Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  “You wouldn’t know where I might be able to find him right now?” Bolan asked.

  “O ye of little faith,” Kurtzman said. “Once we heard you were set to finish this Hegre group we extended our search parameters. Hal got me access to an NSA satellite and some close scans were made of Hegre properties and especially the remaining one we hadn’t mentioned. A place he had built about four years ago. A retreat you could call it that’s way out in the boonies. The Cascades to be exact, up country from Seattle. Forests and mountains. Your log cabin in the hills kind of place. Only this is a little more than a regular log cabin. Incidentally it’s about seventy miles upstate from the derelict house where you and Mitchell first got together.”

  Kurtzman tapped an instruction and the closest screen flashed up a crystal-clear image of the “log cabin.” There were logs there, but incorporated with stone in a sprawling residence that stood in splendid isolation in clear ground, a gentle slope falling away from the frontage. The land around the house had been stripped of trees and bush, leaving an open area. It would offer no cover to anyone approaching the house. The backdrop of the house showed distant snow-capped mountains.

  “How recent is this?”

  “Latest update is three hours old. Looks like there are a few folks at home.”

  Bolan had seen the four vehicles parked near the house. He also noted a couple of figures moving around the perimeter. He studied the image for a while, noting details he stored away for future reference.

  “Closest town?”

  “There’s a medium-sized town about thirty miles southeast,” Kurtzman said. “I checked it out. It has a small police department with only four officers. They have a helicopter if that’s what you were asking.”

  “You think Hegre is there?” Wethers asked.

  “It’s a place to start,” Bolan said. “The way things have been going for Hegre, it could be time for a retreat. Somewhere for a brainstorming session.” Bolan studied the image again. “I’ll kick off there. Thanks for the intel.”

  Kurtzman handed him a folder with copies of all the data.

  Bolan picked up his carryall and left.

  The door slid shut behind his tall figure.

  “Okay,” Kurtzman said, “back to work, people. Let’s catch up on Phoenix and Able. They need us, too.”

  * * *

  JACK GRIMALDI WAS waiting for Bolan. The Stony Man pilot, a longtime ally of the Executioner, was sprawled in a chair in the lounge, a room with a view across the Farm’s lush landscape. He was not alone. Barbara Price stood nearby, quietly conversational. She had a buff file in her hands. It would hold Bolan’s documentation.

  As Bolan appeared she turned and held out the file. “It’s all here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Price leaned forward and whispered, “Be safe.” Then she left the lounge.

  “Wheels up when you’re ready,” Grimaldi said as he uncoiled his lean frame from the chair.

  He took the smaller bag holding Bolan’s clothing and led the way out. The soldier followed with his ordnance carryall. They exited the outside door and walked across to where a helicopter stood on the pad.

  Farm buildings around the area concealed various vehicles, including Grimaldi’s deadliest piece of hardware, Dragonslayer, the state-of-the-art combat helicopter. Dragonslayer’s design and electronics made the aircraft as close to perfect as was possible. Grimaldi had been involved in the development, customizing the aircraft to his own specifications. The mechanics of the machine were upgraded often, so that Grimaldi needed to update himself on a regular basis. Bolan had flown in the aircraft on a number of missions. He had seen for himself the fearsome capabilities it offered. Coupled with Grimaldi’s superb piloting skills, Dragonslayer had no equal.

  This time around there was little need of the combat helicopter. Grimaldi was simply transporting Bolan to his location in one of Stony Man’s regular helicopters.

  They both donned headsets and Grimaldi started the preflight procedure. He flicked switches, checked readouts almost casually. Bolan knew otherwise. Grimaldi was a consummate pilot. Nothing was taken for granted. He would pick up on the smallest fault.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Grimaldi said, “you sure you don’t want me to tag along?”

  Bolan shook his head. “This is on me. No one else.”

  Grimaldi said no more. He understood Bolan’s strictly hands-off decision. This was going to be an Executioner deal all the way. No quarter asked, no quarter given. The people Bolan was going after had, by their actions, shown they didn’t give a damn about the rights of their victims. They chose their targets and went for the heart.

  They dealt with the devil.

  The jury had already been out.

  So Mack Bolan was about to hand them the verdict.

  * * *

  THE FLIGHT ONLY lasted a half hour. Grimaldi put the helicopter down at a small field upstate. He had a twin-engined Beechcraft on standby, fueled and ready to go. The pilot had already filed his flight plan. During an eleven-hour flight, they would traverse the U.S. from east to west, two stops to refuel, then land at Bellingham Airport in Washington State.

  They touched down midevening. While Grimaldi had the Beechcraft refueled and checked over for his return flight the following morning, Bolan picked up the rental vehicle Price had organized. He stowed his luggage and drove the Volvo XC70 around to pick up Grimaldi. The plane was parked in the area reserved for private aircraft.

  “Nice wheels, Sarge,” Grimaldi observed as he took the passenger seat.

  “I have connections.”

  Grimaldi chuckled.

  Aware they would need accommodation for the night, Price had also secured a couple of rooms in a Comfort Inn. It was no more than a couple of miles from the airport. Bolan parked and they made their way to the reception desk, the soldier slinging his weapons bag from one shoulder. They checked in and went directly to their rooms. Neither of them wanted anything more than a shower and bed.

  They met in the breakfast buffet early the next morning and helped themselves to coffee and food. Checking out, they returned to the Volvo and Bolan dropped his friend off at the airport. Grimaldi wanted to check out the Beechcraft for the return flight.

  “Good hunting, Sarge,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll be waiting at the hotel when you get back.”

  “Thanks, pal.”

  Grimaldi watched Bolan drive off then turned and headed back into the terminal building to prepare for his flight back to Stony Man.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  From Bellingham Bolan took the highway heading north. A few hours later he branched off on a road that wound its way through high forest terrain—the single lane highway took Bolan into a magnificent landscape. Mountain peaks showed above the evergreen trees. Water glinted occasionally through the lush forest. The road was climbing gradually. The Volvo XC70 cruised the elevated road with ease, barely a murmur from the powerful six-cylinder engine. With the amenities built into the SUV, driving was a luxury. Bolan allowed himself to relax in the soft leather seat, feeling the cool stream of air from the climate control unit.

  Memory played one of its subtle tricks then and reminded Bolan it had been a Volvo Arkady Greshenko had driven, but an older, less sophisticated car, the man’s final drive before being executed.

  As he came around a curve in the road, Bolan saw a break in the trees on his left and pulled the SUV to a stop. He took out the file he had received from Kurtzman. Printouts and maps. He rechecked the coordinates. He had read through the information in his room before sleeping and had memorized the details. Bolan stepped out of the SUV and walked to the rear where he had placed his bags. From his large carryall he took out a pair of binoculars and scanned the distant landscape. He finally located what he was looking for.

  The image sprang into s
harp relief: a sprawling structure, timber and stone, no more than a half mile from where he was parked. The only difference now was a couple more cars were parked out front.

  And a helicopter.

  It looked like a family gathering.

  In this case a criminal family.

  Bolan studied the layout. He saw people moving around the area, and he could see the men were carrying SMGs dangled from shoulder straps. He guessed that visitors would not be welcome.

  Hegre was in a for a surprise because the Executioner was planning to drop in.

  Without an invitation.

  Bolan drove to within a few hundred yards of the Hegre stronghold. He found the narrow service road that would eventually bring him to the house and maneuvered the Volvo into the trees, easing it through the greenery until it was deep in cover. As he changed into his blacksuit and boots, he noticed the sky darkening overhead. Dark clouds were scudding in from beyond the peaks and he felt a sudden chill in the air.

  Rain?

  That could help. Cover as he moved in.

  He slipped on his combat harness and jerkin filled various pouches with extra magazines for his guns. One pouch contained several plastic ties, ready looped, that he could use as restraints if it proved necessary. The combat knife in its sheath was threaded onto his belt. His grenades and canisters were attached to the harness. The Desert Eagle and the Beretta 93-R were primed and holstered, the Uzi suspended by a nylon strap.

  Bolan secured the SUV, pocketing the hand activator. He used the combat knife to cut a number of leafy branches from the undergrowth and arranged them around the Volvo as added camouflage. When he walked away and looked back, the vehicle was only noticeable on close inspection. He felt confident it would be safe. He doubted if any of Hegre’s hardmen would be coming out this far from the house. They were bodyguards. Not long-range scouts.

  The temperature had dropped a couple more degrees. No problem for Bolan, but he was thinking about the sentries outside the house. He didn’t know if they were seasoned professionals or city guys who might not enjoy the mountain climate. Most likely the latter, brought along to protect their bosses.

  Bolan had the position of the house fixed in his mental map as he started to move. He could keep in cover until he reached the cleared patch surrounding the property. He would need to gain an advantage then.

  Hopefully before he made any physical moves on the house, Bolan would need to gain intel on the occupants, who they were and how many. The more information he gained, the higher his chances of success.

  That would be the ideal, if he had unlimited time and resources. All he actually had was himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he might have to go ahead in possession of thin intel.

  He moved steadily, cautiously. His senses were attuned to his surroundings. The forest sounds were close. Birds making their noise. This was their domain and, provided nothing in nature alarmed them, they provided a background that would warn him if anyone was moving around clumsily.

  Bolan caught a glimpse of the house a quarter mile ahead through the trees. He slowed his approach now, using the timber and bushes as cover as he closed in on the cleared section. As the trees opened up, he noticed the line of stumps where the timber had been cut back.

  He spotted the first of the sentries. The guy wore dark clothing and a buttoned overcoat. A ball cap was pulled low over his forehead. The thick gloves he wore would restrict his hand and finger movements if he went to use the MP-5 he was carrying.

  Bolan watched the guy tramp awkwardly through the rough stubble where grass and brush was starting to establish itself again. He looked around, head movements jerky and too fast to really take in what he was observing. The guy was out of his element, doing what he had been instructed but not in tune with his surroundings. The guy stopped, let his MP-5 hang by its strap as he banged his hands together, working his fingers even though he wore gloves. Bolan could tell that he didn’t enjoy the mountain chill.

  The soldier watched him turn his back to the trees. The guy was looking in the direction of the house, most likely wishing he was inside with a mug of something hot in his hands, Bolan thought.

  None of the other sentries were in sight. They were spread out around the house, covering other sections, which left this guy on his own for the moment.

  An opportunity?

  Bolan couldn’t manufacture such a moment. It had presented itself unannounced. He had to take it.

  He let the Uzi dangle from its strap, slid the combat knife into his right hand and moved up behind the sentry. The Executioner eased forward, knowing the guy could walk away at any second. The moment he had the guy directly in front of him Bolan rose to his full height. He reached out with his left hand and curved it around the guy’s head, clamping it over the man’s mouth. At the same time he pressed the tip of the Cold Steel tanto knife against the sentry’s lower back, pushing hard enough so that the blade sliced through the guy’s clothing and nudged flesh. Bolan felt the softness of flesh, increased the pressure so that the blade penetrated a fraction more.

  “Your choice,” Bolan said. “Cooperate, or piss me off and I push this blade in up to the handle.”

  The man stiffened. Bolan wiggled the combat knife a fraction to emphasis his threat. He heard a mumble of sound, felt the guy nodding.

  “Back up. Keep both hand at your sides.”

  The guy complied, aware that the knife pressed to his back could cut deeper if he made any sudden moves.

  The trees and undergrowth closed around them.

  “Okay,” Bolan said. “I’m taking my hand away from your mouth. If you make one sound other than breathing, I use the knife. Understood?”

  The guy nodded.

  Bolan dropped his left hand and fished out a plastic zip tie.

  “Hands behind your back. Wrists together.”

  As soon as the sentry obeyed, Bolan slipped the loop over his hands, above the gloves and jerked on the loose end. The plastic loop closed tightly against the guy’s wrists. With the man secured Bolan stepped back, withdrawing the knife.

  “Turn around,” Bolan said.

  The guy was of average height and build, his brown hair cropped. He had a gold ring in his left ear. Day-old stubble darkened his jaw.

  He let his prisoner see the combat knife, the tip moistened with fresh blood. “Same rule applies. You make any noise that causes me concern, I’ll use the knife again. Got it?”

  The guy nodded again. His eyes darted left to right, then back to Bolan. The soldier unclipped the MP-5’s strap and removed the weapon. He unbuttoned the man’s coat and searched him for a handgun, removing a Desert Eagle from a shoulder holster.

  “Emulating the boss lady?”

  The man actually offered a sneering twist of his mouth. “She’s been waiting for you. She’s going to rip you a second asshole.”

  “You know me?”

  “We all do. My guess is she has that picture of you on her wall to throw knives at.”

  “Then you know that I don’t play games.”

  Bolan sheathed the knife and tucked the Desert Eagle behind his belt. He checked the MP-5.

  “Do you think she does?” the guy asked. “Is she sitting watching TV? Reading girlie magazines? It’s like a command center up there.”

  “And you guys are out in the cold.”

  “I guess that’s why she earns top dollar and we get plenty of exercise.”

  “I’ll remind her when I see her.”

  “She won’t run.”

  “From my perspective you people already have. All cozied up here in the back of beyond. Hegre is running scared of something. Me? Or those Iranians you messed with? I hear they don’t like being screwed.”

  “That was down to you jacking around with the cargo back in Kazakhstan.”

 
“It appears it’s worked. Hegre must be worried. Get the Iranians on your case, and it’s a big-time headache.”

  “We can handle them.”

  “You’re not doing so well with me.”

  “One guy?”

  “Who has your hands tied?”

  “I could still yell. Bring my buddies running.”

  “I warned you what would happen.”

  “Maybe I don’t scare so easily.”

  Bolan took out the Cold Steel tanto blade.

  “Remember what I told you at the start?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your choice.”

  The guy’s head turned away, eyes searching. Bolan glanced in the same direction and saw two figures moving along the open ground. They both carried MP-5s. Something had drawn their curiosity, and Bolan figured it was the missing sentry.

  He wasn’t going to be allowed any more time to gather his intelligence.

  His captive had decided the appearance of his buddies made all the difference. Whatever he thought, it prompted him to take action.

  He opened his mouth and let loose a bloodcurdling yell, attracting the attention of his armed friends.

  It was a wrong move.

  Bolan cut off his warning shout with a powerful sweep of the combat knife, the keen edge of the steel slicing the guy’s throat from left to right. The severely deep cut opened the guy’s throat and released a burst of blood that splashed down his front. The shout ended in a wet gurgle of sound.

  The knife was slipped back into its sheath. Bolan quickly checked the MP-5, saw it was cocked and flipped the fire selector switch to full-auto.

  He saw the pair of armed sentries closing on his position, alerted by the shout from their missing partner. They were well inside the MP-5’s range now, still not sure what was happening, but not holding back.