Arctic Kill

DORMANT DEATH

Formed in the wake of World War I, a renegade secret society has never lost sight of its goal to eradicate the “lesser races” and restore a mythical paradise. This nightmare scenario becomes a terrifying possibility when the society discovers an ancient virus hidden in a Cold War–era military installation. Called in to avert the looming apocalypse, Mack Bolan must stop the white supremacists by any means necessary.

Bolan tracks the group to Alaska, enduring the harsh arctic conditions while dodging highly trained killers. But the clock is ticking down, and Bolan will need all his skills and resourcefulness to eliminate this threat. All that stands between millions of people and a sure death is one man. The Executioner.

“I have a gun,” Sparrow said

He kicked the air marshal, who was sitting on the floor, his face a mess of burns and blood. The man groaned. “And I have a hostage.”

“No, what you have is a problem,” Bolan said, edging closer. “You’re only going to get one shot, and I’m fairly certain you’re not good enough to hit me, even this close. And if you miss, one of four things will happen.” Bolan slid forward another few inches. “One, you’ll punch a hole in the plane itself. Not a big deal, really, despite what movies would have you believe.”

Sparrow was staring at him with wary fascination, like a rat watching an approaching snake.

“Two, you’ll pop a window, which is worse. Someone could get sucked out and the cabin will be filled with so much flying debris that a concussion will be the least of your worries. Three, your bullet clips some wiring. You might stop the in-flight entertainment or you could kill the radar or something worse. And four, your errant shot could puncture one of the fuel tanks. Which, if we’re lucky, just causes a fire, but if we’re not…” Bolan spread his hands. “Boom.”

Arctic Kill

Don Pendleton

There is nothing more inglorious than that glory that is gained by war.

—Thomas More, Utopia

I don’t fight for glory, power or wealth. My War Everlasting has only one goal: justice…by any means necessary.

—Mack Bolan

THE LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Copyright

Chapter 1

Reno, Nevada

The heat of a Nevada summer sun beat down on the forecourt of the Rancho Santo Motel with hammer-like intensity. The parking lot was practically sizzling, even in the few scraps of available shade, but Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, felt the cool patience of a hunter.

Idly, he reached up to scratch at the stubble that coated his jaw. Three days ago, Bolan had agreed to take on a mission for Hal Brognola, and the soldier hadn’t shaved since. He was squatting between the motel trash bins, a mostly empty bottle of cheap liquor clutched in his grimy fingers, and his threadbare thrift store duds reeking of booze, sweat and an all-prevalent odor of urine. He’d gotten used to the smell by the second day. “Small favors,” he murmured. It was a good disguise. No one saw street people, not if they could help it.

He shifted his weight. The sound-suppressed Beretta 93R holstered at the small of his back was a comforting presence. More easily concealable than his normal sidearm, the Beretta could be set to fire a 3-round burst. It had a 20-round magazine, plus one in the chamber. Bolan swept the Rancho Santo with his keen gaze, scanning the peeling paint, the rust on the piping and the filthy windows. All in all, it was a depressing place. Perhaps that was the point. Who would look for one of the past century’s leading research scientists in a place like this?

Bolan had seen the man called E. E. Ackroyd only once since he’d begun his stakeout. Ackroyd was in his late sixties, if Bolan was any judge, but still fairly spry. He dressed like a stereotypical retiree and seemed to spend his days smoking, drinking and reading. At one time, he’d been one of the country’s leading microbiologists and could have easily won a Nobel Prize if his research hadn’t been part of some hush-hush, black-bag Cold War shenanigans. Or so Brognola had intimated.

Regardless, if his current residence was any indication, Ackroyd seemed to have fallen on hard times, and they were only going to get harder. Someone had set their sights on Ackroyd and targeted him for a snatch and grab. Sadly, who was behind it and why it was planned hadn’t been as easy to determine.

The big Fed had sounded worried on the phone. That wasn’t unusual; while Hal Brognola was one of the most unflappable men Bolan had ever met, he was also a man burdened by a weight of responsibility that would have crushed Atlas. Bolan wouldn’t trade places with his old ally for anything in the world. Brognola fought on fields far removed from Bolan’s experience, waging quiet wars in the back rooms of the Wonderland on the Potomac, his only weapons words and favors and influence.

Beneath his mask of grime and stubble, the Executioner smiled thinly. Brognola had been one of his most tenacious opponents once upon a time, in charge of the task force assigned to bring the Executioner to heel. Now they were brothers-in-arms. War makes for strange bedfellows, Bolan mused, especially a war like ours. His smile faded.

Brognola had been worried, but not for the usual reasons. There was something stirring, according to certain back-channel sources. There were ripples spreading in the ocean of information that the world’s intelligence agencies trawled, but they weren’t being caused by the usual suspects. Brognola wasn’t a man to sit on such a warning, and neither was Bolan. The information was too ephemeral for any organization or group to act on—even Brognola’s Sensitive Operations Group—but the Executioner could do as he damn well pleased. Bolan had haunted the motel like a ragged ghost for three days. He knew that Ackroyd paid by the week and had been there for a number of years. If Ackroyd was hiding from someone, he’d been doing it for a while. Most of the rooms in the motel were empty, and those that weren’t were occupied by nervous transients, drunken tourists, illegal immigrants, meth addicts and a transsexual prostitute named Sheena. Gunshots weren’t exactly background noise in this part of Reno but the police weren’t likely to be called with any alacrity, which meant he could do what he needed to do without fear of being interrupted. Bolan hoped for Brognola’s sake that it wouldn’t be too messy.

That hope died when a black SUV pulled into the parking lot. The men who got out were hard cases. Bolan could tell by the way they moved and the set of their faces and the telltale bulges beneath their off-the-rack sport coats. White, middle-aged, trained muscle, rather than the gym-rat variety. They wore muted colors and dressed business casual. They could have been salesmen or FBI agents or hit men. Everything about them spoke of innocuous care—a chameleon-like desire to blend in to the pastel and stucco of the motel. They were nobody and no one, and that alone would have pricked Bolan’s curiosity. He knew, with a certainty born of grim experience, that he was going to have to kill at least one of them.

Their voices lost to the wheezing roar of a dozen air conditioners, the three men climbed the outside stairs of the motel. They moved with purpose, but without hurry. Why rush, when their prey didn’t know they were coming?

Bolan had asked Brognola why Ackroyd hadn’t been taken into protective custody at Stony Man, given that they knew someone wanted him. The answer had been callous in its simplicity. They needed to know who wanted Ackroyd as much as why. Moreover, Brognola wanted to know why Ackroyd, who knew what he knew, whatever it was, was allowed to live out his days in a flea-trap motel in Reno. So the old man was bait, and Bolan the hunter.

“Try to keep one of them breathing,” Brognola had said. Bolan had made no promises, but he knew the value of information. They were boxing shadows, and getting some light—any light—would be helpful. Bolan wasn’t a fan of situations like these—too much could go wrong. There was too much they didn’t know. But when the situation warranted it, Bolan had little problem dealing himself in.

Bolan stood, still clutching the bottle. He’d poured most of it over his clothes, but there was still enough remaining to slosh softly. Wobbling slightly, the Executioner stumbled in the direction of the stairs, his eyes on the trio as they ascended. They hadn’t noticed him yet.

Bolan stumbled up the stairs, moving with deceptive speed. They had stopped in front of a room on the third floor. Two men stood to either side of the door and the third knocked politely. When Ackroyd didn’t answer he knocked again, a bit more forcefully. By the time Bolan had reached the third level, the knocker had stepped back and was readying himself to give the door a kick. He paused when one of the men gestured to the Executioner.

Bolan took his cue and broke into song. He swung the bottle back and forth for emphasis and weaved toward them. The closest man intercepted him. “Be off with you,” he said tersely. His accent was harsh and Teutonic-sounding. German, possibly, Bolan mused. “Pitch him down the damn stairs,” the knocker barked. He was American, probably Nebraskan, Bolan thought. The German reached for him, apparently intent on following the orders.

Bolan staggered back, forcing the German to pursue him. When the man reached for him, Bolan flipped the bottle around with a quick twist of his wrist, grabbed it by its neck and brought it up and across the German’s skull. Contrary to every bar brawl seen on film, a good bottle rarely broke when you hit someone with it. But it did the job well enough.

The German toppled onto the Executioner, who caught him, shoved him aside and snatched the Beretta from his holster even as the German fell. Bolan fired. The member of the trio who hadn’t yet spoken pitched backward with a yell. The Nebraskan, caught flat-footed, clawed for his own weapon. “No,” Bolan said. A minute and a half had elapsed.

The Nebraskan’s hand froze. “Back away from the door,” Bolan said and jerked his chin for emphasis. He stepped over the unconscious German and drew close to the door. The man backed away, hands spread.

“Police?” the Nebraskan asked.

“Not quite,” Bolan said.

“We’ve got money,” the Nebraskan said, licking his lips.

“Small world, so do I,” Bolan replied. “I want information.”

The Nebraskan’s eyes went flat. He said nothing. Bolan gestured with the Beretta. “Downstairs. We’re going for a ride.”

“No,” the Nebraskan said harshly.

Bolan hesitated. He was a good judge of character. Some men could be pushed and threatened. Bolan himself was not one of them, but from the tone of the Nebraskan’s voice, it seemed he wasn’t, either. Or at least, he hadn’t reached the point where he could be...yet. That was a problem. They needed information, but the man before him wasn’t likely to provide it. And Bolan couldn’t leave him or let him go, not without knowing what was going on. The door opened. Ackroyd’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. His mouth was half-open, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. The Nebraskan threw himself at the old man. Before Bolan could take him out, a pistol snarled, biting into the wall of the motel. Plaster and Sheetrock spattered his cheek.

The man Bolan had shot moments earlier had pulled his piece. The front of his shirt was red and his eyes were unfocused, but even a dying man could be dangerous. He fired again and Bolan lunged to the side, his hip connecting painfully with the rail of the walkway. The Beretta spoke eloquently and the wounded man fell back, his weapon clattering to the ground.

Bolan turned. The Nebraskan stepped out of the room, holding Ackroyd in front of him. He had his weapon pressed against the old man’s head. The Nebraskan said nothing. He didn’t even glance at the dead man. He simply backed away, dragging Ackroyd with him. Bolan began to follow, the Beretta extended. “Stop,” the Nebraskan said, “or I’ll paint the wall with his brain.”

“I don’t think so,” Bolan said, without stopping. “I think you need him and his brain intact. That sound about right, Mr. Ackroyd?”

Ackroyd cleared his throat. He looked frightened, but he was controlling himself. Bolan’s estimation of Ackroyd climbed a few notches. “I—and I want to be clear about this—have no idea what’s going on,” the old man said, his voice rusty from years of drink and cigarettes.

“Quiet,” the Nebraskan said.

“You’re being kidnapped, Mr. Ackroyd. Do you have any idea why that might be happening?” Bolan asked calmly. Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn’t blink. He concentrated on the Nebraskan.

“Who’s asking?” Ackroyd said. The old man had guts. Bolan was impressed.

“The man who’s trying to keep you alive,” Bolan replied. The Nebraskan took another step back. Bolan took another step forward.

“I was told this place was safe,” Ackroyd said. “I was told I’d be left alone.”

“Somebody lied,” Bolan said, “or made a mistake.”

“Probably both,” Ackroyd agreed.

“Shut up,” the Nebraskan snapped. His grip on Ackroyd tightened. The old man winced as the Nebraskan’s arm flexed against his throat. He had pluck, but he was still on the wrong side of sixty, and hadn’t been keeping himself in shape.

“I can keep this up all day, friend,” Bolan said, a note of menace creeping into his voice. “Let him go.”

Something in the Nebraskan’s eyes made Bolan tense. A shadow crossed the ground in front of him. Big arms snapped tight around him like the jaws of a trap and he was jerked from his feet even as the air was squeezed out of his lungs. Bolan gasped. The German had recovered, and far more quickly than Bolan had anticipated. The Nebraskan had been drawing him out, giving his compatriot time to recover.

The German shook him, and Bolan lost his grip on the Beretta. “Go, Sparrow!” the German shouted as he squeezed Bolan hard enough to make his ribs creak. “Take the old man and go. I will handle this fool! Vril-YA!”

Bolan grunted and drove his head back, into the German’s face. He heard bone crunch and the grip on him loosened. Bolan slithered free and dropped to the ground. He twisted around and drove a hard blow into the German’s belly. The man gasped and staggered, but didn’t fall. His fists smashed down on Bolan’s head and shoulders like hammers. The Executioner lunged forward, tackling his opponent. They crashed against the wall.

The German was strong and he knew how to fight. But Bolan knew how to win. Two swift, savage strikes to the German’s kidneys made him gasp in agony. He responded with a knee to Bolan’s groin. The Executioner caught the blow and sank his fingers into the meat of the man’s knee, twisting savagely as he rammed his palm into a momentarily vulnerable windpipe. The German fell back against the wall, gagging. Bolan didn’t let him recover. He unleashed a rapid salvo of precise hammerblows to the man’s belly and sides.

The German stayed on his feet with a tenacity that was almost impressive. Wheezing, he lunged. His fingers clawed at Bolan’s face and throat, and the Executioner found himself forced back until his spine connected with the rail. Bolan shoved his arms up and swatted aside the German’s hands. The heel of Bolan’s palm struck his opponent’s already mangled nose, forcing fragments of splintered cartilage and bone up toward the man’s brain. Bolan spun as the German pitched backward with a gurgle.

The Nebraskan—Sparrow—hadn’t wasted any time. He’d dragged Ackroyd down the stairwell on the other side of the walkway and shoved the old man into the SUV. He was climbing in himself when he saw Bolan looking down at him. Sparrow cursed and raised his weapon. He fired, driving Bolan back from the rail. The SUV’s engine growled to life and gravel crunched beneath its tires. Bolan sprang to his feet, caught the rail and swung his legs over. He dropped onto the SUV as it backed out of its parking spot, the force of impact radiating upward through the soles of his boots to his skull. Unprepared, he was flung off his feet as Sparrow twisted the wheel, whipping the vehicle around. Bolan rolled off the roof and slid down the windshield, striking the hood. He scrambled desperately to keep from slipping off and falling beneath the vehicle’s wheels.

Then, in a squeal of rubber, the SUV cut a sharp turn and hurtled out of the parking lot, taking the Executioner with it.

Chapter 2

Anchorage, Alaska

Saul Mervin stubbed out his cigarette. On the television, the President was addressing Congress. Mervin looked at the digital timer on the television set that occupied one wall of his hotel room. Nevada was an hour ahead of Alaska, he recalled. That meant Sparrow’s call was only an hour late. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think. There could be many reasons for the delay.

Mervin was a spare man, lacking any excess flesh or muscle. He was a thing of narrow specifications, with a chin like a scoop and eyes the color of faded dollar bills. He lacked distinguishing features, the work of years and a careful attention to detail. No agency had his fingerprints or photos on file, and his DNA was sacrosanct.

Without opening his eyes, Mervin reached over and plucked a cigarette from the silver case on the nightstand, popped it between his thin lips and lit it with a cheap lighter. As soon as he’d arrived he’d pulled the smoke detector off the wall and opened a window. He needed nicotine more than warmth. The feeling of smoke slithering through his lungs helped him organize his thoughts.

If Sparrow were any other man, Mervin would suspect a distraction—a woman or an accident. But Sparrow was Sparrow. He was single-minded and utterly devoted to the Society. The others with him were equally dedicated, if not so single-minded. That left the possibility of interference. Mervin frowned. He had factored in sixteen possible points of interference for the Reno operation. Seventeen, if he counted betrayal. Immediately, he discarded the thought. Sparrow was Sparrow. He would continue with the mission regardless. The man was determined, if nothing else.

He mentally flicked through the remaining sixteen, weighing the variables and considering the likelihood of each. Interpol wasn’t likely—he had organized the Viennese operation specifically to distract them. The FBI was a leaky sieve; Mervin would have gotten word of their interference through the usual channels. On and on he went, rapidly considering, weighing and discarding the possibilities.

He had always possessed the ability to process and analyze with computer-like efficiency. Even as a child, numbers and calculations had proven no mystery to him. He saw the patterns that no one else could see. He saw the bigger picture. It was the only picture that mattered—his picture.

But now his plans were threatened. His cheek twitched and he inhaled carcinogens. Like a spider whose web was damaged, he could repair it, but only by acting quickly.

Someone knocked on the door. “It’s open, Kraft,” he called out. Only one person would bother to knock. The door opened to admit a heavy, long-limbed shape. Rolf Kraft was a big, dangerous-looking man, as befitted a former member of the Kommando Spezialkrafte. Kraft had been one of the best the German Special Forces had to offer. Now he was Mervin’s nursemaid.

Kraft’s nose wrinkled as he caught sight of the cigarette. With a grunt, he plucked it from between Mervin’s lips and stubbed it out. “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you,” he said. Kraft had barely the trace of an accent, making it easy for him to blend in in most Western countries. He spoke fluent English, French, German and Russian. And like Sparrow, he was utterly and completely dedicated to the aims and goals of the Society of Thylea.

Kraft had killed on behalf of the Society for a number of years. Academics, historians, explorers and government agents had died by his hands, or the hands of those he’d trained. He could pluck a fly from flight with a rifle, or plant an explosive device so cunningly that its presence would be overlooked, even in the aftermath. He also had little compunction about engaging in more close-up work; indeed, he preferred it. That preference had seen him drummed out of the Special Forces and into the waiting arms of the Society.

“Smoking helps me think,” Mervin said. His tone skirted petulance, and a flash of annoyance rippled across the surface of his amazing brain. Kraft could get under his skin simply by choosing the wrong moment to exhale.

“You think too much. Also bad for you,” Kraft said. Another flash of annoyance; Mervin looked at Kraft and calmed himself by calculating the six points of weakness by which Kraft could be disabled from their current relative positions.

“Probably, but that is why I am in charge,” Mervin said, sitting up. That was true, as far as it went. But he had no true authority. Kraft was the muscle, and if the muscle failed, not even the most efficient brain could make it work. He picked up another cigarette, caught sight of Kraft’s face and stuck it behind his ear. “Sparrow hasn’t called.”

Kraft’s face betrayed nothing, but his eyes slid to the satellite phone on the desk in the corner. “Interference,” he said. He knew the routine as well as Mervin did. Better, most likely, though he would never say so. Kraft’s loyalty was like iron. He appeared to regard Mervin as a sibling, someone to be protected or coddled. Whether that was due to the orders of their immediate superiors—who, Mervin knew, valued him—or because of some snag in Kraft’s emotional makeup, Mervin did not know, nor did he care.

“Possibly,” Mervin said. “We will act as if that is the case.” He pulled an old-fashioned pocket watch out of his coat pocket and opened it. It was his only memento, a gift from his mother. Or so he assumed. He had not known her well and barely recalled her voice. “We will give them an additional hour. If they haven’t called by then, we continue with the plan.” That, too, was part of the routine, a routine Mervin had spent years crafting. The servants of the Society of Thylea operated like well-oiled clockwork. If one gear slipped or was stripped, another took its place. Mervin appreciated clockwork. Besides nicotine, only the click of clockwork could soothe his mind when it skipped its track. The regular rhythm settled his heart rate and helped him slide his thoughts into their proper alignment.

“Without Ackroyd, it’s going to be difficult,” Kraft said. He scraped his palm across his freshly shaved chin, thinking. Mervin hated the sound flesh on stubble made. It grated on his nerves. He snapped the watch closed.

“But not impossible.”

“No,” Kraft agreed. He smiled. “Nothing is impossible for us. It will be a great day, the day after it is done. It will be a new era for the pure peoples, Vril-YA!”

“Yes, yes, Vril-YA,” Mervin agreed. He wished, sometimes, that he had Kraft’s devotion to the Promise of Tomorrow. But the ruthless, implacable logic that made Mervin useful to the Society also prevented him from fully buying into the Nazi bedtime story that had propelled them for almost a century.

Facts shifted in the Rolodex of his mind. Where Kraft was an engine of destruction, Mervin was an engine of calculation, and as such, he collected facts and fancies with a glutton’s instinctive frenzy. The Society had first flown the banners of Thylea in 1918, envisioning a hyperborean mega-continent of ice-sculpture citadels and pure-blooded Nordic giants linked to the Vril, the life-blood of the cosmos. A Jotunheim Utopia, where gods and giants were one and the same, that ruled over the past and future of the Aryan Race. The Society of Thylea had been founded on the principles of that nonexistent continent, and was ruthless in seeking to bring about their particular melanin-based Ragnarok. They longed to create the Aryan utopia only dreamt of by frantic xenophobes, believing that it would bring a sacred peace to the world.

It was all rot, of course. In Mervin’s opinion, there was no more truth to these tales than to the stories of the Bible or the Koran. Stories told to justify and rationalize a campaign of murder and obfuscation that had been going on for almost a hundred years. Men like Kraft clung to the stories of Thylea with brutal naiveté. But Mervin was a man of logic. He saw little need to waste energy on self-justification. Not when there were more important matters at hand.

In the aftermath of World War II, the Society of Thylea had gone underground, as had so many groups and persons with ties to the Nazis. Unlike those groups, however, the Society had money, and lots of it. Even today it had its financial supporters. And using the resources of those supporters, the Society had, for decades, hunted for weapons it could employ in its battle against the lesser races. It had sought to find the singular spear of destiny it could thrust into the heart of sub-humanity.

And, eventually, it had found something, in a place called HYPERBOREA.

It was pure poetry, that name. And a fair amount of serendipity, too.

Mervin was growing tired of the Society. More, he was growing tired of Kraft. He looked at the big man, his expression bland, imagining Kraft broken, bloody and dead. There was no particular reason for his enmity. It was simply his nature. Familiarity bred contempt. He was good at hiding it, he thought. If any of them suspected, they said nothing.

“Are the others ready?” he asked.

Kraft frowned. “If not, I’ll have their hides.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Kraft grinned. “So precise,” he said. “Yes, they are ready. The charter plane has been booked. We will deal with the pilot on the day, given that we don’t need her.” He made a face. “She is a native. Likely a bad pilot, anyway.”

“Given the reviews of her business, I doubt that,” Mervin said. He sighed as he caught Kraft’s deepening frown. “A bad pilot is statistically unlikely to care for his plane, or to have a reputation that guarantees noninterference. Neither of those things would be of help to us. I chose the best pilot available. Ergo, she is a good pilot.”

“I meant no insult,” Kraft said, smiling slightly. He patted Mervin’s shoulder. “And what if Sparrow calls?”

“Then we follow through with the current plan. We will meet the others at the airport and escort Dr. Ackroyd to the charter plane. You will dispose of the pilot in front of Ackroyd, as an object lesson, and then we will go to meet our destiny.”

“Object lesson, eh?”

“Waste not, want not,” Mervin said. Kraft laughed heartily. Mervin hated that laugh.

The Society thought HYPERBOREA would mean a new beginning.

And for Saul Mervin, it would.