by Roger Weston
“Then that’s where he’ll die.”
CHAPTER 35
After smashing through the door of warehouse number five, Chuck slammed the gear in reverse and backed half way out so that the truck’s bed was sticking out of the door. He smashed out the rear cab window and climbed into the truck bed. He brought his gun up over the railing and saw an enforcer sprinting toward him with an AK47. Chuck took a deep breath and squeezed off a shot. The enforcer fell and rolled. The assault rifle spun on the tarmac. Two other gunman retreated back into the airplane hangar.
Chuck leapt out of the truck bed and ran inside warehouse number five. He was immediately confused. The captives were all supposed to be here, but instead, all he saw were racks of barrels. There were hundreds of barrels marked Braun Distillery, Tasmania. Big letters said “Rye.” Thousands of barrels said Northern Lights Grain Alcohol.
But where are the prisoners? Chuck thought.
Then he saw a stairwell down into a basement. He rushed down the stairs and shot the lock of the metal door at lower landing. He kicked open the door and looked at the abused figures of seven men.
They looked at him with frightened eyes.
“I’m with the CIA. I’m here to take you home. We have to move fast. Let’s go.”
The looks in their eyes changed from fear to hope and determination.
Several of them cheered.
“Hurry. Follow me. We’re going to face gunfire.”
“We need weapons,” a scraggly-haired sailor said.
“My M16 will have to do.”
“Against how many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Belkin has dozens of men.”
“Quit wasting time. You can die here or take your chances with me.”
Chuck rushed up the stairs, followed by all seven prisoners. “Get in the back of the truck and lie down.”
One of them peeked out a break in the wall where Chuck had smashed the truck through. “We’re all gonna die,” he said. “All Belkin’s men are coming. I see two dozen jogging down the runway. They’re all armed.”
Chuck rolled a barrel of grain alcohol into the middle of the warehouse. He moved the selector on his AK47 and opened fire on full automatic. Numerous bullets made Swiss cheese of the barrel and the alcohol spilled out in a growing pool on the floor. There were so many holes that the barrel quickly drained out on the floor. Tracer rounds ignited the alcohol. A burning pool of liquid fire spread quickly.
Chuck got in the back of the truck and said, “When I stop shooting, hit it.”
“Which way?”
“Head for the far end of the runway.” Chuck opened fire on full automatic. He had a full banana clip of 7.62mm ammunition including hot burning tracer rounds. He raked the stacks of barrels of grain alcohol with automatic gunfire. Fountains were spouting all across the stacks. Burning grain alcohol was splashing on the floor and covering the exteriors of hundreds of barrels. Then Chuck’s AK47 stopped firing.
“Alright, hit it!” he yelled.
Wheels screeched. The truck backed out through the broken out wall. Chuck ran through the opening and dove into the truck’s bed as the driver shifted from reverse into regular gear.
Incoming gunfire forced everyone to stay low.
Chuck slammed in a new banana magazine and squeezed off bursts that forced the two dozen men on the runway to drop to the tarmac. They were sitting ducks with no cover. Several were wounded.
The truck raced down the runway at 70 mph.
Chuck looked back and as they put distance between them. Most of Belkin’s reinforcements stood up.
The alcohol warehouse erupted in a churning fireball. The entire warehouse was vaporized, and a fireball rose from the site. The explosion was massive and Chuck felt the thunder of the concussion wave.
Barrel fragments rained down all over the runway.
The ground beneath that part of the runway collapsed into underground cavities.
A huge sinkhole opened up. And molten lava began erupting from the crater, shooting a hundred-and-fifty feet in the air.
Lava began to pour out of the gap and cover the runway.
“What’s happening?” someone yelled.
“The explosion opened up a lava tube,” Chuck said. “The volcano is draining.”
At the end of the runway, the truck skidded to a halt. The rescued captives climbed out slowly.
Chuck thought their leg muscles must have been atrophied.
Once they were all out, he revved the engine and hit the gas pedal.
The truck raced towards the electric fence, and he bailed out at the last moment. The truck smashed through the gate, piled off the edge of the access road and plunged down a steep two-hundred foot slope. The truck crashed down on the ground by the lower entrance to the underground city.
“Go through the opening,” Chuck yelled. “Be careful. Stay away from the electric fence.”
A second truck raced down the runway in pursuit as the men hurried down the stairs into the Valley of Geysers.
He saw that there was only one man in the cab of the truck. He was wondering if they’d left a prisoner behind. He thought it must have been a sailor because there were no gunmen in the back. Chuck waited by the truck to see who was driving the approaching vehicle.
But as the truck drew close, his alarm level rose. He recognized the driver, and it was no sailor. The big rig skidded to a stop. As Belkin jumped onto the tarmac, Chuck tackled him. They hit the ground and rolled then jumped up and faced each other.
Belkin executed a front kick, but Chuck grabbed his ankle and twisted it viciously. Belkin dove for the tarmac and twisted in the air. Landing, he rolled. Chuck pursued, but Belkin scrambled up onto his feet faster than a rabid squirrel. He fled and turned as soon as he had a little breathing room. His hands were bleeding from his contact with the cement; so was his forehead.
Chuck delivered three body blows, but Belkin managed to grab his wrist and twist it. Chuck spun around and raised his wrist over his head. Chuck reached up over his head and grabbed Belkin’s wrist with his other hand. Chuck bent forward with great force and pulled on Belkin’s arm, throwing him. Belkin flipped and rolled.
He somersaulted and came up on his feet. He whipped around. Chuck went after him. He threw a reckless punch and paid for it. Belkin got in close and grabbed Chuck in an underarm bear hug. Chuck immediately attacked his eyes with his thumbs, but Belkin violently shook him from side to side. Chuck threw a slashing elbow into his head.
Stunned by the blow, he pushed Chuck away.
Belkin threw a right hand at Chuck’s head. As Chuck raised his hands to protect his face, he exploded off his back foot and rushed at Belkin. He crashed inside of his punch and got his hands around the back of his head. Now Chuck yanked his head downward as he brought his knee upward. The collision made a cracking sound. When Belkin rose again, his broken nose was bleeding profusely.
He pulled a knife and slashed at Chuck, who ducked and dodged. A wild look filled Belkin’s eyes like a wolf who’d smelled blood. His knife blade sliced the air. It whispered threats, but Chuck jumped back. Belkin came at him again, holding his fist high and stabbing downward. Chuck executed a kick at the subaxillary bundle of arteries, nerves and tendons of the upper bicep and underarm.
Belkin fell backwards over the edge of the cliff. He grabbed at the chain-link fence to save himself, but it shocked him with high voltage electricity. He fell two hundred feet and landed on the cement at the entrance to the underground base.
“Change happens,” Chuck said, looking over the edge of the cliff. “Storms come and storms go.”
Urgent Note: Click here to get the next book in the series now: THE RECRUITER.
Vengeance continues below…
CHAPTER 36
Bering Sea at Night
Chuck was riding shotgun in a very comfortable bucket seat as Thunder Child soared through the stormy gray waters of the North Pacific. He was enjoying the rising and falling of the
ride, watching gallons of spray splashing against the inch-thick windshield. The storm was raking the Bering Sea with wild conditions that spawned fear in mortal souls. Seven foot swells were rolling over the sea. Thunder Child rode the watery roller coaster with grace and power. Glowing display monitors illuminated her console.
Thunder Child was eighteen meters long with a seating capacity of ten. She was lean and sleek, built for naval, law enforcement, offshore patrol, and high-speed search and rescue operations. Her smooth lines came together in a high-speed, wave-piercing hull design with a low radar signature superstructure.
The driver was Clay Krukov, one of the members of Chuck’s strike team years back before he went solo. Clay was an Aleut Indian who lived on Kiska Island, one of the closest Aleutian Islands to Petropavlovsk.
Clay said, “We have company.”
“What?”
Clay gestured toward the radar at the three dots. “Who do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something tells me they’re not coming to bring flowers and say good-bye.”
“If they have any flowers, it’s for our funeral at sea.”
Clay shook his head.
“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” Chuck said.
“I was focused on the weather forecast. This storm was unexpected.”
A call came over the VHS. “Brandt, this is Hench. I have a message for you. I’m going to kill you. I wanted to warn you so that you can feel the torments of fear for your last few minutes. I wanted to you to suffer the throes of terror, knowing cold ocean is about to claim you.”
One of the boats came up alongside and two were fast catching up. A voice on a loud speaker said, “Stop the boat or we will open fire.”
Chuck squeezed the mic key and said, “Turn back. I’ve got my survivors. Go back.”
“Never! Belkin was my son. Now I will get my vengeance.”
“Your son!”
“That’s right. I made him into the force that he was.”
“Let it go. It was self-defense.”
“I enjoyed torturing your friend Nicolai,” Hench said.
“I’m gonna forget you said that.”
“Remember me, Brandt. I’m about to kill you.”
Clay did not slow down, and a gunman on the other boat opened fire. Bullets pinged off the glass of the Thunder Child’s closed cabin.
“The ballistic glass is first class,” Chuck said, “but we can’t allow this.” He looked back. Two other boats were few hundred yards back.
Clay shoved the accelerator lever forward, and Thunder Child responded with tremendous acceleration—especially given the rough seas.
The surface drive propulsion kicked in and powered twin Caterpillar C12.9 1,000hp engines. Chuck felt himself sink down into carbon race bucket seats with their comfortable ‘Wavebreaker’ shock mitigation suspension units. Sheets of water doused the windows, but Clay, Chuck, and the passengers were unaffected in the climate controlled main cabin
Clay hit a switch, adjusting the running trim control from large hydraulic trim tabs. This allowed the bow to become wavepiercing and dramatically reduce slamming in head seas. The wave piercing bow did her job. She ran clear of the water at rising speeds while reducing drag.
“You’re going fast,” Chuck said, “but aren’t you going a bit too fast?”
“You want them to catch us?”
“No, but I don’t to sink either.”
“The Lord is my Shepherd,” one of the sailors said. “I shall not want.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Clay said. “You guys in the back, make sure your seat belts are secure. I mean every one of you, right now!”
Thunder Child soared off a wave, crashing down into the face of another, piercing the wave.
“Why are you taking an angle on the waves?” Chuck said. “Isn’t that a little risky?”
“They’re not far behind. Their drivers have more guts than common sense. They’re really moving.”
Thunder Child caught air at high speed and splashed back down. The twin Caterpillar engines kicked up the power. The sense of power was frightening—the power of the storm and the power of Thunder Child. She sliced at the storm like skis knifing through shallow powder. She sliced through the waves and flew over the peaks.
“He maketh me lie down in green pastures,” the sailor said. “He restores my soul.”
Chuck looked back. A big sailor in the front row had a string of beads swinging from his hand, a rosary.
Chuck tried to stay focused. He was a man of the sea. He was focused on the sea, but he had never been on a ride like this before. “I don’t like your angle on the waves,” he said to Clay. “Straighten it out!”
“I know more about Thunder Child than you do,” Clay said. “This is the ultimate warrior.”
Yells of fear came from the back seats. Chuck glanced back. These were hardened sailors, but he saw terror on their faces. They weren’t used to such a wild ride as this. They knew very well that the life-expectancy in these waters was just a few minutes.
“And though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” the big man said, “I will fear no evil.” He looked calm and peaceful with his eyes closed.
Clay hit a switch for the anti-submersion fins at her bow. “Ride the white horse,” he said like a man possessed. Thunder Child caught air. Sheets of water crashed down on her windows.
Chuck glanced at the radar. The lunatics were right behind them, so he glanced at the Night Vision LCD Screen for the FLIR Thermal/night vision infrared camera system. The infrared signatures showed the boats attacking the storm behind them like they had death wishes. They must have feared Hench more than death itself, Chuck thought, or they’d slow down.
“Hey,” Chuck yelled, “I said change your angle!”
Thunder Child soared off a rogue wave almost sideways, leaving her vulnerable. As she launched off the peak, a whitecap batted and spun her. She did a double twist and came down capsized.
The sailors in the back were yelling in agony. “For thou art with me, Lord” the big man said. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”
“We’re capsized,” another sailor screamed. “We’re going to die. We’re doomed!”
“Hold your horses,” Clay said, calmly. “One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three…”
Thunder Child righted herself. “Oh ye of little faith,” Clay said. “She’s a self righting boat.”
“Look!” a sailor yelled. The other boats were now surrounding them. A gunman rose from a hatch on the boat ahead of them.
“Welcome to the party,” Clay said. “I’ve got a little something for you.”
He hit a switch. A trap door on the front deck opened up and a fearsome gun rose up, a 12.7mm gyroscopically-stabilized, remote controlled machine gun. Clay worked a joystick on his consul and the Gatling gun rotated, taking aim at the boat, which lined up with the sights on the computer screen.
Fear seized the face of the gunner on the other boat. Clay pushed a button. The weapon opened fire. He moved his finger around on a little video screen on the consul. The gun followed his finger. As he moved it across the boat on the screen, the machine gun unleashed a hailstorm of destruction on the attacking boat. The gunner fell out of sight into the hatch as a wave swept under Thunder Child and crashed down over the attacking boat.
The voice of Hench Fowler came over the radio. “I’ll kill you myself, Brandt, with a rocket launcher.”
“Thou preparest a table before me,” the sailor said from the back seat. “My cup runneth over.”
Clay revved the big Caterpillar engines. Thunder Child roared forth as Clay cranked down on the wheel. She curved around. As she rode over the next wave, the thermal tracker zeroed in on Hench Fowler as he popped out of a hatch and heaved the rocket launcher onto his shoulder.
“Good-bye,” Clay said. He squeezed a trigger and the machine gun raked across the attacking boat like a hail storm. Hench dr
opped back down in the hatch, but he must have pulled the trigger too, because the boat exploded in a fireball.
The third boat turned tail and ran.
“Let them go,” Chuck said. “We need to head for Kiska Island.”
“Why’d that guy want to kill you so bad?” Clay said.
“The lust for vengeance is the ruin of many.”
Clay nodded. “It didn’t work out for that guy.”
“My trail guide was a good man,” Chuck said. “His name was Nicolai. I wish you could have met him. Hench tortured him to death.”
“I’m sorry you lost a friend.”
“We lost a lot of good people. Now I have to notify the families.”
“You’re forgetting something.”
Chuck turned around. It was one of the sailors. He was sitting in the third-row back. “What’s that?” Chuck said.
“Us. You saved seven of us. We’ll never forget what you did.”
“Thank you.”
A sailor in the third row said, “I just have one question.”
“What’s that?” Chuck said.
“Why’d they only send in two men for us? You and your trail guide. Why just two men?”
“They didn’t. They sent it one. Nicolai agreed to help out for his own reasons.”
“But why didn’t they send in more men?”
“You’ll find out very soon.” Chuck put his laptop on his knees and opened it up. He logged in and got a satellite link to the worldwide internet.
It took twenty minutes, but finally the image of Deputy DCI Carl Seychel appeared on the computer screen for a conference call. Seychel was middle aged man with well-combed brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was frowning.
“Brandt, why are you calling me? I thought I told you to go after Belkin.”
“He’s been neutralized.”
A dozen stress wrinkles formed on Seychel’s forehead. “That’s bullshit. What are you talking about?”
“Belkin is no longer a threat to shipping in the South China Sea or the Pacific. He has been eliminated.”
Seychel turned pale.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, mission accomplished.”
