Don Pendleton - Cold Fury

No, he thought. If the son of a bitch hadn’t answered by now, something had to be wrong. If that were the case, it would necessitate altering the plan. This did not bother him. He always had another plan formulating in his mind. It was what made him a master of the game, be it chess or his criminal endeavors.

One always had to be thinking a few moves ahead.

He blew out a cloud of smoke as he strode to the door of his cabin and pulled it open. He found the small space disgusting because it reminded him too much of his meager upbringing in Moscow. His father had moved the family from western Georgia to the large city in search of work. But instead of the “prosperity for all” the Communists had promised, they’d found only more poverty masked by an inadequate state-sponsored stipend and no motivation to do better. Rokva had found himself always cold and hungry and roaming the streets. Soon he’d realized it was far easier to merely take what he wanted. A loaf of bread, a container of borscht, a piece of fruit. And that was how he’d met Sergei.

He’d been crouching in the shadows of the alley, devouring an apple, when a large shadow fell over him: the man from the market where Rokva had stolen the fruit. The man was large and his face was twisted with an angry scowl.

“You little Georgian thief, stealing from me. I will shove those glasses up your ass.” He raised his arm and was about to deliver a strike that Rokva knew would surely cripple him.

But the blow did not come. Instead, another boy appeared, perhaps a year or so older than him, and much bigger and stronger. The boy swung a thick cudgel into the merchant’s left knee. The man howled in pain and started to turn when the boy brought the heavy stick down on the back of the merchant’s neck. He emitted a low grunt and then fell, keening, onto the ground. Rokva stood transfixed as the other boy brought the stick down again and again until the merchant’s groans ceased and he lay unconscious, a copious amount of blood seeping from the many cuts on his head and face.

The other boy smiled.

“That old bastard gave me a beating yesterday,” he said, holding up the thick wooden cudgel. “So today I brought this.”

“Is he dead?”

The other boy toed the man’s face with his well-worn shoe, causing the merchant to moan.

“Not yet.” He kicked the merchant’s face.

Rokva grinned. “You’re strong. Where did you learn to fight liked that.”

“My father. He was in the army. In Afghanistan. He was Spetsnaz. Soon I will join, too.”

“What is your name?”

“I am Sergei Dankovich. And you?”

“Nikoloz Rokva.” He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.

Sergei’s eyes narrowed. “You are Georgian?”

Rokva nodded. “We came from Kutaisi.”

The other youth smirked. “No matter. I need someone to play with.”

“Come on,” Rokva said. “Let’s go get some more of the old bastard’s fruit.”

And so it began. Their lasting, special friendship was formed... Brothers... But much more than that, enduring even after Sergei and he left for the army, and years later, when Rokva became a low-ranking associate for the mafiya , eventually rising to the position of captain just as a disillusioned Sergei returned from the fighting in Chechnya. Sensing his friend’s weariness and disenchantment with the military, Rokva quickly recruited him to be his soldier. And now they were both getting rich. If this current plan materialized the way he had envisioned, they would soon be a lot richer. He thought about telling Sergei of the special treat that he had for him, the American cigarettes that he enjoyed so much, but decided to wait for the right moment.

He came to Sergei’s cabin and knocked on the door.

“What?” The voice was mixed with exertion.

“It’s me,” Rokva said. “We have a problem.”

“Shit. Wait a minute.”

He could hear a murmuring sound through the door, then a series of harsh grunts, followed by a truncated scream. Then the door was flung open and the naked figure of Sergei stood there, his powerful body covered with a sheen of perspiration despite the cold temperature. Beyond him, in the narrow bed, Rokva could see a nude, moaning woman. He recognized her as one of the prettier ones they’d taken onboard. She lay on her back, making no effort to cover herself, her breathing coming in fits and gasps.

Sergei strode toward a dresser, grabbed a bottle of vodka from the top and took a swig. He returned to the doorway and offered the bottle to Rokva, who shook his head. He preferred to keep his mind clear when business was at hand.

Sergei shrugged, took another swig and then said, “What problem?”

“Yuri did not return my text.”

Sergei inhaled deeply, pondering this. “What is next then?”

“We should be docking soon. Let me see if everything is ready there.” He took out his satellite phone and this time dialed Greagor Lebed’s number.

After several rings, he finally answered.

“Why did it take you so long to answer the damn phone?” Rokva demanded.

“I am busy. You think I was out admiring the moon?”

Lebed’s insolence sent a spurt of anger through him. “Don’t be a smart-ass. Is everything ready?”

“As ready as it can be. One of the planes has mechanical problems. It is down.”

Rokva felt his anger heighten. “Why was I not advised of this sooner?”

“Listen, you try dealing with these damn Eskimos. They are difficult.” Lebed’s voice sounded weary yet tinctured with a slur. The son of a bitch must have been imbibing again. Rokva decided Sergei could deal with the drunken bastard when they arrived.

“Charter another plane,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Another DHC-6. Make sure it can hold at least twenty-five.”

Lebed snorted. “Oh, all right. Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Is Wladimir with you?”

“Of course.”

More insolence. This flippant asshole was going to pay for his effrontery.

“May I assume the third plane is ready for him?” Rokva asked.

He heard Lebed heave a heavy breath before answering. “Yes.”

“Good. I want him to be ready to leave with the samples as soon as we arrive.”

“Anything else? Boss.”

The impudent lilt in Lebed’s voice as he added the last word sealed his fate. Rokva waited a few beats before responding to be certain he had eliminated any trace of the building rage in his reply. “We will be there soon. Keep me apprised of the situation.” He then terminated the call and looked back at Sergei, who was smirking.

“Drunk?” he asked.

Rokva nodded.

“I told you before, did I not?” Sergei held up the bottle of vodka. “Some men can handle the juice, others let it handle them.”

“We will deal with that idiot later. Find Boris Kazak and make sure he has everything properly labeled and categorized. And tell him to get ready to split up the shipment for a partial harvest. We’ll need to alter our plan.”

“That is my Nikoloz,” Sergei said. “Always planning ahead.”

“Life is like a game of chess. A true master must always be thinking several moves ahead of what is before him on the board.”

Seattle, Washington

“Russian,” Grimaldi said, nodding. “Yep, I had these guys pegged from the get-go. But I thought the bikers and the Russians didn’t get along up around these parts?”

Bolan was aware that a rather protracted and brutal conflict had occurred between Russian organized crime and the biker gangs in Seattle and Vancouver several years ago, but he also knew that new profits and criminal enterprises often supplanted old grudges and rivalries.

“Maybe they’ve patched things up,” Bolan said as he walked the length of the truck.