Blood Play. Don Pendleton
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I change, one of Lowe’s men will take me to the reservation,” Bolan said. “I think somebody should stay here on the chance Orson shows up.”
“Got it,” Kissinger said.
“Good.” Bolan turned to Grimaldi. “Lowe’s also got a crew on the way to the arroyo to fish out the taxi. We’re already cleared to get our things back, no questions asked, but it’d be best if you could be there to keep an eye on things.”
“Will do,” Grimaldi said. “We can probably salvage the guns and ammo but the notebook’s not going to be of much use.”
“We can worry about that later.”
“About Franklin’s wife,” Kissinger interjected. “How much detail did Lowe go into when he talked to her? Does she know the kind of people we’re dealing with?” Bolan nodded.
“What happened at the airport had already been on the news before Lowe called,” he said. “Some of these neighbors coming over are war vets. They’ll be armed, but I’ll still be glad when I get there.”
“Let’s just hope you get there in time,” Kissinger responded.
Bolan nodded gravely. “Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind.”
Glorieta, New Mexico
WHEN HE CAME TO, Franklin Colt found himself bound to a straight-backed wooden chair set in the middle of a small, cold room bare of any other furnishings other than a dim lightbulb shining in a wall sconce near the only doorway. The stocking cap had been removed from his head and through the gaps in the shuttered windows he could see it was still dark outside, but he had no idea how long he’d been out. His skull throbbed where he’d been struck, and he could feel that both his wrists and ankles had been chafed by the duct tape. He was now bound by thick lengths of rope tethering him to the chair. He could also feel a dull pain in his right biceps and figured this captors had to have injected him with something to keep him unconscious. One of the men was in the room with him, a pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers. When he spoke, Colt recognized the voice of the man who’d knocked him out back in the car.
“It’s about time,” Viktor Cherkow complained when he noticed that Colt had come to. “That tranq dose wasn’t all that strong.”
The cut on Colt’s lip had scabbed over but all it took was a faint grimace to reopen the wound and give him a fresh taste of his own blood. He spit it out and demanded, “Where am I?”
Cherkow laughed. “Do you really think I’m about to tell you?”
“Where am I?” Colt repeated.
“What are you, a parrot?” Cherkow squawked derisively and flapped his arms as if they were wings. “Bwawk, bwak! Polly want a cracker?”
Colt fell silent. When he took a deep breath, he felt suddenly nauseous, overcome by a cloying, musklike smell that permeated the stark room. It was a vaguely familiar odor, and Colt soon placed it as the scent of javelinas, boarlike creatures that roamed the outer edges of the pueblo as well as other parts of the state. It wasn’t much of a clue as to his whereabouts, but moments later Colt heard the mournful howl of a train engine as well as the rhythmic clatter of steel wheels rolling across a stretch of rail tracks. The sound was close, less than a mile away. Colt knew there was a train line that paralleled most of the eastern leg of Interstate 25 between Santa Fe and Blanchard. It seemed likely, then, that he was being held somewhere along that fifty-mile route. He had doubts that he would be able to put the information to use, but the knowledge gave him some small sense of empowerment.
Steam rose from a cup of coffee Cherkow held in one hand as he paced the room. As with the others, Colt recognized the Russian from the casino. He was tall and lean, wearing denim jeans and a matching lined jacket. His complexion was pasty, and his jaw was outlined with a thin, well-groomed beard the same dark shade of brown as his close-cropped hair. An equally thin red scar trailed down his right cheek. Colt had seen his share of knife fights over the years and suspected the Russian’s scar had come from a similar skirmish.
Outside, the sound of the train faded, only to be replaced by the persistent drone of an approaching helicopter. Cherkow went to the window and glanced out a moment through the shutters, then turned and ambled back toward Colt.
“We both know you’re going to talk eventually,” he told his prisoner. “Why not save us all a lot of trouble and do it now?”
“I already told your friends,” Colt responded. “I live on the reservation and work at the casino. I just do my job and don’t ask questions, so I don’t know what it is that—”
Cherkow cut Colt off, dashing the scalding contents of his cup into the bound man’s face. Colt let out a cry as the coffee burned his skin and stung his eyes. The Russian wasn’t finished. He took a quick step forward and raised his right leg, planting his foot against Colt’s chest. With all his might, he thrust the leg outward. Colt’s feet swung up into the air as the chair tipped and fell backward, taking him with it. His head struck the hardwood floor and he saw once more a cluster of fast-moving stars, but this time he remained conscious. The pain inside his skull magnified, however, brimming his eyes with involuntary tears. The floorboards beneath him shuddered faintly as the helicopter set down, seemingly less than a few dozen yards away. A few seconds later, the copter’s rotors fell silent and the floor went still.
Looming over Colt, Cherkow withdrew the Viking pistol from his waistband. He leaned over and pressed the gun’s cold barrel against Colt’s forehead.
“Here’s something for you to think about,” Cherkow said coldly. “We know where you live. We know your wife is at home with that new baby of yours. If you won’t talk, maybe she will.”
Colt froze in terror, his worst fear realized.
“Leave my family out of this!” he said. Staring past the barrel into Cherkow’s cold gray eyes, Colt could see that he was appealing to the conscience of someone who had none.
“That’s up to you, now, isn’t it?” Cherkow said. “Which kind of hero do you want to be? The kind who thinks there’s something noble about keeping silent or the kind that puts his family first?”
Colt was coming to grips with Cherkow’s ultimatum when the door swung inward and another of his captors entered. The other man shouted angrily at Cherkow, again in a language with which Colt was unfamilar. Cherkow shouted back but pulled the gun from Colt’s head and stood upright, facing off with the other man. They continued to argue briefly, but Colt had no way of knowing what they were talking about. Several times, however, he heard a word that was all too familiar. A name.
Orson.
Colt’s heart sank anew as he realized something far more ominous than heavy rain or slow traffic may have prevented his friend from showing up at the airport. Had these men killed Orson the same way they’d killed Kissinger and the others? Or had the inventor been taken hostage, as well? If so, why? What could possibly be Orson’s connection to what he suspected was going on at the reservation? It made no sense.
Once the Russians had finished arguing, Cherkow turned to Colt.
“As long as you’re laying down, you might as well get some sleep. We have a little surprise in store for you when you wake up.”
Cherkow followed the other man out of the room. They left the door ajar, allowing Colt his first glimpse of what looked to be an adjacent living room. All he could see was a table, two chairs and a sun-faded, overstuffed sofa. Several cardboard boxes rested on the latter’s cushions. Standing beside the sofa was a short, thin man dressed in black. He had long red hair and a matching goatee. Colt had never seen him before.
Thinking back to his last conversation with Orson, Colt remembered the inventor mentioning that he would be leaving Taos for Albuquerque once he finished packing the things he planned to bring to the New Military Technologies Expo. Colt couldn’t be certain, but he felt there was a good chance he was looking the boxes that contained those items.
Lying