Don Pendleton - Cold Fury

“I do not like to repeat myself,” he said, bringing more pressure to bear. “Do not ever use that tone with me. And never question my instructions again. Do you understand?”

Nome’s face contorted in pain as his head bobbed up and down.

Rokva maintained his grip for a few seconds more before releasing the man with a sudden push.

The American tumbled backward onto his backside, glaring upward with hatred in his eyes, but saying nothing.

Nikoloz unzipped his parka a bit more and pulled it open, displaying the 9 mm Tokarev pistol that he wore in a shoulder holster.

After a few more seconds of silence, Nome looked away and slowly got to his feet. “Okay, man,” he said. “I’m sorry, okay? No disrespect meant.”

Rokva nodded. He had already made the decision that this vermin had outlived his usefulness. Their route had obviously been compromised. It was time to take care of loose ends.

“But look...” Nome said, brushing the snow off the back of his pants. “I still got a right to know what’s going on, don’t I?”

The Georgian took out his cigarettes again, leisurely removing one from the pack and sticking it between his lips. As he raised his lighter, the stillness of the night was interrupted by a distinct crack.

A gunshot.

Sergei had apparently found the trooper.

“What the hell was that?” Nome asked.

“Nothing that is of concern to you,” Rokva said. He held the flame to the tip of his cigarette.

Nome Airport, Alaska

A myriad of tiny white flecks of snow crashed against the windshield as Bolan surveyed the lighted tarmac before them. The airport wasn’t very large and a one-story tan building in the center formed the main hub. Bolan assumed the row of hangars lay beyond that.

Once Grimaldi had taxied up as close as he could to the terminal, he shut the jet down and coasted to a stop as the ground crew came running forward to meet them. The Stony Man pilot yawned as he unbuckled himself.

Bolan unfastened his seatbelt, stood and stretched. Unable to adequately rest during the flight, he was feeling the unwelcome vestiges of fatigue and stiffness residing in his tight muscles. After sitting for over three and a half hours, it felt good to stretch a bit. He wondered if the lingering fatigue was a byproduct of the cramped conditions or the lack of sleep. Both he and Grimaldi had been on the go since early the morning of what was now the previous day, and he could use a cup of hot, strong coffee.

Grimaldi worked the lever to unlock the door and release the stairway so they could deplane. The cold air engulfed them as soon as the door was fully open.

“Jeez, I shoulda brought an extra pair of long johns.”

Bolan picked up the two backpacks that contained their weapons and tossed Grimaldi his.

As soon as he stepped out onto the platform, the blast of frigid air engulfed Bolan like a blanket of ice. It was a vivid reminder of how inadequate their clothing was for this climate and their need to restock before they could proceed any further on this mission. He hoped Kurtzman had taken care of that, but at the same time he assumed everything had been set in place. He had never let the Executioner down.

As they made their way across the tarmac, Bolan caught sight of a big man in a brown parka and dark stocking hat waiting at the entrance to a hangar. The bright colors of the Alaska state trooper patch decorated the man’s left shoulder. Also visible was a conspicuous bulge on the big man’s right hip—a weapon, no doubt. As he and Grimaldi drew closer, the trooper grinned, his white teeth flashing from under a bushy reddish mustache.

“I’m Lieutenant Dave Case,” he said, extending his hand. “Alaska State Troopers.”

Bolan shook Case’s hand. “Matt Cooper, Justice Department.” With his left hand, he held up the false DOJ credentials that he routinely used as a cover. Grimaldi showed his faux ID, as well.

Case barely glanced at them, instead staring into Bolan’s eyes.

“Welcome to Alaska,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting the guys who had enough clout to wake up my district supervisor in the middle of the night and then have him send me out as a welcoming committee.”

“From the size of you, big guy,” Grimaldi said with a chuckle, “committee’s an appropriate term.”

Case snorted. “Yeah, you know what they say. Everything’s bigger in Alaska.”

“I take it your supervisor mentioned that we’re on the trail of some human traffickers?” Bolan asked, steering things back to business.

“He did. We dispatched a man up to the Wales area to check things out.”

“One man? The guys we ran into in Seattle played pretty rough. Russian mafiya from the looks of it.”

Case’s face took on a serious expression. “That’s what I was told, but up in these parts we don’t have an unlimited number of personnel to send on any given call. We’re used to working alone.”

“Has your man gotten there yet?” Bolan asked.

“He radioed Dispatch that he’d arrived at the airstrip and was going to checking things out. But that was a while ago and we haven’t heard back from him.”

“Well,” Grimaldi said, jerking his thumb toward the now vacant Learjet, “as soon as that baby’s fueled up and ready to go, I’ll fly us up there.”

“I take it you haven’t been up here before,” Case said.

“We’ve been all over the world,” Grimaldi replied. “Although this place hasn’t exactly been on my bucket list. But an airport’s an airport in my book.”

“You could hardly call what’s up that way the kind of airport you’re used to. It’s a gravel strip about four thousand feet long that’s usually plowed, depending on the weather.” He gestured toward the jet. “I doubt you’d have enough room to land that thing on it without a tail-hook. Not to mention the gravel getting sucked up into the turbines.”

Grimaldi pursed his lips, said nothing.

“Lieutenant,” Bolan said, “we need to get up there ASAP. We’ve been tracking this group for several hours and your man might need backup.”

“I agree,” Case said. “But we don’t always have a ton of equipment at our disposal.” He pointed toward a blue-and-white helicopter. “That’s one of ours, and it’s ready to go, but we’re waiting on a pilot.”

Grimaldi cleared his throat loudly. “Well, you got one. I’ll go start my preflight check.”

“You can fly a copter?” Case asked.

“In my sleep, wearing a blindfold over one eye.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a different ballgame up here,” Case said. “With the weather conditions and the mountains and—”

“I know all about carb-heat, bud,” Grimaldi said. “Listen, if it’s got wings or rotors, I can fly it, and that includes anyplace on the planet. Now, excuse me.” He began walking toward the helicopter.

“He’s a cocky son of bitch, isn’t he?” Case said with grin. “Can he back it up?”

“He walks the walk,” Bolan said, feeling the effects of the brutal temperature starting to numb his body. “I believe you were supposed to get us some appropriate cold-weather gear, as well, weren’t you?”

“Oh, right.” Case stepped to the side and indicated that he should step into the hangar. “It’s a bit warmer in there.”

Case pointed to three large duffel bags, each stuffed with equipment. A black elliptical case, apparently containing snowshoes, was draped over each one.

“There are also survival rations in the copter.”

“I appreciate your efforts.”

“Nothing but the best for the DOJ,” Case said. “You brought your own weapons I take it?”

Bolan held up his backpack and nodded before heading into the relative warmth of the hangar. The pervasive cold still lingered like an unwelcome adversary. He went to a duffel bag and opened it. A heavy parka had been packed on top and Bolan pulled it out and slipped it on. The fit was pretty good.