Arctic Kill

by Don Pendleton

  To say that his masters, the Sun-Koh, had been impressed was treating it lightly. They’d been ecstatic. Those old men, gathered together in secret to plot and scheme, rattling on about Aryan purity and the lost empire of mighty Thylea, didn’t have the wisdom to see what Mervin saw. To them, the secret of HYPERBOREA was another cog in their engine of delusion. But to Mervin it was a stepping stone to something better. And he was eager to begin.

  “Get it ready. We will be leaving today,” Mervin said.

  “Short notice.” Blackjack raised an eyebrow.

  “It is a plane, not a space shuttle,” Kraft said dismissively. It was the first time he had spoken in Blackjack’s presence, and her eyes narrowed.

  “You know anything about planes?” she asked.

  “Quite a bit,” Kraft said.

  “Then why aren’t you flying your pals out into the big white nothing?”

  “Perhaps I should,” Kraft said as he pushed away from the door.

  Mervin raised a hand. “An arrangement has been made.” He looked at Blackjack. “Double your fee, if you are ready within the hour.”

  “Triple.”

  “Double and a bonus to be determined upon return to Anchorage,” Mervin countered. He could sense Kraft seething behind him, and he fought to restrain a smirk. Blackjack eyed him for a moment and then spit in her hand and extended it. Mervin hesitated, but only for an instant. Then he followed suit and shook Blackjack’s hand. He was rewarded by a grin from her and an intake of outraged breath from Kraft.

  “Your pal doesn’t like me much,” Blackjack said as she released his hand.

  “He doesn’t like anyone much.”

  Mervin and Kraft left the hangar and headed back toward the trio of SUVs that had brought them from the hotel. They’d checked out earlier in the day when Sparrow failed to call from Seattle. Boyd and the others piled up their gear on the tarmac in front of the hangar. None of them was armed, but their weapons were in easy reach, just in case.

  “Employee, am I?” Kraft murmured. He sounded amused.

  “Would you rather I had said that we were brothers in a nihilistic secret society, hell-bent on eradicating three-fourths of the human population, including her?” Mervin asked.

  Kraft made a face. “I still think we should simply take the plane.”

  “Killing her would attract more attention than we need at this juncture,” Mervin said. His mouth tasted of tar. He desperately wanted a cigarette. “Kill her as soon as we get where we’re going, if you like.”

  “I was planning on it,” Kraft said. He sounded pleased at the prospect. Mervin had never understood the appeal of casual murder. Killing Kraft, on the other hand, an acquaintance of long association, would be a delight.

  Sparrow’s failure annoyed Mervin. It also caused him some apprehension, though he wasn’t planning on admitting it to anyone. Was the same man interfering again? Sparrow had sworn that he’d killed him, but what if... Mervin tried to push the thought aside, but it crept back with stubborn persistence. The plane from Seattle had arrived on schedule, but neither Sparrow nor Ackroyd had been aboard. As soon as he was certain that something had gone wrong, Mervin had flipped mental gears to Plan “B.”

  The absence of Ackroyd was the greater loss of the two. Mervin had been planning to have Sparrow killed anyway, but Ackroyd was a necessary component of the plan. Ackroyd was the only man who knew how to get into HYPERBOREA. Without him, they would be forced to employ less-effective measures.

  Boyd dropped a duffel bag on the tarmac and Mervin flinched. “Careful!” he snapped.

  “The explosives will not go off from being jostled,” Kraft said. A glare from the big man stifled the resultant chuckles, but Mervin frowned regardless.

  He hated them so much. Idiots, brutes and thugs—they deserved what they had coming. He knew that they called him the Tick-Tock Man behind his back. He knew that they hated him as much as he hated them. Mervin was only tolerated because of his intelligence. You think you’re warriors, and maybe you are, you atavistic simpletons. But I am a warrior, as well, he thought, with a flush of savage pleasure. With jittery fingers he reached for his pack of cigarettes. Kraft’s hand snapped out, snatching it from him.

  “No.”

  “Give that back,” Mervin whined. He couldn’t help it. He was nervous and angry and he hadn’t had a cigarette in over an hour. The nicotine lash caressed him and he spat, “Give it to me!”

  “No,” Kraft said. “We are standing in front of an airplane hangar. Can’t you smell the fuel fumes? There is a very good chance that one spark could set something off, so...better safe than sorry.”

  Mervin hunched forward with a grunt. He clenched his hands so tightly that his knuckles turned white and he gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he snarled. “I’m going to go find a place where I can smoke.” He snatched the pack out of Kraft’s hand and stalked off.

  He could feel Kraft’s eyes following him the entire way. Mervin wanted nothing more than to pull the .22 holstered beneath his coat and put a round between Kraft’s eyes with mathematical precision. He was quite a good shot, though Kraft didn’t know that.

  But he couldn’t do it. Not yet. In fact, he didn’t know exactly when he was going to do it, but their mysterious opponent had provided him with the perfect opportunity to hide his tracks. The disappearance of Mervin and his cohorts in the Arctic wilderness would be put down to enemy action. Mervin would be free to change his name and face and sell the thing they sought to the highest bidder.

  He knew what it was. He knew the scientists had processed and extracted the plague they had dubbed “Ymir,” and that there were likely samples remaining. Even if there weren’t, he had all the equipment he needed to parcel out the contagion and provide each of them with an infectious dose. Then the group would split up—each man going to a different international airport—and from there, they would drive a biological dagger into the guts of the world.

  At least...that had been the plan he’d concocted for the Sun-Koh. Those demented old men had fallen for it completely, as had Kraft and the others. They wanted nothing more than to sacrifice themselves for the glory of their cause. And Mervin fully intended to allow them to do so. But he would not be joining them.

  No, he intended to sell Ymir to the highest bidder. The U.S. government alone would likely pay him an exorbitant amount to return their lost property. Or, if he were feeling entrepreneurial, he could dilute the samples and parcel them out to a variety of groups. He felt less enthusiastic about the latter—in the wrong hands, Ymir would be dangerous. Mervin didn’t fancy becoming exceedingly wealthy only to die choking on his own boiling juices. He might simply sell a placebo, after a controlled demonstration.

  Mervin stopped, a cigarette halfway to his lips, wondering if the research staff at HYPERBOREA had made recordings. If so, they would prove useful. New plans sprang from that thought, spreading like webs across the surface of his mind. He hummed to himself as he grabbed the cigarette between his lips and lit it. He looked out across Merrill Field. From where he was standing—behind the hangar Blackjack was using—Mervin could see the runway.

  Puffing happily, he warmed himself with thoughts of what was to come. And he wondered if he ought to thank their opponent, whoever he was, for providing him with the opportunity to free himself from the shackles of the Society of Thylea.

  “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for your health.”

  Mervin froze. The cigarette tumbled from his lips and fell to the tarmac, where it smoldered. He felt something hard and cold and very, very sharp brush against his throat. It was a knife, and a large one, held by a large hand.

  The voice, rough and calm, continued. “Are you armed?”

  “Y-yes,” Mervin whispered. He felt his bowels loosen, and he closed his eyes, fighting the urge to wet himself. Terror blossomed in sharp bur
sts, making it hard to think.

  “Where is it?”

  “Under my right arm,” he said. He felt a hand reach into his coat, and his .22 was plucked from its holster.

  “I’ve been watching you for the past twenty minutes. I know who you are and what you’re planning...you and the eleven men you’re with. You are going to come with me and I am going to restrain you. If you try to fight me, or if you call for help, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes,” Mervin mumbled. He didn’t think the man was bluffing.

  “Good. Start walking,” the voice said. The knife was pulled away from his flesh. Mervin began walking. His mind reeled. What was going on? He needed a cigarette. His hands twitched. He needed a minute to think. Just a minute...

  “Mervin, where are you going?” Kraft called out.

  Mervin turned and saw Kraft approaching, one hand reaching beneath his coat, his eyes widening. He saw his captor for the first time—a tall man, rangy but muscular, with hard features and icy blue eyes that flashed first to Kraft and then to him. The blue-eyed man recognized him, he could see it! Mervin screamed and hurled himself to the side, out of the reach of that terrible knife the man still held loosely in one big fist.

  “Kill him, Kraft! Kill him!”

  Chapter 12

  The Executioner moved with lightning speed, covering the distance between himself and the man called Kraft in an eye-blink. Bolan still held the combat knife clutched in one hand and as he closed in, he swept the blade out in a vicious slash. It tore through the sleeve of the other man’s coat and Kraft staggered, forgetting about the pistol Bolan knew he’d been reaching for.

  Kraft hissed and backed away, blue eyes narrowing. Bolan fell into a knife-fighting stance, the combat knife held low and extended, as he examined his opponent. They were of a size, both big men, but Kraft had more muscle packed onto his frame. They circled one another slowly. Bolan made sure to keep the thin man in sight, as well. If he was the man Sparrow had mentioned—Mervin—Bolan had no intention of letting him escape.

  “Who are you?” Kraft asked, examining the blood on his palm.

  Bolan didn’t reply. He could tell from the way the big man moved that he was dangerous. There was a lethal poetry to him that the Executioner recognized. His Heckler & Koch UMP .45 was strapped across his back, and the Desert Eagle was on his hip, but he knew with certainty that if he made a motion toward either, Kraft would be on him.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Kraft asked, wiping his hand on his coat. “Good knife, there. I’ve got one myself.” He reached behind him with his other hand still extended to counter any thrust Bolan might make, and drew a straight-edged knife from a sheath on his belt. “It’s a Nahkampfmesser, a trench knife. My great-grandfather carried it in the First World War. It has shed much blood, this blade. Yours has, too, I’d wager,” Kraft continued congenially.

  “Stop talking and kill him, Kraft!” Mervin yelped, pressing himself flat against the side of the hangar.

  “I do not tell you how to make your little plans, Mervin. Kindly do not tell me how to kill a man,” Kraft said, his tone chiding. He met Bolan’s cold gaze and shrugged. “It is hard to work with people who do not understand, eh? I know you know what I’m talking about. You’ve got the look, same as me.”

  “I’m nothing like you,” Bolan said.

  “He speaks!” Kraft said. “For a moment, I feared you were a mute. It is only a guess, but I’d say you are the reason Sparrow could not join us. Am I right?”

  Bolan lunged. The KA-BAR combat knife slashed out and Kraft caught his wrist. Bolan grunted as Kraft’s fingers tightened and a spasm of pain thrummed through his tendons. The trench knife dug for his face and Bolan grabbed Kraft’s hand. The tableau held for a moment. The only sound was the occasional quiet grunt of effort from one of the combatants. Then the stalemate was broken in a flurry of motion as Bolan hooked Kraft’s ankle with his own and the latter’s knee drove upward, seeking Bolan’s groin.

  Both men fell only to leap to their feet moments later like contesting lions. Kraft’s blade hissed out and parted the flesh of Bolan’s cheek, releasing a spray of red into the cold Alaskan air. The Executioner gave no sound of pain, and his own blade drew a toll from Kraft’s neck. Kraft cursed and reeled, launching an awkward kick that caught Bolan full in the chest and drove him back into the side of the hangar. The combat knife was knocked from the Executioner’s grip, and the UMP dug painfully into his back.

  Kraft dove upon him with a hoarse cry of triumph. Bolan caught his wrist, halting the tip of the trench knife mere inches from his eye. They strained against one another for a moment, Kraft pressing down with all of his weight, and Bolan resisting with every ounce of muscle he possessed.

  Bolan jerked Kraft’s arm to the side before bringing the man’s wrist down on his upraised knee. Kraft’s fingers opened and the knife fell. Quickly, Bolan flung up an elbow and caught his opponent in the face. Kraft staggered, disoriented. Bolan lunged forward, tackling him. Kraft’s hands snapped up and his palms crashed against Bolan’s ears. The Executioner rolled away, clutching his head, and Kraft followed him, one big fist thundering down to catch Bolan across the jaw.

  They rolled across the ground, struggling. Bolan’s fingers sought Kraft’s eyes, and the big man gave a yowl as they connected. He reared to his feet and stumbled back, momentarily blinded. Bolan twisted and kicked out, knocking Kraft to the ground.

  The Executioner rose and took the opportunity to drag the UMP around, taking aim at the big man. Kraft climbed onto his haunches and scraped blood from his face. Bolan’s punch had busted his nose, but Kraft didn’t seem to mind. He smiled widely. “Good,” he wheezed. “Good fighter. Sparrow was right to be worried about him, eh, Mervin?”

  Bolan had lost track of the thin man during the scuffle. He glanced to the side and saw Mervin raise his reclaimed .22 in one shaking hand. The pistol spoke and Bolan threw himself to the side. His UMP spat in reply, the noise suppressor choking its growl to a muted grumble. Mervin hurled himself to the ground as Bolan’s shots punched through the side of the hangar.

  Kraft sprang to his feet, scooped up his blade and dove at Bolan with a berserk cry. Bolan, on one knee, blocked the blow with his gun, but he was carried backward by the force of Kraft’s charge. The moment his back touched the ground, Bolan drove his knees up, striking Kraft in the belly and sending him flying. Before he could do more than get to his feet, however, Mervin was screaming for help.

  An AR-15 opened up in reply, chewing the ground between the two hangars. Bolan scrambled for cover as Kraft hauled Mervin to his feet and went the other way.

  Bolan barreled through the hangar’s side door just in time to see the twin-engine DHC-6 roll onto the tarmac, engines buzzing. The doors were open and men in gray winter gear were throwing heavy duffel bags inside. Two of them saw Bolan and raised their weapons. Bolan ducked out of sight behind an industrial air compressor as the gunmen fired.

  Bullets rattled off the compressor and punched holes in several fuel drums nearby. A strong smell filled the hangar, reminding Bolan of the warehouse. He knew a rogue spark could easily lead to a repeat of that earlier conflagration.

  Bolan heard a shout and, peering carefully around the compressor, he saw a slim shape drop out of the plane and race toward the gunman. The Executioner winced as the woman slammed a wrench across the back of a gunman’s head. The man fell onto his hands and knees and another turned, surprised. The wrench snapped out again, catching him in the face, and the second man dropped his gun as he cried out.

  Bolan seized the moment, rising from cover and firing from the hip as he raced forward. The gunman with the busted face spun about with a strangled cry and crumpled to the tarmac. The other scrambled away as his companions caught on to what was happening. The woman stared at Bolan in apparent shock and said something, though he couldn�
�t make it out over the noise of the plane. She made as if to raise the wrench, when Kraft grabbed her from behind, one arm wrapping around her neck and the other extending over her shoulder, a 9 mm pistol in his hand. The pistol barked and Bolan jumped back as it struck the tarmac. He half raised the UMP but couldn’t fire for fear of hitting the woman.

  “That’s far enough, my friend,” Kraft called out. “Yes, that is quite far enough. It seems our pilot has decided to throw in her lot with you. Very disappointing, but unsurprising, given her savage nature.”

  “Savage what?” the woman shouted. “I was just trying to keep these assholes from blowing up my hangar! I paid for that hangar!”

  “Be that as it may, I now have no choice but to kill you. It will give me no small pleasure, you understand, but it is nonetheless inconvenient.” Kraft smiled thinly and locked eyes with Bolan. The Executioner caught sight of Mervin sliding into the cockpit, his face pinched and tense. “But first, I must say auf wiedersehen to you, my friend. It was a fine dance, albeit brief, but it is over.”

  “Hell with that,” the woman snarled. Her head snapped back, further squashing Kraft’s already pulverized nose. The big man stepped back with a yelp, shaking his head. Bolan stretched out a hand and she took it without hesitation. With a jerk of his arm, Bolan whipped her behind him even as he caressed the UMP’s trigger.

  Kraft scrambled for the plane as the last of his men still on the tarmac fell, his chest and face splashed with red. The men on the plane returned fire through the still-open doors, and Bolan ran for the dubious safety of the hangar, shoving the woman ahead of him as AR-15s tore the tarmac at his heels.

  “What the hell is going on?” the woman yelled as they sought cover behind the air compressor that Bolan had abandoned only moments before. “Who are you? Why are you shooting up my hangar?”

  “Cooper, Justice Department,” Bolan snapped, yanking her down. “Keep your head down, damn it!”