Blood Play

“Incoming!” Kissinger shouted.

Grimaldi eased off the accelerator, falling back a few yards. Behind him Bolan powered down his window and leaned out, rattling off a diversionary burst. The ploy worked. The Stony Man warriors heard the faint throttle of the AK-47, but the rounds flew wide of their mark.

Kissinger had ducked below the dash, but righted himself, clutching his pistol, his eyes fixed on the rear of the panel truck in front of them.

“Looks like the guy’s reloading,” Grimaldi warned, putting the pedal to the metal. “Hang on. I’m going to ram them!” The Stony Man pilot was executing a last-ditch play. If they didn’t stop the truck, Franklin Colt was as good as dead.

Blood Play

Don Pendleton

Mack Bolan®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

When a friend is in trouble, don’t annoy him by asking if there is anything you can do. Think up something appropriate and do it.

—Edgar Watson Howe

1853–1937

What’s appropriate is direct action against perpetrators who commit atrocities for their own profit. Law-abiding people have no chance against these predators. That’s where I come in.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Taos, New Mexico

Walter Upshaw stared noncommitally at the elaborate architectural drawings laid out on the table of his modest two-bedroom home. It was situated atop Pueblo Peak, which afforded a panoramic view of the one-hundred-thousand-acre tribal reservation he helped administer as seven-time president of the Taos Pueblo Governing Council. One set of drawings illustrated a proposed sixty-thousand-square-foot casino with an attached four-story, four-hundred-room hotel. Another rendering transposed the designated site for the gaming facility onto a topographical map that included several circled areas set deep in the Taos Mountains. There were no markings to explain the intended use of the latter areas, but Upshaw knew they indicated long-abandoned uranium mines. Resting next to the topo map was a manila file filled with documentation as to various means by which to carry on an environmental cleanup of the sites.

“You’ve certainly put a lot of effort into this presentation,” Upshaw finally told the two men who’d made the arduous four-mile drive up a winding mountain road to confer with the tribal leader. He’d already met Freddy McHale, a bald, barrel-chested man of roughly the same age, several times during the past few months. McHale’s colleague, a younger, rusty-haired man who’d been introduced as Pete Trammell, was noticeably shorter than his companion and had said only a few words since Upshaw had invited them into his house. McHale, on behalf of Global Holdings Corporation, ran the gambling operations at the Roaming Bison Casino, a co-venture with the Rosqui Tribal Council located an hour’s drive south of Taos on the outskirts of Santa Fe. McHale had told Upshaw that Trammell was GHC’s Ancillary Project Manager. The widowed tribal leader hadn’t bothered to ask for a translation as to what such a job might entail.

McHale smiled amicably. “I know we’ve already hashed out most of this a few times and gone over some crude drawings,” he said, his voice tinged with what seemed to Upshaw more of an Eastern European accent than the Irish brogue his name would suggest. “But I thought maybe if you had a clearer picture of what we had in mind you’d see this as a win-win deal. We’re not only offering you a way to increase your pueblo’s per capita income by at least a hundred percent, we’re also committed to cleaning up uranium sites that, if they existed outside the reservation, would likely be declared EPA supersites due to the risk of toxic exposure.”

“I can’t help thinking there has to be some kind of ulterior motive on your part,” Upshaw replied. “All this altruism about cleaning up the uranium sites… I’m sorry, but something about it doesn’t ring true.”

“It’s not just altruism,” McHale explained. “As you know, we don’t just run the casino at Rosqui, we’re also in charge of the nuclear waste site there. We have a sound track record on that front, and it’d be easy enough for us to secure funding to add facilities for dealing with your uranium.”

“It’s business,” Trammell piped in.

“And a successful one,” McHale went on. “If you don’t believe us, ask any of your colleagues at Rosqui. They get a cut of both ventures, just as you would here.”

“You’ve presented this same argument every time we’ve met,” Upshaw said, “and when I counter with my position, I can almost see the words going in one ear and out the other.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” McHale’s voice had begun to lose its tone of cordiality. The shift was not lost on Upshaw, but he pretended not to notice.

“Rosqui Pueblo is a bit fonder of Red Capitalism than we are here in Taos,” the tribal president went on. “Here, we’re already a bit uncomfortable with what little gambling we offer at our small casino. We have, if you’ll pardon the pun, certain reservations about expanding things any further. As for the uranium mines, they’re located far from any inhabited areas, and we’ve already conducted tests to confirm that the tailings are in no danger of leaching into the watershed. The way I see it, it’s a case of ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’”

“Are you sure you speak for the majority of your people?” McHale asked. “Not to mention your fellow members of the tribal council?”

Upshaw narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the businessmen.

“I’m in charge of this pueblo,” he said coldly. “I hope I’m wrong in sensing that you’ve been trying to wheel and deal behind my back.”

“We’ve requested all along that we be allowed to make a presentation to the entire council,” McHale countered. “You keep refusing. Why is that?”

“I have my reasons.”

“It’s because you know they’d probably back our offer.”

“I think you’re mistaken.”

“There’s one way to find out.”

“If this were a poker game, I’d call your bluff,” Upshaw said. “As it is, however, I’ll merely advise you that if I find out you’re trying to make an end run around my authority, there will be consequences.”

“Are you threatening me?” McHale asked.

“I’m a man of action,” Upshaw replied. “I don’t bother with threats.”

“Neither do we,” Trammell snapped.

McHale shot Trammell an angry glance. Chastened, the shorter man diverted his gaze and fell silent. McHale turned back to Upshaw.

“Seats on the governing council are elected positions,” he said. “As is the council presidency.”

“I’ve been reelected by a landslide every time I’ve run for another term,” Upshaw said. “I don’t see that changing.”

“Times have changed, Walter, and not for the better. Your people are struggling to make ends meet like everyone else. If they see a way to better their lot, are you certain they’ll be willing to stick with the status quo?”

“I’ll thank you not to address me by my first name, Mr. McHale,” Upshaw said. “We’re getting nowhere here and I have some other matters to attend to, so I would suggest that we call it a day.”

McHale stared at Upshaw a moment, then sighed and began to gather up his presentation materials. Trammell grabbed a large leather portfolio propped next to the table and held it open so McHale could slip the materials inside.

“I have computer copies of all this,” McHale told Upshaw. “I’ll send them to you and maybe once you’ve had a chance to look everything over more thoroughly—”

“There’s no need for that,” Upshaw interrupted. “I’ve already committed to a small expansion of our existing casino with our current partners. That’s as far as I intend to see things go.”

McHale stopped what he was doing. His neck flushed crimson and the rage in his eyes was matched by the coldness in his voice. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me,” Upshaw said evenly. “I’d prefer to stick with the people I’m already working with. Nothing personal.”

“If you’ve already made up your mind,” McHale said, “then why did you have us come all the way out here to the middle of nowhere and make a presentation?”

“I wanted to see your reaction,” Upshaw said calmly. “You really need to work on your poker face, Mr. McHale.”

McHale checked himself and slowly continued putting away the drawings and files. By the time he’d finished, he’d regained his composure. He took the portfolio from Trammell and tucked it under one arm, then extended the other to Upshaw.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do business, Mr. Upshaw, but thank you for your time.”

Upshaw stared at McHale’s hand but refused to shake it. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m sure you can find your way out.”

McHale pulled his hand back. Trammell was already headed for the door. McHale followed him. A few minutes later they were back in McHale’s customized Hummer, heading back down the long service road linking Upshaw’s home with the existing casino, a small converted lodge visible two miles below on a plain at the foot of the mountain.

“He knows something,” Trammell said, speaking, not in English but in his native Russian. McHale nodded, then responded in the same language.

“We’ve had our suspicions he might.”

“We need to consider our contingency plan, then,” Trammell said.

McHale nodded again as he navigated a turn in the road. “We need to step up surveillance on him,” he said. “Tap his phone, hack his computer, tail him. Whatever it takes to find out who tipped him off.”

“It has to be somebody at Rosqui.”

“More than likely,” McHale said. “Keep an eye on his son, too. He’ll factor into this.”

“Orson, too?”

“Absolutely,” McHale replied. “There has to be a way we can kill two birds with one stone here.”

“More than just two,” Trammell said ominously. “And I have a feeling we’ll be killing more than just birds.”

CHAPTER ONE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Mack Bolan was twenty minutes into his jog on one of the gymnasium treadmills facing a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the eastern perimeter of Stony Man Farm. Through the window he could see the bare-limbed, regimentally planted poplars surrounding the distant Annex as well as the tip of that building’s storage silo, which outsiders were led to believe contained nothing but wood chips ground up as a byproduct of the Farm’s timber-harvesting venture. In fact, the uppermost cavity of the silo contained not only a concealed array of antiaircraft ordnance but also a bevy of communications antennae and data-link transmitters servicing the cybernetic team operating out of the subterranean bunker facility located one floor down from the lumber mill. Two blacksuits stationed amid the poplars were equally discreet, busying themselves with farm chores, their firearms concealed beneath coveralls and lightweight shirts so as to not give away their primary function, which was to safeguard this, the clandestine headquarters for America’s foremost covert task force. Bolan himself was a key player for the Sensitive Operations Group, having helped found the organization years ago when his War Everlasting had expanded from forays against organized crime to tackling the global threat posed by terrorists, drug cartels and other entities hell-bent on subverting U.S. interests in pursuit of their own self-serving agendas. For the moment, the warrior who’d come to be known as the Executioner was between assignments, but there was already another mission in the offing, and within the hour Bolan expected to be en route to the West Coast to engage once more with the enemy. As always, he planned to be ready for the challenge.

“I figured I might find you here.”

Bolan continued to jog in place as he glanced over at the attractive, blond-haired woman approaching the treadmills. Barbara Price was SOG’s mission controller, but she and Bolan shared a bond that went far beyond their mutual commitment to the Farm’s top-secret charter. A few short hours ago, they’d been in each other’s arms back in Price’s bedroom at the farmhouse, a gentrified structure that helped the Farm present itself outwardly as just another of many upwardly mobile country estates dotting this remote sprawl of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains.

“I thought I gave you enough exercise for one day, soldier,” Price teased.

Bolan grinned faintly. “I figured I’d tire myself out a little more so I can sleep on the flight,” he replied. They both spoke quietly, barely above a whisper, mindful of several off-duty blacksuits working out with free weights on the other side of the exercise room.

“They’re still refueling the jet,” Price responded. “I just heard from Ironman, though. They’re bogged down on logistics and don’t figure to have their ducks in a row until sometime late tomorrow. So you have the option of laying over in Albuquerque for that convention Cowboy’s attending.”

Ironman was Carl Lyons, field leader for Able Team, SOG’s go-to commando squad for countermanding threats to the U.S. usually on American soil. The three-man team had been deployed a few days ago to Seattle, where it was now closing in on a smuggling ring purported to be running arms across the border in nearby Vancouver. The smugglers were linked to a survivalist sect on file in the Farm databases for actively abetting several purported al Qaeda sleeper cells throughout the Northwest. Able Team was concerned about spreading itself too thin in pursuit of the various leads that had turned up since its arrival, prompting Bolan’s offer to fly out and lend a hand. Intent as he was on tackling the assignment, the Executioner also saw merit in the notion of spending an extra half-day in Albuquerque with John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s resident weaponsmith. Kissinger would be attending a three-day trade show focused on the latest advancements in weaponry and combat gear, and Bolan was intrigued by some of the breakthroughs Kissinger had told him about. Anything that would help give him and his fellow commandos an edge over the enemy, Bolan felt, was always worth a firsthand look.

He switched off the treadmill and slowed his jogging in time with the decreasing churn of the rubberized belt beneath his feet.

“Let’s play it by ear,” he told Price. “It’ll be a good eight hours before we’re in New Mexico. A lot could happen between now and then.”

Price smiled faintly. “The voice of experience.”

Bolan nodded. “One thing I’ve learned about the enemy is that their game plan can change on a dime,” he said. “We need to be able to do the same.”

CHAPTER TWO

Taos, New Mexico

An early-evening spring breeze rustled the leaves as Petenka Tramelik, aka Pete Trammell, stole his way through a stand of cottonwoods surrounding the estate of Alan Orson. With him was Vladik Barad, a fellow member of Vympel, the special-operations arm of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, SVR. There was a faint chill in-air thanks to an approaching storm front that was already soaking central New Mexico. Tramelik figured they had time to carry out their mission before the rain came. Afterward, he would welcome the downpour, as it would help to obscure any boot prints he and Barad might leave along the dirt trail leading to Orson’s spread, a five-acre parcel located north of Taos near the small New Mexico town’s municipal airport.

Both men had staked out the property the three previous nights, establishing Orson’s routine as well as that of Walter Upshaw’s estranged thirty-year-old son, Donny, who served as Orson’s groundskeeper and lived in a one-room guest cottage located near the converted horse stables Orson used as his primary work space. If he stuck to his routine, Orson would be in the stables for another few minutes before retiring to the main house. Donny, on the other hand, had once again gone to bed shortly after sundown and, even though the cottage was dark, Tramelik could see that Upshaw had closed only the screen door on his front porch. The Russian figured the door would be unlocked; if it wasn’t, he knew it would be an easy matter to jimmy it open and still have time to get to Donny before the other man could respond.

A commuter jet had just lifted off from the airfield’s lone runway and Tramelik watched through the trees as it droned its way into the night sky. Within moments the plane disappeared into the same thick, swollen clouds that had already snuffed out the moon and all but a handful of stars. The darker the better, Tramelik thought as he slipped on a pair of purple latex gloves and pulled up the collar of his black jacket. His straggly reddish hair, uncut since he and Frederik Mikhaylov had met with Upshaw’s father the previous week on behalf of Global Holdings Corporation, was tucked beneath a dark stocking cap, but a few loose strands dangled to his shoulders. Barad, a shorter, stone-faced man with short-cropped light brown hair, was dressed similarly to Tramelik. As he donned his gloves, he whispered, “Ready?”

Tramelik nodded, thumbing open his cell phone. He quickly text-messaged two more SVR agents waiting in a Dodge Caravan parked back on the dirt road linking Orson’s property with a handful of other estates scattered between the airport and Rio Grande Gorge. It was a short message, two asterisks indicating that he and Barad were in position and about to make their move.

Once they cleared the trees, the two operatives split up. While Barad stole his way toward the stables, Tramelik circled a long-abandoned horse track and approached the guest cottage, nestled beneath a cottonwood less than forty yards from his colleague’s target destination. The sound of their footsteps was masked not only by the breeze stirring through trees but also the melodic tingling of several wind chimes hanging from the eaves above the bungalow’s front porch. As he drew closer, Tramelik reached into his jacket and removed a secondhand police sap he’d bought two days ago at a pawnshop in Espanola. A flat steel bar and lead-weighted striking head were encased by heavily stitched black leather, making the weapon as potent as it was compact. Tramelik also had a Glock 17 9 mm pistol tucked in a web holster beneath his coat, but he had no plans to use it. For the moment, he only wanted to render Upshaw unconscious.

Tramelik was within ten feet of the bungalow when there was a sudden commotion next to the garage. When he reached the porch, the Russian crouched alongside its wooden steps and stared across the grounds. Barad had taken similar cover behind a water well near the stables. Fifty yards beyond the well a trio of coyotes had emerged through brush on the far side of the driveway and staged a raid of their own on a large garbage Dumpster heaped high with refuse. One of the creatures had already leaped up into the bin and begun tearing at a half-filled plastic trash bag. When a second coyote made the same leap and joined in the foraging, the smallest predator circled the Dumpster, yipping in frustration at its inability to join the festivities.

Tramelik was trying to figure a way to deal with the situation when he was startled by the rattling of a doorknob directly behind him. Glancing up, he saw Donny Upshaw storm onto the porch in his boxer shorts, brandishing a Mossberg 930 shotgun. The thin, long-haired Native American had apparently been roused by the coyotes and seemed equally taken aback by the sight of Tramelik crouched directly in front of him.

Tramelik was the first to react. Acting on reflex, he swung upward with the sap, striking the shotgun’s barrel and diverting a 12-gauge round that would have otherwise turned his head into chowder. Half-deafened by the rifle blast, Tramelik lunged forward, clipping the other man below the waist with enough force to buckle Donny’s knees and send him stumbling headlong down the porch steps. The Mossberg went flying from Upshaw’s grasp and clattered to the ground as he landed hard on his right arm. Before Upshaw could reclaim the weapon, Tramelik pivoted on the steps and swung one leg outward, connecting the steel-toed tip of his right boot with the other man’s jaw. Upshaw slumped to the ground, dazed. Off in the distance, the coyotes had already bounded from the garbage Dumpster and were racing off down the driveway.

Tramelik sprang from the porch, his mind racing. His well-orchestrated plan may have gone awry, but there was still a chance he and Barad could carry out their mission. When Upshaw began to stir, Tramelik rushed over and clippped him across the skull with his sap. Upshaw slumped back to the ground, blood oozing through his scalp where he’d been struck. Tramelik cursed under his breath and dropped the sap, putting a finger to his victim’s wrist. The man still had a pulse.

“Good,” Tramelik murmured. He fished through his pockets and withdrew a penlight, a shoestring and a syringe enclosed in a protective sheath. Once he’d tied the string around Donny’s left biceps, he snapped open the sheath and tested the syringe, squirting a few drops into the night air, then shone the light on Upshaw’s well-scarred inner right elbow. Once he pinpointed a vein, he inserted the needle, injecting enough heroin to ensure that it would be some time before the groundskeeper regained consciousness.

Now it was all up to Barad.

ALAN ORSON WAS SEALING the last of four cardboard shipping boxes set near the doorway leading out of the stables when a call came in on his cell phone. He tapped his transceiver and took the call as he applied a final strip of packing tape. Nearby, Orson’s pet terrier lazed on a foam pad tucked beneath one of several work benches vying for space with storage cabinets and an industrial lathe inside the modified building. All the benches were strewn with tools and various half-built prototypes that Orson hoped would soon add to his list of patented inventions. The Taos native specialized in gadgets for the military and had made millions in recent years off contracts with the Department of Defense. Once he closed a deal for the items he’d just packed in the cardboard boxes, Orson calculated that his fortunes would quadruple, if not more, giving him the option to retire early and enjoy a life of travel and leisure.

“’Lo, Alan,” the caller drawled in Orson’s ear. “It’s Franklin.”

“Hey, Frank.”

Franklin Colt was one of Orson’s longtime poker buddies. They played twice a month, usually at the home of a mutual friend in Santa Fe. It was a long drive for a low-stakes game, but Orson liked the action as well as the camaraderie.

Colt was calling for another reason, however.

“Are we still on for tonight?”

“Sure thing,” Orson said. “I just need to load the truck and take Ranger for a walk and I’ll be on my way. Your friend’s due in at midnight, right?”