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Highway to hell
Dispatched on a high-priority search-and-rescue mission, Mack Bolan becomes a moving target in the cold heart of Siberia. He’s on a motorcycle hell ride along a thousand miles of broken, battered highway. Known as the Road of Bones, it’s a mass grave to thousands of slave laborers buried during Stalin’s iron rule.
A defecting Russian intelligence agent’s testimony stands to aim heavy artillery at Russian mobsters in America. To silence her, a hunter-killer team of secret police and gangsters engage in hot pursuit. The enemy has the edge: manpower, weapons and home-field advantage. For Bolan, it’s a one-way trip on an open road effectively sealed at both ends by death squads. Every mile survived brings them both either closer to freedom…or ultimate doom.
So much for stealth
He’d only got halfway to the lights when the man addressed him from a pool of shadows to his left, between a thresher and a skid loader. The lookout spoke in Russian, but his challenge had the tone of “Who in hell are you?”
Bolan let his AK answer back, one Russian to another. Three rounds at a range of six or seven feet, two punching through a plastic cooler the stranger carried, loosing plumes of smoke. His muzzle-flashes lit a startled face before it toppled over backward, out of frame.
He dodged between a swather and a mower, reached a different aisle and pounded toward the bright oasis where the action was. Bolan could hear people scrambling, as a voice called out, “Mikhail? Mikhail!”
Presumably calling the dead guy.
Bolan let the others wonder about the body as he moved in for the kill.
Road of Bones
Don Pendleton
Russia will not soon become, if it ever becomes, a second copy of the United States or England, where liberal values have deep historic roots.
—Vladimir Putin
1952-
Don’t you forget what’s divine about the Russian soul—and that’s resignation.
—Joseph Conrad
1857-1924
I’m resigned to do this job regardless of the opposition. I’ll bet my soul on it.
—Mack Bolan
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contribution to this work.
Contents
PROLOGUE
Yakutsk, Sakha Republic, Russian Federation
Yakutsk Airport was small by Western standards. One of its two runways was a parking lot for aircraft, while the other handled both arrivals and departures, moving seven hundred passengers per hour at peak efficiency. The international terminal, built in 1996, was showing signs of age. The domestic terminal, meanwhile, was constructed sixty-five years earlier, in Stalin’s time.
Tatyana Anuchin and Sergey Dollezhal were going international, a Ural Airlines flight to Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino Airport in Rome with 160 other passengers and crew aboard a Tupolev Tu-154M—Russia’s equivalent of the Boeing 727. The aircraft had a cruising range of twenty-seven hundred miles, which meant a stop for fuel in Chelyabinsk before proceeding on to Italy. With time on the ground, that meant nine more hours before they cleared Russian soil.
Before they were safe.
“You need to relax,” Dollezhal said.
“I’ll relax in Rome,” Anuchin replied. “Better yet, in London.”
“You give them too much credit,” he chided. “We have a good lead.”
“Oh, yes? Why not hire a car, then?” she challenged. “We’ll make it a holiday.”
“All I am saying—”
She cut him off, hissing, “They’re not as stupid as you give them credit for. They must know that we’re running by now.”
And unarmed, since they had left their weapons in the car at long-term parking, to avoid any problems with airport security. Anuchin felt naked without the MP-443 Grach semiauto pistol she had carried with official sanction for the past nine years, used twice in the line of duty.