Perilous Cargo

by Don Pendleton

  “Where are we going, Felicks?”

  “My hotel,” he said. “It’s the only half-decent place to stay in the whole city. I’ve arranged for a suite for you.”

  “I see. Can you tell me why I am being so honored?” Grigori asked.

  “You may ask, but before I answer, allow me to ask you a question. Did you really think that letting your dog off his leash would not attract attention?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I’m very certain that you do, Grigori. You may not have the exact details yet, but I’m sure your imagination can conjure what Vitaly might have done in a backwater nation like this.”

  The car turned a corner and slowly made its way into town.

  Grigori finished the glass and then poured another. “I’m the head of Russian Intelligence, Felicks, but I can’t be held accountable for the actions of every man in the agency. Am I to be held responsible for Vitaly?”

  “Not if you’re not here,” he replied calmly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, tomorrow morning, first thing, you get back on your plane and go to Moscow and you wait until I have this situation handled.”

  “But I have...things to take care of here. I won’t accept responsibility for—”

  “You’ll accept whatever responsibility I make sure you have, Grigori. The only question is how much of the muck I fling in your direction.”

  Grigori was silent, considering his words. “If I leave, you’ll handle everything?”

  “Anything and everything that might have required your interference,” he said. “Vitaly is an animal—little more than a rabid wolf—and worse, he’s more corrupt than you are.” Kolodoka took a sip of his vodka. “The smart move for you, and for Russia, is for your plane to leave at first light. You go back to Moscow and forget you ever knew the man’s name. He will be remaining in Kathmandu.”

  “If he disappears here, there will be questions.”

  Kolodoka laughed. “There won’t even be whispers, Grigori. He’d hardly be the first man to come to Kathmandu and never leave. Besides, there are more players in this game than you know. You’ve let your agency get sloppy, and if you don’t clean it up, someone else will.” The warning in his words was clear.

  “Let me stay—perhaps I can help. I do not want this matter between us. Let me make things right.”

  “Your help is not necessary, nor is it wanted.” Kolodoka’s smartphone beeped, and he read the message, shaking his head. He tapped on the glass partition, which the driver lowered, and whispered some soft words.

  The car circled back around the city and returned through the airport gates and into the hangar that held Grigori’s plane.

  “I thought we were going to your hotel,” Grigori said.

  “I changed my mind. I will be going to my hotel, but you’re leaving tonight. Pick a new destination and go there.”

  “You said Moscow.”

  “Given the information I just received, perhaps Moscow is a little rash. Distance and time are needed, and you should take a vacation. A long one. Maybe someplace warm, like Fiji. Just pick somewhere far away.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Kolodoka leaned forward, then turned his phone screen toward the other man. The message was from the main intelligence director. It read: TERMINATE ALL PARTIES WITH PREJUDICE.

  “I think you understand me now, yes?” Kolodoka asked. “Get on your plane and go where you will. Send the plane back or people will come looking for it. It’s time for you to disappear now, Grigori. I’m giving you more of a chance than I will Vitaly.”

  The driver opened the door, stepped aside and waited.

  Grigori’s face had paled considerably during the short ride. “What will I do now?” he asked. “Where will I go?”

  “You have skills of a sort,” he said. “I suggest you market them, quietly, somewhere that isn’t a major world power. Make a nice little living and stay off the radar. If I hear of you again, Grigori...I will make you disappear.”

  “I see,” he said. “Understood.”

  “I hope so, for your sake, brother,” Kolodoka replied. “The old wars are over and those who linger on the battlefield or do not adapt will be eliminated.”

  Kolodoka watched as the shattered man staggered back in the direction of his plane and stood by patiently as it took off. It didn’t really matter where Grigori decided to go, however...the pilots would no doubt kill him before they landed anywhere.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  For a time, the storm grew so bad, they had no choice but to stop and wait it out. Finally, the worst of it passed, and the old truck coughed and wheezed its way to the crest of the ridge as rays of sunlight glinted off the sheets of ice left over from the storm. Bolan downshifted in an attempt to control their descent. The slippery conditions made driving feel more like bobsledding, but Bolan held the truck on the road.

  “What do you think the odds are that we’re ahead of the Russian?” Nischal asked.

  “With the way our luck has been going, I wouldn’t put money in our favor,” Solomon said.

  They traveled for about another hour until they could see the Friendship Highway in the distance. Bolan parked and climbed out, grabbing the binoculars to scope the highway. Just as he expected, he could see Vitaly and his thugs moving down the road. The weather had obviously been less of a problem in the lower part of the valley.

  “I see our target,” Bolan told the others. “We’ll have to hurry to intercept.”

  “What’s that up ahead?” Nischal asked, pointing.

  Bolan changed his focus from the distant highway to the mouth of the road they were on. “Five vehicles. It looks like they have the same idea that we do, but they’ve got a head start.”

  “Can you see who it is?” Solomon asked.

  “No, but if I had to guess I’d say it’s the Chinese.”

  Bolan slid the truck into gear and hit the gas.

  “What are we doing?” Nischal asked. “If it is the Chinese, we can’t let them know we’re here.”

  “I’d say our being here is secondary to them getting ahold of that nuke, wouldn’t you?” Bolan asked.

  Nischal pursed her lips, then nodded. “At least we’re coming in behind them. Let’s get going before someone down there spots us.”

  Solomon chuckled quietly. “By the looks of things, everyone down there is pretty distracted at the moment. We may have a shot at this yet.”

  * * *

  DAIYU LIN ORDERED the men to move into position as the convoy approached. For himself, he’d chosen a motorcycle despite the icy cold air and slippery conditions. He was willing to trade warmth for the speed and maneuverability of the bike.

  The support of Soong’s men was questionable at best. He didn’t believe for even a minute that they wouldn’t shoot him in the back once they had the cargo. In fact, he imagined that Soong, a known black market player, had given the orders personally. He would need to be careful and ensure that once he’d obtained the weapon, Soong’s men were no longer part of the equation.

  Lin revved the bike, the back wheel kicking up dirt as he tore out onto the road. Two of the SUVs moved in behind him, and two other motorcycles took up the rear. Lin pulled a pistol from his jacket and took the first shot at the lead truck just as it came into range. He knew he would miss, but the shot had the desired effect—the truck swerved wildly and slowed down. The vehicles behind it immediately swung wide, trying to make their way around it to intercept him. He smiled, lowering his pistol for another shot, but he didn’t get the chance to pull the trigger as the truck burst into flames.

  * * *

  “I THINK YOU got their attention,” Nischal told Bolan as the lead truck in Vitaly’s convoy went up in flames.

&nb
sp; The motorcycle closing in on the Russians teetered then righted itself, and when the two SUVs behind it squealed to a stop, the men jumped out and fired wildly at the convoy.

  Two motorcycles in the Chinese convoy peeled away from the group, closing in on their battered truck.

  “Let’s finish this quick,” Solomon said.

  “Nischal, take the wheel and get me closer to that bike,” Bolan said, pointing to the nearest one.

  Nischal took his place as he pulled himself out the window, Desert Eagle in one hand.

  When the nearest bike pulled up alongside the door, he put a fast round through the rider’s head, grabbed the handlebars and jumped onto the bike less than a second later. He tossed the seizing body to the ground with one hand, then took aim at the second motorcycle. The driver ducked, narrowly missing the bullet, and managed to swerve off the road and onto a small trail that ran along the base of the mountain.

  Bolan holstered his pistol and followed the bike, leaving Nischal and Solomon to deal with the others. Before heading into the valley, they’d made Raju hunker down on the floor in the backseat of the truck. They covered him with an old blanket so no one would spot him and he’d be spared the sight of the violence to come. Bolan had also given the boy the bulletproof vest he’d taken from Solomon’s backup shelter the night before. Raju had protested, wanting to help in the fight, but Bolan stood firm. Raju was clever and brave, but he was still a child. Bolan wasn’t about to have his blood on his hands.

  Bolan steered the motorcycle over the rough terrain. The small berms that couldn’t be avoided turned into jumps as he accelerated. He closed the gap between himself and the other rider and drew the Desert Eagle, firing two rounds. The first caught the driver low in the back and he arched like an angry cat. A bump in the road caused Bolan’s aim to be off, and the second round caught the other bike’s back tire. The motorcycle careened out of control, flipping over and then smashing into a rocky outcropping, cutting off the man’s screams.

  Bolan revved the motorcycle and spun around, heading back for the main road, looking for the third bike. He didn’t have to wait long; the man appeared to be on his way to him, having been forced to reposition away from Vitaly’s men. The rider bearing down on him wore no helmet, but a simple woolen scarf covered the lower half of his face. Still, Bolan didn’t need a long look to know who he was—a Chinese operative, an assassin, really, whose name was Daiyu Lin.

  They’d never met, but Lin’s reputation preceded him. He was a gifted killer, which meant China fully intended for everyone involved in this mess to die.

  Lin drew his own weapon and opened fire, raining bullets in his direction as Bolan sped and swerved down the road. They went past each other, much like two men on horses in a jousting tournament, trading bullets as they went.

  Bolan skidded to a stuttering halt. He glanced down to check a bullet graze and saw that his leg was fine, but the round had pierced his gas tank. The bike wouldn’t last much longer and Lin would be at a distinct advantage.

  Lin had wasted no time and was bearing down on Bolan again. The hail of bullets began and Bolan spun the motorcycle in a tight circle, but it was no use. He jumped clear just before a stray round caught the tank and it exploded.

  Bolan didn’t wait for Lin to make another pass, but instead used the smoke and distraction of the explosion to leap over the wreckage of his bike and plow full-force into Lin, knocking him off his own. Both men hit the frozen ground in less than elegant form.

  Bolan rolled out and away from Lin as the man began reaching for the short-stocked assault rifle he’d lost in the fall. Bolan grabbed him by the leg, yanking him off balance. The heavy Chinese military boots kicked and wavered as Lin tried to steady himself and take hold of the weapon.

  Bolan rocked back on his haunches and leaped forward, knocking Lin to the ground again. The assassin rolled and spun, and a knife appeared in his hand almost like magic. Bolan moved back, and his opponent took advantage, doing a leg sweep and knocking him flat on his back.

  The knife descended in a flashing arc, and Bolan grabbed Lin’s wrist, the blade millimeters from his face. The jubilant face of the man was betrayed by the sweat dripping off his brow as he pushed his weight behind the knife. Bolan twisted harder, hearing the bones crack in the wrist, but Lin kept on pushing, fighting past the pain.

  “You...stupid American,” he panted. “You...cannot win.”

  Bolan strained against the pressure as Lin pressed down even harder, the blade nicking Bolan’s cheek.

  “Stop fighting,” Lin said between gasping breaths. “Your time is done.”

  Bolan found another surge of strength. He twisted beneath Lin, getting a leg free and changing the leverage point.

  He twisted the man’s wrist even more and the knife rotated away from his face and back toward his opponent. He could see the surprise on Lin’s face as he realized it was a losing battle. He adjusted his weight to move away from the blade and Bolan didn’t miss the opening.

  Bolan thrust upward, rolling to pin his opponent beneath him. He pressed the blade to Lin’s throat.

  “Who are you?” Lin asked.

  “Just a stupid American, but I always win.” Bolan shoved the blade forward, cutting his carotid.

  “Colonel!”

  Bolan turned to see Nischal running toward him. “The Russians got away,” she said. “Vitaly didn’t even slow down much and he only lost the one truck.”

  “At least it didn’t end up in this guy’s hands,” Bolan said. “That is—was—Daiyu Lin. Chinese assassin. I’m pretty sure he’s the one they sent to take us all out. One less player on the field for now.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Nischal said. “But his men weren’t Chinese. He had local help, and the handful that was left took off after Vitaly.”

  “What are you resting there for?” Solomon asked as he walked up to them, Raju trailing along behind. “We’ve got to keep moving. We need to get this weapon before this grows more out of control.”

  Bolan rose to his feet.

  “What happened to you?” Solomon asked him.

  “I had a little problem.”

  “Well, there was only one of them. Surely nothing for a man of your skills.” Solomon strode back to the truck with Bolan and Nischal in his wake.

  “The old man has high expectations,” Bolan said. “Lin was a professional, world-renowned assassin, not some cheap street thug.”

  Nischal smiled. “It’s good to know that you can struggle, too. I was beginning to think I was the only one with a weakness.”

  They looked up as the truck engine revved and started to pull away with Solomon behind the wheel. Raju waved to them from the window.

  “Where the hell does he think he’s going?” Bolan asked.

  “To finish the job.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Li Soong sat in his private office with four mahogany boxes opened in front of him. Each box contained a canopic jar from an archaeological dig. Soong traced the edges of the each jar. The ancient Egyptian tradition of placing the organs in jars when the body was mummified was fascinating to Soong. Each jar was magnificently decorated; the tops were figures that represented the sons of the god Horus. He lifted out the Imsety jar and marveled at the golden inlay along the fine alabaster. The afterlife was less interesting than keeping himself in this world for as long as he could, but he liked being the only one to possess certain objects. Although many people collected canopic jars, his were unique—from a new find that would soon rock the archeological world.

  The phone rang and Soong gently replaced his prize inside its chest. He was patient, making certain that the boxes were closed before he picked up the receiver. He motioned for his servants to take the boxes and scowled at them, a reminder that their lives were not as valuable as his prizes.

  �
�Li Soong,” he said. “How may I be of service?”

  The background road noise on the end of the line was terrible, but Soong quickly recognized his man’s voice. “Vitaly broke through the ambush. Daiyu Lin is probably dead by now.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  His man explained the ambush arranged by Lin and how they’d been attacked from behind by what appeared to be a small group of American mercenaries.

  “Where is Vitaly now?” he asked.

  “Ahead of us on the road and making all speed to Kathmandu.”

  “Ahh...I was hoping you would have more promising news, like he’d met his untimely end along with Lin. That would’ve been much easier than what we’re dealing with now.”

  “There was interference from that other party. We need more men to cut him off, if you want us to intervene.”

  Soong looked across the table at Kolodoka, whom he’d been ignoring up to that point.

  “I have a solution to the problem,” he said. “I’ll call you back.”

  He hung up the phone and stared at Kolodoka.

  “What is it?” the Russian asked.

  “An interesting complication. The Chinese sent Daiyu Lin to intercept Vitaly and the weapon. I gave him a handful of men to order about and to keep an eye on him. They ambushed Vitaly but were ambushed themselves by a small American force.”

  Kolodoka raised an eyebrow. “Does your man know who these Americans were?” he asked.

  Soong shook his head. “They didn’t have time to ask. It sounded like Vitaly ran right over them in the chaos, and Lin is likely dead.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the Chinese had an operative here?” Kolodoka asked. “I could have made some plans around that.”

  “I do not work just for you, Felicks. We never arranged an exclusive agreement for my services. Will you quarrel with me over this?”

  The Russian shook his head. “Of course not, but if you’ll excuse me, I must go and help prepare a welcome for Vitaly.”