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THE CHOPPER TOUCHED DOWN on the airfield, and the Russian leader jumped from it. Before he had moved through the downdraft of the rotors, he had been joined by a squadron of military commanders.

  As he moved toward the command post that had been set up in the old conning tower, he listened to updates from his men on their detachments and where they were positioned. The overall commander of the operation outlined the plan for isolating the trucks within the confines of the field and using foam to slow them before utilizing nerve gas to neutralize the two Americans.

  “This is good. We will not endanger the hardware they are carrying?” the president asked.

  “No, sir. That cannot happen. Even if they turn the vehicles over or crash them into each other, the foam we use will act as a cushion.”

  “Good. Then all we have to do is wait.” He led the ranking officers into the conning tower where men were monitoring the CCTV systems. They looked up as the president entered, and from their expressions, he knew that things were not good. He strode past them and looked for himself. His jaw dropped.

  “Why are they headed back to Red Square?”

  * * *

  THE TRUCKS DROVE across the city. Dostoyevsky picked up the pace as they moved past roadblocked areas.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Cooper,” he muttered as he watched the military personnel stir, bemused by seeing their targets double back on themselves. “You know they’ll come after us if they realize something is wrong?”

  “That’s why we’re moving fast,” the soldier replied. “And, no, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I figure I know someone who does. Trust me.”

  “I do, but it’s not like I’ve got a choice,” the Russian returned.

  Bolan switched from the cell phone link as a call came through. “Bear, talk to me....”

  “You’ll be coming up to a blocked turnoff in about a thousand yards. Take it. Just keep going, with a weapon in hand. Then follow the bikers. Radio silence until the action is completed. Good luck, Striker.”

  The connection died, and Bolan relayed instructions to the Russian. As suicidal as it sounded in bare terms, Dostoyevsky trusted his partner enough to agree.

  Bolan reached the turnoff, took a deep breath and swung his truck toward the roadblock, stomping his accelerator as he headed directly for the barrier, the personnel on the military vehicles momentarily frozen in shock.

  The Russian did the same, bracing himself for a barrage of gunfire. When it came, it was from a completely unexpected source.

  * * *

  SEVEN MEN ON MOTORCYCLES came from different directions. They had left their base and separated, taking alternate routes to bring them to this point. Their thick bomber jackets hid the HKs they had stowed beneath them, and the web belts that carried spare ammunition and grenades.

  Before embarkation, they had studied the roadblock that was picked by their commander as the point of contact. Their routes had been chosen so that they would come at the roadblock from as many angles as the roads allowed.

  So it came to be as they wove their way through the streets, mounting the sidewalks and parting pedestrians to beat traffic jams, to synchronize their arrivals on the scene. They emerged from all points as the two trucks converged on the roadblock.

  The military personnel on the other hand—with their target vehicles coming toward them, yet knowing they were under orders not to fire on the trucks—remained frozen, unsure of what to do in order to halt their prey.

  That hesitation cost them dearly. They were taken completely off guard as the bikers roared toward them, HKs firing short bursts to take down personnel who were in the open, and to drive those in their vehicles into diverting their attention away from the trucks.

  Circling, two of the riders threw grenades into the middle of the clustered vehicles that formed the roadblock. The explosions sounded as one, rocking the vehicles and shattering the bodywork on one of the armored cars. The personnel inside were killed instantly, while the flying shrapnel from the blast took more men out of the game.

  One of the bikers was cut down by chattering SMG fire from the soldiers who finally gathered their wits in time, but for the most part, the bikers moved too quickly and had the military too much on the defensive for them to be in any real danger.

  They rode rings around them, picking them off and driving the remainder back to the cover of vehicles that had been put out of action. Three of the bikers rode interference between the remainder of the military men and the two trucks as Bolan and Dostoyevsky drove past, in the gap made by the blasted vehicles.

  Two of the riders fell in alongside the trucks. The rider in front, level with the Russian, turned his head toward the driver. His crash helmet was jet-black glass and impenetrable, but there was no mistaking his intent as he gestured that the Russian follow him. Picking up speed, he moved off into the lead. Dostoyevsky hit the accelerator to follow; behind him, Bolan and his biker escort did likewise. They had already left the remains of the roadblock in their wake, and the riders who had decimated the Russians had melted away down side streets.

  “Where in hell are we going, Cooper?” Dostoyevsky called across the cell phone link.

  “Just follow him. We don’t have much choice,” Bolan replied. But all the same, he wondered what the hell was going on. Kurtzman had called in a favor from somewhere. Right now it looked as though they were headed back toward the center of Moscow and the area where the embassies were located.

  Had Brognola managed to turn the ambassador around?

  That thought was driven from his mind as he followed Dostoyevsky through the service gates of a building he did not recognize. He killed the engine and got out as four riders roared through, stopping and dismounting to close the doors.

  The riders took off their helmets to reveal six Nordic men. Bolan followed their gaze as a middle-aged man came out from the main building. He walked straight toward Bolan and held out his hand to the soldier and to Dostoyevsky, who had joined him.

  “One of you is the man they call Striker, yes? I think we owe you one.”

  “Thanks,” Bolan replied cautiously. “Maybe you do, but I’m afraid I don’t actually know where we are.”

  The man smiled. “You are in the Norwegian embassy, not on Russian soil. Your friend Mr. Kurtzman has an interesting address book. This is, as you say, off the record, but we like to repay favors in kind.”

  * * *

  “ARE YOU SURE that bastard won’t just shoot us down?” Dostoyevsky asked the Norwegian ambassador as they walked toward Dragonslayer, where Jack Grimaldi stood waiting.

  “The Russian president is a hotheaded and—shall we say—erratic personality, but he is not stupid. Our country has a rather large deal with Gazprom going through. You have seen, perhaps, how construction has come to a halt here. Russia is asset rich but needs cash. Your friend Mr. Grimaldi is delivering a diplomatic bag, one which is essential to the finalization of the deal between our two countries.” The ambassador grinned broadly.

  “I can only thank you for what you have done,” Bolan said quietly. “With those weapons out of circulation—”

  “Oslo would not be the fine city it is today,” the ambassador interrupted. “I think our government would have preferred you to work with us, not independently, but that does not change the worth of your actions.”

  Bolan shook hands once more with the ambassador.

  “If there were more men in my own government who had the same pragmatism, then maybe it would make my job a whole lot easier. Not just mine,” he added, thinking of the big Fed.

  Kurtzman had one hell of an explanation due. Bolan was hoping he might be around to see that. It should be interesting.

  * * * * *

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  ISBN-13: 9781460329160

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Andy Boot for his contribution to this work.

  DEATH METAL

  Copyright © 2014 by Worldwide Library

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