Cold Fury
ARCTIC FIRESTORM
A mass grave in an icy Alaskan field. A murdered state trooper. And maximum-damage Soviet weaponry at the scene indicates to the Executioner that he’s after something more lethal than just a smuggling ring. And he’s right—as a ruthless Russian colonel transports his diabolical cargo across the Arctic, he also threatens to unleash a deadly biological agent on American soil. With time running out, the Executioner must rescue the innocent and destroy the evil crime ring with hellfire justice!
#386 Crucial Intercept
#387 Powder Burn
#388 Final Coup
#389 Deadly Command
#390 Toxic Terrain
#391 Enemy Agents
#392 Shadow Hunt
#393 Stand Down
#394 Trial by Fire
#395 Hazard Zone
#396 Fatal Combat
#397 Damage Radius
#398 Battle Cry
#399 Nuclear Storm
#400 Blind Justice
#401 Jungle Hunt
#402 Rebel Trade
#403 Line of Honor
#404 Final Judgment
#405 Lethal Diversion
#406 Survival Mission
#407 Throw Down
#408 Border Offensive
#409 Blood Vendetta
#410 Hostile Force
#411 Cold Fusion
#412 Night’s Reckoning
#413 Double Cross
#414 Prison Code
#415 Ivory Wave
#416 Extraction
#417 Rogue Assault
#418 Viral Siege
#419 Sleeping Dragons
#420 Rebel Blast
#421 Hard Targets
#422 Nigeria Meltdown
#423 Breakout
#424 Amazon Impunity
#425 Patriot Strike
#426 Pirate Offensive
#427 Pacific Creed
#428 Desert Impact
#429 Arctic Kill
#430 Deadly Salvage
#431 Maximum Chaos
#432 Slayground
#433 Point Blank
#434 Savage Deadlock
#435 Dragon Key
#436 Perilous Cargo
#437 Assassin’s Tripwire
#438 The Cartel Hit
#439 Blood Rites
#440 Killpath
#441 Murder Island
#442 Syrian Rescue
#443 Uncut Terror
#444 Dark Savior
#445 Final Assault
#446 Kill Squad
#447 Missile Intercept
#448 Terrorist Dispatch
#449 Combat Machines
#450 Omega Cult
#451 Fatal Prescription
#452 Death List
#453 Rogue Elements
#454 Enemies Within
#455 Chicago Vendetta
#456 Thunder Down Under
#457 Dying Art
#458 Killing Kings
#459 Stealth Assassin
#460 Lethal Vengeance
#461 Cold Fury
Cold Fury
Don Pendleton
Special thanks and acknowledgments are given to Michael A. Black for his contribution to this work.
COLD FURY
ISBN-13: 978-0-008-90063-2
Copyright © 2019 by Harlequin Books S.A.
Published in Great Britain 2019 by Worldwide Gold Eagle, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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“What’s on the satellite feed?”
“Striker, I’m seeing thermal images of six figures on each side of the airstrip,” Kurtzman told him. “Looks like an ambush.”
The Executioner glanced out the window. Ahead, the airstrip was visible, a series of burning oil pots lining each side. “Roger that.” To Grimaldi, he said: “Jack, it’s no good. This is a trap.”
“Hold on,” Grimaldi told him, then pulled back on the yoke, sending the nose of the plane upward. “Got to get over those damn treetops.” The fuselage began to vibrate as the engines quivered.
Bolan’s eyes shot to the left. Grimaldi’s face was a frozen grimace, covered with a brocade of sweat.
“You need help?”
“Pull back on the yoke until we clear the trees.”
Bolan gripped it, but they were heading for a solid wall of branches. He braced for impact.
Human trafficking is a scourge, a crime against the whole of humanity. It is time to join forces and work together to free its victims and to eradicate this crime that affects all of us, from individual families to the worldwide community.
—Pope Francis
Criminals have no mercy, no shred of decency. As long as predators stalk the shadows to inflict misery on the innocent, I will work tirelessly to stop them.
—Mack Bolan
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Introduction
Quotes
The Mack Bolan Legend
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Warehouse DistrictSeattle, Washington
A blanket of darkness and light rain had descended over the array of dilapidated warehouses and the dark areas in between. The wide alley contained little in the way of ambient lighting and a silver of moon was framed against a black sky. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, leaned back in the passenger seat of the nondescript van and waited, occasionally bringing the night-vision binoculars to his eyes to scan the area that bisected the rows of huge warehouses on either side.
The building he was interested in was about fifty yards away. He and Jack Grimaldi had been watching and waiting for the better part of three hours. The tip about the smugglers had been intercepted by the cyber team at Stony Man Farm, the base for the covert antiterrorist and anticrime organization known as Stony Man. Whether the intel would pan out was questionable. This was the first solid opportunity to determine the exact nature and extent of the smugglers’ illegal activities and who their business partners might be.
Grimaldi emitted an extended groan from the driver’s seat. “Think these other guys are ever gonna show?” he asked.
Bolan didn’t reply.
“How many shootouts have we had in this damn city?” the Stony Man pilot continued. “Some of them go way back.”
Just as he was about to offer more words of wisdom, a faint sound caught Bolan’s ear and he held up his hand for silence.
Grimaldi didn’t speak for a few moments. “You know,” he said, “I think I hear a Harley.”
Bolan had heard it, too. The distinctive percussion of the big motorcycle’s engine began to reverberate louder. He raised the binoculars again but switched off the night-vision feature. Soon a lone headlight appeared at the opposite end of the alley, followed by a second set of lights obviously belonging to an automobile.
A big SUV.
This had to be it.
The motorcycle continued toward them, perhaps forty yards out now.
The luminescence of the headlights made using the night-vision impractical, but the SUV’s headlights illuminated the motorcycle in front with enough clarity that Bolan could discern that the Harley was being driven by a heavyset man.
The biker stopped parallel to the overhead door and pounded several times in a rhythmic fashion on the heavy metal panel. Seconds later, the door began to rise. Light spilled out from the building, further illuminating the motorcyclist and the trailing vehicle. The rider looked like a stereotypical biker: huge upper body with a substantial belly protruding through an open denim jacket decorated with a plethora of insignias. The SUV was a dark-colored Lexus. The windows were tinted, so it was impossible to determine how many people were inside.
Bolan lowered the binoculars and stowed them in their pouch. He did a quick weapons check of the Beretta 93-R in the leather holster under his left armpit and of the big Desert Eagle in a cross-draw holster on his right hip. He and Grimaldi had dressed in black BDUs and were wearing level III tactical vests. Bolan’s had a rugged Espada knife with a braided parachute cord attached to the handle above the Beretta. Two stun grenades had been affixed to the vest’s left side. There were two magazines for a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun also sheathed on the front of the vest.
He pulled up the door handle and removed the MP-5 from the floor between his legs. “Time to go EVA,” Bolan said. “We may need to keep this vehicle out of harm’s way in case we have to make a quick exit.”
Grimaldi was reaching for his subgun, as well. “How about I let you take this one and I grab our biker buddy’s Harley?”
Bolan said nothing as he gestured for Grimaldi to cover his flank and began to move forward. He stayed in the shadows and watched for cameras as he covered the distance. When they were approximately twenty feet from the big overhead door, they caught the sound of an approaching diesel engine. The beams from a pair of headlights swerved toward them as a large semi with a boxed, twenty-five-foot trailer swung into the alley. Bolan flattened against the wall and Grimaldi did the same. They managed to edge into a slight gap between the two buildings.
The Executioner turned and leaned out, allowing himself an angled peek around the corner at the vehicle. The heavy transport continued to rumble forward at a slow, deliberate speed, halting in front of the now closed overhead door through which the biker and the Lexus had entered. Bolan could see two men in the cab of the truck, one of whom was speaking on a cell phone. The other man sat motionless, holding the barrel of what appeared to be an AK-47 assault rifle. He then brought something up to his face—a night-vision scope.
Bolan pulled his head back immediately and relayed the information to Grimaldi, who was crouching behind him.
“How are we gonna handle this?”
Before Bolan could answer, the sound of the overhead door rising broke the silence. The box truck chugged forward, going past them and then jerking to a stop. It began to back up, angling so that it moved into the open overhead doorway slot of the warehouse.
“Want to try to follow them in?” Grimaldi whispered.
Bolan mentally weighed the possibilities. They were up against some firepower, though they’d have the element of surprise. There was a substantial amount of risk, but the alternative of losing time trying to find another way in might mean forfeiting any chance of recovering information about the transaction.
“Sounds like our best bet,” he said. “We swing in after the truck as the big door goes down and I’ll use a flash-bang. You take out the passenger with the AK.”
“Roger that.”
Bolan took another quick look around the corner of the building and saw the passenger sweeping the area with what was certainly a night-vision scope. The end of the truck swung into the lighted, open space, the headlights extinguished, and the overhead door began its descent. Bolan flipped the selector switch on his MP-5 to semiautomatic and then removed one of his flash-bangs. He pulled the pin but kept it ringed on his left index finger in case it had to be reinserted if the grenade wasn’t used.
Bolan held it up and whispered, “I’ll release on five after we clear the door.”
They moved forward toward the edge of the big warehouse and ducked under the lowering door.
Along the left wall there were at least thirty Harleys parked in an orderly row. Next to them stood a series of long workbenches cluttered with motorcycle parts, disassembled engines, handlebars, windshields and other bike parts. The smell of motor oil was pervasive. Bolan saw a cluster of legs and feet at the rear of the boxed trailer. He counted eight adversaries there. Plus the two from the truck meant a total of ten.
As he cocked his arm and executed an underhand toss, Bolan saw the passenger step down from the cab of the semi, his face registering surprise as he caught sight of the intruders. He started to bring the AK-47 into play just as Grimaldi cut loose with a burst from his MP-5, stitching the man across the chest. His target momentarily jerked backward but continued to bring up the weapon, his face twisting into a sneer.
Body armor, Bolan thought. These guys had come prepared.
Grimaldi was already crossing behind to make his approach from the opposite side of the truck, so Bolan used his subgun to shoot the passenger again. A red mist burst from the rear of the man’s head as he slumped forward, the AK-47 tumbling out of his grasp and clacking on the concrete.
One taken out, nine to go.
The numbers counted down on the flash-bang and the blast reverberated through the warehouse. Bolan rushed alongside the trailer, his MP-5 held at combat-ready. As he paused at the corner of the trailer, a biker stumbled out in front of him, his hands over his ears. A weapon sounded from the cluster of men and the rounds ripped through the biker’s back, causing bloody spots to decorate the front of his brown T-shirt. As the biker crumpled, Bolan aimed his subgun at another man in a sporty black jumpsuit. He was holding a large-caliber semiauto pistol, apparently unaffected by the flash-bang.
Bolan delivered one fatal shot to his adversary’s head.
The man in the jumpsuit collapsed to the floor as a second, similarly clad man leveled a big pistol and fired at the Executioner. The round went wide, whizzing by his right side. As Bolan started to rotate his MP-5, Grimaldi appeared from around the corner and delivered a shot to the back of the man’s head, dropping him. He then took out two men using a workbench as cover.
A flash of movement in Bolan’s peripheral vision caused him to automatically crouch and step back, avoiding a thunderous blast from a biker’s sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun. The charge missed Bolan completely but clipped two of his fellow bikers. One gripped his chest as a torrent of red began to pour from a gaping hole. The second man, hit in his substantial gut, managed to pull a blue-steel Colt 1911 from his belt.
The Executioner fired two rounds into the forehead of the biker with the sawed-off and the man’s legs twisted together as he did an untidy pirouette to the floor. Bolan then swung his MP-5 back and shot the biker drawing the .45. That one crumpled, as well. Beyond the fallen man, Grimaldi faced the final biker as the last of the Jumpsuits pointed what Bolan saw was a Glock pistol at the Stony Man pilot. Having little choice, he raised his subgun and fired, the round coring his adversary’s head.
Although it seemed that all of their adversaries were down and dead, Bolan and Grimaldi took the time to make sure of that before moving forward, searching and checking the space as they went. It took them several minutes to clear the remainder of the building, which was basically a large space devoid of anything except a collection of Harley-Davidson motorcycles, spare parts, work cubicles and a few empty lockers.
Satisfied that no other adversaries remained, they returned to the center of the large room. An overturned briefcase lay on the floor next one of the motorcycles.
Grimaldi picked up the briefcase, popped open the clasps and lifted the lid. He grinned broadly then emitted a low whistle. The briefcase was lined with stacks of US currency.
“Looks like somebody was buying something,” he said, shutting the briefcase after he was sure Bolan had seen the contents. “Maybe we’ll get paid this time.”
“Yeah, right.”
All of the motorcycles had Washington plates, but the Lexus and the semi had Canadian tags. The SUV had virtually nothing of interest. Neither did the truck’s cab, except for papers listing the owner as Universal Exports out of Vancouver, British Columbia, and a Canadian customs declaration and bill of lading for “prepackaged, sealed food products.”
“Let’s check the back of the truck,” Bolan said. “Then go through these guys for any IDs.”
The Executioner was disappointed that none of the gunners had survived. He’d been hoping to gather some intel, other than what he already knew about the motorcycle gang. Like most one-percenters, these bikers ran the gamut in illegal activities. Their connection to the men in the black jumpsuits was still open to conjecture.
Grimaldi found a crowbar, hopped up on the rear bumper of the trailer and grabbed the handle securing the doors. He stuck the end of the metallic claw between the hasp of the padlock and bore down hard. The metal held for a few seconds then gave way and the base of the lock clattered onto the concrete floor. Bolan brought up his MP-5 and pointed it at the set of double doors as Grimaldi thrust one open and moved aside.
The interior of the truck bed was stacked with cardboard boxes marked Gold Star Noodles. A narrow aisle ran down the center to a solid base of boxes against the rear wall. The trailer was packed so tight that Bolan had to turn sideways to edge toward the rear. He took out his knife, flipped it open and sliced off a portion of the side of one of the boxes. Brightly colored plastic-encased packages of wiry dried noodles were inside. The Executioner began systematically cutting open each box in the stacks on the right side. None yielded anything but packages of noodles. He stopped and glanced at the other stacks. The printed inscription on all of the boxes appeared to be uniform. After replacing his knife, Bolan edged back down the center aisle to the open rear doors.
“Let’s start checking those guys.”
After piling all of the recovered weapons on one of the benches, Bolan and Grimaldi began going through the pockets of the dead men, placing their belongings on top of each corpse. The bikers all carried wallets and the usual assortment of contraband. The men in the black jumpsuits had nothing in the way of identification, but each had a cell phone.
Bolan felt something substantial in the last dead man’s pants’ pocket and withdrew a rather bulky phone. A satellite phone. As he placed it on top of the corpse, it vibrated with an incoming call.
Grimaldi’s face lit up. “Hot damn. Maybe that’ll give us something.”
The Executioner picked up the phone and saw that it was locked. After studying the screen, he determined it had a fingerprint passcode. The holster on the dead man’s belt was on his right side. Bolan pressed the dead man’s right thumb against the home key, but nothing happened. Not wanting to trigger some kind of automatic safeguard that would lock him out after too many unsuccessful tries, Bolan weighed the possibilities before selecting another digit. This time he pressed the dead man’s right forefinger against the screen and the phone unlocked, going immediately to the text section.
Bolan watched as the letters formed on the screen.
“Aw, hell,” Grimaldi said. “Is that language what I think it is?”
Bolan studied the script for a few seconds more. It was the Cyrillic alphabet. He snapped a picture of it with his cell phone.
“Yeah, it’s Russian,” he said.
The Bering Strait
Nikoloz Rokva held the cell phone in front of him for several minutes, waiting for a reply from Yuri. But none came. That troubled him slightly. He hadn’t wanted to split up this shipment, but the fragmented transport had become a necessity due to the inclement weather they’d experienced when meeting up in Siberia. The stopover at the last gulag had proved more problematic and lengthy than anticipated, but Rokva hoped it would be ultimately more profitable this time.
Profit, he thought, was the name of the game.
He removed his thick, oval-shaped glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that the burden of command weighed heavily on one, even though he’d spent his army time as an analyst in military intelligence rather than as a field officer.