Parking Garage
Vancouver International Airport
As they stood in the seclusion of the parking garage, Eldridge passed four radios with ear mics to Bolan, Grimaldi, Dimitri and Kournikova, but his expression remained austere. It was clear that he had more than just a few misgivings about this new quartet accompanying him and his team. Bolan sensed that as he slipped on his ballistic vest and removed the MP-5 from his backpack.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Eldridge said. “This is our city, and we have regulations and procedures that must be followed. Plus, we’ll take the lead on any raids.”
“Hey, these guys play rough, Sergeant,” Grimaldi said, pulling on his vest, as well. “And we’ve been tangling with them over half of Alaska. Believe me, you’re gonna need all the help you can get. They don’t play by your rules.”
“There’s also the plague factor,” Bolan said. He gestured to himself and the three others. “We’re the only ones who’ve been inoculated. Having your men go in first is going to risk exposing them to a highly contagious and deadly pathogen.”
“This isn’t some American movie where you can just go breaking down doors and go in shooting,” Eldridge said. “We’ve got laws and procedures that must be followed.”
“The clock’s ticking, pal,” Grimaldi said. “You waste time trying to get a warrant or permission or whatever you call it up here, the monster’s gonna get out of the cage.”
“He’s got a point, John,” Sharp said.
“Let us take lead,” Bolan said. “Go in first. We’ll let you know what the odds are, and then we can figure out the best assault tactics.”
“It’ll also give you a chance to get some hazmat teams in place,” Grimaldi said. “You’re gonna need them.”
Eldridge took in a deep breath and then looked at Sharp, who nodded.
“All right,” Eldridge said. “We’ll reassess things once we locate them.”
Bolan checked the magazine, slapped it in place, set the weapon on safe mode, then placed two more fully loaded mags into the specially designed pockets of his vest. “How far is this place where your surveillance team saw those bikers?”
“It’s about ten minutes away by vehicle,” Eldridge said. “Kent’s a winding street that runs east and west. The place we’re looking at is on Knight Street.”
Kournikova and Dimitri stood looking expectantly, and Eldridge heaved a sigh and popped the tailgate on his Tahoe. He strode past the two of them and began sorting through several boxes of equipment.
“Here you go, miss.” He pulled out a ballistic vest and held it toward the Russian agent. “This should fit you, albeit a bit awkwardly.”
She smiled and thanked him.
“And here’s one for you.” Eldridge handed another vest to Dimitri. “I assume you have more of your own weapons in that?”
“We do,” Dimitri said. He held up his backpack and unzipped it. The folded metal stock of an AK-47 was visible.
“Just take care where you point it,” Eldridge said.
“We can vouch for them,” Bolan said. “We’ve been through a few tough ones together.”
Eldridge glanced at Sharp and then back to the Executioner.
“All right,” he said. “Covert surveillance, and then you report back to me before you take any action. Understood?”
“We’ll do our best,” Bolan said.
Knight Street Warehouse
South Vancouver
Rokva watched the Indian’s nose wrinkle in displeasure at the sight of the cigarettes. Smiling, the mafiya captain held the pack toward him and offered him one. Patel shook his head.
“I happen to be allergic to tobacco smoke,” he said in a huffy voice.
Seeing this as a chance to assert a bit more of his dominance into the game, Rokva removed one, then offered the pack to Sergei, who grabbed one, as well.
“We shall try not to exhale it in your direction,” Rokva said. “It is still yet another reason to conclude our transaction quickly.”
Patel’s lips compressed and he nodded.
“I trust that you have completed all your compatibility tests on the samples we delivered to you earlier?” He flicked his lighter and held the flame toward Sergei, who’d stripped off the extended filter and placed the stubby cigarette between his lips.
“We have,” Patel said.
Rokva lighted his own cigarette, acting as though he had all the time in the world. In reality, he was waiting for a signal from Igoshin that the cargo had been sufficiently cleaned and readied for inspection.
Waving at the row of special blue-and-white medical containers, he said, “Feel free to have your men inspect the goods over there. Everything is numbered to correspond with the tissue samples that you received earlier.”
Patel said something to his three assistants, burly men who appeared to be Sikhs. They went to the containers and began opening them. One man held some sort of measuring device.
“I also have four new sets that are being prepared as we speak,” Rokva said. “And twenty-two more, ready for harvesting. These live ones all have their corresponding sample numbers written on the backs of their hands with indelible ink.”
Patel’s lips pursed into a small knot. “I wish to inspect the cargo.”
“Certainly,” Rokva said. He looked around and saw Igoshin standing about fifty feet away by the locker rooms. His head moved up and down fractionally.
“This way,” the Georgian said.
He, Sergei, Patel and two of the Indian’s assistants walked toward the locker room area. As they got closer, Igoshin knocked sharply on the door and then opened it.
The cluster of women and children stood in the center of the big room, huddling together. They were all naked and some had towels wrapped around them. Others shivered in their nakedness. All of them had fearful eyes.
Patel’s head rotated slowly as he surveyed the group. His mouth worked slightly, his lips rolling inward and then out again, as if he were assessing the latest flock of fat sheep to be shorn and slaughtered.
One of the children, a small boy, suddenly leaned forward and vomited.
Patel recoiled and Rokva reached over with a gentle but firm grip and pulled the Indian toward the door.
“Ah, my apologies. They have been in transit for several hours,” he said. “Come. Let us give them some privacy.”
Patel now seemed eager to exit the room. He practically ran for the door.
As Igoshin closed the door to the locker room, Rokva raised an eyebrow as he looked down at Patel.
“You said that the payment was close?”
The Indian took out his cell phone. “I’ll have my men bring it now.”
The mafiya captain nodded. Now he had only to count the money and the harvesting could begin.
Knight Street
South Vancouver
The caravan of police vehicles stopped on Kent Street and pulled to the side under the waning light of an overhead streetlight. As he exited the police car, Bolan felt the weariness leaving his body as the adrenaline jolt lifted him with the anticipation of finally closing in on his foes. Grimaldi, Kournikova and Dimitri all stood silent next to him, their weapons at the ready. Eldridge was on his radio and Sharp was standing off to the side. A squad of six ERT officers leaned against the side of a van that obscured their Bearcat from any passing vehicles.
“Find out anything?” Bolan asked Eldridge as he adjusted the frequency knob on his radio and slipped it back into its pouch.
“Our surveillance team picked up on some activity in this area earlier,” Eldridge said. “Two of our biker boys on Harleys and another pair in a van. They disappeared into a network of alleys lacing through the warehouse district.”
“In other words,” Grimaldi said, “they lost them.”
Eldridge frowned. “It was either drop back or let themselves be seen.” He waved his arm around. “As you can see, this area doesn’t have a lot of traffic in the wee hours.”
“It’ll be light soon,” Bolan said. “Any indication as to where they are now?”
“As far as we can tell, they’re in one of those buildings in that section. My base is checking the records now for that company name you gave me.”
As if on cue, Eldridge’s cell phone chimed. He removed it from a zippered pocket in his vest and touched the screen.
“Okay,” he said. “Here’s the address.” He read it off then said, “Interestingly enough, not only does it come back as being rented by Universal Exports, but it’s been shut down for renovations for the better part of a year.”
“How far away from it are we?” Bolan asked. Then a pair of headlights flickered in his peripheral vision. Instinctively the police all moved to the other side of their vehicles and merged into the shadows as a big, navy blue Lincoln zoomed down the street.
Eldridge brought his binoculars up and then called in the plate. Seconds later the response came back to him as he listened to his ear mic.
“It belongs to Surgeonetics Medical, Incorporated,” he said, then listened again. “My base is doing some digging on that one. They’ll get back to me.”
Bolan watched as the Lincoln made an abrupt right turn into a wide alley a few blocks down.
“Is that in the direction of our Universal Exports address?”
“I believe so,” Eldridge replied.
“Okay,” Bolan said. “Drop us at that alley and we’ll take a look around.”
“And you’ll call me with anything you observe, right?” Eldridge said.
“Absolutely.”
A minute later Bolan, Grimaldi and the Russians were speeding down the street in pursuit of the Lincoln. When they neared the alley, the Executioner caught a glimpse of the Lincoln’s taillights. The vehicle was parked about five hundred feet away in the alley, facing a large overhead door.
“This kind of smacks of déjà vu,” Grimaldi said.
Bolan nodded. “Drop us over there.”
The van slowed to a stop and Bolan and company went EVA. As they grouped together, the Executioner told them to conduct a final equipment check and then to switch to the tac frequency on the radios that Eldridge had given them.
“It’s best if we approach on foot,” he said. “Follow my lead and stay in the shadows as best you can.”
With that, he took off at a quick trot, heading toward the Lincoln. The others followed.
The large door began to rise, spilling bright light into the still darkened alley.
Bolan signaled a halt. They froze behind a Dumpster and the Executioner edged a sliver of his face around the metal corner.
The Lincoln pulled into the warehouse and a man holding an AK-47 peeked out, scanning each direction. He stepped back inside as the door began to lower.
“I think we’ve found the right place,” Bolan said, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. He switched the frequency on his radio and called Eldridge.
“The vehicle entered the target building,” Bolan said. “At least one occupant armed with an AK-47 stationed at rear overhead door.”
“Roger that. Stand by while I contact base.”
Bolan scraped his thumbnail over the mic and then said, “Say again. You’re breaking up.”
Eldridge repeated his message and asked for an acknowledgment.
“Funny how you can never rely on these damn things when you need to,” Grimaldi said, grinning.
Bolan scanned the building. It was a two-story structure with piles of debris lying along the rear section adjacent to the overhead door. At the far end, he saw a metal staircase, which had probably been designed as a fire escape at one time. Now it simply led to a narrow walkway on the second floor.
“I’m going to move up to that staircase,” he said. “You three move in close and get ready to enter when the cavalry gets here, if I give the signal.”
“How are we supposed to get in?” Kournikova asked.
“If it’s clear, I’ll raise that overhead door for you. Brief Eldridge when he gets here and be ready to move in on my command.” He paused and looked at each of them. Grimaldi’s face showed the familiar combination of anticipation and fatigue. Kournikova’s features looked a bit wan, as well. The wild card, Dimitri, looked sullen and dispassionate. Bolan hoped he would see all three of them on the other side of this.
“And remember who we’re dealing with here,” he said, gripping his MP-5 before departing at a fast clip.
Rokva watched as Bram Patel’s men began loading the medical containers with the organs into the biker’s van. He turned to the Indian, who was directing one of his men to open the large suitcase they’d removed from the trunk of the Lincoln. The big Sikh unfastened the catches. The organized display of several rows of banded US currency, all hundred-dollar bills, pleased him. Nevertheless, he still wanted to count it.
He called out to Oleg in Russian and directed him to check the bundles.
“What is this?” Patel said. “Do we not trust each other?”
“Trust, yes. But verify.”
Patel pursed his lips and gave a quick nod.
“Very well,” he said. “But may we get started with the next round of extractions? I assume that you have a sufficient supply of containers?”
“But of course,” Rokva said, forcing a smile. “We are in a medical supply warehouse, are we not?”
He turned to Sergei. “It’s time to begin the harvest. Do you want to participate?”
Sergei shrugged. “I’ll tell Wladimir and Leon to start. I want to take a piss first.”
He turned and began walking toward the locker room where the rest of the cargo was waiting.
Bolan used his Espada knife to force open a window on the second floor. As he crept through the opening, he could discern voices below, but little else. The room he had entered was dark and musty. Slices of light filtered through the cracks of a framed window made virtually opaque by a patina of filth. Dust motes danced in the beam of his mini flashlight.
The voices intensified. It sounded like Russian. Then a scream. A woman’s. More shouting, punctuated by the sound of a fist striking flesh. Then another scream.
Bolan moved to the window and scraped away the dirt. A walkway partially blocked his view, but a good portion of the first floor was visible. About fifty feet below, next to another set of rooms secured by a solid metal door, one man stood holding a struggling woman, who was naked. Another man held a naked child. A second woman’s nude body was on all fours a few feet away, blood dripping from her mouth.
A third, barrel-chested man with a huge mustache pointed a Tokarev pistol toward the head of the squirming woman. His other hand held a knife.
He shouted something in Russian.
Bolan checked the trajectory, raised the muzzle of his MP-5, poked it hard against the glass with a shattering impact, and then shot the mustachioed man through the head.
His huge body twisted into a heap as he spiraled downward. The man holding the woman threw her to one side and grabbed a nearby AK-47, his eyes scanning the second floor. The child broke away from the other man and ran into the nearby aisle stacked with cartons. Both women scurried away, as well.
Bolan keyed his mic. “They’re getting ready to kill the hostages. Move in.”
Rounds tore through the window and wall, sending splinters of glass, wood and disintegrated drywall into the air like a whirling dust storm. This section of the building had apparently once been a collection of side-by-side offices, but now the walls were littered with huge, gaping holes.
Bolan was able to push through one of them and get into the adjacent office. From there he sprinted to the door on the front wall. It was still in place, but the hinges had been removed. Letting his MP-5 rest across his chest on its sling, Bolan grabbed the door, twisted it through the jamb and found himself on a narrow second-floor walkway about fifteen feet wide. He crouched as he ran, holding the door toward the railing on the right side, hoping it might provide some cover as several rounds ripped through the solid wood just above his head.
He was nearing the end of the walkway and saw three men rushing up the stairs. Each was holding an AK-47 assault rifle.
Bolan stopped running, released the door and went to one knee against the wall of offices. One of the men on the stairway began to zero in on Bolan. But the Executioner acquired his target first and fired a quick 3-round burst. He then rotated and shot the second man. Both tumbled onto the stairs, their rifles clattering. The third gunner turned and began running back down the stairs, but Bolan cut him down, too.
The bolt of his MP-5 locked back and he dropped the empty mag and inserted a fresh one.
More bullets pierced the wall close to Bolan’s head. He flattened and crawled to the edge of the walkway. At least a dozen men scrambled forward on the floor below. He picked off two before they began to take cover. More bullets chipped the concrete edge of the walkway and the Executioner rolled back, edging along the wall. For the moment, he had the high ground, but nothing in the way of decent cover. He crawled a bit farther, his ears ringing from the noise of the gunshots. Another group of three moved in the direction of the stairway, accompanied by volleys of rounds being fired upward.
They were using cover fire to advance.
It wouldn’t be long before the enemy gunners would be working their way up to him before he could find a position to return fire.
Bolan attempted to roll toward the edge of the walkway again, but the fusillade was unceasing. The group of three rushed up the stairs, scrambling over the dead bodies, with the gunner at the base laying down cover fire. Bolan picked off the lead man, who twisted and fell over the metal banister.
But the others kept firing.
Rokva drew his Tokarev, pushed the cowering figure of the Indian to the rear of the Lincoln, and tried to see what was going on. The five Sikh bodyguards had pulled out their weapons, as well. Two were crouching by the side of the biker’s van in front of them. The other three had taken cover behind the van Patel had brought. All of their eyes were on the far wall of the warehouse. The Georgian looked in that direction.
More gunshots erupted and a dark-clad figure moved along the walkway at the opposite end of the building, firing down at three of his men. The man moved with the speed and grace of a panther.
“What’s happening?” Patel said, his face pinched with terror.
Rokva felt like putting a bullet in the pathetic bastard immediately, but he had to figure this out first. Had Patel betrayed him? Planned a double-cross?
Pulling the Indian behind the cover of the Lincoln, he leaned close to him, pushing the pistol into his ribs.
“Are you responsible for this?” Rokva asked. “You intended to betray me?”
The terrified Indian shook his head. “No. No. I swear to you.”
But the mafiya captain did not believe him. There was no way anyone could have traced them here. It was not possible. So it was either the bikers, or Patel, and the bikers were dead. It had to be the Indian.
“You should have planned things better,” Nikoloz said, placing his mouth next to the other man’s ear.
He pulled the trigger of the Tokarev. Patel’s body jerked and his face contorted. Then he went limp.
Rokva let him fall to the floor and turned, aiming at the Indian’s five bodyguards. He shot the first one squarely in the back. The big man’s body collapsed. As the others started to turn to confront the threat, Rokva continued to shoot. But none of the four remaining ones fell; they began to return fire. Bullets shattered the side window of the Lincoln, showering the Georgian with glass. Ducking down, he cursed at his sudden bad fortune. He had only three rounds left.
The king was in check, he thought.
The sound of more gunfire echoed throughout the building. Not the crack of the AK-47s, but a pistol, and much closer.
Rokva slowly elevated his head and glanced through the window of the luxury vehicle. Only one Sikh was left standing, and his body was turned away from him now. The gun the bodyguard held slipped from his hand as he did a strange dance, the front of his shirt blossoming with flowers of crimson. Then Rokva saw why that had happened.
Sergei stood about thirty yards away, holding his Tokarev, a wide smile on his face. The slide of his pistol was locked back, signifying it was empty.
He ran to Rokva and knelt beside him. “Are you hit?”
He shook his head. “That bastard Patel betrayed us. That must be his man up there.”
“I will kill him,” Sergei said.
A huge explosion suddenly erupted by the overhead door.
Rokva glanced at Sergei and, for the first time, felt fear running up his spine.
“Take the suitcase.” He indicted the one Patel had brought, and then pointed to the last aisle by the locker rooms. “There is a side door over there. We must escape.”
“First, I am going to kill that bastard,” Sergei said and headed toward the walkway.
“Sergei, no.”
But it was too late. Rokva watch his former Spetsnaz commando go off to do what he did best.
Gripping the suitcase, the Georgian headed for the rear exit. With a little luck, he could still make it out with something.
And Sergei would surely follow. Wouldn’t he?
Regardless, the king had to be protected. It was time for a castling move.
The explosion had ripped through the side door at the opposite end of the expansive floor. Bolan saw Grimaldi and two ERT members burst through, their weapons spitting rounds. Moving to the wall, the Stony Man pilot glanced up and punched the button on a wall outlet. What was left of the big overhead door began to rise then fell back down, some of the panels askew. Then the Vancouver Police Bearcat crashed through it and continued toward the parked Lincoln, knocking the luxury vehicle forward. More ERT officers poured in behind it.
Bolan saw the body of a dark-haired man in a suit lying near the Lincoln. Five big, bearded men lay interspersed between the sedan and two vans. Another slimmer, bespectacled man, carrying a suitcase, turned and ran down one of the aisles toward the rear of the warehouse.
From the description that Kournikova had given him, Bolan figured it was Nikoloz Rokva.
The Executioner checked the position of his nearest adversaries and decided it was safe to move. He ran in a crouch toward the end of the walkway. Its juncture formed a right angle with the aisle the man with the suitcase had taken. As Bolan got to the end, he glanced below.
The man he assumed was Rokva darted below him and Bolan squeezed the trigger, but the guy had disappeared. His MP-5 locked on empty. Having no remaining magazines, he dropped the weapon and took out his Beretta. High stacks of cartons lined both sides of the aisle and Bolan estimated the tops were perhaps twelve to fifteen feet below him. Vaulting over the metal banister, he felt himself in free-fall for no more than a few seconds before landing on the cardboard boxes. He went down on his left side and rolled to the edge of the stack.
The aisle was clear below. The drop to the floor would be at least fifteen feet.
More rounds exploded in the main section to his left. Voices shouting commands, this time in English, were a welcome sound.
Then he heard a child’s scream.
Bolan pushed off the edge and dropped to the floor, feeling impact of landing on the hard concrete travel upward through his legs.
Another scream, followed by a visceral growl.
Bolan moved toward the sounds and saw the bespectacled runner, Rokva, holding a small boy. The man had a Tokarev pistol pressed against the youth’s head. The suitcase the man had been carrying lay open on its side, the contents, bundles of money, were scattered over the floor.
The man swore at the boy in Russian and struck him with the pistol. He suddenly turned and looked at Bolan with a harried, wild expression, then lifted the squirming boy upward to partially shield himself.
“It’s over.” Bolan leveled the Beretta at the man’s head. He wasn’t sure he could make the shot without hitting the child. “Drop your weapon and let the boy go, Rokva.”
A flicker of something, a sudden realization perhaps, flashed behind the lenses of the man’s glasses.
“Ah, at last we meet,” he said in English as a malevolent smile traced over his lips. “You have played a good game. A worthy opponent.”
The smile turned into a feral snarl and he turned the Tokarev toward Bolan.
The Executioner had only a second and squeezed the trigger of his Beretta. The left lens of the mafiya captain’s glasses exploded in seeming slow motion, accompanied by a scarlet mist forming a halo around his skull. As he fell to the floor, the boy’s eyes, still wide with terror, fixed on Bolan.
The big American lowered his weapon and beckoned the boy forward in what he hoped would seem like a nonthreatening manner. He was about to reassure the child, but the youth opened his mouth and emitted a terror-filled gasp.
Sensing something behind him, Bolan whirled and caught a glimpse of a large man hurtling toward him only seconds before the two collided. The impact knocked the Beretta from Bolan’s hand as his back slammed against the concrete floor. The other man struck him several times with his fists, but the Executioner managed to thrust his left knee into his assailant’s side to shake him off. Both of them rolled to their feet, facing each other like two big jungle cats. The other man’s right hand darted toward his side and came up with a large knife. Bolan reached for his Espada and snapped it open. A smile consumed the other man’s mouth as he moved forward, holding the big Ka-Bar in front of him.
“You die now,” the man proclaimed.
Bolan knew he was once again outmatched as far as weaponry, being that his powerful opponent’s fixed-blade Ka-Bar was the far superior weapon.
But the Executioner knew that weaponry wasn’t everything.
The two men circled each other, seemingly oblivious to the ongoing battle in the main part of the warehouse. The scattered bundles of money lay in the aisle around them. The large Russian made a quick thrust and Bolan slipped back, bringing his own blade whipping forward to draw first blood from the inner flesh of his adversary’s forearm. That seemed to have little effect.
Again they circled, both attacking with a forward thrust. Bolan missed and suddenly felt the sting as the blade sliced his forearm. He pulled back, but powerful fingers encircled his wrist. The other man’s blade shot toward the Executioner’s chest. He managed to grab his opponent’s wrist just as the tip of the Ka-Bar drove through several layers of Kevlar. The Russian’s face twisted with exertion and Bolan sought to free his knife hand, now slippery with a coating of blood.
Bolan brought his leg around, smashing his instep against his opponent’s left thigh. The other man answered with a hard kick of his own to Bolan’s left knee. Like two competing dancers, they whirled into the open expanse of the aisle, each struggling for dominance. Red droplets from their bloody arms dappled the concrete as they continued to struggle.
The Russian managed to pull his wrist from Bolan’s grip, but the Executioner was able to rip his away, as well. The circling continued, each searching for an opening. The other man’s foot stepped onto one of the bundles of cash and he momentarily see-sawed to regain his balance. Bolan shot forward and drove the point of the Espada down into the base of the other man’s neck. The Russian’s smile transformed into a grimace, and his body seemed to lose all resiliency as his knees buckled and his once formidable body collapsed in stages onto the unforgiving hardness of the floor.
Bolan kicked the knife away from his fallen foe as consciousness fade from the man’s eyes.
The boy cowered across the way, his face an abject portrait of fear.
The noise behind them had ceased and Bolan’s hearing was returning to a semi state of normalcy. He heard shouting and then Jack’s voice calling to him.
He turned to see Grimaldi and Kournikova running down the aisle.
As they got to him, the Stony Man pilot asked, “You okay?”
Bolan nodded. “What’s the situation?”
Grimaldi clucked his tongue. “Eldridge’s boys came through real good. It’s all over but the crying.”
“You’re bleeding,” Kournikova said, pointing to Bolan’s arm.
“It’s nothing.” He gestured to the boy. “See if you can talk to him. My Russian vocabulary might not have the soothing words he needs to hear.”
Kournikova began speaking in slow, deliberate tones, approaching the child by increments. The boy remained frozen until she placed her arms around him, then he buried his face against her leg. She pointed toward the bespectacled man’s body.
“That one is Nikoloz Rokva,” she said.
“So I thought.” Bolan gestured at the other dead man. “His partner was one tough son of a bitch.”
“I do not doubt it,” she said. “He is Sergei Dankovich.”
“It just goes to show,” Grimaldi said. “You mess with the best, you die like the rest.”
Bolan felt the weariness beginning to wash over him like an incoming tide as he peeled back his torn sleeve to check his wound. It was going to need stitches, but that could wait.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go help Eldridge and Sharp make sense out of this mess.”