Mack Bolan Stony Man #28 Blood Star PROLOGUE Moscow A drizzling rain had fallen on the city for the past three hours, leeching warmth from those pedestrians unfortunate enough to be abroad on such a night. Rain made the streets and sidewalks glisten, but no long-term resident of Russia's capital would be deceived by the illusion. It was still the same drab, heartless city underneath 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. Gromylko and his partner had been waiting, watching, as the visitors arrived. The two Colombians were traveling 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 northeastern Moscow, where the residents leaned more toward foreign cars, selected with an eye to luxury. The Goljanovo precinct was entirely ignorant of the impending raid, kept in the dark because Gromylko feared the level of corruption that had spread like cancer 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 Moscow. Gregori Vasiliev was one of the top-ranking criminals in all of Russia, known as a vor v zakonye-a godfather---of the Vorovskoi Mir, the Thieves' Society. 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, including 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 interested 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 approached 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 conscious 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 notice 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 Gromylko 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 certainly 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 policemen 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 latter-day replacements for the venerable AK-47. Gromylko 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 reached across his body with his left hand, opening the door. His thinning hair was plastered 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, Gromylko 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 policemen 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 staccato 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 hi...
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