Blood Play (Don Pendleton's Mack Bolan)

by Pendleton, Don

  “Here, take mine!” Astro called back, flinging the .32 “Terrier” Bolan’s way. “I got a little leak here to deal with.”

  Bolan was grabbing the S&W when another shot zinged nearby, clanging off the side of the cast-iron tub. The Executioner was forced to roll away from the tub, as the second shot had come at him from behind. He squirmed behind a large, termite-infested wooden desk. Seconds later an incoming round from yet another direction left a fresh hole in the butcher-block desktop.

  “We have you surrounded!” someone shouted from atop the opposite edge of the ravine.

  “No shit,” Rafe murmured from behind the rock pile. He changed position and fired up at the latter gunman. Leonard followed suit.

  Bolan held his fire and shouted, “I’m with the Justice Department! Hold your fire!”

  Two different gunmen responded by rattling off shots from two different directions, driving Bolan beneath the desk.

  “I don’t think they’re buying it,” Rafe called out to him. “Might be a good time to start firing back.”

  “I need to make sure they’re not law enforcement,” Bolan said.

  Two shots fired in quick succession scarred the rocks Rafe and Leonard crouched behind.

  “You might wanna rethink that, Nick, buddy,” Rafe shouted to Bolan, “’cause we’re goddamn fish in a barrel here and these guys seem to think we’re their dinner!”

  STILL POSITIONED AT THE lip of the southern precipice, Officer Covina had thus far held his fire, waiting while Romano and two other tribal cops triangulated their fire at the men below. There was no avenue for escape and the men had returned fire, which for Covina was a green light to put his Savage 10FP to use and bring things to a close without having to worry about possible furor from whoever was doing the play-by-play from the media chopper.

  The rifle was bolt-operated, and Covina wanted to make sure each shot counted so he took his time, squinting through the scope as he scanned the maze of rocks and trash, finally spotting his target half-burrowed beneath an old desk.

  “Nighty night,” he murmured to himself, his finger on the trigger.

  Covina was aligning the scope’s dot reticule on the back of Bolan’s head when a volley of incoming rounds danced through the mud to his immediate right. One of them caught up with him and bored through his calf. Covina dropped his weapon and jerked in place, cursing. When he spun and grabbed his leg, he heard a growing drone and glanced skyward to where an S-64 Skycrane had just risen into view above the ridgeline. Covina knew at once it wasn’t the media.

  JOHN KISSINGER LEANED OUT the passenger window of the Skycrane’s front cab, brandishing the assault rifle that had thwarted Covina’s attempt to kill Bolan. Slung around Kissinger’s neck was a pair of high-powered binoculars. Behind him, Detective David Lowe leaned forward and squeezed a bullhorn through his opened window.

  “This is the Albuquerque Police!” Lowe shouted over Kissinger’s shoulder.

  “This is our jurisdiction!” Covina shouted back. His words were drowned out by the chopper, but apparently Lowe was good at reading lips.

  “Take potshots at a federal agent and jurisdiction goes out the window!” he retorted.

  Covina had made no effort to retrieve his rifle, but Kissinger spotted another officer in the brush just below the precipice raising his handgun. When the Stony Man armorer cut loose a few warning rounds, the second officer lowered his weapon. The badged gunmen on the other side of the ravine held their fire, as well.

  “That’s more like it,” Kissinger murmured.

  “Brace yourself, kiddies,” Jack Grimaldi called out from behind the controls. “It’s a tight squeeze, but I’m gonna try to take us down for a pickup.”

  IN ADDITION TO THE three men in the Skycrane’s front cab, one of Lowe’s APD counterparts was posted in the chopper’s rear-facing compartment. Like Kissinger, he was armed with an M-4 A-1 carbine, which helped keep the tribal force at bay while the chopper slowly lowered into the craggy maw of Healer’s Ravine. Down below, Bolan and his three companions cautiously made their way into the open.

  “That’s the goddamn ugliest helicopter I’ve ever seen,” Leonard said. “Sucker looks like it went in for liposuction and the doc didn’t know when to quit.”

  “Like I said, I have some unfinished business,” Bolan responded. “I guess they want to make sure I get a chance to finish it.”

  As the chopper drew lower, the roar of its power plant amplified off the ravine walls. Dislodged by the rotor wash, old wrappers and other bits of loose debris began to to hop and swirl about the rescuees. Bolan gestured in greeting to a clearly relieved Kissinger then glanced over at Astro, who had made his way back to the campfire and sat down for a better look at his gunshot wound.

  “I think there’s room for at least one more,” Bolan told Astro. “Let’s get you airlifted to a hospital.”

  Astro shook his head. “I’m a little behind on my insurance premiums,” he said. “Leonard’ll fix me up.”

  “Not so fast,” Leonard said. The herbalist strode over and inspected Astro’s wound, then shook his head. “Sorry, amigo. You’re gonna need a little bit more than some willow bark for that thing.”

  “Well, I’m not going to leave you to those numbnuts up there,” Astro countered, giving a finger to the tribal police. “You think they’re gonna just mosey outta here after they’ve been shown up? No way.”

  “He’s right,” Bolan said. The Executioner looked up and shouted to Kissinger. “Does that thing have a cable lift?”

  “It’s good to see you, too!” Kissinger shouted back. “Yeah, we’ve got a line. Why?”

  “We’re all coming,” Bolan shouted back. “We just need to rig up something for a couple of us to ride in.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I owe them!” Bolan yelled.

  Kissinger shook his head and grinned down at his colleague. “Well, make it quick! That posse up there’s not going to stand pat forever.”

  Bolan flashed him a thumbs-up, then glanced at the strewed refuse, looking for a suitable riding carriage.

  “I don’t know about you, Nick,” Rafe said, “but I’m thinking the bathtub.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  At the same time Petenka Tramelik was driving back to Taos to deal with the anticipated arrival of Dmitri Vishnevsky, the man behind the bombing of the Inca Treasure was aboard his casino’s Cessna Citation X jet. The Cessna was bound for Mexico City, where it would quickly refuel before continuing on to Santa Fe Municipal Airport. There, Vishnevsky’s other passenger would disembark prior the final leg of the Russian’s impromptu flight.

  “While I go on to Taos,” Vishnevsky told Melido Diaz, “you’ll take a rental car to the safe house where Tramelik brought Orson’s inventions. I know you’ve already gone over the schematics, but seeing everything firsthand will give you a better idea how we can best proceed in terms of mass production, especially with the armored suit.”

  “Thermal armored suit,” Diaz amended. “And I already spoke with Mikhaylov about it. He called me just before I left for the airport.”

  Vishnevsky stopped eating and stared at the Bolivian inventor, a short, myopic man whose large, dark eyes appeared almost cartoonishly oversize behind the lenses of his round, black-rimmed glasses. “What did he want to know?”

  “How to make sure it was operational,” Diaz said.

  “What’s to know?” Vishnevsky laughed so loud the attractive young flight attendant sitting in the rear of the cabin glanced up from her fashion magazine. The Russian winked at her, then turned back to Diaz. “You put it on and activate the solar panels. What, he doesn’t know how to turn a switch?”

  “He also asked about the helicopter. They have the schematics and a model Orson was going to bring to some convention, but the actual aircraft is still in storage back in Taos.”

  “I know,” Vishnevsky said. “At the airport there. It’s on my list of things to do when I get there.”

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p; “He was concerned the police might impound it and was wondering if I’d be able to oversee the building of a new prototype based on the plans.”

  “And?”

  “Orson was meticulous about all his data,” Diaz said. “I haven’t looked over everything but I’m sure I can manage it.”

  “I think he already knew that,” Vishnesvky said. “I think he was calling more to get a read on you. He’s concerned where your loyalties will lie.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “You told him we’re flying to the States together?”

  “He already knew.” Diaz shifted uncomfortably in the large leather seat that dwarfed him nearly as much as the gargantuan dimensions of the man sitting across from him. Vishnevsky took a small brown bottle from his shirt pocket and used its built-in dropper to add an amberish liquid to his mineral water. Diaz suspected it was some sort of illegal bodybuilding compound but wasn’t about to press for details.

  “I’m a little wary of having to deal with Mikhaylov on my own,” the Bolivian said. “Is it really necessary for you to fly to Taos immediately?”

  “Absolutely,” Vishnevsky said. “There’s more to be done than just trying to get to the helicopter. I need to work on securing the rights to those uranium mines.”

  “I realize that,” Diaz said. “But what difference would another day or two make?”

  “You worry too much, Melido,” Vishnevsky said. “What, are you afraid of Mikhaylov or something?”

  Diaz’s silence gave him away.

  “Look,” the Russian went on, “that sorry bastard is on the ropes, and he knows it. He needs your help to save face, not to mention his neck. If anything, he’ll be glad to see you.”

  Diaz wasn’t convinced. “I know about the bad blood between you. And he knows that you and I have a history. He could make things hard for me as a way of getting back at you.”

  Vishnevsky laughed again. “Melido, my friend, I’m not sure which is worse, your paranoia or your imagination. Trust me, everything will go smoothly.”

  “Suppose you’re wrong,” Diaz challenged. “What if I show up and find he hasn’t laid out the red carpet?”

  “Well, if it comes to that, you have three choices,” Vishnevsky told the shorter man. “You can let him bully you around, you can stand up to him, or you can bad-mouth me behind my back and ingratiate yourself into his corner.”

  “If I did that he’d know I was lying.”

  “Not if you’re convincing enough,” Vishnevsky insisted. “I can even tell you about a few minor indiscretions you can pass as proof that you’d betray me if he were to make it worth your while. For him that would be a far better way of getting back at me.”

  Diaz looked suddenly squeamish. “You want me to be a double agent.”

  Vishnevsky raised an eyebrow suggestively. “An exciting prospect, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I think I can do without that kind of excitement.”

  “I’m sure if you give it some more thought you’ll reconsider. You just need to be more sure of yourself, Melido. I think we need to work on your self-confidence a little.”

  Glancing over Diaz’s shoulder, the Russian gestured to the flight attendant. The young woman smiled and set aside the magazine, revealing her long, shapely legs as she stood up and made her way to the two men. She was Scandinavian, a blond-haired former beauty queen now earning upward of two million dollars with an elite escort agency catering exclusively to high rollers at the Andean Splendor. The Russian’s decision to bring her along on the flight had more to do with her sexual prowess than her marginal skills as a flight attendant.

  “Can I get you something?” she asked Vishnevsky, speaking in Diaz’s native Spanish. Glancing her way, the Bolivian couldn’t help but notice her uniform blouse was partially unbuttoned, revealing a faint glimpse of two of the reasons she’d been voted Miss Helsinki.

  “I’m going to have a little chat with the pilot, but first I wanted to apologize for not introducing you to my colleague,” Vishnevsky said. Nodding at Diaz, he said, “Vanya, this is the famous secret agent James Bond.”

  Vanya smiled brightly at Diaz. As she bent over to pick up Vishnevsky’s tray, Diaz tried to avoid staring at the exposed gleam of the woman’s black satin bra. It was, at best, a meager effort.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bond.” Vanya balanced the tray with relative ease and dropped to a crouch, riding the hemline of her already short skirt higher up her well-toned thighs. Diaz suddenly found reason to distract himself from the woman’s cleavage.

  The Bolivian finally stammered, “That’s not really my name.”

  “Of course, how silly of me,” Vanya said. “You’re on an assignment and using an alias.”

  Vishnevsky winked at Diaz, then rose from his chair and headed toward the cockpit. Vanya removed Diaz’s tray and set it down along with Vishnevsky’s on one of the empty seats across the aisle. She took the cloth napkin from Diaz’s lap, touching his inner thigh as she did so, and wiped off the table so that she could sit on the edge of it, facing him. She brushed her leg against his and smiled invitingly.

  “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Bond,” she purred, letting her manicured fingers drop lightly onto the Bolivian’s knee, “but I have to confess there’s one thing I haven’t been able to find out.”

  Diaz swallowed hard. His skin, head to toe, felt as if it were lined with goose bumps and he shifted once more in his seat to better conceal another part of his anatomy that had reached a heightened state of arousal.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  As Vanya’s fingers crept their way farther up Diaz’s knee, she asked him, “I was wondering if you’ve been initiated into the Mile High Club yet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Glorieta, New Mexico

  Franklin Colt had been up the entire night.

  When his captors had brought his wife and son to him in the cramped room where he was being held prisoner, they’d also cut him free and replaced the chair he’d been tied to with a musty queen-size mattress and a single coarse, woolen blanket. As a precaution against any notions of escape, the inside shutters had been removed and an inch-thick sheet of plywood had been drilled into place over the lone window. The door had been dead-bolted, and a guard had been posted in the hallway just outside the room. In the near total darkness Colt had huddled close to Gwen beneath the blanket, her back to his chest, his arms reaching around her to help comfort young Frankie.

  Once the boy had been lulled to sleep, he and his wife had spoken in whispers. Gwen had tearfully recounted their abduction, filling Colt with grief, fury and no small measure of guilt over the way Jeffrey and Leeland Eppard had been shot and dumped in the Camry’s trunk as if they were nothing more than luggage. When Gwen had asked why all this was happening, Colt had been straightforward. He’d told her about his findings at the reservation and how he’d been in touch with Walter Upshaw at the Taos Pueblo to warn him against dealing with Freddy McHale or anyone associated with Global Holdings. He also confessed to lying to her when he’d said he was playing poker the previous night. In fact, he’d gone to the reservation and stolen his way to the rear of the waste plant, taking photos with his cell phone as evidence of GHC’s secret building of a bunker facility in the mountainside.

  In light of what had come to pass the past few hours, he’d told his wife he now wished he’d never gotten involved, but Gwen had assured him that he’d done the right thing and that she would never have expected anything less from the man she’d chosen to marry. They’d spoken of other things, including the dire straits they now found themselves in, then they’d both wept and held each other close, fending off the cold. Colt had stroked Gwen’s hair and hummed to her until she’d finally drifted off to sleep.

  For a long time after that Colt had lain still in the darkness, listening to his loved ones breathe and feeling their warmth against him. Although he knew there was a good chance they might never spend another night together
, having Gwen and Frankie so close had led him to forsake any notion of forcing their captors to kill him rather than subject himself to a torturous interrogation. Now, if anything, he was determined to do whatever was humanly possible to save his family, and he was equally determined to do it without sacrificing his own life. And so, just as he had during the ride to the javelina farm, for the next few hours Colt had focused intently on his surroundings, using his senses to seek out any information that might somehow help him devise a way out of the nightmare he’d been sucked into.

  Gwen had given her husband a sketchy description of the farm and Colt tried to associate the sounds in relation to the buildings she’d described. There had been little activity on the grounds until the past half hour, when he’d heard voices outside the barn and the clatter of the gate leading to the javelina pen. Soon after that a car had started up and headed away from the farm. Two men had talked their way to the farmhouse, then one of them had come inside while the other had strode past the boarded window, heading for what Gwen had described as a milk shed.

  There were at least two men in the house now in addition to the guard posted outside the door, who, as near as Colt could tell, had carried out his vigil sitting in the chair he had been tied to earlier. Someone was cooking breakfast, and his stomach grumbled as the smell of coffee and bacon permeated the house, competing with the scent of the javelinas. Little of this information seemed to offer much for Colt to work with. Instead, he’d found his greatest encouragement from the sound of the trains passing near the property. While some of them had barreled past at full speed, others had slowed and even stopped briefly, suggesting that they were near a train yard. If there was a way to get away from the house while one of the trains was idling, Colt felt there was a chance his family could clamber aboard and ride their way to freedom. It was a long shot with countless obstacles to surmount, but with few other options, Colt dared to hope that somehow he would be able to do the impossible.