Cherkow saw a window of opportunity and seized it, reversing course and plunging deeper into the golf course. He veered past a dwarfed skyscraper and kicked his way through a service gate leading to a hole whose main feature was a mold-covered hard plastic replica of Mt. Rushmore. He dropped behind the facade, weakened and winded. He’d made it halfway to the concession stand and figured that between the two handguns he still had at least a dozen shots left.
“Hang in there, Viktor,” he whispered to himself. “You’ll get out of this yet.”
ONCE HE’D CRAWLED AS far as the fallen fence, Bolan steeled himself and broke from cover, leaping over the rotted wood and entering the minicourse. He’s lost sight of Cherkow, but the Russian had left spatters of blood in his wake and the Executioner was able to follow the trail into the maze of cheaply constructed props standing between him and the concession stand where he assumed Cherkow was headed. A faint wind had picked up, filling the course with the sound of flapping banners as well as the scraping of overgrown bushes against woodwork and the clatter of litter being blown across concrete. The noise worked for and against Bolan, masking his advance but also making it difficult to detect Cherkow’s movements. There came a point, as he neared the Mt. Rushmore hazard, that Bolan began to wonder if perhaps the Russian had either passed out or died from his wounds.
To his left, the course’s seventh hole consisted primarily of a twenty-foot length of partially buried sewer pipe. There was a three-foot clearance, and Bolan took the risk of detouring into the conduit in hopes that when he came out the other side he’d be at a point from which he could spot Cherkow. Crawling across a ragged, timeworn length of artificial turf, at several points Bolan encountered holes through which errant golf balls were intended to be diverted to other hazards. The ground had apparently shifted over the years, however, and the previous night’s rain had sent several muck-blackened balls rolling back to the base of one of the holes. After he came across the second such hole, Bolan began to collect the balls. By the time he reached the opposite end of the pipe, he’d gathered up four of them.
Inching back out into the open, Bolan crept to the cover of a nearby concrete bench. He glanced around him, M-4 at the ready, but there was still no sign of Cherkow. If the man was still alive, Bolan decided it was time to flush him into the open. Clutching all four golf balls in one hand, Bolan drew his arm back, then sent them flying into the air. As he’d hoped, the balls quickly split off in different directions, bounding off props and concrete alike with enough racket to be heard above the other noise.
The stratagem paid off. When he rose to a crouch and peered over the top of the bench, Bolan saw Cherkow stagger away from the Mt. Rushmore monument, whirling one way, then the other, still clutching his two handguns. Bolan waited until the Russian was looking the other way, then rose and shouted, “Drop the guns!”
Cherkow froze a moment. Bolan had long lost track of the number of times an enemy had reached this same turning point, and he could tell in an instant that Cherkow was among those who had no intention of disarming themselves. Unlike most of that lot, however, Cherkow didn’t resort to spinning and trying to draw bead. Instead, back still turned to Bolan, he suddenly swung back both arms until the Phantom and Viking were both aimed in Bolan’s general direction. The weapons were upside down when Cherkow fired. Their trajectories were off and did little more than decimate the hardscape before the Executioner’s return fire pummeled through the Russian’s back, piercing his spine and then his heart. Dead on his feet, Cherkow teetered forward, overturned a bird feeder, then crashed face-first to the Mt. Rushmore putting green, just inches from the nearest hole.
Bolan slowly moved forward, keeping his carbine trained on the Russian. Something troubled him. According to all available intel, he’d just brought down the mastermind behind the mayhem of the past twelve hours, but as he stared down at Cherkow, Bolan felt a glimmer of doubt. He still was unclear as to the circumstances behind the ambush he’d just stumbled upon, but to him it smacked of goon work, much like the earlier purchase of a camper shell and bumper stickers that had led to Cherkow’s being identified. If the Russian had truly been in charge, assignments of this sort would have been delegated to underlings.
An eruption of gunfire near the motel confirmed Bolan’s misgivings that things were a long way from being over.
INSIDE THE MOTEL REGISTRATION office, Argenis Gordon had emerged bloodied and battered from the debris that had come crashing down on him after Bolan’s grenade attack. Snatching up the canvas tote bag containing the heroin, he straggled through the ruins, hoping to put the Mustang to the same use Viktor Cherkow had earlier considered. When he bolted out the rear door of the office, however, he saw the APD JetRanger landing in the central courtyard just beyond the souped-up Ford. Detective Lowe was in bad shape from the round he’d caught near the minicourse but he was still able to trade shots with Gordon. The tribal cop’s rounds missed their mark, but Lowe managed to put two slugs through Gordon’s right leg, dropping him to the ground a few yards shy of his would-be getaway car.
“Tribal police!” Gordon roared, casting aside the subgun as well as the satchel. Kneeling in the dirt, he raised his hands in surrender. “My badge is in my shirt pocket!”
Grimaldi kept the chopper running as Lowe slowly disembarked. The effort was too much for him and he pitched to one side, falling to the courtyard, unconscious. Gordon took advantage of the situation and reached out for his Bizon, only to be driven back by a warning shot from Bolan, who’d just cleared the minicourse and was charging past the spot where Cherkow had brought down Officer Boggs earlier. Up close, the Executioner recognized Gordon as one of the tribal officers he’d met near the casino the previous night before heading to Franklin Colt’s house.
“You’re a little far off your beat,” Bolan told Gordon.
“We had a last-minute tip,” Gordon lied, lowering his hands so that he could grip his wounded leg. “We were told someone was about to bring a load of heroin onto the reservation.”
“You’re still out of your jurisdiction.”
“We wanted to be preemptive.”
Bolan eyed Gordon skeptically, then glanced over at Grimaldi, who’d bounded from the chopper to check on Lowe.
“He’s still alive, but it looks pretty serious,” Grimaldi reported.
“Call in an ambulance,” Bolan told the pilot.
“I think we’ll need more than one,” Grimaldi said. “And as if we don’t have our hands full, Cowboy just called. He’s heading out with that P.I. to meet the guy with some dirt on GHC’s takeover of Roaming Bison.”
“Shiraldi?”
Grimaldi nodded. “He’s up at Cochiti Lake, just a puddle jump from here.”
“Let’s wrap this up first.” Bolan turned back to Gordon. “Do you always wear cotton gloves when you go undercover?”
“We didn’t want to disturb any evidence,” Gordon insisted.
“I think you were more interested in planting evidence than disturbing it,” Bolan countered.
Off in the distance several police sirens howled to life as a pair of Bernalillo County Sheriff’s cruisers sped toward the unlikely battlefield. Bolan unzipped the duffel bag and eyed the heroin, then stared back at Gordon.
“Looking to give yourself a little bonus?”
“I’ve already explained what happened,” Gordon said.
“Every lie only digs you in deeper,” Bolan advised the officer. “If I were you, I’d come clean and start thinking about ways to cut a deal.”
Gordon’s gaze hardened. “We’re through talking,” he said. “I’ll wait for my lawyer.”
“Suit yourself,” Bolan said, “but we both know you’re not the brains behind this. Captain Brown sent you here, didn’t she? And it had nothing to do with keeping drugs off the reservation.”
When Gordon glanced away, Bolan knew he had his answer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Santo Domingo Pueblo, New Mexico
Cap
tain Tina Brown exited the southbound interstate twelve miles before Algodones and took Route 22 north to Santo Domingo Pueblo, one of the few reservations in New Mexico that had resisted the urge to jump on the Indian casino bandwagon. Located near the ancient Cerrillos turquoise mines, the impoverished tribe made much of its income from the tourist trade, peddling jewelry and other craft works as well as fresh farm produce from roadside stands strategically located around the settlement’s periphery. Buddy Carman ran one of the larger operations, with a dozen adjacent booths taking up a prime stretch of the main street leading to the pueblo. In addition to the usual wares, Carman offered picnic seating around a well-stocked catering truck featuring standard fare along with a few local specialties. While merchandise and food sales accounted for much of Carman’s income, he also dabbled in a few gray areas, such as bootleg CDs, forged driver’s licenses and nickel/dime loan-sharking. He was discreet about such practices but had been twice caught in the act and evaded criminal charges only through the intervention of Captain Brown, who’d made use of Carman several times as an informant in dealing with casino-related crimes. Brown had needed to call in markers with the local D.A. to ensure Carman’s clean record, and now, she figured, it was time for the man to return the favor.
When the captain reached the roadside emporium she parked her Nissan Altima near the picnic area, where Carman was regaling a few tourists with an embellished tale of his days as a prospector in the surrounding mountains. When he spotted Brown, Carman abbreviated his anecdote and gave the tourists a discount coupon, then ambled over to the far picnic table where his benefactor had taken a seat. Carman’s lifelong love affair with tequila had left him with a bulbous nose several shades redder than his native complexion, and he walked with a slight limp due to a degenerating hip condition.
“Looks like you’re overdue for that replacement surgery, Buddy,” Brown told him as he winced from the ordeal of sitting.
“Sure am,” Carman said. “And from the sounds of it, you’ve come up with a way for me to pay for it.”
“If you can spin this yarn as well as you do the others, you’ll be all set,” Brown assured him.
“Lay it on me,” Carman said.
“I assume you’ve heard about the shootout we had at the reservation last night,” Brown said.
“Sure did,” Carman told her. “Complete with a bison stampede. Damn, I wish I’d had a ringside seat for that one.”
“Well, there’s a reward out for information on whoever was behind it,” the captain said. “I’m giving you first crack at it.”
Carman frowned. “I’m smelling a little perjury here.”
“It’s a chance you’re going to take,” Brown told him. “You owe me, Buddy. Do we understand each other?”
Carman was silent a moment. He had with him a can of soda pop half-filled with tequila. He drained what was left of it, then stifled a belch and nodded.
“Loud and clear, Captain,” he said. “What do you have in mind?”
Brown took out the mug shots she’d put clipped together back in her office. She referred to them as she laid things out for him.
“Around closing time a few nights ago you overheard a conversation here,” Brown said. “Probably right at this table. This guy here is an ex-con named Marcus Walker. He lives just down the road and he came by to eat and wound up talking trash about a security officer at the casino named Franklin Colt.”
“The guy who just got kidnapped?”
“That’s him,” Brown said. “Colt nabbed Walker for heroin possession at the casino a few years back, and the kid wound up doing time. He just got out of the pen, and I figure he was looking for payback. This is the guy you overheard him talking to. His name’s Viktor Cherkow.”
Carman glanced at the photo of Cherkow. “And why was Walker blabbing to him?”
“Cherkow’s a drug dealer,” Brown said. “Let’s say they did business in the past and somewhere along the line Walker helped Cherkow out of a jam. Sort of like I’ve done with you.”
“Got it,” Carman said. “And I overheard Cherkow agree to take care of not only Colt, but the rest of his family.”
“I knew you’d be able to figure it out,” Brown said. “Commit these faces to memory, then I’ll give you a few hours to flesh out your story. Call me back once you’re ready and we’ll take it from there.”
“One problem,” Carman said. “These two guys obviously are going to call me a liar.”
“I have a feeling Cherkow’s not going to be around to give you any problems,” Brown assured him. “As for Walker, he’s an ex-con, and you’re supposedly a respectable member of the community. Who do you think people are going to believe?”
“Good point.”
“We’re all set, then?”
“Just in case somebody asks, what do these guys sound like?” Carman wanted to know.
“I assume Walker talks gangsta, but I’ll try to get hold of some court transcripts to make sure,” Brown said. “As for Cherkow, just say he had some kind of foreign accent you couldn’t put a finger on. Don’t say Russian but steer things there as best you can.”
“I think that about covers it, then,” Carman said.
“Good.” Brown put the photos away and stood up. “Put on your thinking cap and make this your coup de grâce.”
“Coodie who?”
Brown smiled. “Three hours tops, then I want to hear from you.”
The captain returned to her sedan, glad to have the task out of the way. Before she started the car she double-checked her cell phone to make sure the ringer was on. She’d expected to hear back from Gordon and Boggs by now with confirmation that they’d handled matters in Algodones. There were no messages, however. The captain felt a faint twinge of apprehension as she turned her Nissan for the drive back to the reservation. She’d only gone a little way when the phone rang. She pulled over to answer it. “Combs here.”
“Have you heard from Gordon or Boggs?” Brown asked him.
“No,” Combs told her. “I’ve been busy.”
“Where’d you track the woman to?”
“I’ve gone one better,” Combs informed her. “I’m about to have both her and Chris Shiraldi at my disposal so we can find out what they’ve been up to.”
“Where are you?” Brown asked.
“Cochiti Lake,” Combs said. “Shiraldi’s got his balloon gig set up there.”
“I’m just over in Santo Domingo,” Brown told her. “I want to hear this firsthand.”
“No problem,” Combs said. “We’ll keep the party on hold until you get here.”
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“THE GUY WHO WAS FLYING with Vishnevsky is Bolivian,” Barbara Price told the cybercrew once she had fielded an update from the authorities at Santa Fe Municipal Airport. “The IDs they found on him say his name is Guillermo Guerrero, but he’s probably using an alias like everyone else he’s mixed up with.”
“Maybe they could send us a photo so Bear could run it through Profiler,” Huntington Wethers suggested.
“They’re doing that as we speak,” Price said.
“Did they get him to talk?” Hal Brognola wanted to know. He’d worn out the cigar he’d been fiddling with and was making do with a pencil.
“Nothing besides copping that Vishnevsky was bound for Taos,” Price said, “and there’s still a chance he tossed that out as a red herring.”
“If he didn’t, Carl should be in position there when he lands,” Akira Tokaido reported.
Brognola’s mind was still on the events transpiring in Santa Fe. “So we have no idea where this guy was headed?”
Price shook her head. “He’s holding out for a plea bargain.”
“Just our luck,” Brognola groused.
Carmen Delahunt had been fielding a call at her workstation but quickly joined in once she tapped off on her headset.
“I just got the latest from Striker,” she announced. Quickly she related Bolan’s account of the altercation in Al
godones along with the Executioner’s suspicion that Viktor Cherkow hadn’t been the prime strategist behind Colt’s abduction or what had taken place in Taos.
“If he’s right, I think I may have found a couple likelier suspects,” Kurtzman called out. The others turned to him. “I followed Hunt’s tip and ran a check through the Bolivian Gambling Commission’s database. I skimmed through ID photos and came across more than a dozen guys that I could cross-link back to Russia. From there I went by rap sheets for what looks like the two biggest players. If you’re up for a little more show-and-tell, I’ll throw them up on the screen.”
“By all means,” Brognola told Kurtzman.
While Kurtzman typed the necessary commands, Delahunt interjected, “Back to Striker. He’s flying out with Jack Grimaldi to meet with Cowboy, who’s apparently tracked down the head honcho for the outfit that got bounced from Roaming Bison before GHC moved in.”
“That would be great,” Brognola said. “The sooner we come up with enough to get that nuke plant put under the microscope the better.”
“Funny you should mention GHC,” Kurtzman said once he’d posted two ID photos on one of the far-wall monitors, “because that’s where both these guys wound up after logging a few months in Bolivia. These shots are actually from the New Mexico Gaming Control Board.
“The guy with the red hair on the left is Petenka Tramelik, aka Pete Trammell. Next to him’s Frederik Mikhaylov, who goes by Freddy McHale at the Bison. They go back together to the same casino in Moscow that turned out Vishnevsky. Mikhaylov’s been higher in the food chain the whole time, so he gets my vote for the brains behind whatever they’re trying to pull here in the States. Tramelik comes across as more of the trusty sidekick type.”
“Good work, Bear,” Brognola told him.
“It’s all in the keystrokes,” Kurtzman said with a shrug. “Unfortunately, my guess is that they don’t have Colt and his family holed up at the casino, so we’re still out in the cold on that front.”
Blood Play (Don Pendleton's Mack Bolan) Page 22
