War Everlasting (Superbolan)

by Don Pendleton

  Not that it wasn’t part of his plan to begin with.

  Haglemann had never really wanted to enter into an agreement with Moscovich, but his actions had been driven by necessity. A lot of money had been riding on the deal, and once the Russians had demonstrated their ability to manipulate the markets in his favor—get him lucrative contracts and jobs on the side for the local help and virtually an unlimited supply of guns and dope he could smuggle for other entities—it had been pretty much a no-brainer.

  Of course, he’d been forced to spread around some money to keep the locals happy, but that hadn’t taken much. Most of them were content to get their dividends and had never looked closely at where the cash came from, just as long as it came at regular intervals.

  Haglemann had turned Adak into nothing short of an Alaskan Mecca. They had taverns for the old-school workers and nightclubs for the singles and younger crowd. They had an airport, boats, carnivals twice a year and a movie theater that played all the first-run films. Haglemann had even managed to attract a number of high-end clothing retailers and department stores to the area that sold goods at rock-bottom prices. Hell, he’d even built the residents a full-featured gym that included an indoor swimming pool and track that were open year round.

  Davis Haglemann’s empire had once included a legion of devout followers, but now it seemed as if all of it was about to come unraveled. The Russians had somehow been discovered by military authorities, Otto Lustrum was acting belligerently, and even the recent arrival of the mysterious Mike Blansky seemed fraught with inconsistencies and warnings Haglemann felt it would be unwise to ignore. He thought about simply taking his fortune and leaving, letting the island succumb to whatever chaos might overtake it without his wealth and influence to stay the course. He kept falling back to the fear that if he did this, the Russians would surely hunt him down and destroy him.

  Then again, what did he have to fear? Some men were just born leaders and builders. He was one of them. He answered to nobody, and he would do as he pleased. Yes, it was time to leave Adak and let come what may. He would do it tonight.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Executioner was prepared for war.

  He’d donned a new skintight black suit, this one of lighter material. His feet were shod with custom-made combat boots that boasted thick, neoprene soles and lug heels containing a steel shank. Weapons of war dangled from the black suit, attached to a thin-profile load-bearing harness with no-snag fittings. Besides the twin combat medical pouches on his belt, ammunition holsters contained spare magazines for his Beretta 93-R and .44 Magnum Desert Eagle.

  The Ka-Bar D2 combat knife was nestled in a leather sheath on his belt, and he’d selected six Diehl DM51 grenades and a piano-wire garrote with mahogany handles to take with him. His face was smeared with combat cosmetics, completing the picture of the death-dealing wraith he was.

  Mack Bolan’s war had never been as much about retribution as duty. Even in the early days when repaying the criminal underworld for the deaths of his father, mother and sister, and the almost intangible trauma imposed upon his sole-surviving brother, Johnny Gray, the Executioner had seen his war as something much larger than simple revenge. To seek revenge was stupid in its context. His war had always been one of striking at the heart of the monster, dealing justice to those who preyed upon the innocent.

  It was as he wrote in his journal those first fateful days of his War Everlasting: “It looks like I have been fighting the wrong enemy. Why defend a front line eight thousand miles away when the real enemy is chewing up everything you love back home?”

  And while Bolan’s intentions were the best and his resolve unshakeable, he found on occasions there were a few people who didn’t totally understand. One of those was a certain middle-aged, dark-haired woman who’d seen an awful lot of her own heartache in this life and simply wanted to move on with it. And she was stating her case in no uncertain terms.

  “This is not a good idea,” Corsack said. “In fact, this is a very bad idea.”

  “As you’ve already stated about a dozen times,” Bolan replied, trying to mask his exasperation.

  “And I’m going to keep stating it.”

  “Oh,” Grimaldi said glibly. “I can’t wait.”

  “You stay out of this, Jack,” Corsack said. She fixed Bolan with a haughty mask of disapproval. “And you, mister, you’re getting yourself into hot water. You should let the navy or army handle this. Maybe even Chief Chakowa.”

  “And as I’ve already explained, Chakowa has chosen to let me handle this,” Bolan said, retrieving his FN-FNC carbine and checking the action. He paused to give her his attention. “The law here trusts me, Maggie. Why can’t you?”

  “Why? Because the law hasn’t exactly been trustworthy in the distant past. And need I remind you that Lustrum hasn’t, either? For everyone’s safety it might be better if they just lock him up until it’s over.”

  “Believe me, Chakowa actually threatened to do that at one point,” Bolan said. “But I think Lustrum will keep his word and stay out of it.”

  “Roger that,” Grimaldi added. “Believe me, nobody wants to be around when the Sarge does his things and the fireworks start.”

  “Why do you keep calling him ‘Sarge?’” Corsack asked offhandedly.

  “Nickname.”

  “The point is this,” Bolan said. “Haglemann’s the key to finding the RBN’s operation. By now, he’s sure to know his reputation as a respectable businessman is over. He’ll debate his next move, maybe initially he’ll be defiant and refuse to run, but in the end he’ll realize the jig’s up, and he’ll scram. Or at least he’ll try. And that’s when I’ll take him.”

  “And you know all that from...?”

  “Many years of experience,” Bolan replied. “Like I told you before, I’ve been doing this for a very long time. I know how men like Haglemann think and how they act. They’re small men who try to be mightier than they really are, and they love to walk over others to achieve whatever’s their endgame. Only problem is, they will inevitably encounter someone who won’t back down. That’s usually about the time they show their true colors.”

  “Then I guess there’s no talking you out of this,” Corsack said.

  “No, Why are you so worried about it, anyway? I would’ve thought you’d like to see Haglemann brought to justice.”

  “My reasons are my own,” Corsack said. “And nobody else’s business. I wish you all the best of luck, Blansky. Just do me a favor and try to come out of this alive on the other end. Will you?”

  With that, Corsack turned and left the kitchen. She went straight into her bedroom and closed the door quietly behind her.

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged a moment of uncomfortable silence, each letting the other get lost in his own thoughts.

  “Okay,” Bolan said, whipping out the layout for Haglemann’s house and spreading it on the coffee table. “Let’s talk about the plan. I’ll make the hit at 2300, just as we discussed. From that mark, I’ll need twenty minutes to defeat any of the physical security at the hard site, get inside and find Haglemann.”

  Bolan pointed to a large, square rooftop marking. “This is the heliport I told you about. It’s connected to the house with both an elevator and stairwell access. I’m likely going to have to cut the power to cover our escape, so you’ll have to hit the rooftop while it’s still lit. Once I go lights-out, it’ll become much tougher to land.”

  “What about a spotlight? There’s one on the police helicopter.”

  Bolan shook his head. “No dice. We can’t be sure of the exact enemy numbers, and I don’t want you doing anything that might risk getting you shot at. You’ll have to come in dark. The last thing we can afford is one of them shooting you down before you even reach the target.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll be there, and you can cou
nt on it.”

  “I know,” Mack Bolan replied. “It’s about the only thing I know I can count on.”

  * * *

  JEFF GROSS HADN’T been keen on their plan to get him off Semisopochnoi Island via little more than a glorified powerboat, but he was even less enthused about having to make the five hour trip over cold, dark waters to Port Adak. He liked the idea of making the transit even less when he heard the leader of the Russians would be accompanying him. Gross had managed to conceal a pistol on his person just before all the trouble had gone down and they’d raided the Llewellyn, though, so that served as a small comfort for him.

  Frankly, he wondered if this entire idea hadn’t been bad from the start. He’d never really wanted to work with the Russians, but he’d been unable to resist the kind of money they offered him. Besides, he didn’t figure he was selling out his whole country. Only a few of his shipmates, most of whom he never liked, anyway. It wasn’t like this small band of cheap thugs could do much with one small Coast Guard cutter. They probably didn’t even understand most of the technology they were trying to salvage. His understanding of the Russians were they enjoyed selling pornography and ripping off the credit cards of old ladies who had too much money, anyway. They weren’t doing any real harm. The leader, who he knew only as Vlad, had even given his word they were going to let his shipmates go as soon as they’d finished.

  Gross realized he was only trying to justify his actions to make the cake taste sweeter. The fact of the matter was he knew he was a treacherous prick. But that didn’t matter. They’d been willing to meet his price, and soon he’d be on a beach in some nonextradition country sipping mai tais and enjoying the view. Who was he really hurting, after all?

  Gross wasn’t much for the trip to Adak. It was cold and dark, and his Russian companion didn’t say more than ten words to him the entire trip. Gross had been instructed to sit in the back and keep his mouth shut, a ratty blanket his only way of keeping warm. They hadn’t even bothered to give him a jacket. The fact that it was summer hardly mattered this far north. At night on the open water it was still as cold as a witch’s tit. He’d tried to protest, but the other guy, who seemed to be some sort of a high-ranker in the organization, had told him to stop his bitching, or his one-way ticket to paradise would be of a different kind.

  Gross had understood the warning, although he hadn’t been very appreciative of it. Just because the Russians were paying him didn’t mean they were entitled to treat him like a dog. He was still an American, and he knew more about their operations than he let on. They would start to be nicer to him or once he got to Adak he could find a way to make Vlad’s life extremely miserable. He wasn’t afraid of the guy in the least. He had his pistol and he had his pride, and he was willing to use the former if anyone tried to steal the latter.

  Thankfully, after more than four grueling hours on the boat, Gross saw the dense outline of Adak Island ahead. He estimated they would reach the port in about forty-five minutes, and a quick check of his watch verified the guess. It was nearing ten o’clock when the boat reached the isolated dock along the southern part of the island, set off about a half mile from the main port in the mouth of Nazan Bay.

  As Vlad pulled up to the dock, Gross rose and dutifully tossed the dock lines onto the nearby mooring post. He pulled with all his strength to bring them gently up to the dock without connecting the fiberglass hull against the wooden posts or scraping against any rocks. This area had obviously been chosen carefully, and Gross was actually glad for the opportunity to demonstrate his usefulness. He cast the ratty blanket aside and climbed the thick, rope ladder first until he reached the dock. He looked in all directions but didn’t see a soul in sight, and he became ever more conscious of the weight of the pistol tucked in a special holster clipped to the small of his back, hidden beneath the loose wool sweater over his uniform shirt.

  “Nobody to meet us?” he asked Vlad as the Russian climbed the rope ladder to stand beside him on the dock.

  “They will be here,” he replied in his rough English.

  As if on cue, a pair of headlights in the distance winked on and off twice. Moscovich immediately withdrew a red-lensed flashlight and repeated the signal, but with two flashes, a pause, and then two more flashes. Gross heard the faint sound of the engine as it came to life, and within a minute a dark, late-model Hummer came into view. The two men walked the dock until they reached shore and climbed into the back at the direction of the passenger riding shotgun.

  “Where’s Haglemann?” Moscovich asked.

  “He’s waiting at the house,” one of the men said.

  And with that, they were off and running through the darkness.

  Denver, Colorado

  UNDER OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES, the blond-haired man who entered the small café directly across the street would have probably drawn a bit more attention had he not been dressed in a plain, gray suit with knotted tie loosened at the neck. But because he was attired just like any of the other businessmen who frequented the place for a late lunch, he didn’t rate a second look.

  Everything about the man, from the way he carried himself to his demeanor when ordering a tall glass of iced tea and a cheeseburger, exuded an air of command. In this case, only the waitress or short-order cook in the café might have known he was more than he appeared to be, since they were used to seeing his type visit often from the building across the street. That’s because it was a building that housed a number of government types, including two entire floors dedicated to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  But this guy was no Fed.

  Not in any conventional sense. He hated monkey suits and he loathed bureaucratic red tape. Whether it was the CIA, NSA or DHS, it was much too much for this guy. Strange for a guy who’d come out of a major municipal police force. But then that had made him the perfect choice for the job of leading a team of some of the toughest urban commandos ever assembled. They were consummate warriors, soldiers of a cause just as was the man they called a friend and ally.

  But today the blond man was alone and operating under very strict orders to play it all totally under the radar. The mission suited him, since he was pretty used to keeping his cards close to the vest, anyway. After all, the woman he’d been assigned to watch was anything but an average federal agent. Justina Marquez had been a New York City police detective in the Organized Crime Unit of the NYPD when she’d first encountered Mack Bolan. She’d thought he was just another dirt-bag criminal, but upon learning he was really in New York to bring down one of the most notorious Russian mobsters ever, she’d thrown all in and risked life, limb and career to help the Executioner complete her task. Now, four short years later, she was a decorated veteran of the FBI and a lead antiterrorist expert in her own right.

  The blond man could admire the hell out of a lady like that. Such devotion to duty was rare, but especially among most of her kind. While there were many good police officers and agents in the FBI, there were only a few who would risk their careers to buck the system and do whatever it took to bring the enemy to its knees. Justina Marquez had proven she was one of them, and even had the bullet scar to prove it. She’d been wounded during her campaign with Mack Bolan to eliminate Yuri Godunov and his traitorous nephew, Stepan.

  Barbara Price had been clear in her instructions. “We don’t think the RBN has her targeted. In fact, we don’t even think they know her identity. But seeing that we’ve confirmed they are operating within United States borders and this might be an act of revenge, we have to assume she could be in danger. Until Striker has confirmed the threat is neutralized, we think it’s better we have someone with your particular talents handle this, rather than just entrust it to other members in Justice. Hal was fully confident you were our guy, and he picked you by name.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” the blond man had said. “No sweat.”

  And he’d meant every word of it. Br
ognola had been right. This job was uniquely suited to his talents. To bring his compatriots into it would’ve been overkill. Besides, they were known to take separate assignments, too, whenever the need called for it. They couldn’t all be everywhere at once. There were other considerations and other crises that needed handling, and sometimes it was good to work those alone. When they had to come together as a team, however, they became nothing short of an unbeatable force and one to be reckoned with by any enemies that came in their sights.

  But none of that brute force would be needed. Today it was just a matter of watching the back of someone with a spirit much like his own. He could appreciate that, and he could damn well understand it. Mack Bolan was out there putting it all on the line to bring down the Russian Business Network. This gig was just one small way Carl “Ironman” Lyons could do his own part to help his longtime friend and ally. So, no, he didn’t view this as any sort of duty beneath his abilities. Hell, just the opposite. He didn’t mind it one bit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Unalaska

  Deputy Chief Brenda Shaffernik fumed as she sat in the cold, sterile temporary offices that Military Intelligence had set up.

  They’d treated her like a criminal and detained her without submitting proof of any wrongdoing. At first, part of Shaffernik had regretted agreeing to help Blansky. But her resolve grew steely after she was met at the airfield, stripped of her equipment and put in handcuffs. It was bad enough when they took her to their headquarters for interrogation but even more disheartening when she requested an attorney and was refused.