Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  The parking lot, across from the terminal building, was only half full. A pair of buses were waiting to take passengers away and a few taxis hovered in the hope of picking up fares.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton?”

  The man who approached them was of average height, his graying hair brushing the collar of his shirt. The shirt was striped blue-and-peach, the Chinos he wore, light colored and slightly creased. His weathered face wore a neutral expression but his brown eyes were sharp and clear.

  “Arkady Greshenko,” he said. His English bore a strong Russian accent. He smiled at Mitchell. “Your picture does not do you justice. You are beautiful.” Greshenko took Mitchell’s bag. “I have my car over there.”

  He led the way across to a dusty, large and angular Volvo, an older model that purred into life when Greshenko turned the key. He swung the vehicle around and drove out of the airport parking lot, heading for the road to Aktau.

  “It is only twenty-five kilometers to the city. Sixteen miles, if you prefer. It will not take long. So, how is Seminov? I have not seen him for a few years. Is he still as ugly as ever?”

  “I’m sure he likes you, too,” Mitchell said from the rear seat.

  “So, it seems we have a problem here in Aktau. One that Valentine believes I may be able to assist you to solve.”

  “Did he explain the problem?” Bolan said.

  Greshenko nodded. “In his usually direct way. Uranium. Iran. A cell of operators working on behalf of this Ayatollah Fikri. More problems with these damned Islamic dissidents. Being here on the edge of the Caspian means we get these people playing their dangerous games all the time. The trouble is these people are more dangerous than anyone can imagine. Unpredictable. They have single line of thought. If you are not, as they see it, of their faith then you must be an enemy. It is very narrow-minded. It makes me glad I have no religious leanings.”

  “Did Valentine tell you about the location we have uncovered?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes. But first we might do well to pay attention to the vehicle that has tailed us since we left the airport,” Greshenko said.

  “Dark SUV,” Bolan replied. “I’ve been watching.”

  Mitchell didn’t turn. She looked into the rearview mirror.

  The vehicle was fifty feet back. Though the road was quiet, with nothing to hold it back, the SUV was keeping pace with them, able to maintain clear observation without committing.

  “I don’t recognize the plate number,” Greshenko said. “Or the vehicle. Most probably a rental.”

  “Hegre?” Mitchell asked, directing her question at Bolan.

  “Could be.”

  “Please, what is this Hegre?” Greshenko asked.

  “A criminal organization we have been tracking,” Bolan said. “They act as go-betweens on illegal deals. It’s a large organization with a lot of contacts. This time they’re acting for Ayatollah Fikri. They set up the theft of the uranium and worked a deal with a man in Moscow who provided the special truck to carry the uranium across to Iran. Fikri isn’t able to buy uranium on the open market because of sanctions. So he’s trying to smuggle it in by the back door. Hegre offers its services and gets paid for doing that.”

  “People like Fikri make it difficult for us all,” Greshenko said. “They have no conscience about building and spreading nuclear poison.”

  “And they are persistent,” Mitchell added.

  “Hegre? Or Fikri’s people?” Greshenko asked.

  “Both. Somebody has been butting in ever since we started on this,” Bolan said. “Why should it be any different here in Kazakhstan?”

  “Should I stay on the main highway, or take a side road?” the Russian asked.

  “We don’t know what they want,” Bolan said. “If anything happens, I’d rather we were away from civilians.”

  “Cooper, we’re not armed,” Mitchell warned.

  “Look in the glove box,” Greshenko said. “I think you will find something of interest there.”

  Bolan opened the flap. The glove box was large and deep. The items of interest turned out to be a pair of Steyr Mannlicher M-A1 pistols, with synthetic polymer bodies, striker fired, and in .40 caliber. There were two extra, filled magazines, which held twelve rounds, to go with the weapons.

  “I decided these would be of more use than sunblock,” Greshenko said.

  “You were not wrong,” Bolan said.

  He passed one of the pistols to Mitchell, along with a spare magazine. They quickly checked the weapons and made sure they were ready to use.

  “Hold on,” Greshenko said moments before he swung the Volvo off the road and onto a narrow, uneven side road that cut across country. The terrain on either side was uneven, with a scattering of trees and bushes. A thick trail of pale dust rose as Greshenko expertly guided the heavy car along the strip. Mitchell had turned now so she could watch their rear.

  “Do you see them?” Greshenko asked.

  “It’s difficult with all the dust you’re raising, but yes, they’re behind us, and coming up fast. That proves one thing. They were following us.”

  “Somebody has good intelligence,” Bolan said. “They were waiting for us at the airport.”

  “That suggests they’re anxious we don’t start searching for their hidden prize.”

  “Do you believe they will try to kill us?” Greshenko asked.

  “That would be the thing to do. Deal with us now and get it over with.”

  “That’s a comforting thought,” Mitchell said. “Déjà vu, Cooper. Haven’t we been here before?”

  “This has happened already?” Greshenko said.

  Mitchell patted him on the shoulder. “Only all the time,” she said.

  The Volvo hit a bump in the trail, rose into the air then slammed back down. Greshenko wrestled with the wheel for a few seconds to bring the car back in line.

  “Not the best road I could have chosen,” he murmured. “But the Swedes build very tough cars.”

  “Our guy is closing in,” Mitchell said. “His gas pedal must be flat to the boards.”

  With its larger wheels and better suspension, the SUV was closing the gap. The power under the hood was also making a difference. The heavy vehicle surged forward and even through the dust billowing up from beneath the Volvo’s tires, Mitchell saw a man lean out from the passenger door. The subdued crackle of autofire reached her. An SMG. Flames spit from the muzzle. Mitchell felt the thump as slugs hit the Volvo’s rear below the trunk.

  Now he’s got his range, she told herself.

  She saw the shooter raise his arm.

  “Incoming,” she yelled and ducked.

  The SMG fired again. The second burst of fire drove a stream of slugs into the Volvo’s rear window, which disintegrated. Glass fragments showered over Mitchell as she let herself drop down onto the seat.

  Greshenko jerked as a stray slug struck his right shoulder. He slumped forward, almost falling across the wheel. Making an effort, he wrenched the Volvo’s wheel, sending the car off the trail. The car jolted from rut to rut as Greshenko aimed it at a clump of trees.

  “They’re still coming,” Mitchell yelled, twisting in her seat to check out the rear window.

  More autofire reached their ears. Slugs peppered the rear corner of the Volvo, the sturdy body of the vehicle absorbing the impact.

  “When we reach cover, get out,” Greshenko said. “Let me draw them away.”

  His right arm hung at his side, his shoulder pumping blood.

  “We can’t let him...” Mitchell protested.

  “We have to. It gives us the chance to catch them from behind if we move fast,” Bolan said.

  The tree line was coming up fast, Greshenko swinging the Volvo at the widest gap he could see.

  “Do it,” he said. “J
ust shoot straight and don’t miss.”

  Bolan grasped the door handle, the Steyr in his right hand.

  Behind him Mitchell held herself close to the rear door, the door already freed from the catch.

  The mass of timber engulfed them, the Volvo brushing a rough barked trunk. Greshenko hauled on the wheel, steering as direct a course as he could.

  “Go,” he shouted.

  Bolan and Mitchell pushed open their respective doors, hoping they wouldn’t slam them into the trees sliding by. The moment they had wide a wide enough gap, they rolled clear of the car.

  Mitchell’s door slammed against a tree, and it was pushed against her back as she slid clear. The impact knocked her to the ground, breath driven from her body. She sensed the Volvo disappearing into the trees as she sucked air into her lungs, struggling to stay in control.

  The SUV loomed large, plowing its way forward.

  As Bolan rolled to his feet, he saw the Volvo veer off course and slam into the trees.

  The oncoming SUV filled his field of vision, the shooter still leaning from the window. It began to slow as the Volvo came to a hard stop.

  Bolan, pushed back into the undergrowth, swung his Steyr and acquired his target. His finger stroked back on the trigger, and he laid a double tap into the exposed head of the shooter. The .40-caliber slugs hammered in above the guy’s eye, blowing out through the back of his skull. The shooter flopped over the window frame, half out of the SUV, a spray of blood misting the air.

  Bolan moved out of cover, circling the SUV as it slid past him. The driver had jumped on the brake, bringing to vehicle to a slithering stop as the tires lost traction on the carpet of leaf mold.

  The Executioner ducked at the rear of the SUV, catching a glimpse of movement inside. He figured the driver and one man in the rear.

  The guy in the back popped up, staring around as he tried to locate a target. Bolan picked up muffled conversation from inside. The right-hand rear door was booted open and an armed man emerged, his SMG swinging back and forth as the guy looked for a target. Bolan, crouching, leaned around the rear corner and tracked the guy with his pistol. He held back only long enough to ensure he had full target acquisition before he fired. A trio of .40-caliber slugs cored into the guy’s chest. He fell back against the open door, his eyes wide with shock. The expression was still there as he toppled to the ground.

  The driver had scrambled free from behind the wheel, pushing open his door as he grabbed for his own weapon. He turned, seeking Bolan’s elusive figure and saw Mitchell, on her knees, the Steyr in her hand swinging into firing position. The pistol exploded and the .40-caliber slug punched in under the guy’s jaw, angling up to blow out through the top of his head, taking off a chunk of skull as it emerged. The guy went down without a sound.

  Bolan cleared weapons from around the bodies, then moved to where Mitchell was pushing upright.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “I didn’t clear the door fast enough.”

  “Just rest.”

  “You need to go check on Arkady. I’m fine.”

  Bolan saw the Volvo door swing open as he neared it. Greshenko swung half out of the vehicle.

  “It has turned out to be a busy day,” the Russian said.

  “We need to get you to a doctor,” Bolan stated.

  Greshenko shook his head. “Doctor will mean paperwork. Gunshot—the police. First we get back to my place. In their car. Hide it. I have friends who will help. In my business it is advisable to have friends.”

  He reached out and took Bolan’s strong hand and they walked back to the SUV. Bolan slid the body of the dead man out of the SUV. Greshenko slid onto the passenger seat and Bolan got behind the wheel.

  “Arkady, are you okay?” Mitchell asked.

  “You mean apart from the bullet in my shoulder?” He gave a deep chuckle. “Valentine said meeting you would be an experience. I will have to tell him how right he was.”

  “That bullet needs to come out quickly,” Mitchell said.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” Greshenko asked.

  Bolan handed over his sat phone. “Try this.”

  He started the engine, put the drive into reverse and maneuvered the large SUV back along the way they had come.

  Greshenko made a call and as soon as he was connected began a conversation in Russian. He spoke for some time without pause. Whoever he was speaking to didn’t interrupt. Finally Greshenko ended his call and returned the phone to Bolan.

  Bolan stopped at the trail. “Which way, Arkady?”

  Greshenko took a moment to reply. Bolan saw his face was beaded with sweat. His hand was pressed over the blood-soaked patch in his shoulder.

  “Go to right. The trail will join up with the road about a kilometer along. From there I can guide you to the city.”

  The ride had to have been uncomfortable for the Russian as each bump in the trail was causing him discomfort. He bore his pain in silence, only once letting out a subdued groan.

  They reached the highway and Greshenko told Bolan which way to go. The highway was quiet. Only a few cars passed on the other side. Aktau appeared in the distance, and beyond it they picked out the gleam of water.

  The Caspian Sea.

  Bolan slowed as they drove into the city, Greshenko directing him along narrow streets with older buildings on either side. This was the original Aktau. The modern city rose above the rooftops ahead of them.

  “The city is developing,” Greshenko said. “A lot of new buildings. We do not need this Fikri making bombs. His kind does not think of others when they plan nuclear devices. Radiation released into the air has no consideration for borders. The wind blows it where it wants.”

  They rolled along a narrow street, and Greshenko instructed Bolan to drive into a side street. Wooden gates were set in a high wall.

  “Would you open the gates, Sarah,” Greshenko said.

  The gates opened onto a courtyard. Bolan drove in through the gates and Mitchell closed and secured them. The courtyard was at the rear of the travel agency, with living quarters attached.

  Mitchell opened the door to help Greshenko out of the SUV. As Bolan walked around the car, a door opened in the house and a figure emerged.

  A tall young woman with black hair that matched her outfit.

  She held a .357 Magnum Desert Eagle pistol in one hand, handling the large weapon easily. A faint smile curled her shapely lips.

  “So good to see you again, Cooper,” she said. “The last time we met it was over much too quickly. I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

  It was Lise Delaware.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Armed men showed themselves, surrounding Bolan and Mitchell. The soldier recognized Henrick DeJong and Raz Malik behind Delaware. There were a couple of armed men Bolan suspected were Delaware’s hardmen.

  “Nice of them all to get together in a group,” Mitchell said. “Saves us a lot of running around looking for them.”

  Bolan kept his eyes on Delaware. Their first encounter had been brief and violent, and he had been left with the impression of a tall, physically attractive women. Seeing her close up only added to that image. There was no denying she was beautiful, though the taut expression on her face took the edge off it. The hardness in her eyes went deep. Up close now, Bolan saw her eyes were green flecked hazel; they were piercing and intense; her animosity toward Bolan was not concealed.

  “Your interference has cost Hegre a great deal,” Delaware said. “You have upset our plans and damaged our reputation. But that ends here and now. We have control again, and this time it stays with us.” She laughed quietly. “After all your efforts you’ve failed. Our friend, Mr. Malik, will have his uranium. Hegre will recoup its expenses. And you, Cooper, are mine. I think overall that will give me
the greatest satisfaction.”

  She saw the questioning look in Bolan’s eyes, and it brought a brief smile to her lips.

  “How did we know? Cooper, we have our sources wherever we go. You were spotted the moment you stepped off the plane. Aktau is no different from anywhere else. And our Iranian friends here are the same. Greshenko is known to us. When he met you...” She shrugged. “All so easy.”

  Hands reached out and took Bolan’s pistol. Mitchell was also disarmed. The soldier could sense the two Hegre men close behind him. They were carrying P-90 SMGs, the weapons pointed at Bolan and Mitchell, and as much as he wanted to take action he realized this was not the place or the time.

  “I have a wounded man here,” he said. “He needs tending to.”

  “We met his friends inside,” Delaware said. “They will not be able to give him the treatment he needs. They are quite dead. So we will offer an alternative.”

  Delaware glanced at one of her men and flicked her head in Greshenko’s direction.

  In the space of a few seconds as the man moved his arm, Bolan understood. There was nothing he could do as the guy freed his right hand, dropped it to his waist.

  When the hand moved again it was gripping a silenced pistol.

  Greshenko wasn’t even aware of what was happening.

  Mitchell did and raised a hand, calling out, taking a step forward.

  The silenced Beretta homed in on Greshenko. The trigger was pulled twice and delivered a pair of 9 mm Parabellum rounds. They hit Greshenko in the center of his forehead. The Russian’s head snapped back, a dark spray erupting from the back of his skull. He slid across the side of the SUV. His legs collapsed and he hit the ground, blood starting to pool from beneath his shattered skull.

  “You bitch...” Mitchell screamed, all control left behind in her anger.

  Ignoring the weapons aimed in her direction, the FBI agent went for Delaware. She managed two steps before the Hegre man with the silenced Beretta turned the weapon on her.

  “Do it,” Delaware said coldly.

  The 9 mm slugs hit Mitchell in the upper body, stopping her forward motion and turning her sideways.