Executioner - Blood Circle Part 10

A line drew down between Bolan's eyebrows. "She sounds vaguely familiar."

Kurtzman punched more computer keys. "She red-flagged immediately when I cross-referenced Vermont. She's one of the individual targets near the top of our short-list."

"What makes her a priority?"

"She's always been very cause oriented, and in the past year the fighting in Bosnia has risen to the top of her agenda."

Bolan frowned. "So she joined the peace bandwagon."

"Well, she actually seems more intellectually honest than that. Senator McCain went to Bosnia early in 1995 and toured with a Senate subcommittee investigative team. She saw one of the ma.s.s graves being excavated outside of a Croatian village. It had nearly a hundred civilian bodies in it, most of them women and children. Apparently McCain was profoundly affected by it. Ever since her return to the United States, she has been huge in spearheading the effort to send U.S. peacekeeping troops in to stop the fighting. She defends it nearly every day on the floor of the Senate."

The Executioner stared at the bathroom wall without seeing it as the scenes of past atrocities in dozens of conflicts ran unbidden through his mind. He had seen ma.s.s graves and the terrible toll civil wars took on the population. He couldn't fault Eudora McCain. Whether or not to intervene in a civil war was a terrible decision to make. You either risked getting your own people killed in a conflict that wasn't theirs, or else you sat on your hands and watched women and children die while you did nothing. Senator McCain had gone with her conscience. Now she was a target.

"In Was.h.i.+ngton the Secret Service can guard her better than I can. What's her situation in Vermont like?"

Kurtzman searched his file. "Married, with two daughters, both of them away in college. She lives in a big house on Lake Champlain outside of Burlington. Her husband is William McCain, a local entrepreneur, very wealthy, has a lot of clout in the state. He financed his wife's campaign." He paused. "The Senate is scheduled to take a break after their budget session next week. Most of the senators will be going home for a three-day weekend. How do you want to play it?"

Bolan considered the situation. "Have Hal get a Secret Service team on Senator McCain immediately, but keep them low profile while she's in D.C. I don't want to tip off Baibakov."

"You want Vermont to be the trap."

Bolan nodded. "There isn't much in Vermont to stop him. It's a small state and spa.r.s.ely populated. As I recall, farming and winter tourism are its major industries. Our senator lives in a house by a lake. It's just about as perfect a situation as Baibakov and the Red Falcons could ask for. His only problem will be keeping himself and his men out of sight. I expect most of them may have already been staged."

"Hal will have to clear this with the President."

"Well, get on it."

"So you're off to Vermont in the meantime?"

"I'll need to recon the area. See if you can have Jack and a plane at JFK in the morning, and I'll need my full war load racked and ready to go on the bird."

"Can do. Anything else?"

Bolan rose from the edge of the tub. "No. I'll contact you when I get to Vermont. Keep me abreast of anything new."

"Roger and out."

The line clicked silent, and Bolan stowed the satellite link and the fax. Svarzkova grinned at him as he came out of the bathroom. A bottle of vodka sat on the nightstand, and she held two gla.s.ses in her hands. "What is the news?"

"We're going to Vermont."

The agent paused in thought. "It does not sound familiar."

"It's a state to the north of herea"it borders on Quebec."

Svarzkova nodded thoughtfully. "Ah."

Bolan glanced at the bottle of vodka by the bed. It sat in a bucket of ice. A good fifth of it was already missing. "You started without me."

The woman didn't seem overwhelmed with guilt about it. "Yes. I have." She stood and handed Bolan a gla.s.s. It held a stiff three fingers of straight Russian vodka. The agent held up her gla.s.s. "To happiness."

Bolan clinked his gla.s.s against hers. "Tovarisch."

It was an old Russian toast; the word simply meant "comrades." Svarzkova nodded happily. "Da, tovarisch." She rolled the shot back in one smooth swallow. Her cheeks flushed as she smiled.

Bolan tilted back his gla.s.s, and the cold vodka blossomed into burning heat in his stomach. He looked Svarzkova in the eye. "I gather you're feeling better."

She met his gaze in a speculative fas.h.i.+on. "I am working on it."

Bolan could see where this was going. He lowered his gla.s.s. "This might be considered inappropriate."

The Russian agent shrugged carelessly. "Tonight I wish to be drunk and behave inappropriately. Tomorrow we may die."

The Executioner let out a slow breath as Svarzkova watched his eyes. The grim truth of her words was well-known to both of them. Igor Baibakov was a trained killer, and he was at large with squads of well-armed fanatics behind him. Bolan and Svarzkova both had prices on their heads.

Bolan held up his gla.s.s. "Well, you'd better pour me another, then."

13.

The dawn sky at JFK was a brilliant orange that tinged the entire airport the color of burned gold. Bolan stood on the tarmac with Ramzin and Svarzkova along with a small pile of bags and cases the Russians had acquired. They had left the hotel just before dawn and gone to the Russian emba.s.sy, where Svarzkova picked up two extra suitcases that weighed heavily in her arms. After a heated argument in Russian, Svarzkova had allowed Ramzin inside the emba.s.sy. Five minutes later the two of them had come out carrying a similar pair of suitcases and a long flat package that could only be a rifle.

It seemed if the two Russians couldn't do anything about being outnumbered, they had decided not to be outgunned.

A Learjet rolled toward them down the runway. Bolan knew the plane well. It was a Stony Man special. Its engines had been upgraded, and it carried extensive communications and electronic-warfare equipment. The entire airframe had been modified and strengthened, and each wing had two hard points for attaching various weapons stores. At the moment the aircraft was flying clean and looked like any other business jet. The Executioner knew that with the stores inside, the Lear could quickly transform into a bird of prey.

The aircraft taxied to a halt, and the twin jet engines powered down. The door swung open, and the ladder steps popped down into place. A lean figure in a tailored blue flight suit and black leather bomber jacket grinned at Bolan from behind his aviator sungla.s.ses. He ogled Svarzkova for a moment, then turned his infectious grin back on Bolan.

"It's an outstanding morning for flying, Sarge!"

Bolan smiled and shook his head. Short of doomsday, any day was an outstanding day for flying in Jack Grimaldi's flight book. "It's good to see you. Did Aaron give you our flight plan?"

Grimaldi tapped the leather flight book in his hand. "Sure did. It'll be a short hop from here, but we'll have excellent visibility. The Green Mountains should be absolutely beautiful." He turned and grinned again at Bolan's companions and stuck out his hand. "Major Ramzin."

Ramzin looked at the offered hand and then shook it firmly. Grimaldi's grin upped in wattage as he held out his hand to the blond Russian agent. "Senior Lieutenant Svarzkova, it's a pleasure."

Svarzkova smiled and shook his hand. "I am very pleased to meet you, as well, Mr.?"

Grimaldi looked at Bolan. It was a cooperative mission, but giving out the name of Stony Man's number-one pilot to Russian Intelligence was still probably not a good idea.

Bolan jerked his thumb at the pilot. "Just call him Jack."

Grimaldi glanced at his watch. "I'm flying you into the Burlington airport. The powers that be have already okayed your idea, though they want you to have backup when Senator McCain arrives. The word is they're going to send in an FBI fast-reaction team, as well as the usual cadre of Secret Service bullet stoppers. In the meantime I've been cleared to stick around awhile if you want me."

Bolan nodded. Grimaldi was a very useful man to have around. "Why don't you do that."

The pilot smiled and raised his arms up at the vault of the dawn's horizon. "Let's fly!"

Igor Baibakov looked toward the snow-covered Green Mountains off to the east. He liked them. They reminded him of the Urals. He turned his attention to the long expanse of Lake Champlain. According to his research, the lake supposedly contained a sea monster. The locals blamed it for all sorts of unexplained events.

Madchen Krstic stood at his side. He knew she was looking up at him but he ignored her. She was coming along well. With Branko there had been long screaming matches into the night. Baibakov grinned as he raised his binoculars. With him there were no arguments, only his implacable will. She fit herself to his will, in tactical operations and in his bed. She knew he would kill her if she didn't.

Baibakov turned at the sound of footsteps and looked down at Tomas Broz. The man was almost a shorter, stockier, brown-haired clone of Branko Cebej. He was Branko's cousin, and had been the second-in-command of the Red Falcons. Baibakov knew he had entertained thoughts of taking command after Cebej's fall. Broz had fallen into line quickly. He was a fanatic, like Krstic. He marveled at Baibakov's strategy and was eager to implement his ideas. Broz was also a veteran, and he was well liked and respected by the rest of the Red Falcons. If he wasn't the inspired leader Branko Cebej had been, he was still solid and reliable.

That was all that Baibakov required. The reins of leaders.h.i.+p would be kept firmly in his own hands.

Broz glanced at Baibakov and grinned. He was ready for action. "Josef has reported from the airport. A small plane has arrived with four individuals. Two matched the description of the American commando and the woman. The third was positively identified as Major Ramzin. The fourth was the pilot, who stayed at the airport. The other three took a blue sport-utility vehicle and headed west."

Baibakov nodded and then spoke as he looked through his binoculars at the objective. "You are clear on what you must do?"

"Crystal clear. The men are ready."

"Josef knows what he must do?"

"He has already left to take command of the second team. All is in readiness, Commander."

"Good." Baibakov lowered the binoculars and looked down at Krstic, whose eyes glittered with antic.i.p.ation. "Come. You and I have much to do."

Bolan crouched in the trees and surveyed the area around Senator Eudora McCain's house. He didn't like what he saw. The house was four miles from the nearest town, and her nearest neighbor was a half a mile away on the other side of a hill. The surrounding area was hills and thick forest. A light layer of snow covered the ground, and the trees grew almost right up to the house. The building itself was a two-story manor made of ma.s.sive logs, with wide bay windows and large gla.s.s doors front and back. There were dozens of places where a man with a sniper rifle could hide and have a good angle to strike from. With a Barrett .50caliber rifle it could be done from a thousand yards away. The log house faced Lake Champlain, and it had a little dock and a covered ramp for a small boat. There was ice along the sh.o.r.e, but it was thin and broken. It would be no obstacle to frogmen making an attack.

Bolan grimaced. A man in a parka wearing a state-trooper hat was sitting on a deck chair on the porch reading a magazine.

Ramzin blew a breath of steam into the early-afternoon air. The Russian had changed into a dark blue anorak and wool pants. He looked at Bolan and shook his head. "Your senator's home is isolated, and it is nearly indefensible. It would take at least a squad of heavily armed soldiers to hold it against an attack in strength."

Svarzkova chewed her lower lip and nodded. She didn't think much of the location tactically, either.

Bolan took a cellular phone from his jacket and dialed the number. After three rings a man's voice answered. "h.e.l.lo?"

Bolan looked through the front bay window. The curtains were open, and Senator McCain's husband was clearly visible. "Mr. McCain, this is Belasko."

Mr. McCain chuckled. "Yes, I've been told to expect you."

"We're outside your house. Tell the troopers we're coming in."

"Right-on."

It seemed that Mr. William McCain wasn't taking the situation very seriously. "All right. Let's go."

The Russians picked up their gear bags and followed Bolan up to the porch. The trooper looked up and smiled. "You're the government agents?"

Bolan nodded. "That's us."

They entered the house, and William McCain waved at them from an overstuffed couch in the living room. He was a tall man with a square jaw and blond hair graying at his temples. He wore a heavy wool sweater with snowflakes on it and khaki pants. He looked like a model for an expensive outdoor catalog. He smiled politely, but he didn't seem all that pleased to see them. He didn't rise from the couch. "Do you really think all this is necessary?"

"How many troopers do you have here?"

McCain held up two fingers. "You met Hanks out on the porch. Tennyson is in the kitchen." On cue a large and friendly-looking red-haired state trooper came out with a steaming mug in his hand. "Hey, you must be those government people."

Bolan sighed. The only thing two troopers could do in this situation was let the enemy know that they were expected. He suspected they had already done that. "I want to run a sweep through the hills around your house."

McCain looked at Bolan patiently. "Well, if it makes you feel better, sweep away."

Ramzin and Svarzkova began to open their bags. The lieutenant pulled out what looked like a miniature AK-74 rifle with a ten-inch barrel and a folding stock. Instead of a normal clip, a tube the circ.u.mference of a beef can and twice as long ran along the bottom of the action to a steel clip behind the muzzle brake. A laser sighting device had been mounted alongside the barrel, as well. Bolan had only heard about the weapon from Kissinger at Stony Man Farm. The 9 mm Bazin submachine gun was the latest weapon in the Russian a.r.s.enal. Its helical magazine held more than ninety rounds and was supposed to be almost recoil free. Svarzkova snapped the skeleton folding stock into place and racked the action.

Ramzin had opened his case and pulled out an AKR carbine with a 30 mm grenade launcher attached to it. He loaded a clip into the action and slipped a high-explosive grenade into the breech of the launcher. He put the combination weapon on McCain's coffee table and began to unwrap his long package. He picked up a Dragunov sniper rifle and checked the action.

William McCain and State Trooper Tennyson stared at the advanced weaponry in awe. Bolan began to arm himself, as well. He turned to Tennyson. "I want you and Hanks inside. Draw the drapes. You have a police-band radio with you?"

Tennyson nodded with bugging eyes as he watched Bolan load a fragmentation grenade into his M-4 Ranger carbine's M-203 launcher. The soldier checked the action of the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. "Good. I'll switch our radios to the police band. I want one of you watching from upstairs, and one of you with Mr. McCain at all times."

Svarzkova and Ramzin both pulled dark tan vests out of their bags. They looked like regular flak jackets, but Bolan recognized the garments as Russian tactical armor. It was crude by American standards. Bolan's own armor was made up of boron-cathide ceramic trauma plates sheathed inside layers of ballistic Kevlar fabric. Russian armorers simply used what was available and had enmeshed t.i.tanium plates in woven fibergla.s.s. It was a bulkier, low-tech approach, but proved in battle during the war in Afghanistan.

Tennyson shook his head in bewilderment as the two Russians shrugged into their armor and began to strap on ammunition belts. "Are you guys Feds? You guys can't be Feds."

Svarzkova looked at Tennyson as she strapped her 9 mm CZ-75 pistol over her armor. She saluted and spoke in an official tone. "I am Senior Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova of Russian Military Intelligence." She glanced at Ramzin, who had strapped one of his commandeered Hi-Power pistols over his armor and was tucking the second one into his waistband. "This is Major Pietor Ramzin, of Russian Spetsnaz. We are pleased to be operating in cooperation with United States civil authorities."

Tennyson gaped.

McCain's condescension was quickly turning to irritation as he rose from the couch. "Listen, I don't know just who the h.e.l.l you are but-"

Bolan cut him off. "But nothing, Mr. McCain. There is a good chance someone is going to try to kill your wife in the next two days. If you're here, they'll kill you, as well. If our friends are going to go for it, then they are already here, in place, somewhere nearby. Do you understand?"

Tennyson looked back and forth unhappily between the senator's husband and the man armed for the apocalypse. He cleared his throat and called out toward the porch. "Hanks, I think you'd better get in here."

McCain glared at Bolan. "Now, you listen here a"

Bolan regarded McCain impa.s.sively. Tennyson's voice cracked. "Hanks!" For a moment the house was utterly silent.

"They're here."

Bolan grabbed William McCain by the front of his sweater and yanked him to the floor. Ramzin whirled toward the kitchen. There was a stuttering hiss, and the Russian staggered as a burst from a silenced weapon walked up his chest. Ramzin's armor held, and he regained his balance. He fired his 30 mm grenade launcher point-blank into the kitchen. Orange fire thundered out of the kitchen door, and the kitchen windows blew out as the shock wave rolled through the house.

The Executioner rose up from McCain. The living room's bay window shattered as a small olive drab object crashed through the gla.s.s. Svarzkova's submachine gun snarled with the sound of ripping canvas as she tracked a dark-clothed figure as it dropped below the windowsill.

Ramzin instinctively yelled in Russian, "Grenatya!"

The grenade bounced off of the coffee table with a clack and fell spinning to the floor. Bolan dropped his carbine and flipped the couch on top of the bomb. The couch heaved with a m.u.f.fled thump, and ripples streaked under its fabric. A few rips opened violently, and plaster fell from the ceiling, but the heavy cotton batting had smothered the detonation and absorbed most of the grenade's lethal fragmentation.

A figure with a silenced Uzi popped up into the shattered bay window a second behind the grenade's detonation, and Svarzkova hammered him down with a long burst from her Bazin submachine gun.

Bolan scooped up his carbine. Tennyson had drawn his service revolver and crouched on one knee. The policeman was looking around frantically.