Arctic Kill

by Don Pendleton

  “They know who you are, Mervin,” Bolan said. The base shuddered again, and the emergency lighting flickered. Mervin looked around nervously. “There are Federal agents already moving into position. There’s no way you’re making it off this river, let alone Alaska. If you surrender now—”

  “I’ll go into a dark hole and disappear,” Mervin said. He smiled. “I’ve worked with conspiracy nuts long enough to know there is a grain of truth to it all. Governments make people disappear all the time. Especially when they know things they shouldn’t.”

  Bolan said nothing. Truthfully, he couldn’t say what would happen to Mervin if he surrendered. More than likely, he’d be pumped for information about the Society of Thylea, dumped into a hole somewhere and kept without trial. He was a terrorist, and he’d be treated as such.

  “I do intend to disappear—never fear,” Mervin said. Bolan recognized the signs of a man talking just to hear himself. He looked at the thing on the table. It was small to be so dangerous. “Once I get what I came for.”

  Need to keep him talking, Bolan thought. The longer Mervin talked, the better the chance Bolan could take him down. “And what’s that? It’s not like you can risk walking out of here with its skull tucked under your arm. And it doesn’t look like you brought any containment equipment.”

  Mervin’s face twisted into a grimace. “No matter,” he said. “I can improvise something.” He looked at the counters that lined the walls, as if searching for something to hold his prize. Just then, the base shook again and Bolan seized his moment. He slapped the barrel of the .22 aside, even as Mervin convulsively pulled the trigger. Bolan’s palm caught Mervin in the throat and he staggered back, gagging. He retained hold of his weapon and flailed about, pulling the trigger again. Bolan ducked around the examination table and came at Mervin from the side. His fist slid across Mervin’s jaw, and the little man fell onto the floor with a scream. Bolan dove onto him and sought to twist the pistol out of his hand. As he grabbed it, a shadow fell across him, and Kraft’s long arm caught him in the throat. Bolan flew backward into the examination table.

  “Get up, Mervin,” Kraft bellowed. “Get up, get out of here. Vril-YA!” He grabbed the front of Bolan’s coat and hurled him against the wall. “The spear must be thrust, and Thylea ascendant!” Kraft vaulted onto the examination table and used it as a springboard, flinging himself at Bolan, who narrowly rolled aside. Bolan rose to his feet and barely avoided a looping backhand from Kraft, who was moving like a dervish, his bloody face contorted in a devil’s mask.

  They traded blows, punching and kicking, driving each other into walls and cabinets, as the base shook and shuddered about them. Somewhere close by, another set of pipes burst, and water began pouring down from the ceiling. Through the flurry of blows ringing down on him from his opponent, Bolan saw Mervin grab something from the counter closest to the examination table and then hurry for the hatch. The Executioner had a terrible premonition and tried to break away from Kraft, but the big man grabbed him in a headlock and spun him about, sending him slamming into the examination table, which toppled over, carrying the mummy in its plastic shroud with it.

  As Bolan clambered to his feet, he saw Mervin standing in the hatchway, Bolan’s own Desert Eagle in one trembling hand. Kraft backed toward him, eyes on Bolan. “Good, Mervin,” he said. “We may not be able to complete your plan, but we have accomplished something.”

  “Oh, I’d say my plan is coming along just fine.” The Desert Eagle swung toward the big man. “Kraft,” he said.

  “Not now, Mervin. We must go. This place is coming apart at the seams.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Bolan knew what was coming. Kraft must have heard something in his partner’s voice, because he whirled even as the pistol roared. Kraft was knocked backward. Mervin fired at Bolan, who threw himself behind the examination table just in time. Then the little man stepped out of the hatch and slammed it shut.

  Bolan reached the door a moment later. The mechanism had been jammed somehow, and no matter how much he forced it, it wouldn’t budge. Water was slopping across the floor. It was now shin-deep, and the cold clawed at Bolan. He kicked at the hatch, cursing, but he wasn’t strong enough to open it.

  The sound of wheezing laughter made him turn. Kraft, sitting in the water, had pulled his wounded frame upright against the overturned table. He spat blood and shook his head. Bolan stared at him, impressed despite his loathing of the man. Kraft was tougher than most. “Cunning...little...sneak,” he wheezed. “Braver than I gave him credit for... Never thought he’d shoot me like that.”

  Bolan looked down at Kraft. The Executioner knew a dying man when he saw one. The bullet hadn’t killed him outright, but it had likely punched a hole in one of his lungs. A normal man would have been killed outright from shock alone, but Kraft wasn’t planning on going that easily, it seemed. Bolan sank to his haunches. Kraft grinned redly at him. “You knew he was planning something?” Bolan asked.

  “I knew he’d try something. He’s...been difficult,” Kraft grunted. He fumbled at his coat. Water splashed as HYPERBOREA made a sound like a dying beast. Bolan heard a distant bang that might have been an explosion or collapsing rocks. Kraft looked around blearily. “He wasn’t a true believer. He lacked will.”

  “He’s planning to sell the contagion,” Bolan said. “I can stop him, if I can get that door open.”

  Kraft’s gaze sharpened. He coughed again. His breathing was becoming more ragged. “You want me to help you,” he croaked. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because if you don’t, people could die,” Bolan said. “People will die.” He realized as he said it that it was a mistake. Kraft was a psychopath, dedicated to a savage nihilism that would make even the most ferocious member of the Taliban balk. He wanted people to die—the more the better.

  Kraft gave a caw of laughter that quickly descended into a strangled cough. “Good. Let them all die, the mud men and their filthy litters, let them all burn in the true fire.” He grinned.

  “They won’t die alone. You said it yourself—Mervin isn’t a true believer. He’s betrayed you and your Society, all for a quick payday. He’ll sell Ymir to the highest bidder—white, black or brown. Do you think he cares whether Aryans or Arabs buy it, so long as he gets paid? Do you want him to get away with that?” The words tasted ugly, and he spat them as fast as possible, puncturing the damp, cold air.

  Kraft looked away. Bolan stared at him for a moment and then rose to his feet. “Then try and die quietly,” the Executioner said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Bolan went back to the door and tried to force it. He heard the sound of Kraft climbing to his feet and then the dying man was beside Bolan, shoving his weight against the hatch’s control mechanism. “Vril-YA, my friend,” Kraft rasped. “What a warrior you would have made, had you but listened to the glory of your blood.” The hatch gave a groan but didn’t budge. Water from the burst pipes was thigh-high and didn’t appear to be slowing down. Bolan cursed as his hands slipped on the wet metal. It tore his palms through his gloves and blood sluiced down the frame, mixing with the water.

  “Keep pushing, my friend,” Kraft whispered hoarsely. “Iron is nothing compared to will. Death is nothing.” Bolan threw himself against the hatch, and Kraft did the same. The two men strained against the door, and then slowly, noisily, it began to open. The hinges, long since rusted, whined so sharply that Bolan’s teeth itched in his gums. Bolan stumbled through the hatch and turned to see Kraft lying face-down in the water. The strain had done what the bullet alone couldn’t. The Storm Eagle had made his last flight.

  The Executioner turned away. There was no time, even if he had been inclined, to spare a thought for Kraft. The man had been a monster, but there had been steel to him.

  The floor seemed to ripple beneath Bolan’s feet. He had to hurry. There was no time for caution now, only for spee
d. Running flat out, the Executioner sought his prey.

  HYPERBOREA was in its death throes when Bolan leaped from the entry hatch and slid onto the shaking gantry. He looked around and saw Mervin staring down at the rafts, as if calculating rate of descent and the statistical probabilities of surviving the fall. The water was churning below, stirred up by the creaking frame of the base. The whole structure was unraveling, like a house of cards struck by a strong breeze. Rocks were falling, as well, releasing trip-hammer-like sprays of mountain water that struck the base and hastened its collapse.

  The gantry shifted, swinging slightly from side to side. Bolan maintained his balance through sheer will, and charged at Mervin. The little man noticed him at the last moment and turned, the Desert Eagle giving voice to his displeasure. The bullet skidded across Bolan’s ribs and the wind was ripped from his lungs as he was forced to clutch the gantry rail for support. “Stop right there,” Mervin yelled. “I’ll shoot you again if I have to. I’m an excellent shot.”

  “I can’t let you go,” Bolan said, forcing himself to his feet.

  “We can make a deal. Every man has his price,” Mervin said. He reached into his pocket, found a squashed pack of cigarettes and pulled one out with his lips. He crumpled up the pack and tossed it away. “Except idiots like Kraft. That’s why I shot him. He would have killed me! He would have happily condemned two-thirds of the human population to a very messy end, and for what? Some half-baked occult mutterings—some warrior! Ha! The look on his face when I shot him was itself almost worth the trip.” He peered at Bolan over the barrel of the gun while he wrestled a lighter from another pocket. “How did you get out, anyway? I estimated that it would take you almost an hour to force the door.”

  “Kraft helped me,” Bolan said.

  “Kraft’s dead.” Mervin twitched nervously as the gantry writhed. He lit his cigarette and puffed madly.

  “He is now.”

  Mervin gave a feral smile. “Good. Good. We can make a deal. Whoever you work for—they can have Ymir, if they meet my very reasonable price. Enough money to make Saul Mervin vanish and I’ll be a happy man. I’m not greedy. I’m not a fool. Everything is going according to plan, and we can get out of here. You can help me get to the raft—not another step!” he shrieked, firing at Bolan’s feet. “Not until we have a deal.”

  “No deals,” Bolan said, pulling himself along the rail. He was getting his wind back, but he was still too far away for it to do him much good.

  Mervin bit through his cigarette and spat it out. “Fine, fine, I don’t need you. I didn’t need Kraft, and I don’t need you.” His finger tightened on the trigger and Bolan hurled himself forward. HYPERBOREA shuddered and a loose strut fell, crashing against the gantry and tearing part of it away in a rhapsody of abused metal.

  Bolan crashed into Mervin. They tottered for a moment, on the edge of the gantry. Then, the metal was ripped from beneath them and they plummeted into the chill embrace of the water.

  Bolan hit first, and he felt as if he’d been struck by a sledgehammer. His limbs went limp as he sank momentarily into the darkness. Something passed by him, a plastic bag, holding what looked like fragments of bone. Then, Mervin was there, spearing right at him through a cloud of bubbles. The little man struck Bolan with the useless weight of the pistol, drawing blood from his scalp. Bolan tried to fight back, but between the blow and the impact of hitting the water, he lacked his normal precision. He felt sluggish and torn up inside and out. He hadn’t even had time to take a breath.

  Mervin kicked away from him and reached for the bag. Everything was moving in slow motion. Above, the light was blotted out by falling debris. Slow-moving missiles of steel and stone pierced the veil of the water’s surface and speared downward into the darkness all around them. Bolan latched on to Mervin’s coat and hauled himself after the little man. The bag was sinking, taking its deadly cargo down into the dark. Mervin screamed silently and began to thrash. His sharp elbow caught Bolan right in the bullet wound and he bucked in agony. Mervin twisted beneath him, punching him again and again as Bolan held tight.

  If he allowed Mervin to get free, if he allowed him to reach the bag, it would all have been for nothing. The men that Mervin and Kraft had tortured to find the base, all the people injured or killed in their mad quest, they would all be denied justice. The Executioner refused to let that happen. Despite the hooks of pain and cold that tugged at his heart and lungs and mind, Bolan moved in for the kill.

  Mervin clawed at him as Bolan grabbed his throat in a viselike grip. He squeezed and Mervin’s struggles grew more frantic. The Desert Eagle, still in the other man’s grip, struck him on the side of the head again and again, but Bolan didn’t let go. The Executioner was determined that his enemy wasn’t going to leave those dark waters, even if he himself had to die in the process. Dark spots roiled and burst at the edges of Bolan’s vision and his lungs burned, screaming for oxygen. Mervin’s hands found Bolan’s throat and the two of them spun in slow circles in the water, each seeking to end the other. The little man was strong, far stronger than Bolan had realized. It was funny, in its way. He’d thought Kraft was the bigger threat—as Kraft himself had assumed—but the Tick-Tock Man was as nasty as any fanatic and twice as determined.

  Bolan stared into Mervin’s bulging eyes. In Kraft’s eyes he’d seen madness and a vile dedication as well as fierce bloodlust, but in this man’s stare he saw nothing save a darkness, an emptiness as vast as that which steadily called to them from below.

  Then he felt a crunch as Mervin’s trachea and neck bone gave way and the Tick-Tock Man went limp in Bolan’s grip. His empty eyes did not fill or go blank; instead, they became as polished stones, opaque at last. Bolan released the body and shot for the surface without a second look, his muscles burning with cold fire as he clawed for the rising sun.

  He surfaced with a gasp. Sucking cold air into his agonized lungs, he splashed toward the distant shore, knowing even as he made the effort that it wouldn’t be enough. HYPERBOREA was collapsing around him, and the water was churning and dragging his exhausted body down. If the water didn’t get him, a falling chunk of rock or metal would.

  The Executioner refused to surrender. Doggedly, he swam. Then the sound of a motor filled his ears and he saw a raft speeding in his direction. A strong hand grabbed his coat, and Bolan forced himself to help his rescuer haul him into the raft.

  “So, still think it was a good idea not to bring me?” Blackjack asked, looking down at him as she gunned the raft away from the base.

  “I’m reevaluating my previous decision.” Bolan coughed, spitting out water.

  “Hey, so you didn’t happen to find the keys to my plane, did you?” Blackjack said a moment later. “I just thought I’d ask, seeing as you sort of owe me.”

  Bolan didn’t answer. Instead, he watched as HYPERBOREA sank like the lost continent it was named after and took its deadly secret into the depths. For the Executioner, that wasn’t enough.

  Not by a long shot.

  Chapter 22

  Vienna, Austria

  Four days later, the Executioner stepped off the U-Bahn tram into the Ringstrasse. Ferguson was waiting for him at the tram stop. He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it as Bolan threaded through the evening crowd toward him. Bolan wasn’t surprised to see the FBI agent, though the man who was with him elicited a quirked eyebrow from the Executioner.

  “Agent Chantecoq,” he said mildly, as the French Interpol agent nodded in greeting. “How’s Agent Tanzir?” Bolan had first run into Chantecoq and his subordinate Tanzir during a terrorist attempt to enter the States through Mexico.

  “Quite well, Cooper. I shall inform her that you asked after her,” Chantecoq said. “How are you finding Vienna?”

  “It’s lovely, in spots.” Bolan looked at Ferguson. “I’m surprised you came yourself, Ferguson. It doesn’t seem lik
e your style.”

  Ferguson grimaced. “It’s not. But sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Ogilvy was one of mine, and these bastards ordered his death. The Bureau takes care of its own.”

  “As does Interpol,” Chantecoq said, lighting a thin cigarillo and expelling smoke from his nostrils. “These men have done awful things, Cooper. Not just in your United States, but in Europe, as well.”

  Bolan nodded. The three men were an oasis of stillness amidst the chattering crowd. It had taken him a day to recover from the ordeal he’d endured in Noatak, but when he’d woken from a solid twelve hours of sleep, he’d immediately made plans to hunt down the inner circle of the Society. The Tick-Tock Man and the Storm Eagle had been pawns, serving unseen masters. And it was those masters that the Executioner had come to Vienna to deal with.

  Though HYPERBOREA was gone, and Ymir with it, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t try again. If not Ymir, it would be something else. Fanatics, by definition, weren’t easy to dissuade. Only death would stop them. Brognola had argued against his going alone, but the Executioner had insisted. He’d begun the fight alone, and he’d finish it the same way.

  Sparrow had squawked loudly when he’d found out that his fellows were dead. He’d spilled everything he knew about the Society of Thylea, which wasn’t much, in return for Bolan promising not to simply shoot him out of hand. A thorough search of various warehouses and residences owned by persons who did not strictly exist—despite owning property and credit cards—had given him a trail to follow. Kurtzman had been able to fill in the gaps with assistance from the CIA and Interpol.

  The head of the FBI’s Las Vegas office had traded in favors with the CIA to gather the information the Executioner needed, with a bit of a push from Brognola. The Agency didn’t like giving up the goods if they thought it’d be of use later, but Brognola had convinced them that it was past time for the Society of Thylea to become nothing but a bad memory. The Executioner could only guess as to Interpol’s involvement, but he knew they likely wanted the Society out of the game as badly as the U.S. did.