Mack Bolan Stony Man #28 Blood Star PROLOGUE Moscow A drizzling rain had fallen on the city for the past three hours, !eeching warmth from those pedestrians unfor- tunate enough to be abroad on such a night. Rain made the streets and sidewalks glisten, but no long-term res- ident of Russia's capital would be deceived by the illusion. It was still the same drab, heartless city un- derneath the temporary sheen. Lieutenant Leonid Gromylko lit another cigarette-- American, thank God; rank had its privileges--and stared out through the rain-streaked windshield of his black sedan. Beside him, wedged behind the steering wheel, his partner of eleven years was eating chestnuts from a paper bag and glaring at the night. "He's late," Alexei Churbanov remarked. There was no need to check the cheap watch on his hairy wrist. Their quarry had been due an hour earlier, and Sergeant Churbanov had been remarking on the subject's tardiness at fifteen-minute intervals, since nine o'clock. "He'll be here," said Gromylko. "Everybody else is here. He wouldn't stand them up." "Why not?" his partner asked. "The bastard thinks he's God. He thinks his shit smells like a rose garden. He wouldn't mind insulting Third World peasants." "Too much money on the table," the lieutenant said. "His greed won't let him stay away." "Where is he, then?" "Just wait a bit." The others had been waiting since 8:55 p.m. Gro- mylko and his partner had been waiting, watching, as the visitors arrived. The two Colombians were trav- eling with an interpreter and half a dozen body- guards--four of their countrymen and two tough Chechens loaned out by the Moscow syndicate to make them feel secure. A welcoming committee from the local mafiya had been on hand to greet them at the safe house, off Scolkovskoie Sosse, but the man whom they had come so far to see was running overtime. "Where is he, Leonid?" "I wouldn't be surprised if he was still in bed," Gromylko said. "You've seen his little playmate." "He can do that anytime," Churbanov said. "The man should keep his mind on business." "What are you, his manager?" "I'm sick of waiting for him, that's all." "He'll be coming soon." The truth was that Gromylko had grown sick and tired of waiting, too. He worded that they would be noticed, parked a half block from the safe house in the standard-issue Zil sedan of the militsiya. It stood out like a sore thumb in the Goljanovo district of north- eastern Moscow, where the residents leaned more to- ward foreign cars, selected with an eye to luxury. The Goljanovo precinct was entirely ignorant of the im- pending raid, kept in the dark because Gromylko feared the level of corruption that had spread like can- cer through the ranks of the militsiya in recent years. It had been one thing, when the Communists were in control, and some degree of bribery was accepted as a fact of life. But now, with the deregulation and the leap in crime statistics, violence in the streets and payoffs to police, Moscow was rapidly emerging as a clone of Chicago in the 1920s. It was never safe to trust a stranger these days just because he wore a matching uniform. One of the men responsible for that corruption was the object of their stakeout on that rainy night in Mos- cow. Gregori Vasiliev was one of the top-ranking criminals in all of Russia, known as a vor v zakonye-- a godfather----~)f the Vorovskoi Mir, the Thieves' So- ciety. In fact, some said he was first among equals on the Bratskaya Semyorka--the fabled Brotherhood of Seven said to rule the Russian syndicate. Vasiliev maintained a range of interests in the world of crime, but his acknowledged specialty was narco-bizness. He supplied Muscovite addicts with a range of drugs, in- cluding anasha, or hashish, khimka, or Manchurian hemp, and mak, which was a weak opium derivative, typically ingested in liquid form. More recently, it was reported by informers on the street, Vasiliev was in- terested in large-scale shipments of cocaine imported from Colombia. To that end he had fixed a meeting with the spokesmen from Cali who waited for him now--and none too patiently, Gromylko thought-- across the street and four doors down. "What's this?" Churbanov pointed with his free hand, through the rain-slick windshield, toward a pair of headlights moving slowly down the street. Gromylko was reminded of a cat's eyes shining in the dark, the mental image of a stalking panther large enough to swallow him without a second thought, and he felt the goose bumps rising on his arms. "Let's wait and see," he said. The car had slowed down to a crawl as it ap- proached the safe house. Would the driver see them, sitting there and watching him? Gromylko fought the sudden urge to duck down, out of sight, aware that it would only make him more suspicious in appearance, if the new arrival noticed him at all. The best thing he could do was take his own advice, to wait and see what happened next. "He's stopping!" "I see that, Alexei." The lieutenant made a con- scious effort to conceal his own excitement. If it was Vasiliev, they had their man. If not... "Wipers," Gromylko said. His partner twisted the ignition key and gave the windshield wipers one quick sweep, enough to clear the streaks of rain away without attracting undue no- tice from the new arrivals. Even as the rubber blades swept back and forth across the glass, Gromylko lifted the night glasses to his eyes and focused on the gray Mercedes-Benz downrange. He saw a stocky man emerge on the passenger side, opening a black umbrella as he straightened up and closed the door behind him. Two strides brought him to the rear door of the Benz. He glanced each way along the street before he opened it, positioning the umbrella to shield the next man who stepped out of the car. It was Vasiliev. "We've got the bastard." "Yes!" Churbanov reached out for the radio, but hesitated when Gromyiko caught his wrist. "Not yet, Alexei. Let him go inside, relax a little. Put his money on the table." "Right. We've waited this long, I can last a few more minutes." Even so, Churbanov couldn't hide the tension in his voice. Gromylko watched Vasiliev until the mobster and his escort disappeared from view. There was at least one man remaining in the Benz, and he would cer- tainly be armed, as were the several bodyguards inside the house. They could anticipate resistance when they made their move, and they had come prepared for meeting force with force. Two blocks away in each direction, north and south, another pair of black sedans stood, each with five po- licemen waiting in the dark. All ten were armed with pistols, shotguns, and AK-74 assault rifles, the folding- stock models chambered in 5.45 mm, produced as lat- ter-day replacements for the venerable AK-47. Gro- mylko and Churbanov had handpicked the raiders, selecting officers they trusted, men above reproach, of unquestioned courage. There had been no leaks before the raid, and if they met resistance going in, his chosen troops were not afraid of fighting fire with fire. It might be better that way, thought Gromylko, to avoid the Russian legal system with its quirks and loopholes, corrupt judges and terrorized witnesses. Dead men couldn't arrange a bargain with the court or buy their way out of a criminal indictment. "Now?" Churbanov asked after several moments. ' 'Now.' ' His partner raised the microphone and mashed down the transmitter button with his thumb. "Move in!" he growled. "Repeat, move in!" Gromylko drew his Makarov 9 mm pistol, flicked the safety off and macbed across his body with his left hand, opening the door. His thinning hair was plas- tered down with rain before he straightened up beside the car, the cold water running down his collar making him grit his teeth. Churbanov slammed his own door, moving swiftly toward the gray Mercedes-Benz, Gro- mylko falling into step beside him, thumbing back the hammer on his Makarov. Incredibly the driver didn't see them until they were right on top of him. When he noticed the two police- men looming over him, he mouthed a curse behind the glass and gave a long blast on the horn to warn his friends inside the house. Churbanov swung his Makarov against the driver's window, shattering the glass and reaching through to strike the driver hard, across the face. The horn fell silent, but the damage had been done. Rushing toward the house with Churbanov behind him, Gromylko heard the hiss of tires on dampened pavement. The support troops would have to catch up as best they could. They had no time to waste. A hulking shadow moved behind the curtains of a lighted window to his left. He spun in that direction, calling out to Churbanov and raising his pistol as the curtain was swept aside and a gun barrel jabbed through the glass. His finger tightened on the trigger as a burst of yellow flame erupted from the muzzle of the weapon in the window, and he flinched at the stac- cato sound of a Kalashnikov. Gromylko fired two rounds. The Makarov jumped in his hand, its sharp reports barely audible over the rattle and crash of automatic fire. He heard Churbanov firing, glimpsed his partner's chunky outline from the comer of his eye as the man ran toward the house, his pistol spitting fire. One of their shots hit the gunman silhouetted in the window, and he lurched backward, dragging flimsy curtains with him, the AK spitting more erratically as it withdrew. Gromylko cleared the front steps in a rash and raised his leg to kick the heavy door with all his strength and weight behind it, slamming three times beside the latch before it gave. The door swung open, and Gromylko saw a shadow just beyond the threshold, ducked in time to save him- self and called his partner's name as he was diving to the floor. Another automatic weapon stuttered, this one lighter, sounding like a submachine gun, probably 9 ram. Bullets sizzled overhead as the lieutenant hugged the floor and squeezed off aimless rounds in answer to the hostile fusillade. Churbanov gave a star- tled cry behind him, and he heard the gunman grunt once. He fired another roundmtwo cartridges remaining in his pistol, damn it!--and there could be no mistak- ing it this time, the sound a falling body makes on impact with the floor. He risked a glance ahead and found himself staring at the soles of the gunman's shoes, an inch or two of hairy calf protruding from each pant leg. Scrambling to his feet, Gromylko kept the fallen gunman covered, checked to see if he was breathing, but couldn't be sure. The shooter's weapon was an Uzi SMG, and the lieutenant hastily retrieved it from the floor beside his adversary's outstretched hand. Feeling more secure with a substantial weapon in his grasp, Gromylko turned to call his partner and spotted Churbanov reclining with his back against the doorjamb, knees drawn up against his chest, a dazed expression on his face. "Come on, Alexei! There's no time for sitting on your backside--" Churbanov's feet slid out in front of him, knees dropping, to reveal the crimson blotches on his shirt. As the lieutenant stood there watching, they expanded, dark blood soaking into the material, the separate stains combining into one. Churbanov tried to speak, lips moving, but he couldn't seem to catch his breath or form the necessary words. Before Gromylko came out of his trance and moved to help his partner, Chur- banov put everything he had into a simple shrug and then slumped over on his side. Gromylko checked his old friend for a pulse and thought he had it for a moment, faint and fading, but he lost it seconds later, and the precious beat of life didn't return. Churbanov's eyes were open, stating into space, until Gromylko closed them with his fin- gertips. His own eyes blurred and stung with sudden tears, but he couldn't allow himself to be immobilized by shock or grief. Not now, when everything--his life itself--depended on his personal reaction time. Three of his men were charging up the sidewalk, toward the door. They stopped short at the sight of Churbanov stretched out across the threshold, and Gromylko snapped at them. "Come on! You've all seen dead men!" One or two of them would have the driver of the Benz in custody outside, while the remainder of the strike force would have rushed to close the other exits from the safe house, trying to make sure that no one slipped away. Gromylko wondered if they might al- ready be too late, if his best friend of fifteen years had given up his life for nothing. Not He would not let Vasiliev slip through his fin- gers. Not this time. Gromylko lumbered to his feet and led the way in- side the house, the captured Uzi warm against his skin. He ached to use it, feel the power rippling through his hands and through the weapon as he cut the bastards down and left them sprawled in blood. One provoca- tion, anything at all, and he would--- Sudden gunfire from the rear part of the house alerted him to danger. He was on the move in a crouch, past open doorways and empty rooms. The house was large by Moscow standards, but it wasn't the palatial dwelling of a millionaire or former com- missar. A passing glance into the parlor showed the chairs and table carefully arranged for a meeting, with some of the chairs tipped over in haste when the shoot- ing had begun. There was no sign of anyone remaining in the house, other than the bodies he had left behind, and so Gromylko concentrated on the sound of gun- fire, moving toward its source. The fight had spilled into the darkened yard before he got there. Several gunmen from the house ex- changed bursts of autofire with members of the raiding party still outside. Gromylko saw no one resembling Vasiliev before he started firing with the Uzi, heard his men cut loose behind him with their AK-74s. The storm of bullets ripped into gunmen who were taken by surprise, cut down before they could defend them- selves. Just like Alexei, da. Outside, the shooting sputtered on for several sec- onds more, then silence fell across the scene. Gro- mylko closed his eyes for just a moment, breathing in the smell of gun smoke, blood and loosened bowels-- the telltale odors of a battlefield. The first time he had smelled it, in Afghanistan, the stench had sickened him, but he was used to it these days. Gromylko called a warning to his men outside, be- fore he stepped across the bloody threshold. There was no point getting killed by friendly fire if he could help it. There were bodies scattered on the lawn, at least one of them a policeman who appeared to be alive. "Somebody call an ambulance," Gromylko said. "And check the bodies for ID." He turned back to the dead men sprawled around the back door of the safe house, watching as his raiders turned the bodies over so that each was facing toward the ceiling. Two of them were swarthy Latin types-- Colombians, he recognized. The other two were Chechens, bullnecked thugs, undoubtedly the same two who had been assigned as escorts to the visitors from Cali. There would be no questioning them now, but that didn't concern Gromylko. These weren't the sort of men who blurted out confessions once they were in custody. A prison term for the attempted mur- der of policemen wouldn't have frightened them. Any- way, there would have been a fair chance they could beat the rap, as the Americans would say, once high- priced lawyers started twisting facts and spinning fairy tales in court. No, it was better this way. The lieutenant only hoped that they would find Vasiliev among the dead outside. And yet, almost before the thought took shape, he knew it was too much to hope for. They were short on bodies; he could see that at a glance. And if anyone escaped, gut instinct told Gromylko that his longtime quarry was the man to pull it off. The ambulance took thirteen minutes to arrive, a record in Gromylko's personal experience, no doubt accelerated by the combination of a call from the mil- itsiya and the Goijanovo address. It may have disap- pointed the attendants to find out that they were haul- ing a policeman to the hospital instead of a celebrity, but they were wise enough to keep their mouths shut in the presence of so many angry officers with auto- matic weapons in their hands. Colonel Yuri Renko reached the scene eight minutes later, stepping from his four-door Zil sedan as the forensic team from headquarters was setting up its floodlights and unpacking cameras. Gromylko met him on the porch without saluting, since both men were in civilian clothes. Displays of military courtesy were normally reserved for formal situations, when the parties were in uniform. "I heard about Alexei on the radio," said Renko. "You have my condolences." "Spaseeba, Colonel. Corporal Andropov was wounded, also." "Ah. I'll check on his condition at the hospital when we are finished here. What happened, Leonid?" Gromylko gave a brief recap of the events: the dri- ver's warning to his comrades, the exchange of fire as they approached the house, the flight of Gregori Vas- iliev and two Colombians before Gromylko's men were in position to prevent them from escaping out the back. "So," Renko summarized the information, "you have one dead and one wounded on your side, against eight dead and one in custody, while all the big fish got away. Is that about the size of it?" Gromylko frowned. "I wouldn't put it that way," he replied. "I daresay," Renko answered, "but the facts seem plain enough. I shall look forward to your full report. This morning, if you please." "Yes, sir." "I'll leave you to it, then. Spakoyni nochie." "Good night, sir." And to hell with you, Gromylko thought before he turned back toward the charnel house to finish with the dead. CHAPTER ONE Upstate New York A two-lane road, flanked by trees on either side, ran north from Cannon Comers to the border. The black- top had been patched repeatedly where winter sleet and ice had eaten potholes in its surface, creating a kind of sloppy checkerboard effect. Nobody special occupied the last four miles before New York turned into Canada, and highway maintenance had never been a top priority in that neck of the woods. In early- morning darkness, driving with his headlights off, Mack Bolan felt as if he could have been the last man on the planet, cruising toward a rendezvous with death. The latter part, at least, was accurate. He had the tip from "sources known for past reli- ability." The word had come to him from Hal Brog- nola, via Stony Man, and Bolan hadn't asked about its origins in any greater detail. Whether the alert was gleaned from wiretaps, physical surveillance or a mole within the syndicate, it made no difference to the Ex- ecutioner. He knew enough to trust the information. That was all he needed, all he could expect. It was supposed to be a relatively simple drug trans- action, cut and dried. If anything distinguished the oc-