Cold Fury

The phone in his cabin rang and he picked it up.

It was Fedor Udom. “Some of these assholes are getting sick. The men mostly. They are puking and shitting all over the place.”

“Has Boris finished taking the samples?”

“Hours ago.”

“Good. Just keep them all confined, then. We are almost there.”

He terminated the call, replaced his glasses and took out one of his long cigarettes, mashing the hollowed-out end to form a filter. The briny smell of the sea was omnipresent. Perhaps the earthy resonance of human excretions would be welcome in the hold.

The ship pitched and bounced a bit as the waters were getting rougher, and he wondered how close they were to shore. He pulled the phone from the cradle and pressed the button to speak to the captain.

“How long before we arrive?” Rokva asked, holding his lighter to the cigarette.

“Very soon. Why?”

“Some of the cargo is getting sick.”

The captain’s laugh was a harsh bark. “No sea legs, eh? They should count their blessings we are not on an extended voyage. I could tell you stories of some of the rough crossings.”

“Yes, I’m sure you could. Just advise me when we’re getting close.”

“I will,” the captain said. “But know this. We’re going to leave as soon as we drop you there. There’s a storm coming and we must get back across.”

Not bothering to reply, Rokva hung up, stood and then stretched. He hated sea travel, although the relatively short jaunt across the Bering Strait between Russia and the Alaskan coast was not that stressful. And the rewards were certainly great. He leaned against the narrow bunk and settled his stockinged feet into his boots. He glanced at the phone. Yuri had still not responded and Rokva pondered the wisdom of sending another text.

No, he thought. If the son of a bitch hadn’t answered by now, something had to be wrong. If that were the case, it would necessitate altering the plan. This did not bother him. He always had another plan formulating in his mind. It was what made him a master of the game, be it chess or his criminal endeavors.

One always had to be thinking a few moves ahead.

He blew out a cloud of smoke as he strode to the door of his cabin and pulled it open. He found the small space disgusting because it reminded him too much of his meager upbringing in Moscow. His father had moved the family from western Georgia to the large city in search of work. But instead of the “prosperity for all” the Communists had promised, they’d found only more poverty masked by an inadequate state-sponsored stipend and no motivation to do better. Rokva had found himself always cold and hungry and roaming the streets. Soon he’d realized it was far easier to merely take what he wanted. A loaf of bread, a container of borscht, a piece of fruit. And that was how he’d met Sergei.

He’d been crouching in the shadows of the alley, devouring an apple, when a large shadow fell over him: the man from the market where Rokva had stolen the fruit. The man was large and his face was twisted with an angry scowl.

“You little Georgian thief, stealing from me. I will shove those glasses up your ass.” He raised his arm and was about to deliver a strike that Rokva knew would surely cripple him.

But the blow did not come. Instead, another boy appeared, perhaps a year or so older than him, and much bigger and stronger. The boy swung a thick cudgel into the merchant’s left knee. The man howled in pain and started to turn when the boy brought the heavy stick down on the back of the merchant’s neck. He emitted a low grunt and then fell, keening, onto the ground. Rokva stood transfixed as the other boy brought the stick down again and again until the merchant’s groans ceased and he lay unconscious, a copious amount of blood seeping from the many cuts on his head and face.

The other boy smiled.

“That old bastard gave me a beating yesterday,” he said, holding up the thick wooden cudgel. “So today I brought this.”

“Is he dead?”

The other boy toed the man’s face with his well-worn shoe, causing the merchant to moan.

“Not yet.” He kicked the merchant’s face.

Rokva grinned. “You’re strong. Where did you learn to fight liked that.”

“My father. He was in the army. In Afghanistan. He was Spetsnaz. Soon I will join, too.”

“What is your name?”

“I am Sergei Dankovich. And you?”

“Nikoloz Rokva.” He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.

Sergei’s eyes narrowed. “You are Georgian?”

Rokva nodded. “We came from Kutaisi.”

The other youth smirked. “No matter. I need someone to play with.”

“Come on,” Rokva said. “Let’s go get some more of the old bastard’s fruit.”

And so it began. Their lasting, special friendship was formed... Brothers... But much more than that, enduring even after Sergei and he left for the army, and years later, when Rokva became a low-ranking associate for the mafiya, eventually rising to the position of captain just as a disillusioned Sergei returned from the fighting in Chechnya. Sensing his friend’s weariness and disenchantment with the military, Rokva quickly recruited him to be his soldier. And now they were both getting rich. If this current plan materialized the way he had envisioned, they would soon be a lot richer. He thought about telling Sergei of the special treat that he had for him, the American cigarettes that he enjoyed so much, but decided to wait for the right moment.

He came to Sergei’s cabin and knocked on the door.

“What?” The voice was mixed with exertion.

“It’s me,” Rokva said. “We have a problem.”

“Shit. Wait a minute.”

He could hear a murmuring sound through the door, then a series of harsh grunts, followed by a truncated scream. Then the door was flung open and the naked figure of Sergei stood there, his powerful body covered with a sheen of perspiration despite the cold temperature. Beyond him, in the narrow bed, Rokva could see a nude, moaning woman. He recognized her as one of the prettier ones they’d taken onboard. She lay on her back, making no effort to cover herself, her breathing coming in fits and gasps.

Sergei strode toward a dresser, grabbed a bottle of vodka from the top and took a swig. He returned to the doorway and offered the bottle to Rokva, who shook his head. He preferred to keep his mind clear when business was at hand.

Sergei shrugged, took another swig and then said, “What problem?”

“Yuri did not return my text.”

Sergei inhaled deeply, pondering this. “What is next then?”

“We should be docking soon. Let me see if everything is ready there.” He took out his satellite phone and this time dialed Greagor Lebed’s number.

After several rings, he finally answered.

“Why did it take you so long to answer the damn phone?” Rokva demanded.

“I am busy. You think I was out admiring the moon?”

Lebed’s insolence sent a spurt of anger through him. “Don’t be a smart-ass. Is everything ready?”

“As ready as it can be. One of the planes has mechanical problems. It is down.”

Rokva felt his anger heighten. “Why was I not advised of this sooner?”

“Listen, you try dealing with these damn Eskimos. They are difficult.” Lebed’s voice sounded weary yet tinctured with a slur. The son of a bitch must have been imbibing again. Rokva decided Sergei could deal with the drunken bastard when they arrived.

“Charter another plane,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Another DHC-6. Make sure it can hold at least twenty-five.”

Lebed snorted. “Oh, all right. Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Is Wladimir with you?”

“Of course.”

More insolence. This flippant asshole was going to pay for his effrontery.

“May I assume the third plane is ready for him?” Rokva asked.

He heard Lebed heave a heavy breath before answering. “Yes.”

“Good. I want him to be ready to leave with the samples as soon as we arrive.”

“Anything else? Boss.”

The impudent lilt in Lebed’s voice as he added the last word sealed his fate. Rokva waited a few beats before responding to be certain he had eliminated any trace of the building rage in his reply. “We will be there soon. Keep me apprised of the situation.” He then terminated the call and looked back at Sergei, who was smirking.

“Drunk?” he asked.

Rokva nodded.

“I told you before, did I not?” Sergei held up the bottle of vodka. “Some men can handle the juice, others let it handle them.”

“We will deal with that idiot later. Find Boris Kazak and make sure he has everything properly labeled and categorized. And tell him to get ready to split up the shipment for a partial harvest. We’ll need to alter our plan.”

“That is my Nikoloz,” Sergei said. “Always planning ahead.”

“Life is like a game of chess. A true master must always be thinking several moves ahead of what is before him on the board.”

Seattle, Washington

“Russian,” Grimaldi said, nodding. “Yep, I had these guys pegged from the get-go. But I thought the bikers and the Russians didn’t get along up around these parts?”

Bolan was aware that a rather protracted and brutal conflict had occurred between Russian organized crime and the biker gangs in Seattle and Vancouver several years ago, but he also knew that new profits and criminal enterprises often supplanted old grudges and rivalries.

“Maybe they’ve patched things up,” Bolan said as he walked the length of the truck.

Something was bothering him. He used his secure cell to contact Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm. The cyber wizard answered on the second ring.

“What’s up, Striker?”

He gave Kurtzman a quick rundown of what had transpired and gave him the plates on both the SUV and the truck. “But before you do that, we’re going to call you on the dead guy’s sat phone. See if you can run a trace on where the last call came from. I’m also emailing you a picture of a Cyrillic text.”

“Okay, piece of cake.”

Bolan handed the dead Russian’s satellite phone to Grimaldi and told him to call Kurtzman’s number.

“Aaron, give me a call back when you get something,” Bolan said.

“You want to hold on? It shouldn’t take me that long. You’re talking to the fastest keyboard on the east coast.”

“Just call me back,” Bolan said. “I want to check something out.”

Grimaldi finished dialing and made a thumbs-up gesture.

“Okay,” Kurtzman said. “I’m getting your unidentified sat phone call. I’ll get back to you.”

Bolan terminated the call and returned his cell phone to its pouch. He walked to the back of the trailer, pulled open the rear door and stared into the boxed bed.

Grimaldi joined him. “What, you got a taste for noodles?”

Bolan partially closed the rear door and leaned back, studying the outside of the truck and then looking back inside.

“What?” Grimaldi asked.

“Cover me,” Bolan said, hopping up into the rear compartment and taking out his knife. He moved down the narrow center aisle again, going slowly and measuring his steps. When he got to the end, he looked back at Grimaldi, who was holding his MP-5 at combat ready. Bolan turned and drew his arm back, pressing the blade into one of the boxes at the end of the aisle. It went in only a few inches and stopped. He withdrew the knife and began feeling the other boxes, stopping about halfway down and pressing the blade into the cardboard again. This time when the blade hit something solid, the Executioner rotated the knife, cutting away the surface material. A lever-like handle became visible.

Bolan cut vertically on the boxes on both sides of the aisle and then slashed the top and the bottom. He pulled the false wall of cardboard away and tossed it to the rear. Grimaldi reached in with his left hand, grabbed it and jerked it out of the truck. He immediately brought the submachine gun up to the ready again as Bolan withdrew his Beretta 93-R and switched on the flashlight attachment. With his left hand, Bolan grabbed the lever and twisted it, pushing the door to the right. It slid behind the façade of stacked cardboard boxes, revealing a hidden compartment.

As Bolan shone the light inside, his nostrils were assailed with a combination of body odor and human waste. The beam swept over twelve frightened women. They shielded their eyes from the brightness and Bolan saw that they were all relatively young and clothed in filthy garments. One muttered something in what Bolan felt certain was Russian.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said in Russian. “We won’t hurt you.” He motioned for them to exit the confined space.

Once the women had filed out, Bolan swept the light over the inside of the cramped enclosure. From the smell of it, they’d been confined in there for some time. Two buckets full of what appeared to be human waste had been pushed to the side, contributing to the rank odor. Plastic water bottles were scattered on the floor along with torn noodle packages. Apparently the women had been subsisting on hard, uncooked noodles. Bolan shook his head as he moved back to the opening at the rear of the truck.

The women had encircled Grimaldi and he was busy trying to calm them.

One of the women saw the dead bodies lying around and screamed. A buzz of conversation shot through the group, accompanied by looks of sheer terror on many of their faces. Three of them bolted.

Grimaldi took a few steps after them then stopped. “Aww, hell,” he said, turning back to the others. “They got no place to go anyway.”

Bolan’s phone rang. It was Kurtzman calling back. The Executioner answered immediately.

“Okay,” the cyber expert said. “I traced that sat phone number, but it comes back as a burner originating out of Russia.”

“I figured as much,” Bolan said. “Could you trace the originating location of that text?”

“Yeah. In fact, while I was hacking into it, they used it to make another call. It originated on a ship in the Bering Strait. They called someone in Wales, Alaska. Looks to be in Yup’ik territory on the coast.”

“How long ago did they make the call?”

“Couldn’t have been more than ten minutes ago now.”

“Were you able to translate that text?” Bolan asked.

“It’s Russian. ‘Has everything been completed? I’m waiting on your update.’”

“What about those Canadian license plates?”

“Both came back to Universal Exports in Vancouver,” Kurtzman said. “I’m digging into it, but it appears to be a shell company of some kind. Probably created just to take advantage of Homeland’s FAST program.”

“Fast?”

“Yeah. It’s an acronym for the Free And Secure Trade program. It’s designed to expedite commercial vehicles crossing the border. What were they carrying?”

“Dried noodles and a dozen Russian girls.”

Kurtzman whistled. “I guess all that tightening they’re trying to do down south on the border hasn’t been applied to the 48th parallel yet.”

Bolan watched as Grimaldi read something on his smartphone and smiled. The women had quieted down and had pressed around him, listening intently. Apparently he’d found the app he needed to translate English into Russian, although Bolan wondered if his attempt at pronunciation would be understandable.

“Okay,” Bolan said. “Go through our special channels and advise the local authorities in Alaska that we’ve got some info on a possible human trafficking case. That ship coming into Wales might be involved. Ask them to try to intercede and hold the crew and all aboard until we can make our way up there. Use our standard Department of Justice cover. And Seattle PD should be called in to this location.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“We need transportation,” Bolan said. “See if Hal can pull some strings at the nearest airport around here to charter us a plane. We’ll need some cold-weather gear, too.”

“Roger that, Striker,” Kurtzman said. “I’ll get right on it.”

Bolan thanked him and terminated the call, studying the group of women. The three who had run off after seeing the bodies had reappeared on the far side of the warehouse, crouching behind the row of Harleys and peeking at the others. The thoughts of what had probably been in store for these women brought back unpleasant memories for the Executioner. His sister had been exploited many years ago, and that had instilled a fervent determination to relieve this type of human suffering and bring those responsible for causing such misery to justice...his own brand of justice.

Chapter Two

Over Canada en route to Alaska

They’d been in the air less than forty minutes, zooming through the velvet darkness, when Grimaldi suddenly began singing “North to Alaska.”

Bolan, who was in the copilot’s seat, rolled his eyes and said, “Do I have to put my earplugs in?”

“What? You got something against that song? It was the last big hit for Johnny Horton back in the day.” Grimaldi clucked his tongue. “It came out right before he got killed in a plane crash.”

“Not exactly a great song choice, then.”

“You know, I take that back. I think it was a car accident.”

Grimaldi quit singing and sat in silence for several minutes before clucking his tongue once again as he checked the instrument panel of the Learjet 85.

“Man, those cops who arrived sure didn’t look too happy about the mess we left them,” the Stony Man pilot said.

Kurtzman had called Seattle PD and explained that two federal agents had come upon a shootout between a biker gang and some Russian gangsters, and that there were also some human trafficking refugees on scene. After identifying himself as DOJ Special Agent Matt Cooper, Bolan had handed over the processing of the scene to the first responders, saying that he and his partner had to leave to investigate another aspect of this case.

“I wonder what’ll happen to those gals?” Grimaldi said.

“They’ll no doubt be offered some kind of temporary asylum.”

“Regardless, it has to be better than what they were running from.”

Bolan could only agree. He couldn’t get the image of that small, stinking compartment out of his mind; it brought home the desperation of the women seeking to escape the bleakness of their existence in their homeland. A desperation that was so great they’d succumbed to the false promises of a new life. Little had they known that they were most likely exchanging one version of hell for another, probably one much more degrading than what they were fleeing.

He thought, too, about the man who’d sent the text. Obviously the crew Bolan and Grimaldi had encountered reported to that individual, someone likely involved with the Russian mafia. The man was probably high up the food chain if he was in charge of a human trafficking operation. Bolan decided he was going to take particular pleasure in running him to ground and stopping whatever nefarious scheme he was hatching.

Near Wales, Alaska

Rokva waited while the ship’s crew tied down the mooring lines to the massive pilings then began fitting the gangway into place. He could see Greagor Lebed, Wladimir Igoshin and “Fast Eddie” Nome at the end of the dock, the glow of their cigarettes standing out like three crimson dots against their silhouettes.

Luckily, despite it being early November, the temperature had not dropped dramatically in the last several days, allowing for a smooth docking without the danger of the ship being damaged by ice. Soon it would be a different story. Rokva had already planned on this being their last trip until the spring. The air was cold and, along with the pervasive salt smell of the ocean, it burned his nostrils. The gangway was almost in place. He took out his cigarettes and removed one from the pack.

“Give me one of those,” Sergei said, coming up behind him as silently as a ghost. Stealth movement was only one of Sergei’s many talents that he’d honed to perfection during his time with the Spetsnaz. Like his father, Sergei was a legend in the Russian special forces. It was rumored that during his tour in Chechnya he had racked up so many kills on covert operations they had stopped counting them. He wore his customary black jumpsuit and had an AK-47 with a metal folding stock dangling from a lanyard against his chest. He also had a Tokarev pistol in a low-slung holster on his right upper thigh. The man looked like the devil’s chief enforcer.

Rokva held out the pack and Sergei pulled one out. He snorted, tore off the elongated hollow filter and tossed it into the dark water. “Shit, it is fucking cold,” he said, leaning down to put the tip of the cigarette into the flame of his old friend’s lighter. “It is even worse than Moscow.”

Rokva smirked. “Welcome to Alaska.” He dropped the lighter and the cigarette pack into the pocket of his parka, and he and Sergei strode down the gangway.

“I’m concerned with Greagor’s drinking,” Rokva said.

“So what? The poor son of bitch has to do something to keep warm in this place.”

“It is interfering with his duties. He was insolent with me on the phone. And the second plane is down. He is supposed to keep things ready.”

“Do you want me to discipline him?”

Rokva considered that. He was already formulating a new plan in his mind, taking into consideration the limitations they now faced with travel options. “Not yet,” he said. “Perhaps I will send him back on the ship and perhaps not. In any case, I don’t want him running once he gets back to Russia.”

“He can run,” Sergei said, his lips curling back over his teeth, “but he cannot hide.”

The wood of the pier felt good under Rokva’s feet. He hated sea travel and always felt better being on solid ground, even if it was in this godforsaken place.

As they got to the starting point of the pier, Nome smirked. The Georgian could see the line of idling trucks on the road about fifty feet up the snow-covered embankment. Behind him, his men, all armed with AK-47s, had already started ushering the cargo off the ship. Two of his most competent men, Aleksi Galkin and Vasilli Denisov, were supervising. There were thirty-five people, of which only nineteen would fit comfortably on one plane, but he was certain they could get at least twenty-two of them, considering some of them were children. If he eliminated the men, that was.

Boris followed, carrying his medical satchel in one hand and the sample case in another. Behind him, two of the others guided a cart stacked with the special medical containers down the gangway.

“Took you long enough,” Nome said, extending his hand to his boss. An attached mitten dangled from the sleeve of his parka. “I guess your buddy here already told you we got a slight problem with one of your planes?”

Rokva looked at Lebed, who seemed to wither visibly as his gaze went from his superior to Sergei’s imposing form.

Apparently the vodka did not supply him with enough temporary courage to be disrespectful in person, Rokva thought. But then again, who would be so in front of Sergei?

“I am sorry, boss,” Lebed said, quickly lighting a cigarette and dragging on it. “I have made arrangements for another, as you instructed. It is coming from Anchorage.”

The mafiya captain glared at the man. “That is quite a delay.”

Lebed raised his arms. “It was all I could get at such short notice.”

“No matter,” Rokva said. “I am leaving a few men here to complete something. When the plane arrives, you can follow with them.”

His subordinate blew out a prodigious cloud of smoke mixed with his frosty breath. “But I am eager to accompany you. Is that not our plan?”

Rokva didn’t bother to reply. Instead he turned to Boris, who was a few feet away.

“Give the samples to Wladimir,” Rokva said to him and then turned to the third man in the group. He looked like a walrus with his large, unkempt mustache and round face.

“You have the smaller plane standing by to take you to Anchorage?”

The man’s head bobbled up and down.

“Get going now. As soon as you arrive in Vancouver, take these samples to Patel. Tell the Indian we will be arriving with the shipment within thirty-six hours.”