Perilous Cargo Read online

  “Sir,” Fedar replied with a sharp nod and moved off, shouting for their soldiers to fall in.

  With any luck, whoever it was down there would be so focused on Feng’s men that he could get into position and take the nuke, ridding himself of all the other parties in one action. If he was really lucky, Feng would kill the thieves, and then he’d only have the ugly warlord to remove for his troubles. That would ensure a positive end to a day that currently looked pretty grim.

  “We’re all set, sir,” Fedar said.

  Vitaly turned away from the vista below. “Let’s get down there and into position. When that truck arrives, I want us to hit them with everything we’ve got. Let’s end this now.”

  * * *

  BOLAN ROCKETED THROUGH the gears on the jeep, upshifting every chance he got, downshifting as he hit curves, tearing up the road and trying to catch the truck. Whipping around the third blind corner he had to slam on the brakes. The truck was stopped in the road, surrounded by one of the bands that roamed these mountains. Nischal and Solomon were already out of the truck, with guns pointed at their heads and their hands raised in surrender. There was no sign of Raju. Hopefully, the boy had made himself invisible inside the truck. Bolan jumped out of the jeep and walked forward, showing his open hands.

  The man who appeared to be in charge—Feng, he assumed—separated himself from the group and approached him. “You must be one of the Americans we were told was tearing up this mountain. There are those who would pay plenty just for the knowledge of American military forces in this country, let alone the nuclear weapon you’re hauling.”

  Bolan spoke cautiously. “People will pay for a lot of things, but you have to be able to collect. I want to be clear with you now. Those are my friends and that weapon on the back of that truck is coming with us. There are no other alternatives available to you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Feng said. “I think I will turn you all in, including the weapon, and collect a nice reward for my troubles.” He peered back down the road. “Though I am unhappy that you have killed several of my men, and you will have to pay that debt yourself before I turn you over to the authorities.”

  Over the man’s shoulder, Bolan saw Solomon wink at him and knew this was going to get ugly in a hurry. He had to keep the man talking and focused on him. “You’re nothing more than a warlord who terrorizes this part of the mountains. If you go to the real authorities here, say the Chinese in Nyalam, they’ll just kill you along with the rest of us. So who’s holding your leash?”

  “Leash?” the man said. “You think I am someone’s dog?”

  Bolan shrugged. “I think you’re someone’s lap dog.”

  The man’s face turned an ugly red and he stepped closer to Bolan.

  Over at the truck, Solomon played the old and feeble card, leaning in on his captor for support. The man moved his pistol out of the way and it was all the opening the spy needed. He yanked the gun out of his hand, reversed field and drove an elbow into the his face, then shot the man closest to Nischal in the head. He went down in a spray of blood and bone.

  Solomon’s captor was on the ground now, holding his gushing nose, and Solomon put a round in him for good measure.

  Startled, the man in front of Bolan turned and began running toward his men while Nischal and Solomon hit the deck, rolling beneath the truck and out the other side. Bolan laid down fire with the Desert Eagle and took cover on the far side of the truck.

  The warlord, rather than continue the fight, jumped up into the cab of the truck, shouting for his men to climb on. He put it in gear and started down the road. Nischal and Solomon dived into the ditch for cover as their assailants fired down on them, while Bolan used the cover of the jeep’s passenger door.

  Solomon left the ditch and tried to make it to the jeep, coming within feet before a bullet caught him in the leg, sending him tumbling to the ground.

  “No!” Nischal yelled, breaking cover herself.

  “Get back in the ditch!” Bolan ordered, reaching out from behind the door. He grabbed Solomon by one arm and dragged him behind the jeep.

  The warlord’s men stopped firing as they increased the distance between them, and Nischal took the opportunity to sprint over to Bolan and Solomon. She tried to assess Solomon’s wound, but he kept shoving her hands away.

  “We need to get in the car,” the old spy said. “Now.”

  “You’re hurt,” Nischal protested. “Let me take a look.”

  He gripped the bumper and pulled himself to his feet. “It’s barely a scratch. We can’t let them get away with that weapon. And I think Raju’s still in there.”

  “If he says it’s a scratch, it’s a scratch,” Bolan said as he helped Solomon into the back of the vehicle. “Nischal, you drive.”

  She hesitated, then got behind the wheel and tore off after the nuke.

  As they drove, Bolan examined Solomon’s leg. The older man hadn’t been downplaying his injury. The bullet had plowed a furrow in the side of his thigh, but it hadn’t gone deeper than the skin. It was bleeding a bit but not too badly. Solomon had survived far worse, without a doubt.

  “What were you thinking?” Bolan asked, wrapping the wound with a strip of cloth from his T-shirt. “You should have waited to move until they were out of range.”

  “Well, I was thinking that they were driving off with a nuclear weapon and likely to disappear into the damn mountains with it.” He grunted as Bolan tied off the makeshift bandage.

  “You might have thought about that before you stole the damn thing in the first place,” Bolan replied. “Then we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.”

  Nischal gunned it down the hill, trying to catch up. The warlord was doing his best to turn the road into an obstacle course as he left the main track and headed off onto one of the side roads that was littered with boulders and old, broken-down vehicles and was barely wide enough for a wagon, let alone a mobile nuclear launching platform.

  Bolan glanced behind them. “Nischal, I think we may have more company.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not sure, but you’d better drive faster because any second now, we’re going to be in range of that fifty caliber they’ve mounted on top of their SUV.”

  “Shit,” she said. “Wouldn’t you know it?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I left all my fifty cals back in the States.”

  * * *

  KOLODOKA SETTLED INTO the plush leather of the jet with a Kauffman Vodka rocks in one hand and a file in the other. He tipped back the glass, leaving ice as the only evidence that he’d been drinking. The vodka was expensive at more than two hundred dollars but worth every penny. The flight attendant filled it up again moments later. His instruction to the flight staff had been to never leave him with an empty glass.

  He flipped open the file with Vitaly’s picture laminated inside the front cover. On many of the pages inside, specific details had been redacted. Of course, Kolodoka knew the whole truth without needing to read the blacked-out information. It was his job to know. In Vitaly’s case, each black line had a body—or mountain of bodies—attached to it, left to rot in some backwater village most of the world had never even heard of.

  The flight attendant came back to pour again, but he waved her off and pulled out his laptop. He extracted the jump drive hidden in his ID lanyard and popped it into the USB port, bringing up the warehouse inventory. He cursed himself for not moving the materials sooner. Many of the weapons stored there were already promised to various organizations, and he’d taken deposits. His credibility would gain him a little time, but eventually his buyers would want their orders filled.

  He knew he would need to get control of the situation quickly before the Americans or the Chinese discovered what was really going on. He would have to come up with a story for Moscow, too, but
stories for Moscow were his specialty. This might even work to his advantage if he could keep the Americans out of it. The real problem was Vitaly.

  He flipped through the file again and thought about what Vitaly would do to recover the nuke, how far he would go to retrieve it and ensure no witnesses remained. Unfortunately, he already knew Vitaly would do whatever he deemed necessary to accomplish his mission. Kolodoka consulted another electronic document, then picked up the phone and dialed a man he was certain could be bought and would be helpful. He called himself Li Soong, though the gods only knew if that was the man’s real name. Kolodoka suspected not.

  Soong answered on the second ring. “Mr. Kolodoka, sir. What an unexpected surprise.”

  Kolodoka was calling from a scrambled phone line on a private jet, so the fact that Soong knew it was him was more than a little surprising. “Li Soong,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “How did you know it was me?”

  “I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you,” the man replied. “And no one else has this particular number, as I only gave it to you.”

  “Clever man.”

  “Clever always pays dividends,” he quipped. “As I said, I expected to hear from you. I had the opportunity to meet your friend. He’s not a very pleasant person, and my sources north of the border tell me he’s making himself known in all kinds of ways. The Chinese have set the guards around Nyalam on high alert and they’re going to be sending out patrols very soon.”

  “Vitaly is not a friend of mine, and I never send pleasant people to recover my missing property. I send successful ones, who know how to behave.”

  “I see,” Soong replied. “So Vitaly did not come at your behest, then?”

  “No,” Kolodoka replied. “He’s working for...someone else. I may be in need of your services.”

  “Anything for an old friend, of course, but with something this delicate, the price tag will be high. And you can count on Vitaly ensuring that the situation is as delicate as fine crystal. What are you offering?”

  “Something better than money.”

  “Better than money?” Soong asked. “I am intrigued. What do you have?”

  “Something special for your collection,” Kolodoka said. “I guarantee you’ll love it or we’ll discuss cash terms when I arrive.”

  “Hmmm...we shall see. When do you wish to meet?”

  “I’m on my way now, but it will be a while. I’ll call you when I land. And Soong, I know the temptation is to do something bold, to grab all of the profits you can for yourself in these unexpected circumstances, but do yourself a favor and stay out of this one. Many governments are involved in this game, and if you get caught in the middle, the blame may very well land squarely on your head.”

  “I’m here only to serve. Call when you arrive.”

  “I suspect you’ll know before my wheels touch the ground, but I’ll call all the same.”

  Kolodoka hung up the phone and waved the flight attendant over. She filled his glass again and he tipped it back, swallowing the rich vodka and enjoying the faint burn of it on the back of his throat. Finally, he handed her the glass and she walked away, her hips swaying beneath the thin, midthigh velvet of her dress.

  He put his head back on the cushions and watched the clouds float by under the plane before closing his eyes. He kept them closed until Vitaly’s past came creeping in to interrupt his daydreams. He waited for the pictures and the screams to fade. He’d been dealing with men like Vitaly all his life, and some would say he was the greater evil because his empire was so much larger, but Kolodoka knew better. He collected secrets like Soong collected trinkets and art, and certainly he profited by those secrets, but he was not a vicious killer. This time, he intended to stop one...one who’d been set loose by Mother Russia herself. Sometimes, protecting one’s country meant killing its own agents. Vitaly was no longer part of the big picture.

  Kolodoka closed his eyes again and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Brognola paced the carpet of the Oval Office and waited while the President continued to page through his daily paperwork. A decisive knock came on the door, and the President called out for the person to enter. The man they’d been waiting for, a high-level functionary who worked directly for the Chinese ambassador came striding into the room. Ru Quan was tall and reed thin, with short-cropped black hair and intense eyes. He radiated irritation, though it may have been a pose.

  Silence pervaded the office for a long minute as the three men looked from one to another. Quan finally offered his hand to the President, then Brognola.

  “Mr. Quan, I’m delighted you could come and join us for another discussion,” the President said.

  Brognola noted that he didn’t offer for Quan to sit down, so the three men remained standing.

  “Forgive me, Mr. President, but I suggest we dispense with formalities and discuss the military actions that both the United States and Russia are currently engaging in, both in Kathmandu and Tibet, which is, as you know, part of the People’s Republic of China.”

  The President began to shake his head, but Ru Quan held up his hand. “Before you begin the usual litany of denials, let me say that we already have evidence that military personnel, disguised as mercenaries, have been spotted in Tibet. So, might I again suggest we skip the formalities and the fake surprise? Let us instead discuss what your people are doing in the region.”

  Brognola waited for the President to speak. If the Chinese had any hard evidence, they wouldn’t be talking to Quan. They’d be talking to the ambassador himself or, more likely still, the top officials in the Chinese government.

  “Mr. Quan,” the President said, “I can tell you that we’ve also noted some activity in that region, but sending in troops of any kind would be a violation of several treaties and would stand in the way of the friendship between our nations.”

  “Then you would deny any knowledge of a spy plane over Tibet,” Quan stated flatly. “We have a preliminary report suggesting that a US plane was seen heading in that direction just prior to a major storm. It would be typical for an advanced military like yours to use the storm as cover to spy on another nation.”

  He was fishing, and both Brognola and the President knew it.

  “I can assure you, Mr. Quan, that we did not send a spy plane into Tibet or Kathmandu. We have our own intelligence analysts working on some of these same reports, but most of the information is unreliable at the moment—as I’m sure yours is.”

  Very smooth, Brognola thought. The B-2 Spirit was not technically a spy plane but a long-range bomber. In politics, the precision of language was crucial.

  “Certainly, should we learn of anything that clarifies matters, I will contact your office and share it with you immediately,” the President continued.

  Quan looked as though he wanted to say more, but he only nodded sharply. “You have forty-eight hours, Mr. President, to come up with some reasonable explanations, but don’t expect that we will be idle in the meantime. Should we find evidence of US personnel on the ground in Tibet, the repercussions could be...quite serious.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Quan?” Brognola asked.

  “No, Mr. Brognola. It is a vow to...look into matters more deeply.” Quan turned on his heel and exited the Oval Office, all but slamming the door behind him.

  “What do you think, Hal?”

  “I think he’s pissed, but his intel is lousy at this point. Still, he’s serious enough. China is touchy about Tibet. They know most of the world, including us, would prefer Tibet to be treated as a free nation.”

  The President returned to his desk and sat down. “I think we need to send in a strike team.”

  “Sir, that will only increase our chances of getting caught in the middle of this,” Brognola cautioned. He took a seat across from the President. “The more boots w
e put on the ground, the more likely we are to attract attention.”

  “But at this point, we don’t know if we even have anyone alive over there, Hal. All we know is we’ve got a missing stealth bomber and two operatives who may well be dead. Given what Quan suggested, we have to consider that the plane crashed or was shot down—and the damn Chinese are looking for the wreckage right now.”

  “I understand your position, sir,” Brognola said. “But I don’t believe any plane crash could kill Striker. He’s too tough to die like that. He’d survive it out of sheer spite, if nothing else.”

  The President shook his head. “Your assurances aren’t enough, but I’ll give them twenty-four hours. If we haven’t heard from Nischal or Striker in that time frame, then we’ll have to send in another team and come up with something to tell the Chinese.”

  Brognola nodded. “I’ll work on a cover story, sir, but they’ll turn up. I know it.”

  “I hope for all our sakes that you’re right,” the President said. “If Striker somehow manages to pull this off and not get caught by the Chinese at this point, he’s more than tough—he’s a damn miracle worker.”

  Brognola forced a grim smile. “That’s his specialty.”

  * * *

  NISCHAL SKIDDED AROUND a small boulder, throwing Bolan and Solomon into the door.

  “Are you trying to kill us?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes, that was my grand plan all along,” she snapped. “Secretly have someone steal a nuclear weapon, and then, in an effort to get it back, kill you with my poor driving skills.” She pointed to the road ahead. “There they are!”

  “How much farther until we hit Nyalam?” Bolan asked.

  “At this pace, we’ll be out of the valley within an hour or so, and this secret will be on CNN,” Nischal answered as she closed the distance between themselves and Feng’s men. Then the shooting started again in earnest. Bullets ricocheted off the jeep’s steel frame and Nischal was forced to swerve wildly, trying to keep them from getting shot to pieces. Out of some necessity, she slowed down again.