sergei and he left for the army, and years later, when Rokva became a low-ranking associate for the mafiya, eventually rising to the position of captain just as a disillusioned Sergei returned from the fighting in Chechnya. Sensing his friend’s weariness and disenchantment with the military, Rokva quickly recruited him to be his soldier. And now they were both getting rich. If this current plan materialized the way he had envisioned, they would soon be a lot richer. He thought about telling Sergei of the special treat that he had for him, the American cigarettes that he enjoyed so much, but decided to wait for the right moment.

  He came to Sergei’s cabin and knocked on the door.

  “What?” The voic
e was mixed with exertion.

  “It’s me,” Rokva said. “We have a problem.”

  “Shit. Wait a minute.”

  He could hear a murmuring sound through the door, then a series of harsh grunts, followed by a truncated scream. Then the door was flung open and the naked figure of Sergei stood there, his powerful body covered with a sheen of perspiration despite the cold temperature. Beyond him, in the narrow bed, Rokva could see a nude, moaning woman. He recognized her as one of the prettier ones they’d taken onboard. She lay on her back, making no effort to cover herself, her breathing coming in fits and gasps.

  Sergei strode toward a dresser, grabbed a bottle of vodka from the top and took a swig. He returned to the doorway and offered the bottle to Rokva, who shook his head. He preferred to keep his mind clear when business was at hand.

  Sergei shrugged, took another swig and then said, “What problem?”

  “Yuri did not return my text.”

  Sergei inhaled deeply, pondering this. “What is next then?”

  “We should be docking soon. Let me see if everything is ready there.” He took out his satellite phone and this time dialed Greagor Lebed’s number.

  After several rings, he finally answered.

  “Why did it take you so long to answer the damn phone?” Rokva demanded.

  “I am busy. You think I was out admiring the moon?”

  Lebed’s insolence sent a spurt of anger through him. “Don’t be a smart-ass. Is everything ready?”

  “As ready as it can be. One of the planes has mechanical problems. It is down.”

  Rokva felt his anger heighten. “Why was I not advised of this sooner?”

  “Listen, you try dealing with these damn Eskimos. They are difficult.” Lebed’s voice sounded weary yet tinctured with a slur. The son of a bitch must have been imbibing again. Rokva decided Sergei could deal with the drunken bastard when they arrived.

  “Charter another plane,” he ordered.

  “What?”

  “Another DHC-6. Make sure it can hold at least twenty-five.”

  Lebed snorted. “Oh, all right. Anything else you’d like me to do?”

  “Is Wladimir with you?”

  “Of course.”

  More insolence. This flippant asshole was going to pay for his effrontery.

  “May I assume the third plane is ready for him?” Rokva asked.

  He heard Lebed heave a heavy breath before answering. “Yes.”

  “Good. I want him to be ready to leave with the samples as soon as we arrive.”

  “Anything else? Boss.”

  The impudent lilt in Lebed’s voice as he added the last word sealed his fate. Rokva waited a few beats before responding to be certain he had eliminated any trace of the building rage in his reply. “We will be there soon. Keep me apprised of the situation.” He then terminated the call and looked back at Sergei, who was smirking.

  “Drunk?” he asked.

  Rokva nodded.

  “I told you before, did I not?” Sergei held up the bottle of vodka. “Some men can handle the juice, others let it handle them.”

  “We will deal with that idiot later. Find Boris Kazak and make sure he has everything properly labeled and categorized. And tell him to get ready to split up the shipment for a partial harvest. We’ll need to alter our plan.”

  “That is my Nikoloz,” Sergei said. “Always planning ahead.”

  “Life is like a game of chess. A true master must always be thinking several moves ahead of what is before him on the board.”

  Seattle, Washington

  “Russian,” Grimaldi said, nodding. “Yep, I had these guys pegged from the get-go. But I thought the bikers and the Russians didn’t get along up around these parts?”

  Bolan was aware that a rather protracted and brutal conflict had occurred between Russian organized crime and the biker gangs in Seattle and Vancouver several years ago, but he also knew that new profits and criminal enterprises often supplanted old grudges and rivalries.

  “Maybe they’ve patched things up,” Bolan said as he walked the length of the truck.

  Something was bothering him. He used his secure cell to contact Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm. The cyber wizard answered on the second ring.

  “What’s up, Striker?”

  He gave Kurtzman a quick rundown of what had transpired and gave him the plates on both the SUV and the truck. “But before you do that, we’re going to call you on the dead guy’s sat phone. See if you can run a trace on where the last call came from. I’m also emailing you a picture of a Cyrillic text.”

  “Okay, piece of cake.”

  Bolan handed the dead Russian’s satellite phone to Grimaldi and told him to call Kurtzman’s number.

  “Aaron, give me a call back when you get something,” Bolan said.

  “You want to hold on? It shouldn’t take me that long. You’re talking to the fastest keyboard on the east coast.”

  “Just call me back,” Bolan said. “I want to check something out.”

  Grimaldi finished dialing and made a thumbs-up gesture.

  “Okay,” Kurtzman said. “I’m getting your unidentified sat phone call. I’ll get back to you.”

  Bolan terminated the call and returned his cell phone to its pouch. He walked to the back of the trailer, pulled open the rear door and stared into the boxed bed.

  Grimaldi joined him. “What, you got a taste for noodles?”

  Bolan partially closed the rear door and leaned back, studying the outside of the truck and then looking back inside.

  “What?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Cover me,” Bolan said, hopping up into the rear compartment and taking out his knife. He moved down the narrow center aisle again, going slowly and measuring his steps. When he got to the end, he looked back at Grimaldi, who was holding his MP-5 at combat ready. Bolan turned and drew his arm back, pressing the blade into one of the boxes at the end of the aisle. It went in only a few inches and stopped. He withdrew the knife and began feeling the other boxes, stopping about halfway down and pressing the blade into the cardboard again. This time when the blade hit something solid, the Executioner rotated the knife, cutting away the surface material. A lever-like handle became visible.

  Bolan cut vertically on the boxes on both sides of the aisle and then slashed the top and the bottom. He pulled the false wall of cardboard away and tossed it to the rear. Grimaldi reached in with his left hand, grabbed it and jerked it out of the truck. He immediately brought the submachine gun up to the ready again as Bolan withdrew his Beretta 93-R and switched on the flashlight attachment. With his left hand, Bolan grabbed the lever and twisted it, pushing the door to the right. It slid behind the façade of stacked cardboard boxes, revealing a hidden compartment.

  As Bolan shone the light inside, his nostrils were assailed with a combination of body odor and human waste. The beam swept over twelve frightened women. They shielded their eyes from the brightness and Bolan saw that they were all relatively young and clothed in filthy garments. One muttered something in what Bolan felt certain was Russian.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said in Russian. “We won’t hurt you.” He motioned for them to exit the confined space.

  Once the women had filed out, Bolan swept the light over the inside of the cramped enclosure. From the smell of it, they’d been confined in there for some time. Two buckets full of what appeared to be human waste had been pushed to the side, contributing to the rank odor. Plastic water bottles were scattered on the floor along with torn noodle packages. Apparently the women had been subsisting on hard, uncooked noodles. Bolan shook his head as he moved back to the opening at the rear of the truck.

  The women had encircled Grimaldi and he was busy trying to calm them.

  One of the women saw the dead bodies lying around and screamed. A buzz of
conversation shot through the group, accompanied by looks of sheer terror on many of their faces. Three of them bolted.

  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?”