Cold Fury Read online

  “Dried noodles and a dozen Russian girls.”

  Kurtzman whistled. “I guess all that tightening they’re trying to do down south on the border hasn’t been applied to the 48th parallel yet.”

  Bolan watched as Grimaldi read something on his smartphone and smiled. The women had quieted down and had pressed around him, listening intently. Apparently he’d found the app he needed to translate English into Russian, although Bolan wondered if his attempt at pronunciation would be understandable.

  “Okay,” Bolan said. “Go through our special channels and advise the local authorities in Alaska that we’ve got some info on a possible human trafficking case. That ship coming into Wales might be involved. Ask them to try to intercede and hold the crew and all aboard until we can make our way up there. Use our standard Department of Justice cover. And Seattle PD should be called in to this location.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “We need transportation,” Bolan said. “See if Hal can pull some strings at the nearest airport around here to charter us a plane. We’ll need some cold-weather gear, too.”

  “Roger that, Striker,” Kurtzman said. “I’ll get right on it.”

  Bolan thanked him and terminated the call, studying the group of women. The three who had run off after seeing the bodies had reappeared on the far side of the warehouse, crouching behind the row of Harleys and peeking at the others. The thoughts of what had probably been in store for these women brought back unpleasant memories for the Executioner. His sister had been exploited many years ago, and that had instilled a fervent determination to relieve this type of human suffering and bring those responsible for causing such misery to justice...his own brand of justice.

  Chapter Two

  Over Canada en route to Alaska

  They’d been in the air less than forty minutes, zooming through the velvet darkness, when Grimaldi suddenly began singing “North to Alaska.”

  Bolan, who was in the copilot’s seat, rolled his eyes and said, “Do I have to put my earplugs in?”

  “What? You got something against that song? It was the last big hit for Johnny Horton back in the day.” Grimaldi clucked his tongue. “It came out right before he got killed in a plane crash.”

  “Not exactly a great song choice, then.”

  “You know, I take that back. I think it was a car accident.”

  Grimaldi quit singing and sat in silence for several minutes before clucking his tongue once again as he checked the instrument panel of the Learjet 85.

  “Man, those cops who arrived sure didn’t look too happy about the mess we left them,” the Stony Man pilot said.

  Kurtzman had called Seattle PD and explained that two federal agents had come upon a shootout between a biker gang and some Russian gangsters, and that there were also some human trafficking refugees on scene. After identifying himself as DOJ Special Agent Matt Cooper, Bolan had handed over the processing of the scene to the first responders, saying that he and his partner had to leave to investigate another aspect of this case.

  “I wonder what’ll happen to those gals?” Grimaldi said.

  “They’ll no doubt be offered some kind of temporary asylum.”

  “Regardless, it has to be better than what they were running from.”

  Bolan could only agree. He couldn’t get the image of that small, stinking compartment out of his mind; it brought home the desperation of the women seeking to escape the bleakness of their existence in their homeland. A desperation that was so great they’d succumbed to the false promises of a new life. Little had they known that they were most likely exchanging one version of hell for another, probably one much more degrading than what they were fleeing.

  He thought, too, about the man who’d sent the text. Obviously the crew Bolan and Grimaldi had encountered reported to that individual, someone likely involved with the Russian mafia. The man was probably high up the food chain if he was in charge of a human trafficking operation. Bolan decided he was going to take particular pleasure in running him to ground and stopping whatever nefarious scheme he was hatching.

  Near Wales, Alaska

  Rokva waited while the ship’s crew tied down the mooring lines to the massive pilings then began fitting the gangway into place. He could see Greagor Lebed, Wladimir Igoshin and “Fast Eddie” Nome at the end of the dock, the glow of their cigarettes standing out like three crimson dots against their silhouettes.

  Luckily, despite it being early November, the temperature had not dropped dramatically in the last several days, allowing for a smooth docking without the danger of the ship being damaged by ice. Soon it would be a different story. Rokva had already planned on this being their last trip until the spring. The air was cold and, along with the pervasive salt smell of the ocean, it burned his nostrils. The gangway was almost in place. He took out his cigarettes and removed one from the pack.

  “Give me one of those,” Sergei said, coming up behind him as silently as a ghost. Stealth movement was only one of Sergei’s many talents that he’d honed to perfection during his time with the Spetsnaz. Like his father, Sergei was a legend in the Russian special forces. It was rumored that during his tour in Chechnya he had racked up so many kills on covert operations they had stopped counting them. He wore his customary black jumpsuit and had an AK-47 with a metal folding stock dangling from a lanyard against his chest. He also had a Tokarev pistol in a low-slung holster on his right upper thigh. The man looked like the devil’s chief enforcer.

  Rokva held out the pack and Sergei pulled one out. He snorted, tore off the elongated hollow filter and tossed it into the dark water. “Shit, it is fucking cold,” he said, leaning down to put the tip of the cigarette into the flame of his old friend’s lighter. “It is even worse than Moscow.”

  Rokva smirked. “Welcome to Alaska.” He dropped the lighter and the cigarette pack into the pocket of his parka, and he and Sergei strode down the gangway.

  “I’m concerned with Greagor’s drinking,” Rokva said.

  “So what? The poor son of bitch has to do something to keep warm in this place.”

  “It is interfering with his duties. He was insolent with me on the phone. And the second plane is down. He is supposed to keep things ready.”

  “Do you want me to discipline him?”

  Rokva considered that. He was already formulating a new plan in his mind, taking into consideration the limitations they now faced with travel options. “Not yet,” he said. “Perhaps I will send him back on the ship and perhaps not. In any case, I don’t want him running once he gets back to Russia.”

  “He can run,” Sergei said, his lips curling back over his teeth, “but he cannot hide.”

  The wood of the pier felt good under Rokva’s feet. He hated sea travel and always felt better being on solid ground, even if it was in this godforsaken place.

  As they got to the starting point of the pier, Nome smirked. The Georgian could see the line of idling trucks on the road about fifty feet up the snow-covered embankment. Behind him, his men, all armed with AK-47s, had already started ushering the cargo off the ship. Two of his most competent men, Aleksi Galkin and Vasilli Denisov, were supervising. There were thirty-five people, of which only nineteen would fit comfortably on one plane, but he was certain they could get at least twenty-two of them, considering some of them were children. If he eliminated the men, that was.

  Boris followed, carrying his medical satchel in one hand and the sample case in another. Behind him, two of the others guided a cart stacked with the special medical containers down the gangway.

  “Took you long enough,” Nome said, extending his hand to his boss. An attached mitten dangled from the sleeve of his parka. “I guess your buddy here already told you we got a slight problem with one of your planes?”

  Rokva looked at Lebed, who seemed to wither visibly as his gaze went from his superior to Sergei’s im
posing form.

  Apparently the vodka did not supply him with enough temporary courage to be disrespectful in person, Rokva thought. But then again, who would be so in front of Sergei?

  “I am sorry, boss,” Lebed said, quickly lighting a cigarette and dragging on it. “I have made arrangements for another, as you instructed. It is coming from Anchorage.”

  The mafiya captain glared at the man. “That is quite a delay.”

  Lebed raised his arms. “It was all I could get at such short notice.”

  “No matter,” Rokva said. “I am leaving a few men here to complete something. When the plane arrives, you can follow with them.”

  His subordinate blew out a prodigious cloud of smoke mixed with his frosty breath. “But I am eager to accompany you. Is that not our plan?”

  Rokva didn’t bother to reply. Instead he turned to Boris, who was a few feet away.

  “Give the samples to Wladimir,” Rokva said to him and then turned to the third man in the group. He looked like a walrus with his large, unkempt mustache and round face.

  “You have the smaller plane standing by to take you to Anchorage?”

  The man’s head bobbled up and down.

  “Get going now. As soon as you arrive in Vancouver, take these samples to Patel. Tell the Indian we will be arriving with the shipment within thirty-six hours.”

  Igoshin nodded and accepted the sample case.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Rokva snapped, the irritation evident in his voice.

  As he tucked the case under his arm, Igoshin headed for the idling vehicles.

  “Hey,” Nome asked, “what you got going with the Indians?”

  Rokva allowed his expression to reflect a benign composure as he realized that while they’d spoken primarily in Russian, he’d said the word Indian in English.

  “Not one of your Indians,” he said. “From India. He is our connection in Canada.”

  The skin around Nome’s eyes wrinkled slightly as he nodded. “I told you before, you can’t trust them. Not the ones around here, anyway.”

  “Apples and oranges. We will need the use of one of your houses. One with several clean rooms. For a few hours.”

  “Not a problem,” Nome said before his head jutted forward. “Hey, what the hell?”

  The Georgian turned to see several of the cargo males stopping to bend over and vomit. They were about ten feet away now. Another was retching, as well, and then the first dropped his pants and began depositing a blast of diarrhea over the edge of the pier.

  “What the hell’s wrong with them?”

  “They never got their sea legs,” Rokva said.

  Nome frowned, wrinkling his nose. “Christ, they stink.”

  “Which is why we will need a shower or bathtub facility.”

  “Wait a minute. No way. If you think I’m gonna clean up after all those assholes, you got another think coming.”

  Before Rokva could speak, Nome’s cell phone rang and he quickly answered it. More of the cargo males began to vomit. Another pulled down his pants as the more healthy ones, the women and the children, hurried past.

  “Pull up your damn pants, you pigs,” Rokva yelled in Russian. “You disgust me.”

  Galkin heard his boss’s statement and kicked the bent-over man in the rump. He went flying.

  “Greagor, go make yourself useful in herding those cows into the trucks.” He then shouted instructions to separate the men from the women and children and put them in different vehicles. One of the men who’d been vomiting teetered on unsteady legs then collapsed.

  “Pick him up and carry him,” Rokva shouted. “Now.”

  “Why are you separating us?” one of the other men shouted in Russian.

  “Shut up and do as you’re told, asshole,” Denisov yelled. He punctuated his command with a swift strike of the stock of his rifle. The man fell on all fours, his head bobbling back and forth like a child’s yo-yo.

  “What are you waiting for?” Rokva said, looking at Lebed.

  He mashed his lips together then shuffled off toward the group.

  The mafiya captain turned back to Nome, who was still talking on his phone. After a few more muttered utterances, he terminated the call and stared at the Georgian with a worried expression.

  “We’ve got trouble,” Nome said. “An Alaska state trooper just got here and is asking a bunch of questions.”

  “What kinds of questions?”

  Nome shrugged. “I don’t know. About any new arrivals most likely.” His tongue darted over his chapped lips like a nervous lizard. “Wait till he gets a whiff of your brigade. Shit, I can’t afford this kind of trouble.”

  “How many are there?”

  Nome shrugged again. “Looks like just one, as far as I know.”

  “Where is he at?”

  “By the airstrip, I guess.”

  Rokva usually preferred to avoid contact or conflict with the authorities, but in this case their timetable had been affected by the unavailability of the second large plane. He was also concerned that his text to Yuri in Seattle had never been answered.

  That could mean the police had intercepted him and the first shipment of women, and had in turn notified the authorities here in Alaska. Had Yuri talked? He didn’t think that was a probability, but how else could they have traced them here? Then it dawned on him: his phone. Perhaps the authorities had been able to trace the call.

  He immediately took out his phone, turned it off and removed the battery. He considered tossing it into the water, but hesitated. He needed it to contact the rest of the group along the route. Besides, if the police had been using the phone’s frequency to trace him, perhaps he could use it to turn things to his favor... Use it to lure them into a trap.

  For now he would keep the phone, but it would remain turned off.

  “How the hell did they find you guys?” Nome asked. “Now I got the cops on my tail.”

  “No matter. It will be taken care of,” Rokva said. He turned to Sergei, who had obviously been following the conversation. Since Sergei’s English was not very good, he said in Russian, “The police are in the village. By the airstrip. Go take care of it.”

  “Do you know how many?” Sergei asked, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it.

  Rokva shook his head. Through his business dealings, he knew the Alaska troopers were grossly understaffed. Most of the time they worked by themselves or with one other person. Either way, it would be child’s play for Sergei, and it would also give him a chance to shake off any rust he might have accumulated during the sea voyage. He watched as his friend trotted quickly toward the row of trucks. Despite the constant smoking, the former Spetsnaz commando could run like a racehorse, never getting tired.

  Sergei got into the first truck. After a brief moment, the vehicle started down the road, past the row of nearby unlighted buildings, and headed toward the village.

  “Hey, what’s he gonna do?” Nome asked. “I don’t need no dead cops around here. That’ll just bring more heat.”

  “I should think that a little heat would be welcome in this inhospitable climate,” Rokva said, allowing a slight smile to creep over his lips. He took a final drag on his cigarette, flicked it away, and called out to Aleksi Galkin, who was the next most competent man in the squad after Sergei.

  He hurried over, holding his Kalashnikov at port arms. “Yes, boss,” he said.

  They spoke in Russian, the Georgian not wanting Nome to be privy to the conversation.

  “Separate all the men from the group. Take them to the building he will show you—” Rokva gestured toward the American “—and bring the equipment.” He called out to Boris Kazak. The heavyset, squat man lumbered forward, holding his medical bag to his chest like an old woman carrying food from a market. He paused on the pier, stared down at one of the dark pu
ddles littering the surface, shook his head and then walked over to his boss.

  “I do not like the look of this,” Kazak said. “There are traces of blood in that excrement.”

  Rokva shrugged. “It seems to be just the men. The ones we got from the gulag. Aleksi is separating them from the rest for you.”

  “I still do not like it.”

  “You do not have to like it. Just do what you’re supposed to do.”

  “I need to get someplace warm,” Kazak said, tucking his medical bag under one arm to find his cigarettes. “This cold is numbing my hands.”

  “They will take you to warm house. Then you can get to work.”

  Kazak placed a cigarette between his lips, pulled off his glove and fished in his pocket for a lighter. “How much time do I have?”

  “We will take off in two hours.”

  He recoiled. “Two hours? I am a doctor, not some idiot working in a butcher shop.”

  “Work faster,” Rokva said. “Aleksi will have some of the men assist you.”

  Kazak lit the cigarette and blew out smoke. “Very well. Let us get started, then.”

  Rokva looked to the transport trucks and saw that the last of the male cargo was being loaded.

  “Take the women and the children to the airstrip,” he ordered his men. “They can wait in the hangars. And have someone make sure the plane is fueled and ready to go. We will leave in two hours.”

  “Da,” Galkin said. The big Russian then headed toward the trucks, his boots crunching on the crusty snow.

  “Hey,” Nome said, “what were you guys talking about?”

  The mafiya captain turned to the American. “You will show Boris to the building we are going to use for the cleanup. Those over there will suffice.”

  “The fisheries?” Nome began to shake his head. “No way. I already told you—”

  “We will also need to make use of some of your heavy equipment,” Rokva added. “A backhoe and a bulldozer.”

  “I’m not doing anything until we get something settled first.” Nome poked his index finger against the other man’s chest. “This is gonna cost you double the usual.”