War Everlasting

“Of course,” the Executioner replied.

CHAPTER SEVEN

As soon as darkness fell, Bolan geared up and left the terminal. The only transportation available was a motorcycle, a cold venture for this time of year, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The Executioner wore a thermal-insulated black suit, along with boots, goggles and a full mask to protect Bolan’s lungs from breathing icy winds. The Beretta rode in well-oiled shoulder rigging, and the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle occupied its usual place of honor on his right hip. Finally, a carbine version of the FN-FNC was slung across his back. Manufactured by Fabrique Nationale de Herstal, the FNC had proven a versatile and trustworthy companion on many of Bolan’s missions. This wouldn’t be any exception, especially since Bolan had no idea what he was up against and had almost no intelligence to go on.

The Executioner made his trip to the clubhouse unchallenged and parked his motorcycle in an unpaved area between two run-down buildings. It surprised him that a guy as allegedly fastidious as Haglemann would permit such structures to exist anywhere near his club. The club itself was modern, laid out with plenty of space, and attractive. A small flight of flagstone steps led to the grand entrance, which consisted of heavy double doors of carved wood and a generous overhang.

Bolan withdrew night-vision goggles and scanned the terrain. He could make out only a little behind the fuzzy, gray-green rendering. There wasn’t much light to speak of, even when the NVDs were set at the highest level. At least the infrared seemed to be working, and Bolan could see the remnant heat signatures from at least four separate figures. Bolan had suspected from what Corsack told him the place was a hard site, and this only confirmed it. If this had been the security or the job for which Lustrum had Bolan in mind, the Executioner could do worse going in.

Yeah, it was time to shake things up a bit and see just how deep Haglemann and Lustrum had thrown their hands in with the RBN.

* * *

YORGI ZAKOFF HATED the Americans and cursed the day he’d been forced to work with them—especially this crew. When Moscovich had first ordered him to stand in for Lustrum, Zakoff had obeyed without question. After all, there were certain sacrifices that had to be made if they were to achieve their goal of visiting retribution on America. But now, having spent the past few months working with Lustrum’s guys, a bunch of uneducated dockworkers who were neither as tough nor as smart as they thought themselves, Zakoff had just about reached his limits.

Seeing Rov die at the hands of the newcomer hadn’t done anything to improve his mood. He couldn’t believe that Lustrum would have even entertained the notion just because some dumb bitch had asked him for a favor. Not that it had been all Lustrum’s fault. Rov should have waited until another opportunity to take the American, a place and time of his own choosing. Attacking the guy after it had been declared finished had been foolish, and now Rov was dead. Not that Zakoff didn’t hold Lustrum responsible. When the time came, he’d find a way to pay back Lustrum and the newcomer.

“Jeez, Otak, would ya play a goddamn card already,” Hans said. “My legs are falling asleep waiting on your slow ass!”

Melburn, the other native worker who’d been born on Unalaska and raised on Adak, let out a guffaw. Consumption of too much beer had already started to slur his words. “He probably lost count, Hans.”

Zakoff shook his head as he watched the three stevedores play cutthroat spades. They’d invited him to sit in, but he’d refused—just another reason to dislike these men. They were supposed to be security for the club, but instead they liked to drink beers and play cards all night. He’d pointed it out to his boss once, but the team leader had just thrown it back in his face, advising that nothing ever happened, anyway, and nobody was stupid enough to cross Davis Haglemann. After that, Zakoff didn’t broach the subject again, instead musing that even if they did encounter trouble, they probably wouldn’t be able to handle it if they were stone-cold sober.

The thought went through Zakoff’s mind just a moment before Hans’s head exploded from the bullet that went through his skull. Gory aftermath splattered Hans’s teammates and their card table. Otak and Melburn reacted with rather incredible speed, considering they had been drinking, let alone they had never encountered anything like this before. On the other hand, Zakoff had been trained for years to respond to just a situation like this and he acted as training dictated. The Russian whipped out his .357 Magnum SIG Sauer P239 pistol and went for cover.

Melburn and Otak had jumped from their seats and looked for their own shelter, but only Otak succeeded. Melburn caught a round in the side that punctured a lung before lodging in his heart, and a second ripped away the better part of his jaw. Melburn’s body was slammed sideways, and he landed on the flimsy table, which collapsed beneath his weight.

Otak turned at the last moment, a move that would ultimately save his life as another round came through the window and clipped his left arm but a millisecond earlier would have entered his back at the level of his heart. Otak went down, shouting with pain and grabbing at the messy, bloody wound left in the wake of the bullet. He lay on his good shoulder near the overturned table, whimpering like an injured dog with frozen horror blasted into his expression.

Zakoff could only shake his head at this. What a pathetic bunch Vizhgail had lumped him with—two were dead because of their ignorance, and the third was a coward. Zakoff was so angered by Otak’s response and annoyed at the whining that he aimed his pistol and fired point-blank into the man’s face. That wiped the stupid expression off Otak’s face and shut him up, which satisfied the Russian’s outrage with immense satisfaction.

He crawled from the room, and as soon as he reached the safety of an inner corridor he scrambled to his feet and headed toward the nearest phone to call for reinforcements.

* * *

SCRATCH TWO, MACK BOLAN thought as he peered through the optic sight attached to his FN-FNC.

Bolan watched carefully but didn’t see any further movement. The other two who had been visible through the window were either hugging the floor or had already managed to crawl out of harm’s way. In any case, they were no longer in range, so Bolan would have to go inside and pick them off. He entertained the thought of just leaving, but that wasn’t an option. He planned to send a clear message to Haglemann, and sniping a couple of guns wouldn’t really be enough to shake up the guy. No, this first contact had to be more...spectacular.

The Executioner climbed to his feet and rushed the club, mounting the flagstone steps two at once until he reached the massive covered porch. He wouldn’t have much time. If the reports from the rifle didn’t bring Haglemann’s personal police force on the run, then the survivors inside would surely call for backup. Bolan needed to make his statement before that happened, since a skirmish with any sort of significant force would bring more attention than he wanted.

Bolan shattered a glass window with the metal folding stock of his weapon, then lobbed a smoke grenade through it. The bomb popped a moment later, and a loud hissing noise ensued as the smoker filled the foyer with a gray haze. As soon as the grenade kicked off, Bolan shot the lock off the door and pushed through. He swept the surrounding area with the muzzle of his carbine, ready to meet any resistance, but nobody showed to challenge him.

The Executioner proceeded through the foyer and into the main seating area of the club. Davis Haglemann had chosen to ally himself with the Russian Business Network, or at least Lustrum had, and the lives of American military had been snuffed without regard. That and that alone was unacceptable to Mack Bolan, and he planned to send a clear message that said as much to Haglemann and the Russians.

Bolan navigated his way to the kitchen, and as he walked through, a flash of movement drew his attention toward one corner. A lone, armed assailant broke cover and angled for a good shooting position. He might have succeeded had it not been for Bolan’s reflexes. Two rounds burned the air near Bolan’s head as the soldier took cover. He swung his weapon into target acquisition and triggered a few short bursts, but none hit the target, who darted from his place and headed toward concealment behind a long, stainless steel preparation counter.

Bolan snatched the NVD goggles off his face and set them at his feet. He then dropped to his belly and crawled along the back side of the counter, moving slowly and carefully to prevent making noise that would allow his enemy to pinpoint his location. They guy’s eyes had obviously adjusted, and there was enough gloom that the NVDs no longer gave Bolan a tactical edge. Stealth would be the key to securing a victory here, a truth that proved out a moment later when Bolan detected the shadowy figure emerging from his spot and heading directly toward his position. A dim hood light presented a silhouette, and Bolan quietly reached to his hip and withdrew his Desert Eagle. From that prone position he extended his arm, aimed center mass and squeezed the trigger. The proximity of the shot actually drove home with enough force to flip the target on to his back.

The ringing in Bolan’s ears took a minute or so to subside. He ignored it as he frisked the body for identification, lifted what papers he found, then set about the task of rigging the joint to blow. Being in the kitchen would make it simple enough. The Executioner located several propane storage tanks and packed them with C-4 plastique from his satchel. He primed the high explosive for detonation on a timer and set it to eight minutes, then made his exit out the rear and circled back to the spot between the two houses where he’d left his motorcycle.

As Bolan expected, the reinforcements arrived right on schedule—it looked to be a mix of civilian vehicles along with an Adak police vehicle. As the collection got out of their cars, the club suddenly went up in a massive blast and a whoosh of red-orange flame that had to reach heights of a hundred feet or better. Under the cover of the explosion, fire and secondary blasts, Bolan kick-started the motorcycle to life, and within thirty seconds he’d departed the area completely unobserved.

He’d sent his first message to Davis Haglemann. Now it was time to wait for the reply.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“THE RUSSIAN BUSINESS NETWORK?” When Barbara Price nodded, Hal Brognola shook his head. “I knew we hadn’t heard the last of them, but I didn’t think they had these kinds of capabilities.”

“Frankly, Hal, neither did I,” Bolan replied. “Godunov and his cronies demonstrated they had significant resources when they tried to take down Wall Street. But in order for them to pull off something like this, they’d have to be in bed with members of the Russian government. And they’re apparently in bed with Davis Haglemann, too. They come and go here on Adak as they please.”

“Barb,” Brognola said, “what’s the Russian government’s official position on the RBN?”

“Well, of course, they officially disavow any relationship with them, although they’ve never officially taken any sort of direct stance.”

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