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“Play your cards right, Pham,” Bolan told him in Vietnamese. “I need a messenger to tell the world what happened here. You might just limp away with only a broken ankle.”
After seeing what happened to his partner, Pham considered a broken ankle a small price to pay. As they reached the hold, Pham stopped and looked back at Bolan.
“There are already guards on shift here,” Pham said. “We were just supposed to pick up a couple of girls.”
Bolan nodded. He took Pham’s rifle, dropped its magazine and emptied the chamber. He flicked on its safety and stuck the magazine back in. “It’ll take you too long to cock and get this rifle ready to fire. Don’t even think about it.”
Pham nodded. “I told you, because I don’t want to stop a bullet.”
“Good idea.”
Pham led the way into the hold where the guards were playing cards and smoking cigarettes. The smell of Turkish tobacco assaulted Bolan’s nostrils and he saw several more men of Western European heritage as well as a couple of Asians. Apparently, the Greek and Italian crewmen were sharing some of their vices with their Oriental counterparts. One Asian puffed on a Turkish cigarette, blowing smoke rings as the others laughed.
Shielded by Pham and staying in the shadows, Bolan hadn’t been noticed yet as the Vietnamese smuggler limped along toward the group.
“Hey, the captain wants us to bring up a couple of girls,” Pham called.
“What happened to your foot, Pham?” the smoke-ring-blower asked.
Pham shrugged. “Stupid. I slipped on a step coming down.”
“And Coy?” the ringmaster asked.
“Cap sent me,” Bolan answered in Italian.
One of the Italians squinted through the shadows. “Who—”
Bolan answered with a 9 mm bullet through the Italian’s forehead, his brains exploding out the back of his skull. The others were frozen in shock at the gory death of their compatriot.
Pham swung his rifle around and smashed the smoke-ring-blower across the jaw with its butt, then tossed aside the relatively useless weapon, dropped to the deck and curled up into a ball as Bolan cut loose, flicking the Beretta to burst mode. The Vietnamese sentry had bought the Executioner another heartbeat, and Bolan charged hard into the breech, tribursts of 9 mm slugs chopping into two of the Asian crewmen before they could grab their rifles. Corpses flopped to the floor, weapons clattering atop them when two swarthy Greeks lunged at Bolan.
The Executioner got off a burst into the gut of one of the sailors before the other tackled him, hands clamped around Bolan’s forearm and the Beretta tumbled away. He snaked his foot behind the Greek’s ankles and pushed hard with his forearm, toppling the hapless smuggler to the floor. With a pivot, Bolan buried his heel into the downed smuggler’s solar plexus and pulled his forearm knife. The fallen Greek vomited blood as shattered ribs slashed through his lungs.
A third man, an Italian, reached for the Beretta holstered on his hip, but being only a stride away, the Executioner speared him under the chin with the wicked forearm knife. Sharp steel tore through soft flesh, tongue and the roof of the goon’s mouth before coming to a halt in his brain. Dead on his feet, the gunman toppled backward. Bolan scooped the unused handgun out of the corpse’s insensate fingers and turned the pistol against a third Asian who rushed at him in a blur of speed.
Before Bolan could pull the trigger, a hard kick rammed his forearm. The 9 mm slug speared into the chest of a fourth sailor who was still trying to make sense of the melee, despite the revolver that was clenched in his fist. Bolan whirled with the force of the kick and dropped to one knee. His other leg swept out like a broom and caught the Asian across the knees, hurling him to the floor. The Executioner brought up the Beretta with both hands and fired two bullets into the downed martial artist before he could recover, both slugs smashing through his belly and tearing up into his rib cage.
The wounded man with the revolver coughed up blood and cut loose at the Executioner, but wounded and confused, his gunfire flew wildly. Pham yelled out and wrapped his arms around the sailor’s legs, throwing his balance off even more. Bolan snapped off three shots into the gunman’s head. The slugs crushed bone and burrowed into gray matter.
The hold fell eerily silent.
The Executioner retrieved his machine pistol and holstered it. He lowered the hammer on the handgun in his fist and walked over to the Vietnamese captive. He tapped his toe against Pham’s thigh.
“You can let go. It’s over,” Bolan said.
Pham looked up, eyes bloodshot, forehead damp with sweat. Hair was matted against his bronzed skin, and he took a deep breath.
“Thanks for the assistance,” Bolan said, and helped Pham to his feet.
“I don’t want to die,” the smuggler explained.
Bolan looked at the pommel of his knife poking out the jaw of his third opponent, and considered the blade buried too deep to retrieve easily. He left it pinioned through the skull of the smuggler like some form of cannibalistic shish kebab. The man Pham had hit with the butt of his rifle hadn’t moved, and Bolan felt for a pulse. There was nothing, and the Asian’s neck rolled with nauseating ease on the floor at the slightest touch.
“Broke his neck,” Bolan told him.
Pham shrugged. “Eh. The bastard kept stealing my cigarettes.”
Bolan shook his head. He looked at the containers and from the infrared scans of the ship, he knew which ones were occupied. He didn’t have an accurate map, but it was a good place to begin.
Then he paused, looking into the darkness. The musky scent of livestock filled the air and he realized that half the containers that had registered heat were full of cattle.
“Livestock?” Bolan asked.
“Yeah,” Pham said, limping along. “I don’t get it, either. You’d think the Koreans would find an easier way to get hamburger meat.”
Bolan frowned and looked at one of the livestock cars. An animal looked at him from within, large brown eyes blinking lazily in response. The soldier frowned. “These aren’t Thai livestock.”
“I know,” Pham replied. “It’s weird. All kinds of cattle in Africa and the Middle East, even in Southeast Asia, and the Koreans want European or American stock.”
Bolan looked at the limping smuggler. There was a long moment when Pham looked at the loaded revolver in a dead man’s fist, before stepping away. The Vietnamese smuggler had gotten the hint. One man against several, and he’d come out with only a few bruises, despite being disarmed at one point. If Pham had any fight left in him, he was reserving it for anyone who was going to screw up his survival, not the tall wraith who killed with bullets, blades and bare hands.
“Come here, Pham,” Bolan said.
The sentry limped over as Bolan pulled a plastic cable tie from his harness.
“Turn around and hold your wrists behind you.”
Pham nodded and Bolan pulled the cable tie firmly, but not painfully, around the Vietnamese man’s wrists. “You don’t want the girls to notice me?”
“If there’s any fight in them, they’ll take it out on you,” Bolan said.
“And I’m your messenger,” Pham replied.
“Yeah.”
Pham swallowed. “And you’re going to break my ankle.”
“It’ll keep you out of the way,” Bolan replied. “Your dues for the pain you’ve caused.”
Pham nodded. “Thanks.”
Bolan leaned in close. “If we ever meet again, and you’re still on the wrong side, you won’t get a third chance.”
With a stomp, Bolan snapped Pham’s ankle.
The Vietnamese guard’s teeth ground against each other, but he reminded himself that he’d gotten off easy. He’d see the sun again. Coy and the others wouldn’t.
CHAPTER TWO
Park City, Utah
Stan Reader looked up the tree-lined snow trail, cold air biting his cheeks. He took a deep breath, flexed his feet in his ski boots, then lurched forward, taking long loping strides to get up to speed.
Reader cut a narrow path through the powdery snow, little rooster tails puffing up as he moved along. He bent back a pine branch and let it go, leaving a cloud of fine flakes in his wake. Reader then settled into his long, usual pace, ignoring the bounce of the stainless-steel Model 63 .22-caliber rifle against his back. The Taurus 63 was a relatively new rifle, and one he wouldn’t normally use in biathalon competition, but this was just a day for exploring new woods and plinking his rifle at impromptu targets, deftly keeping to the narrow trail between trees. Trunks rolled lazily at his slow, cross-country skiing pace, and Reader lost himself in the moment, his long lean legs and his ski poles swinging in a steady, repetitive motion. This was a one-man sport, and it allowed Reader to get some exercise while freeing his consciousness for other thoughts, such as complex physics formulas or mathematical equations. At various points, he would stop, unsling the rifle and take aim at a small target. On an official course, it would be a five-inch steel plate, and he’d have had to foster his endurance so that his breathing and heartbeat wouldn’t throw off his aim of the sensitive .22 target rifle.
Off to his right, another figure lurched into view, keeping pace with him. It was Kirby Graham, his best friend from college and the military. The big, brawny FBI agent skied alongside Reader for about thirty yards before they spotted an outcropping.
“Race ya, Stretch,” Graham said.
Reader smirked and increased the pace, loping along, arms digging in with the poles to spread the effort of motion to all of his limbs. Graham was bigger, so he had a longer gait that could drive him faster, but Reader, despite being tall, was lean and gangly enough that his wind resistance was lower. Reader sliced ahead of Graham, then cut around the outcropping. There was a dropoff, and the biathlete slashed through the powder for thirty feet. Since gravity was doing its thing, Reader allowed his limbs to relax as he plummeted down the slope at full speed, only switching and altering his balance to keep from crashing into pine tree trunks in his path. Landing upright on crosscountry skis was a testament to his skill.
Stan Reader was a polymath. By age twenty-four, he’d earned degrees in four different sciences, was a pilot and had managed to be an alternate on the Olympic biathalon team. Reader had put his scientific knowledge to good use in the United States Navy, serving on a nuclear aircraft carrier as an engineer. During his military career, the brilliant young man had also become an expert marksman with both handguns and rifles, competing against Marines and Navy SEALs in both sponsored competition or just shooting for cases of beer.
Graham, one of the Marines Reader had competed against, grumbled that Stan would never need to buy another alcoholic drink for the rest of his life, thanks to everyone who had lost to him. Graham had been an F-18 jockey, spending the early part of his career risking his life enforcing the Iraqi no-fly zone and splashing four MiGs before being signed on for the Navy Blue Angels. After that, Graham mustered out and joined the FBI as a special agent. But it wasn’t competition that had forged their friendship.
Reader had been a sixteen-year-old geek in college, easy prey for bullies and frat boys. Graham had been a football player in danger of losing his scholarship. They were unlikely roommates, the skinny, nerdy Reader and the big, gruff Graham. But, Reader had helped focus Graham’s studies, putting him on the honor roll. And nobody wanted to give Reader any trouble with a brick wall like Graham as a guardian angel. It was Graham who’d introduced Reader to skiing in New York state, and to rifle shooting. The biathalon was a wonderful mix of the two sports Reader fell in love with. Long, quiet hours, in quiet serenity across snows, punctuated by a display of marksmanship for five shots, and then moving along. If only someone could combine this sport with Star Trek, Japanese monster movies and professional wrestling, he’d have been in absolute heaven.
Graham had graduated with honors and repaid his college education in the United States Marine Corps. Reader, by contrast, had joined the military simply because he’d thought it would be a challenge. Both men had served on the same carrier, which cemented their friendship.
Now, Special Agent Graham was on station for the FBI in Salt Lake City, and Reader had officially come to Park City to engage in the Nordic Games. Reader had a job to offer his friend, something that could challenge the brawny pilot and get them working together.
The ski weekend was a time to play catch-up, and a chance to engage in friendly competition. Graham might not have been a multidisciplined scientist, but he was one of the few people who could push Reader, not only in discussion, but in physical competition. By all rights, Reader considered Graham his brother, and the big FBI agent felt the same way.
Graham eventually came to a halt beside his friend. His skin was wind-burned and red, but a wide smile split his face. “Fantastic.”
“Weren’t nothing.”
“You’re really starting up your own company?” Graham asked.
Reader nodded. “Just a little something to make good use of my talents.”
Graham pursed his lips. “So what do you need a dumb ex-fighter jock like me for?”
“We need a pilot and a head of security, and I need my brother by my side,” Reader explained.
“You just want someone to keep you out of trouble, Stretch.”
“My aim is to get into trouble, a lot,” Reader retorted. “And then to fix a few problems on my way back out of it.”
Graham took a deep breath. “I’d love to help, but I’ve got a case going on.”
“Maybe I can help?”
“The FBI doesn’t look kindly on agents calling in non-contracted experts,” Graham responded.
Reader grinned and reached under his parka.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Graham responded.
“Since when have you known me to have much of a sense of humor?” Reader replied.
“So you know about the case?” Graham asked.
“There’ve been sightings around Dugway Proving Grounds. There’s nothing solid, but it could be attempts by foreign governments to penetrate security,” Reader said. “By the same token, Chinese military technology is showing up in the hands of local Korean street gangs.”
Graham nodded. “Weapons and communications equipment, yeah. And the government wanted you to take part?”
“Dugway Proving Grounds is one of the nation’s major storage facilities for biological and chemical weaponry, and the sightings of unknown aircraft suggests a potential for enemy stealth capacity. The FBI and the military have both been concerned, but any full-fledged response would garner too much attention,” Reader explained.
“And how did you hear about this?” Graham asked.
“Dugway UFO watchers have their own BBS, and their sightings came to my attention,” Reader replied. “It took only a little bit of digging through the Defense Department’s mainframe to verify these sightings and put the high command on alert, but you know how the Pentagon moves.”
“Yeah. By the time they come up with a security or tactical solution, the war’s been over for twenty years,” Graham grumbled. “You embarrassed the Pentagon into putting you on this case?”
Reader nodded. “I also noticed that you were handed this investigation because you and your partner are on the Department of Justice shit list.”
“Yeah. We embarrassed the DEA into giving up one of their witnesses who was responsible for the murder of an FBI agent. So, we’re stuck looking into the crap cases, working the phones for the Secret Service for when the Man comes around,” Graham answered. “Hell, we’ve even been assigned to try to find a way to get undercover into the Amish Mafia.”
Reader raised an eyebrow. “The Amish are in Pennsylvania.”
“That last bit was a joke, Stretch.”
Reader shrugged. “I’m here to take you away from all this. I can even hire your partner, Rachel.”
“We wouldn’t want to give up our pension,” Graham replied.
Reader chuckled. “Graham, if it’s a pension or health benefits you’re worried about, don’t worry. I’ve got it all covered.”
Graham frowned. “And you think this isn’t just some UFO case?”
“There have been enough rumbles out in the whisper stream that there is something deep and dark. All it takes is to scratch the surface,” Reader replied. He held out his hand. “I want you on my team, Graham.”
The big FBI agent took his friend’s hand. “All right.”
Stan Reader and his friend headed back to the Park City lodge. As they turned, Reader caught the flash of light on glass out of the corner of his eye. A shadow disappeared behind a pine tree, clumps of snow crashing onto the unmarked powder.
He wondered who would be so interested in a scientist and an FBI agent having a ski weekend.
Gulf of Thailand.
IT TOOK BOLAN SEVERAL minutes to convince the people in the cargo containers to stay put. There were too many armed killers on the upper decks, and if they started exploring, they might discover Pham and take out some revenge on the pirate. As far as the Executioner was concerned, being terrified and battered was sufficient punishment for the Vietnamese smuggler. Besides, Pham would be his messenger to the Thai underworld.
Finally, the former slaves were convinced to stay in the hold. The pile of dead smugglers exuded a wave of dread that the young Asians wouldn’t want to pass by. Some even stood back as puddles of blood continued to seep from the bodies.
Bolan liberated a shotgun from one of the dead guards, then filled his pockets with spare shells. Their AK-47s were fairly effective weapons, but in the confined spaces of the ship, a single blast of buckshot would prove more effective. The 12-gauge was made for up-close and dirty work.
The sounds of the blazing battle had drawn attention. As soon as Bolan had snapped Pham’s ankle, he heard the ship’s phone ring, trying to reach the guards in the hold. Bolan let the phone ring, knowing that the response would attract enemy forces.
As he headed to the hallway, he spotted furtive movements at the end and tucked against a bulkhead. Shielded by a steel girder, he leveled the 12-gauge around the corner. As soon as he spotted a solid shape, Bolan triggered the shotgun and a savage storm of buckshot ripped into the enemy.
Screams of panic and horror filled the corridor, and Bolan racked the pump on his gun and looked at the attacking force. The first man was down, his chest ripped apart by the shotgun blast. Two more behind him were pinned by the corpse. One screamed, covered in blood, clutching his chest in pain. The other tried to push his dead and injured partners aside, cursing them angrily. The Executioner fired again. The thug’s skull burst apart under the brutal blast, and his corpse flopped to the floor.
The injured sailor wailed even more loudly in horror, covering his head with his arms as if to preserve his life. Bolan ignored him and pumped the shotgun again, aiming at another gunman who had sprayed the bulkhead with rifle fire. The girder Bolan had hidden behind protected him, the heavy steel bouncing bullets away. With a pull of the trigger, the soldier launched another wave of shot, and the rifle fire stopped for a moment. The muzzle poked out again and erupted, spraying wildly before he ducked back.
The wounded sailor suddenly fell silent. His scalp had flipped forward like a wind-blown toupee, brains and blood splashed across the wall. Bolan heard a cry of dismay as the remaining hardmen realized that they’d just killed one of their own. The Executioner took the time to reload, then leaped across the trio of corpses and took cover closer to the intersection where his enemy was hidden.
One of the guards leaned out with a handgun to get a better shot at Bolan, but the shotgun roared again, its payload gouging out a generous chunk of flesh and bone. The gunner slumped lifelessly to the ground, dark eyes staring glassily at nothing.
That was enough for the rifleman. Bolan heard the panicked sound of retreating feet. The soldier slung the shotgun and drew the Desert Eagle in one smooth motion as he hurled himself into the intersection. The fleeing rifleman heard the Executioner hit the corridor wall and tried to turn to bring his rifle to bear. Bolan triggered his .44 Magnum pistol first, a heavy slug smashing through the man’s shoulder, detonating the joint as if it were a grenade. It continued to plow through his neck and destroy vertebrae in its wake.
The gunner’s corpse flopped, his head bouncing limply on the deck.
The handgunner’s radio crackled on his belt and Bolan scooped it up. The captain was cursing in Italian, wondering where the hell his men were.
“They’re all dead,” Bolan replied in Italian. “You’re welcome to join them.”
He then hit the mute button on the radio and contacted Grimaldi. “Blind them. Anyone tries to get off the ship…”
“I got it, Sarge,” the Stony Man pilot responded. “Nobody but you and the cargo are getting off the ship.”
“I’ve got one messenger to send back to Thailand, too,” Bolan amended. “Give these flesh smugglers something to dream about while I’m gone.”
“Dream, or scream?” Grimaldi asked.
“Their choice,” Bolan replied. “Check their communications. It’s a mishmash of Italian and Oriental languages.”
The Executioner relayed the radio frequency to his pilot.
“Got it,” Grimaldi replied. “Oh, man. They’re burning up the airwaves. I guess when the shooting started, they put out the call for help.”
“Help? To whom? They wouldn’t call the harbor patrol or the navy, there’d be too many questions to answer,” Bolan mused as he dumped his partially spent Desert Eagle magazine, feeding it a few loose rounds to top it off. He reloaded and stuffed some shells into the shotgun.
“I don’t know. I’ve been listening on various frequencies and…radar contact, Sarge,” Grimaldi answered.
“Radar contact?”
“Yeah. Big and coming up under the water. It just showed up. It looks—”
“A submarine,” Bolan growled, and he headed to the stairwell. He paused only long enough to grab the fallen gunman’s rifle and its spare ammo. He slung the weapon over his shoulder on the run, keeping the big Desert Eagle ready to greet anyone who appeared in the stairwell, trusting the shorter length of the handgun in such close quarters.
“Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “I’m running an IFF radar check on it.”
“Probably a Soviet-era sub,” Bolan said into his headset. He paused as he neared the top. “I don’t hear any welcoming crew topside…Jack?”
“No, the entrance to the hold’s all clear,” Grimaldi informed him.
“Keep hanging back and watch out for the submarine. It might have an antiaircraft gun. Soviet 12.7 is more than enough to damage Dragon Slayer,” Bolan stated.
“I know that. Don’t worry, I have TOW missiles locked on the sub,” Grimaldi replied.
“Cripple it and knock out its defenses if you can,” Bolan replied. “I want to be able to figure out what’s going on here. And that sub has all the answers I need.”
“All right, Sarge. I’ll trust your instincts.”
Bolan made it to the deck and transitioned to the dead pirate’s rifle, a Krinkov. A stubby, foot-long-barreled version of the classic AK-47, it was more of a submachine gun than a full-powered rifle, but even without the extra muzzle length, it packed an awesome amount of firepower, throwing .30-caliber slugs at 800 rounds per minute. With three spare magazines, the Executioner was able to hold off a small army.
There was a shout up on the mast, and Bolan spotted three gunmen near the bridge. Their attention, however, was directed off the starboard rail. They had to have seen the submarine as it breached. Bolan shouldered the Krinkov, leveled his front sight and milked the stubby rifle’s trigger.
One of the guards was swatted off the rail, his limp corpse dropping to the deck where he landed in a jumble of twisted limbs. Another collapsed, holding his gut, and Bolan realized that his aim was off. The short-barreled rifle wasn’t as accurate as a full-size AK-47, and that meant that he’d need to adjust his aim for targets as distant as the bridge sentries.