Don Pendleton - Road Of Bones

He was concerned about himself, the damage to his reputation, his career—and yes, to his accumulated fortune—if the bitch who had betrayed him wasn’t found and silenced. He could deal with an internal inquiry, assisted by superiors who had as much or more to lose than Marshak did.

But if the case went public, he was lost.

A colonel made a nice fat sacrifice for others higher up the chain of rank. A general, perhaps, or someone in the prime minister’s cabinet. Maybe the prime minister himself?

Before any of his superiors went down, they would be pleased to let him take the fall, resign in shame, perhaps receive a token prison term. There’d be a pension of some sort when he was finally paroled, of course…unless he had an accident in jail, or even prior to trial. Such things weren’t unknown in Russia.

They were commonplace, in fact.

The answer was to find Anuchin and destroy her, with the man or men who cared enough to rescue her. And those who had employed them, if he had the opportunity.

And it had to be accomplished soon.

* * *

WHILE ANUCHIN showered, Bolan used his cell phone for a call to Yakutsk Airport. The Russian agent had gone through the telephone directory with him and had compiled a short list of three charter airlines operating from the local airport.

Bolan passed on Yakutskiye Avialinii, which Anuchin described as an official airport subsidiary, and tried his luck with the second company in line. Private Jets Charter Service had an English-language website and an operator who agreed that they could fly two passengers to Tokyo aboard a Dassault Falcon 50 or a Hawker 800 on three hours’ notice for nine thousand dollars U.S.

The soldier put the nonrefundable deposit on his Visa card, and drifted to the bathroom, knocking hard enough for her to hear him in the shower.

“Almost done,” she told him.

“Take your time,” he called back through the door. “Our flight takes off at seven-thirty.”

She turned the shower off and said, “You’ve booked a plane?”

“It’s set,” he answered. “All we have to do is check in with their booking agent at the terminal.”

There was silence from Anuchin then, except for sounds of rustling fabric. Bolan guessed a towel, then clothing she had taken from a closet in the safehouse. Feeling like a voyeur, he retreated to the living room.

She joined him moments later, dressed in slacks, a blouse and sweater, with a towel around her head. There was a certain stiffness to her movements, which was no surprise after the ordeal she’d been through.

Still, she declared, “That’s better.”

“You can rest awhile before we go,” Bolan said. “Longer, on the flight.”

“They must have asked you questions.”

“Just my name, and whether I could pay,” Bolan replied.

“Your name. Which is…?”

They hadn’t got around to formal introductions yet. “Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. “And yours, I know.”

“Of course, you must. You’re CIA?” she asked.

“A cousin, several times removed.”

“You realize the airport will be watched,” she said.

“I know it’s possible.”

“Call it a certainty. They’ve caught me once already there,” she stated. “You have no reinforcements?”

“No,” he said. “Just me.”

“I fear it’s hopeless, then,” she told him.

“That’s the spirit.”

Anuchin sat and began to dry her short hair with the towel.

“There are two ways to reach or leave Yakutsk,” she said. “If not by air, then over the Kolyma Highway, which begins at Nizhny Bestyakh, on the east bank of the Lena. We can only reach Nizhny Bestyakh by ferry, which my enemies will also watch.”

“Let’s try the charter first,” Bolan replied, “before we count it out.”

“Of course,” she said. “But you must be prepared to fail.”

“If that’s the way you feel,” he said, “you should have thought about it at the start, before you put your own neck and your partner’s on the chopping block.”

That obviously stung her, but she took it, nodding.

“You’re correct. We were a pair of fools.”

“It’s never foolish when you try to do the right thing,” Bolan said. “Sometimes it has a price, but that’s the way things work.”

“A great price, yes?” Anuchin said. “First, Sergey’s life. Now yours and mine.”

“We’re not dead yet,” Bolan reminded her. “A little confidence could help you stay alive. But if you’re giving up, why don’t you tell me now. I don’t need any deadweight on my shoulders while I’m running.”

“Confidence, of course,” she said. “And weapons, yes?”

“I’ve got a fair stash from the warehouse,” Bolan said.

She tried a smile and said, “Let’s see them, then.”

* * *

NIKOLAY MILESCU SIPPED a cup of bitter coffee he had purchased at a kiosk in the international arrivals and departures terminal, watching the travelers who scurried past him, hoping for a glimpse of a familiar face—the person he’d been sent to capture, or to kill, if all else failed.

Milescu had a photo on his cell phone of the woman he was hunting. She wasn’t the type he favored, though he wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Too bad for her, she’d never get to know him in that way and learn how he could please a woman.

All the future held in store for her was pain.

The problem: she was hard to hold.

In fact, the woman had been picked up once already, at that very airport, but she had been liberated by a man or men who left the snatch team dead. Milescu’s boss said one man was responsible, but why take chances? So he’d sent four other guns along, put Milescu in charge and promised them a fat reward if they secured the fugitives.

Alive or dead.

Milescu personally didn’t think it likely that the woman would return to catch another flight, after she had been kidnapped from the terminal the previous night, but people frequently did stupid things. He would remain alert and stay in contact with his soldiers, placed strategically around the airport.

With that in mind, he palmed his Motorola phone, the Tundra model that combined normal calling and web access with push-to-talk service, effectively making the cell phone a small walkie-talkie. Keying the button to contact all four men at once, he commanded, “Report in by number.”

“Number two,” Vasily Ryumin answered. “Nothing yet in the domestic terminal.”

“Three here,” Naum Izvolsky said. “Baggage claim is clear.”

“Number four,” Viktor Gramotkin replied. “Nothing but peasants in the parking lot.”

Milescu waited to hear from Gennady Stolypin, stationed on the roof to watch the charter hangars through binoculars. When half a minute passed with no response, he keyed the phone again.

“Waiting for check-in, Number Five.”

“Hold on,” Stolypin answered him belatedly, ignoring all decorum. “I have someone just arriving… Can’t see who it is yet.”

“Where?” Milescu asked. “Which hangar?”

“Private Jets,” Stolypin answered. “Wait a second, while I… It’s a GAZ four-door. Can’t say what model from this distance. There, it’s stopped. The driver’s getting out…a man. And now, a woman. Let me check the photo. Yes! It’s her! I can take them down from here!”

Stolypin had a VSK-94 sniper’s rifle with him on the roof, the silenced model, semiautomatic, with a 20-round box magazine of 9 mm SPP rounds.

“No!” Milescu snapped over his walkie-talkie, up and moving toward the nearest exit. “Do not fire! You know the order.”

“Yes,” Stolypin answered back. “Alive or dead.”

“With higher pay if she’s alive. Just watch and wait, until we get there.” To the others then, in case they weren’t in motion yet, he said, “All hands to Private Jets, south of the terminal!”