Arctic Kill

by Don Pendleton

  “Vril-YA, motherfucker,” he grunted.

  Chapter 5

  The warehouse sat just outside the central business district of Reno. It was surrounded by several blocks of nothing in particular save more warehouses. Being a Sunday, those warehouses were empty and the surrounding area was quiet. From the Executioner’s point of view, that was perfect. No one around meant little in the way of potential collateral damage. He hefted the Heckler & Koch and examined it one last time. Such meticulous attention to his equipment had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  The address Brognola had run down was gold. Bolan’s opponents were either lazy and overconfident, or they didn’t plan on staying long after grabbing Ackroyd. The warehouse was registered to SunCo Industries. Bolan had never heard of it. Nonetheless, as he examined the warehouse from the roof of its closest neighbor, he wondered if the address had been chosen at random, or whether there was a connection between these men and where they’d chosen to fort up. But that was a consideration for another time. Better to concentrate on the matter at hand.

  A quick scouting foray had revealed a number of cars parked behind the warehouse. Bolan had efficiently disabled all of the vehicles, removing spark plugs or puncturing tires. After that, it had been a simple matter to break into a nearby warehouse and get up to the roof via the HVAC access hatch. Bolan looked up at the sky. It was getting dark, or as dark as it got in Reno.

  The Executioner let the UMP dangle from its sling and hefted his Plumett AL-52. The air-launcher was capable of throwing a grappling hook attached to a rope around one hundred meters. Taking aim, he fired. The Plumett gave a soft pop, and the grappling hook sailed over the gap between the two warehouses. The hooks dug into the opposite roof. Bolan gave the rope an experimental tug and then set the Plumett down on its weighted stand. The line would bear his weight long enough for him to get across the gap.

  Bolan gripped the line with his gloved hands and swung off the warehouse roof, quickly interlacing his ankles over the rope. He hung suspended over the gap, his back to the ground, his face pointed at the sky. Then, hand over hand, he pulled himself toward his destination.

  When Bolan was halfway across, he heard the squeal of hinges from below. He froze, risking a swift, upside-down glance at the ground. A shape moved out of a side door and stepped into the alley between the two warehouses. Bolan’s keen gaze caught a spark of light and he smelled the tang of a newly lit cigarette. He waited for a moment. Then, certain the figure below wasn’t looking up, Bolan continued to pull himself across the line. When he reached the edge of the roof, he hauled himself over and dropped to his feet, UMP ready. Satisfied that his arrival hadn’t been noticed, Bolan located the access hatch and entered the warehouse.

  Lowering himself onto the gantry, he scanned the warehouse below. Bolan was well above the fluorescent lights that illuminated the mostly empty building. He could see a delivery truck at the loading dock and the serpentine coil of a conveyer belt that stretched across the interior of the building from one set of loading docks to the other. A few picnic tables and benches were off to the side, near a pair of soda machines and an office. Several men sat or stood nearby, including Ackroyd, who was steadily adding to a small pyramid of smoked-down and stubbed-out cigarette butts on the concrete floor between his feet. Ackroyd looked frightened. Bolan couldn’t blame him.

  The men were a hard-looking lot. All white, all dressed like tourists... But tourists didn’t carry AR-15s and what appeared to be SIG-Pro semi-automatic pistols. There were six of them. Seven, if he counted the one who’d gone outside. Carefully, Bolan picked his way across the gantry, trying to get a view of the office. He could hear a raised voice coming from within.

  Bolan set the UMP on the gantry rail, bracing it. Then he slowly unclipped several smoke grenades and two M84 stun grenades and set them down beside him, in a line. Five grenades would help to even the odds, if used correctly. But his targets were too clumped together. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem, but Ackroyd was in the line of fire. Bolan needed to separate Ackroyd from his watchdogs. The Executioner swept his gaze across the warehouse, hunting. When he found what he was looking for, he crouch-walked across the gantry and removed one of a trio of throwing knives sheathed on his combat harness.

  The flat, balanced blades were heavy enough not to result in bounce-back, but light enough that a man of Bolan’s strength could send them hurtling a great distance. The knives had been crafted by Stony Man’s own weaponsmith, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, according to Bolan’s specifications. While Bolan preferred his KA-BAR combat knife, there were times the lighter knives came in handy.

  He took aim at the control panel for the conveyor belt. Then, with a whip-crack motion of one arm, the Executioner sent the blade spinning at the panel. It struck a wide button and with a grinding squeal, the conveyer belt rumbled into motion. Bolan quickly made his way back to his grenades. He stuck earplugs into his ears and placed a mouth guard between his teeth. Then he pulled a pair of tinted safety glasses from a pocket and put them on. Between the plugs and the glasses, he would be protected from his own handiwork.

  Down below, the sudden activation of the conveyer had startled Ackroyd’s guards into motion. Sparrow peered out of the office, a cell phone in one hand. The three men who headed for the belt held their weapons loosely. An overconfident bunch, they clearly weren’t expecting an attack. Bolan clucked his tongue and gently lobbed a smoke grenade at the far-loading dock. Pulling the pin on a second, he dropped it from the gantry onto the moving conveyer belt. A second later, he sent the last wobbling through the air straight for the picnic tables. Then, snatching up the stun grenades in one hand, he dropped from the gantry to the top of the conveyer belt. He landed hard and bent his knees, propelling himself forward onto his belly. Lying flat, Bolan slid down the incline of the conveyer belt as the warehouse filled with smoke.

  It was a risky maneuver, but it was the best one available to him. As the old maxim said, “when in doubt, attack.”

  Bolan rode the belt between the two spreading clouds of smoke, his UMP at the ready. As he caught sight of the confused guards hurrying away from the picnic tables, he popped the pin on one of the M84s and sent the bomb hurtling at the small group.

  The stun grenade emitted a blinding flash and a bang of 170 decibels—loud enough to cause temporary deafness and ringing in the ears. Despite his safety glasses, Bolan kept his eyes shut and covered his ears as the grenade went off. He didn’t open them until he’d rolled off the conveyer belt and hit the floor. Bolan raised his UMP as he came to his feet. He let off a short burst and the three men did a deathly jitterbug as the rounds shredded their bodies. Bolan spun toward the picnic tables and let off another burst, taking out a fourth gunman, who’d been running forward when the grenade had gone off.

  Slowly, the Executioner stalked through the warehouse. The stun grenade should have flattened everyone, or at least disorientated them. A shape staggered through the smoke, clutching a rifle. Bolan waited for it to draw closer. One of the guards, coughing, obviously deafened. He stared blurrily at Bolan, and comprehension crept sluggishly into his gaze. He began to raise his weapon and Bolan put him down.

  He stepped over the body and headed for Ackroyd, who was crouching beneath one of the picnic tables. Nearby, a gunman had flipped over another table and was using it as cover. When he caught sight of Bolan, he let loose a burst from his AR-15. Bolan reacted with almost-feline agility, darting to the side as bullets chewed the concrete floor. He twisted midsprint, spraying the overturned table. As he did so, he saw Ackroyd mouth something. The old man’s eyes were wide and full of warning.

  More shots cut toward him from the other side of the building, and Bolan saw the seventh man crouched behind the conveyer belt. He’d obviously heard the gunfire and cut his smoke break short. The Executioner thumbed the pin out of the remaining M84 and sent the grenade sailing right at
the seventh man with an underhand lob. Bolan threw himself flat. The stun grenade went off with a burst of pyrotechnics, igniting the gasoline fumes on the loading dock and triggering a fiery explosion.

  The seventh man disintegrated in the blast and Bolan was sent skidding across the floor. The UMP clattered from his grip as he rolled across the concrete with bone-bruising velocity. His back smashed against one of the soda machines and it fell on top of him, pinning him to the floor. A moment later, the second toppled across the first and the ember of pain that had begun to flicker in the back of Bolan’s skull exploded into blazing incandescence. Fire alarms began to blare and somewhere above, the warehouse’s sprinkler system activated. Water splashed down in sheets, stinging Bolan’s eyes and face. Black, oily smoke mingled with the lighter variety from the M84s and Bolan began to cough. He shoved at one of the pop machines, trying to shift it. It rocked slightly, and the pressure on his legs eased. If he could raise it high enough, he might be able to slide his legs out. A sound caused Bolan to look up from his exertions.

  Through the greasy coils of smoke that were rapidly filling the warehouse, the remaining gunman approached with his pistol extended. “Vril-YA!” The man coughed and took aim.

  The Executioner reacted with deadly precision. Even as the gunman’s finger tightened on the trigger, Bolan snatched at one of his remaining throwing knives and whipped it forward with lethal accuracy. The knife seemed to sprout from the gunman’s skull and he crumpled without a sound, the pistol going off harmlessly as he fell.

  Bolan immediately went back to shifting the soda machines. The smoke clawed at his lungs and seared his sinuses as it spread through the warehouse. Even with the sprinklers pounding down, the fire didn’t seem to be going out. He needed to grab Ackroyd and get out of the warehouse fast. The building might not burn down, but it would become a veritable oven—they’d cook if they didn’t smother. He shoved at the soda machine, trying to get his hands under it.

  “Well, ain’t this a kick to the pine nuts?” Bolan looked up and saw the hunched shape of Ackroyd making his way through the smoke. “You still alive, kid?”

  “Hardly a kid,” Bolan said as he tried to work his shoulder up under the machine. His body was starting to throb with agony, and his contortions weren’t helping matters. “Name’s Cooper. I’m with the Justice Department,” he said, giving Ackroyd one of his cover names.

  “Younger than me,” Ackroyd said, “and I figured.” He coughed and glared at the smoke as if it had personally offended him. “You made a real mess of things, kid.”

  “I’ll apologize later. We need to get out of here,” Bolan said, wincing as the soda machines settled. It was all a matter of leverage, rather than strength. He had none, so the weight was proving impossible to budge. “If you can find something to help me lever this thing up...”

  “I can’t,” Ackroyd said, looking at him helplessly.

  “Anything at all,” Bolan insisted. “Grab one of those benches and drag it over here...”

  “You ain’t hearing me, son. I can’t.” Suddenly, the sprinkler system cut off.

  “No, old man, you can’t,” Sparrow said, stepping into Bolan’s field of view. He had a pistol in his hand, but it wasn’t pointed anywhere in particular. That didn’t make Bolan feel any better. Sparrow looked down at the man Bolan had taken out with the throwing knife and sighed heavily. “Poor Alexi,” he murmured. His gaze swung back to Bolan and turned vicious. “You,” he growled. The pistol rose.

  Ackroyd stepped between them. “No,” the old man said.

  “Out of the way,” Sparrow snapped.

  “I won’t let you murder a man in front of me,” Ackroyd rasped. “You might have me over a barrel—you’ve got guns on my family and I have to get you into HYPERBOREA—but you’ll have to kill me stone dead before I let you shoot a man in cold blood in front of me.”

  Bolan tensed. Surreptitiously, he began to reach for his remaining throwing knife. If he could get it out quickly enough, he might be able to take out Sparrow. He never got the chance to try, however. Sparrow shoved the old man out of the way and delivered a hard kick to Bolan’s skull. Stars burst and flared before his eyes as pain ripped through his head. Dizzy, Bolan slumped back and groaned as the machines settled more firmly atop him.

  “Fine,” Sparrow snarled. “I won’t kill him. But he’ll die all the same. Mervin wanted us to burn this place and the fire this fool started will do just that. No witnesses, no evidence.” He looked down at Bolan. “A few minutes of hell don’t make up for the men you killed, but it’ll do.”

  Bolan spat blood and tried to raise his head, but a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. Sparrow turned and grabbed Ackroyd. Through blurred vision, the Executioner watched as the man he’d come to rescue was snatched out of reach yet again.

  Chapter 6

  Bolan’s throat burned and his sinuses felt as if they’d been swabbed out with barbed wire. With the sprinkler system turned off, the fire had grown in strength, and the building was rapidly filling with smoke. As he groaned and tried to raise his head, something in the back of the warehouse exploded, adding smoke to the spreading inferno. He coughed raggedly. It was getting hard to breathe and he felt like an overcooked sausage, ready to burst. With a primal instinct, Bolan knew that to stay where he was meant certain death.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. Sparrow must have cut off the sprinklers. A gutted warehouse meant no evidence, and that implied there was evidence to be found. He looked around, trying to focus. Adrenaline surged through him and, bracing one forearm against the soda machine, he gave a bone-twisting heave and forced it up. Shattered plastic and burst cans tumbled across him, splattering him with stickiness. With a groan, Bolan caught the edge of the machine with his other hand. He dragged his aching legs up toward his chest. Plastic shards tore through his fatigues and a curse slipped through his clenched teeth. Balancing the weight on his forearms and knees, he took a moment to catch his breath. Then, in a burst of strength that few other men could match, Bolan gave a heave and sent the soda machines toppling off him. He gave a groan of relief as the pressure that had been steadily crushing his chest and lungs vanished.

  His body ached from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Nonetheless, Bolan rolled onto his stomach and shoved himself to his feet. He staggered to the office, leaned against the doorframe and tried to catch his breath. Sparrow had set a fire in the wastebasket. Bolan caught sight of what he recognized as plane tickets and snatched them out of the flames, whipping them through the air to extinguish them. He could just make out the name of the departure and arrival locations. Stuffing the charred tickets into a pocket, he picked up the phone to call the fire department. Then, after a last look around, Bolan made his way to his own vehicle. As he shot down the road, a number of fire trucks blazed past, sirens wailing. Bolan allowed himself a brief moment of triumph. If Sparrow wanted the place burned, that was reason enough for Bolan to make sure it wasn’t.

  * * *

  SOMETIME LATER, THE Executioner arrived at the Reno-Tahoe International Airport. On the way over, he’d called Stony Man Farm and given Kurtzman the information he’d recovered from the office. Now Bolan was parked in the long-stay parking lot of the airport, considering his next move.

  Reno-Tahoe was one of the busiest airports in the nation, and as such, it had the increased security presence now common to all such airports. Even so, Sparrow’s plan was clever—a commercial flight would be harder to divert and harder to control than a private flight. There would be plenty of innocent bystanders, and Ackroyd’s good behavior was guaranteed.

  Still eyeing the airport, Bolan reached over onto the seat beside him and hefted his phone. He rang up Stony Man Farm to see if Kurtzman had gotten his information. Brognola answered. Tersely, Bolan told Brognola what he’d learned, including what Ackroyd had said about his family. Brognola cursed vir
ulently. The big Fed’s own family had come under fire once, and the memory stung a nerve.

  “I’ll get our people on it. I’m still getting the cold shoulder regarding Ackroyd’s files, but I’m more than willing to shove their need-to-know right up their posteriors rather than let one civilian suffer,” Brognola snarled. Bolan could picture the older man chomping on one of his cigars as he spoke. “Here, talk to Aaron. I’ve got some asses to kick,” he added.

  Abruptly, the line switched over and Aaron Kurtzman said, “Striker? I got the info you requested, but first—I found out who you’re up against this go-round.”

  “Wonderful,” Bolan said. “Who are they?”

  “They’re Nazis,” Kurtzman replied flatly. “And not just that—they’re a full-blown apocalyptic cult.”

  “Meaning?” Bolan asked.

  “The Society of Thylea was a group of German occultists who got together in Munich after the First World War. The membership list reads like a Who’s Who of early Nazi sympathizers. They believed the Aryan race was descended from the peoples of the lost continent of Atlantis, and they think that bringing this world to an end will resurrect the empire of Atlantis.”

  Bolan blinked. “Atlantis,” he repeated.

  “As in ‘The Man from...’ starring Patrick Duffy. A lost civilization with advanced technology. Remember your pal Bulwer-Lytton?” Kurtzman asked.

  “Vril,” Bolan replied, catching the reference. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Great.”

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. These guys are all over the Net, Striker. They’re like slugs, leaving a slime trail across everything. And they’ve got serious money behind them. It looks like the Society funds half a dozen white-power groups in the good old US of A and twice that number in Europe. That warehouse they were in? That was one of theirs. SunCo, Kohson, T.H. Lea and Sons, and four or five more shell companies scattered across the continental United States. They’re like ticks with their teeth sunk into a dog. They advocate race war, ethnic cleansing and a host of other unpleasant things. And they’re funding separatist groups in Spain, Greece and several other countries. Lately they’ve developed an unhealthy focus on a phantom called HYPERBOREA.”