Deadly Contact Read online

  Hac Tivik was dead.

  Pavlic’s contact passed along more information. Radin, Jatko and his team had left the country. They’d taken Karel Medusku with them. And a Frenchman by the name of Dupré. Pavlic knew a computer expert Jatko used regularly. The man had extreme computing skills at his disposal.

  Sev Malik, the remaining top executive in the consortium, had remained in Sarajevo to oversee matters while Radin was out of the country.

  After completing his call Pavlic had paced his hotel suite, his mind troubled by what he had learned. He was in no doubt as to where Radin and company had gone. They were on their way to the U.S.A., and they would be looking for him as he searched for the package. His plan to get the incriminating disk out of Bosnia, as farsighted as it was, would amount to nothing if Radin and his people closed in.

  He set up his laptop and connected to the Internet by the outlet provided in the room. He logged in to his server and went online, first running a quick check on his bank accounts. The first thing he saw was the warning message that an attempt had been made to access the accounts by an unauthorized user. His safeguard had worked—on the downside it confirmed that his deposits had been diskovered. That would be Dupré. Pavlic knew that the French expert would not quit. He knew his reputation and given enough time he would bypass even Pavlic’s security protocols. It would be foolish to sit back and convince himself he was safe. He transferred a substantial cash amount from one of the accounts, placing it in a normal bank account that he could access via ATMs. He was going to need money for what he needed to do. Then he made some more transfers of the bulk of his hoard, placing the money in different accounts that he had prepared for such emergencies, setting up even more cryptic access codes that would delay Dupré even longer. His final act was to enable a powerful virus that would, on unauthorized access attempts to the original accounts, kick back with a destructive attack on Dupré’s own computer.

  His e-mail alert told him he had a message. Pavlic opened it and saw it was from his niece. The message was in Serbian. It was short and to the point:

  Sent to the place I promised I would show you one day. In your name.

  Pavlic understood immediately. It made him smile for an instant. He knew exactly what Tira had meant. He experienced regret that it would not happen now. She would never show him her favorite place in America. The place she loved to go when she had the time. That was gone, taken from her by the savagery of the men who were looking for him.

  He deleted the e-mail, then called for the next flight to Colorado.

  PAVLIC CHECKED OUT OF THE hotel an hour later, the cab he had ordered taking him directly to Dulles. His nonstop flight to Denver International departed at 7:00 p.m, weather permitting. The forecasts for the Denver area were warning of snow. Pavlic wasn’t bothered about that. If he could get to his destination and locate the package, he would take the next step when it presented itself.

  Compton Field, Virginia

  “ARE YOU SURE THAT THING WILL get us to Colorado?”

  The blunt question made Bolan smile. He was becoming used to her direct manner. He turned from his map. She was standing at the window of the control tower, looking down at the rain-swept apron where the Cessna Titan aircraft rocked slightly in the wind. The plane was fine as far as Bolan was concerned, but Dukas wasn’t convinced.

  “Would I lie to you?” he asked.

  “If you thought it would calm me down, yes. You’d tell me that airplane out there is the safest thing ever built.”

  “You ask my buddy, Jack,” Bud Casper said from the other side of the room. “He’s flown her plenty of times.” Casper was the pilot. A fair-haired, lean, good looking man in his thirties, he wore tan Chinos and a sweatshirt.

  Jack Grimaldi had directed Bolan to the small local airstrip when the Executioner had requested help chartering a flight. Whatever Grimaldi had said to the pilot had worked. By the time Bolan and Dukas arrived at Compton Field the Cessna was fueled and ready to go.

  Bolan was using his civilian cover name of Matt Cooper, and from the way Casper greeted him it was plain that Grimaldi had laid down the ground rules. The pilot asked no questions apart from their destination, and he and Bolan had spent some time poring over flight charts, leaving Dukas clutching a mug of coffee as she stared out the window, convincing herself that the plane was too flimsy to resist the rough weather.

  “Are you sure those wings should move like that?”

  Casper came to stand beside her.

  “If they were too rigid, they’d snap off the minute we hit any turbulence.”

  “Snap and turbulence are not words I want to hear right now,” Dukas said.

  “Miss, trust me, I’m a pilot. Nothing’s about to go wrong.”

  Dukas smiled wearily.

  “We ready to go?” Bolan asked.

  Casper and Dukas nodded.

  On their way to Compton Field Bolan had stopped off to purchase new clothing and footwear for the trip. With snow country in mind Bolan had made certain they were prepared.

  As they emerged from the tower, turning their backs to the rain, Casper ran ahead to open up the Cessna. Dukas followed, carrying one of the backpacks, and Bolan brought up the rear with rest of their gear.

  Bolan saw Casper pause to look over his shoulder and skyward as he picked up sound. The muffled noise of a chopper’s rotors had filtered through Bolan’s selective hearing too, and he followed Casper’s lead, raising his head toward the source. It was coming in from the south, the unmistakable sound long imprinted on the Executioner’s memory.

  Dukas, becoming aware of their diverted attention, stopped and checked them both out.

  “What is it?”

  “Helicopter,” Bolan said.

  “And that means?”

  Bolan’s answer was to drop the pack he carried, crouching to open a zipper and reach inside. He pulled out an H&K MP-5, quickly checking the magazine and breech. He snapped back the cocking bolt, rising to his feet and waiting, the weapon held down and parallel with his right leg.

  “Cooper?” Casper said.

  “Load the gear, Bud,” Bolan replied.

  Casper grabbed the pack Bolan had dropped. He opened the passenger access hatch and shoved it inside, then took the one Dukas held.

  “Go stand with Bud,” Bolan said as he moved away from the Cessna, following the dark outline of the helicopter as it circled the field and angled in toward the waiting plane. As it lowered to ten feet off the ground, Bolan stepped clear of the Cessna. The chopper’s pilot nursed the aircraft to follow him.

  Bolan spotted the Bell-430 model. It was dark blue and white with no corporate logos, landing wheels locked down. He could make out figures in the passenger compartment behind the pilot.

  “Both of you onboard. Bud, wind her up. Be ready to go when I give the word,” Bolan shouted.

  The chopper hovered a few feet aboveground, movement was clearly visible behind the cabin windows. The side hatch opened and a figure leaned out, making no attempt to conceal the autopistol he held.

  “All we want is the woman,” the man called above the sound of the rotors.

  Bolan circled, bringing the chopper side on. Behind the guy in the hatchway he saw others crowding the cabin space, just waiting for the command.

  Bolan caught the movement of legs dropping into sight on the opposite side of the aircraft. Someone was climbing out on the far side. The man dropped to the ground as Bolan brought the MP-5 into play. He raked the engine housing with a long burst, then hit the tail rotor. He saw fragments spin free. Smoke began to trail from the engine housing, whipped away by wind and the damaged tail rotor locked.

  The pilot found he was losing stability and fought to compensate. The chopper rotated in the opposite direction to the main rotors. The sweeping body came around and hit the man who had exited the craft. He was sent headlong to the ground as the chopper sank to the ground.

  It landed hard, jarring the occupants. The gunner in the hatchway opened fire
on Bolan’s moving figure, his shots scoring the concrete at the Executioner’s feet.

  Bolan turned, secured his position and returned fire, tracking the 9 mm slugs into the shooter. The man let go of his weapon and slumped back inside. The pilot fought hard to maintain some kind of stability despite time being against him. He was dealing in seconds, and they counted down too fast for him to react. The chopper made a clumsy attempt to right itself, then swung violently. Gunners were fighting one another as they struggled to climb from the open hatch.

  One fell, landing hard, dragging another with him. This man landed lightly, pushing to his feet and made a dash in Bolan’s direction. He hauled a squat handgun from a hip holster and started to track on the Executioner, but Bolan had already altered his position and fired first, stitching the guy hard from groin to ribs. The impacting slugs drove the man to his knees, his pistol bouncing from his grip as he struck the hard, rain-slick concrete.

  Bolan ran for the Cessna. The propellors were already spinning. Dukas had the passenger door held open, and Bolan threw his weapon inside and scrambled after it.

  “Go,” he yelled and felt the Cessna vibrate as Casper released the brake and hit the throttles.

  As the aircraft rolled away from the apron in the direction of the runway, Bolan leaned out the door and saw the chopper still turning, the bulk of the aircraft slowly arcing until a spinning rotor struck the concrete. The stricken helicopter seemed to fall apart as it was drawn into the powerful spin of the rotors, dragging its own carcass across the concrete, debris bursting free. Bolan hauled the door shut and locked the lever.

  Turning, he saw Dukas half on one of the passenger seats, eyes wide and unblinking, watching him as if he were some alien creature.

  “Is it always like this for you?” she asked. “I mean, do you ever have a quiet moment?”

  Bolan shrugged. He checked the MP-5 and fed in a fresh magazine before he put the weapon aside.

  The Cessna lifted off from the runway and made the wide turn that would put them on course for Colorado.

  “So how did they find us so easily?” Dukas asked.

  “My fault,” he said. “That SUV we took must have had a GPS tracking unit built in. I should have thought of that. Means the vehicle gives off a location signal that relays back to a monitoring base.”

  “So they could just sit and watch our progress on a monitor?”

  Bolan nodded. He was to blame, no one else. In the rush to get Dukas clear he hadn’t considered the possibility. It was a simple error but one that had put them in danger.

  “Hey, you had enough to handle. Including this wimp,” Dukas joked.

  “I need to talk to Bud,” Bolan said.

  “Well, I’m sure he”ll appreciate being warned about whatever attack might be coming up in the next ten minutes,” Dukas said, straight-faced.

  Bolan dropped into the copilot’s seat and looked through the windshield. The aircraft’s wipers were busy with the rain. Even though Casper had taken them to a high altitude, they had not risen above the storm.

  “Radio reports say the weather’s going to be worse the farther west we go. By the time we hit the Rockies, we’re going to have bad snow,” the pilot said.

  “Anytime you figure flying is too risky, Bud, you put us down and we’ll pick up some wheeled transport,” Bolan replied.

  “Nah, I don’t quit on my passengers. Didn’t Big Jack tell you that?”

  “He said next to him you were one of the best.”

  “Hell, I must have upset that fly jockey. Time was, he’d tell you next to him I was the best. He getting grumpy in his old age?”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Something like that. Bud, I’m grateful for your help, and the lack of questions.”

  “No sweat. Jack told me you keep things close. I figure you’ll tell if it’s necessary. Hell, it’s been worth it for the excitement. Makes a change from my normal charters.”

  The radio crackled and Casper made contact. It was Harry from Compton Field.

  “Just who you got onboard there, Bonnie and Clyde? Hellsfire, Bud, I got a smoking chopper on the apron and those pantywaists who flew in her got picked up by a four-by-four and burned rubber when they quit.”

  “Cooper, here, is a government agent, Harry. This is one of those need-to-know things. Harry, you don’t need to know,” Casper said.

  “Everybody’s a comic these days,” Harry grumbled. “You go easy.”

  Casper signed off. “Couple of big flasks of coffee back there,” he said. “Appreciate a mug myself, Cooper.”

  Bolan stood up, laying a hand on Casper’s shoulder.

  “Thanks for everything, Bud. I’ll go fetch that coffee.”

  Miami

  “TWO DEAD. THREE INJURED. One helicopter wrecked,” Billingham said. “Wasn’t there something else? Oh yes—they fucking well got away. Flew off into the wild, blue, fucking yonder.” There was silence over the radio link.

  “Bronson, you still there? Oh, good, for a moment I thought maybe you’d gone to start a collection to pay for my helicopter,” Billingham shouted.

  “I’m here, sir.”

  “I want you on their trail as soon as you deal with the dead and injured. I have Dupré hacking into the computer system at that hayseed airstrip to find out what flight plan that Cessna’s pilot logged. Get back here. We need to get to this woman. And this time we don’t lose her.”

  He slammed down the phone, shaking his head in frustration. What the hell did it take to stop two men and a woman? Obviously an armed group in a helicopter wasn’t the answer. If they had got the GPS tracking unit online sooner the chopper team might have arrived earlier. They had missed that chance. They would need to do better next time.

  Billingham didn’t notice Erik Dupré enter the cabin until the Frenchman spoke his name.

  “What?” He turned, still in a rage.

  Dupré held up a printout sheet. “This.”

  “What did you find out?” Billingham asked.

  “The charter’s destination is Maple Lake, Colorado, with a stop at Springfield-Branson in Missouri. For refueling, I’d guess,” Dupré said.

  “Maple Lake?”

  “Some kind of vacation area in the mountains. Didn’t mean much until I accessed Malivik’s laptop your boys picked up at her apartment. She and this Dukas woman used to spend time up there at some lodge their families visited for years. She had an online diary with photographs of the place and the town close by.”

  “All very cozy,” Billingham said. “Does it have anything to do with our package?”

  “Yes. I checked out Malivik’s plastic and found a payment for a special delivery parcel a few days ago. U.S. Postal Service to a collection drop in Maple Lake. To be picked up by a Mr. L. Pavlic.”

  “Damn,” Billingham said. “Okay, we concentrate on Maple Lake. We need to get there fast.”

  “We can get a team assembled,” Jatko said.

  “Good. I’ll arrange air transport and ground vehicles through Granger. Anything else I need to know?”

  “Right now there’s a snowstorm brewing out there,” Dupré said.

  Billingham smiled. “That should work fine for us.” He stood up. “Time to organize, people.”

  Radin stared at him. “You’re going too?”

  “Damn right I am.” He smiled wider. “Correction—we’re all going.”

  RAMSEY GRANGER TOOK Billingham’s call and listened as the details were passed along. He had been waiting for the call so he could move his own people. He informed Billingham that there would be equipment and transport waiting for him at a private airstrip in Colorado that would get them close to Maple Lake. Once he had completed the call he passed the information to Marker.

  “They took their time getting it,” Marker observed.

  8

  An hour into the flight, Bolan had taken a seat toward the rear of the cabin. Dukas was up front, her seat tilted back as she slept. Bolan had found a blanket in the overhead loc
ker and had draped it over her. Now he took the opportunity to relax, though his mind was still active as he went over the events leading up to this flight. He was also wondering what lay ahead in Colorado.

  Complete identification of the shadowy figures behind the recent events had yet to be verified. They had names but little else at the moment. The only sure thing Bolan knew was the deadly intent of the people involved. Exhibiting a ruthless determination to claim the package, they had left Tira Malivik dead and then had pursued Erika Dukas with the same disregard for her life.

  Bolan’s curiosity was directed toward the contents of that package. He reasoned that to have brought about such violence they had to be explosive. He realized there was nothing to gain in such speculation at this point. The enemy had drawn the line, their actions marking them as savage in their pursuit. Erika Dukas was just a pawn in their deadly game. That fact alone had been enough to draw Bolan into the arena. The intense hunt would go on until the prize had been claimed. Bolan had no intention of allowing it go to the opposition. The harder they pushed the harder he would resist.

  They hadn’t realized that yet.

  In his current mood Bolan had no intention of cutting them any slack.

  THEY MADE A REFUELING STOP at the Springfield-Branson Regional Airport in Missouri. The weather had deteriorated, as Casper had predicted. It was starting to snow as they took off again. While the refueling took place, Casper crossed to the terminal building and came back with food and the flasks refilled with coffee. Dukas woke when they touched down, took time to eat and went back to sleep once they were in the air. Bolan took his place beside Casper.

  “I meant what I said, Bud,” Bolan reminded him. “No risk clause is included in your contract.”

  Casper only grinned.

  “Hey, I paid my dues back in the Gulf War, then Afghanistan. AH-64 Apache attack helicopters. Like I said before, Coop, a little action is welcome. This charter stuff is okay, but man, it gets dull.”

  “You didn’t want to stay in the service?”

  “Nah. Wasn’t for me. I’m not disciplined enough. So I figured I’d try the quiet life. I just didn’t realize how quiet it was going to turn out.” He grinned at Bolan. “Back there at Compton it felt like I was in the damn war again.”