Книга - Lethal Payload

Lethal Payload
Don Pendleton


ROGUE'S GALLERYA rescue mission in the South Pacific turns up a wild card that puts Mack Bolan on the trail of an elusive enemy mounting a horrific and ingenious attack against the U.S.–one that involves traitors deep inside one of the world's most elite and powerful groups of soldiers: the French foreign legion.Bolan's hard probe takes him halfway across the globe to French Guiana, where a faceless enemy is in deadly pursuit. The stakes get higher when Bolan makes the connection between the country's state-of-the-art satellite launch facility and a terrorist plot poised to send shock waves around the world.With the situation spinning out of control, the Executioner plays long odds for his very survival. But this time he's betting the farm.









The helicopter was completely out of control


Dr. Mohammedkhani was not going to be terminated, nor even arrested. She would unknowingly do her job and make sure the upcoming launch went off perfectly.

Dr. Seth was the enemy. Bolan suspected he was not who he pretended to be. The Bear was right. There had been no modifications to the rocket nor any special reentry vehicle built. The weapon was the satellite itself. It would fall with much less accuracy than a guided rocket—but even if it missed Washington completely, some part of the U.S. eastern seaboard would be turned into a radioactive wasteland.

Nothing was going to interfere with the upcoming launch.

Bolan knew that he was about to die in a tragic helicopter accident.




MACK BOLAN®


The Executioner

#239 Hostile Proximity

#240 Devil’s Guard

#241 Evil Reborn

#242 Doomsday Conspiracy

#243 Assault Reflex

#244 Judas Kill

#245 Virtual Destruction

#246 Blood of the Earth

#247 Black Dawn Rising

#248 Rolling Death

#249 Shadow Target

#250 Warning Shot

#251 Kill Radius

#252 Death Line

#253 Risk Factor

#254 Chill Effect

#255 War Bird

#256 Point of Impact

#257 Precision Play

#258 Target Lock

#259 Nightfire

#260 Dayhunt

#261 Dawnkill

#262 Trigger Point

#263 Skysniper

#264 Iron Fist

#265 Freedom Force

#266 Ultimate Price

#267 Invisible Invader

#268 Shattered Trust

#269 Shifting Shadows

#270 Judgment Day

#271 Cyberhunt

#272 Stealth Striker

#273 UForce

#274 Rogue Target

#275 Crossed Borders

#276 Leviathan

#277 Dirty Mission

#278 Triple Reverse

#279 Fire Wind

#280 Fear Rally

#281 Blood Stone

#282 Jungle Conflict

#283 Ring of Retaliation

#284 Devil’s Army

#285 Final Strike

#286 Armageddon Exit

#287 Rogue Warrior

#288 Arctic Blast

#289 Vendetta Force

#290 Pursued

#291 Blood Trade

#292 Savage Game

#293 Death Merchants

#294 Scorpion Rising

#295 Hostile Alliance

#296 Nuclear Game

#297 Deadly Pursuit

#298 Final Play

#299 Dangerous Encounter

#300 Warrior’s Requiem

#301 Blast Radius

#302 Shadow Search

#303 Sea of Terror

#304 Soviet Specter

#305 Point Position

#306 Mercy Mission

#307 Hard Pursuit

#308 Into the Fire

#309 Flames of Fury

#310 Killing Heat

#311 Night of the Knives

#312 Death Gamble

#313 Lockdown

#314 Lethal Payload




The Executioner®


Lethal Payload

Don Pendleton







Honor et Fidelite (Honor and Fidelity)

Legio Pastria Nosta (The Legion Is My Home)

—Motto of the French Foreign Legion

A solider who betrays his comrades is the worst kind of traitor. He will have no honor when he faces his Executioner.

—Mack Bolan




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


Chapter 1 (#u93e438df-1411-510c-bf93-ce86d8cd3b71)

Chapter 2 (#u54aa4d28-6307-5f05-ba09-c4588104dab2)

Chapter 3 (#u5904132f-a424-5855-bc06-006ca1c9bf81)

Chapter 4 (#uf3af9a34-5164-5951-8f37-50079da512e9)

Chapter 5 (#ue4b2fee0-614e-578d-982a-af5d1e3a78de)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)




1


“Death to the United States!”

The words were spoken in Arabic, but the Executioner had heard them before, all too often. They were being chanted in such an orgiastic frenzy that Mack Bolan could hear them clearly on the lagoon. Drums and other percussive instruments beat in rhythm to the thundering chant.

“Death to the United States!”

Bolan’s canoe slid through the rollers and crunched to a halt in the sand. He stepped into the foam of the Java Sea and dragged the outrigger out of the surf and onto land. The beach was a patchwork of grays, greens and blacks in his night-vision goggles. The chants grew louder and even more excited. There was exultation in the voices of the chanters, and beneath that, expectation. A clear baritone called out and was met by at least thirty voices in answer.

“Death to the United States!”

The call and response grew more and more savage. Bolan smiled grimly. The pandekar was in fine form.

“Death to the Great Satan!” a new voice shouted.

Bolan shook his head. The mullah was not willing to be outdone.

The Executioner was wary of rescue missions. They threw every single advantage into the hands of his opponents. He was always outnumbered, always outgunned, and savvy enemies always had multiple opportunities to kill their captives or use them as shields. Bolan, himself, was always in dire risk of killing those he had come to save. The fact was that in the past two years hostage rescues in the Pacific had not all gone according to plan. American and Australian rescue missions in the Philippines and Indonesia had resulted in dead hostages. It seemed as if fate dealt from the bottom of the deck and gave all the high cards to the goblins. It was the same old situation. Bolan was one man, and he held but a single card.

In special operations circles it was spoken of with awe. It was known as surprise. It trumped everything, and there was nothing sweeter when it was achieved.

The chanting from beyond the tree line degenerated into wordless howls and screams of rage. Bolan wasted no time as he marched up the beach.

The voice of the pandekar boomed forth. Pandekars were master teachers of pentjak-silat, the national martial arts of the Indonesian archipelago. Along with the great technical skills they developed, they were renowned spiritualists, famed for their supernatural powers, rumored to include telepathy, mystic healing and clairvoyance. They were thought to be invulnerable.

Pandekar Binpadgar Regog was a master of the Jokuk style, and was considered by his followers to be a mystic. When the Taliban mullah Abu-Hamid al-Juwanyi had fled Afghanistan during Operation Anaconda, Regog had welcomed the refugee mullah as a divine sign. Al-Juwanyi’s teachings of jihad against the United States had been welcomed and were taken on with religious fervor by Regog and his followers.

Suddenly a woman’s scream cut across the chanting. Bolan moved quickly through the thin jungle. A two-story hut dominated the clearing. A number of smaller huts arced out on either side of the big house in a horseshoe shape. A bonfire burned in the middle.

Beside the pyre a pair of posts had been sunk in the soil and Famke Ryssemus was strung between them. She was a famous European fashion model who came to Java annually to help her uncle with his missionary work. That was enough to make her a target of the pandekar. Bolan could see she was bruised and her blond hair was disheveled, but there was no obvious blood or serious wounds yet.

The real fun was clearly about to begin.

A half-naked man leaped into the sand near Ryssemus and shrieked. He wore only a red turban, and a white breechclout tied with a red sash around his hips. Foam flecked his lips. His wiry musculature stood out in high relief as his hips and shoulders jerked with the drumbeats. He tossed away his AK-47 rifle. The cries of the mob rose as he reached both hands into his sash and withdrew two Javanese kris. The sinuous handles of the daggers were carved into the shapes of dragons. The mob moaned expectantly as he reversed the twelve-inch undulating blades in his hands. His eyes glazed over as he aimed the quicksilver weapons at his chest. Sweat streamed down his torso in rivers. Spittle flew as he let out a horrific groan. It was matched by the captive woman’s scream of horror as he stabbed both blades into his own chest.

The crowd roared.

Roughly forty people formed a circle around the fire. Regog and Al-Juwanyi sat on raised divans. A half-dozen men sat cross-legged in the sand at their feet pounding drums and cymbals. The rest of the gathering stood swaying to the music and chanting. All carried bladed weapons, and most also clutched rifles, pistols, or submachine guns. Many in the throng were working themselves into a trance like that of the dancer. They called out wordlessly as the dancer stabbed himself again. The blades stuck between his ribs, and he yanked them forth with a howl.

No blood ran down the dancer’s sides.

A man in a trance was said to be unstoppable. Bolan had faced opponents armed with mystical powers on more than one occasion. Around the globe, martial artists and mystics used rigorous training, ritual and special breathing techniques to manipulate their personal energy and aspects of the autonomous nervous system that were on autopilot in most humans. Such people were capable of almost inhuman feats. But most mystical fighting had been rendered obsolete in a modern world of high-capacity automatic rifles and helicopter gunships. Bolan did not believe in magic, but he had long ago learned not to sneer at sorcerers.

Facing such opponents made his one-man rescue operation just a little more nightmarish.

Bolan considered the M-16 he held. If he opened up with his rifle, the mob would blindly, suicidally rush him and he would fall beneath their knives before he managed to empty his magazine, much less reload. However, Bolan had other ideas.

The dancer turned on Ryssemus. She screamed as the man raised his knives overhead like ice picks.

Bolan reached beneath his rifle and slipped his finger around the trigger of the FN 303 Less Lethal Launcher mounted under the forestock. He flicked off the safety, and his thumb pressed down. The laser sight came to life and put a red spot on the knife-wielding dancer’s chest.

It was time to see exactly how much control of his autonomous nervous system the dancer really had.

The FN 303 was a glorified paint-ball gun that fired fin-stabilized .68-caliber projectiles. They hit the target like a fist, and breaking on contact to prevent penetration injuries. They were unlikely to stop a highly trained martial artist, much less one in self-induced trance.

But Bolan’s rounds had been custom loaded to rather unique specifications.

The Executioner squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession. The sound of the compressed air launcher was lost in the roar of the chanting and the drums. The dancer stopped at the impacts but did not fall. For a second his glazed eyes narrowed as he searched the crowd for his attacker.

No one in the mob even noticed.

But the chanting faltered as the dancer’s legs suddenly wobbled and his knives fell from his hands. The music subsided as the dancer staggered. He took three rapid steps toward his master, then fell clutching his belly. Shouts of indignation replaced the music and chanting as the dancer vomited all over the pandekar.

Bolan’s projectiles were rear-loaded with Adamsite.

Adamsite had another more colloquial nickname. It was known as vomit gas.

The dancer collapsed in the pandekar’s lap, convulsing violently.

Bolan began squeezing the trigger of the launcher repeatedly as he moved the laser sight from target to target. The projectiles carried only small loads of the irritant, but as the stunned Javanese milled and tried to help one another, the effects spread like wildfire. The soldier swiftly loaded another 15-round cassette of projectiles and resumed firing. Total surprise had been achieved. The entire mob was down or in the process of falling prey to the Adamsite.

Famke Ryssemus screamed and strained against her bonds. She was seemingly surrounded by a ten-foot halo in the sand. Everyone outside the circle Bolan had drawn lay in their own personal, intestinal hell, part of the greater sea of writhing fanatics. But Bolan could not hold off an army with Adamsite. He had to get in and get out. There were others on the island, and it was only a matter of seconds before the situation would turn deadly.

Bolan pulled on his gas mask and strode out of the trees.

A screaming man staggered into Bolan’s path brandishing a razor sharp panga. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he raised the heavy knife over his head. The soldier put a .68-caliber projectile point-blank into the side of the man’s neck, and he collapsed unconscious on the sand.

Bolan moved into the circle.

He turned and scooped up a fallen knife. Ryssemus screamed and then collapsed into his arms as he cut her bonds. The soldier leaned toward her ear and shouted through his gas mask. “Close your eyes! Hold your breath!” He lifted her over his shoulder and picked his way back through the heaving throng in the sand. He cleared the gas area and yanked up his mask as he set the woman down.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She swayed on her feet. Her beautiful blue eyes were as wide as dinner plates. She looked at Bolan like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck. “I…”

“Where’s your uncle?”

“My uncle?” Miss Ryssemus jolted into awareness. “They tortured him! Oh, my God! He’s still in the big hut!”

Bolan took the woman’s wrist and pulled her into the trees outside the semicircle of huts. She stared in dull horror as he drew his Beretta 93-R and shoved it into her hands. “Stay here,” Bolan said as he flicked the selector to semiauto. “Hold the gun in both hands. Point it and pull the trigger on anyone besides me or your uncle. I’ll be right back.”

Bolan shoved her down into the bushes and ran through the trees. He skirted the outer perimeter of the horseshoe-shaped village and made for the rear of the biggest hut, which was built on a raised platform of logs. The beams of the structure were solid, but the walls were made of densely woven lengths of split bamboo. Three men with rifles spilled out of the hut and ran down the steps toward the fallen mob. Bolan stayed in the shadows. He crept around the building and stopped at the edge of the veranda.

A man stood with his rifle shouldered, watching the other men run to the circle of writhing bodies. Bolan watched, as well. The men ran and knelt beside their stricken comrades. Within seconds they were doubled over, contorting with nausea.

The man on the veranda stayed put, tracking his rifle for a target. Suddenly the man turned toward Bolan. The laser sight of the Executioner’s weapon system put a red dot on the rifleman’s head. The silenced M-16 coughed once, and the gunman fell.

Bolan vaulted onto the veranda, but he stopped at the door.

Every instinct screamed danger.

From within the hut a voice spoke in Dutch, a language Bolan had some understanding of but could not easily speak. He kept his body behind the heavy teak beam framing the doorway as he spoke slowly in English.

“Let Pieter Ryssemus go, now, and I will let you live.”

There was a lengthy pause before the answer came back in very thick English. “Preacher man gonna die, GI. Throw down your gun. My boy come pick it up, and maybe we talk.”

Bolan drew the 9 mm Centennial hammerless revolver from his ankle holster and tucked it into the back of his belt. He pulled his pant leg back over the empty holster and stood. He tossed the assault rifle through the door. It fell with a clatter.

“All right,” the voice beckoned.

Bolan stepped into the doorway.

The hut was a meeting place. The vast majority of the floor was woven grass matting where people sat and received instruction. A small, elevated platform near the back with a pair of cushions marked where the pandekar and the mullah held court.

A section of the matting was pulled away, revealing a hatch in the floor that led to a cellar. A Javanese man stood in the stairway leading down. He wore a red turban, and was bare chested and heavily muscled. He held an AK-74 rifle with the buttstock folded and the bayonet fixed. Bolan assessed the situation. The man was an amateur, but he was armed with an automatic rifle and the range was five meters.

The man stared at Bolan’s weapon where it lay and then at the empty holster on Bolan’s thigh. “Pistol, asshole.”

Bolan kept his hands open and down by his hips. “I gave it to Famke.”

The man sneered and stepped out of the stairwell. “Where are your Australian SAS friends?”

Bolan had immense respect for the Australian SAS, but they were on the Indian Ocean side of Java and had chosen the wrong island. When Bolan’s intel told him where the bad guys were, he hadn’t had time to wait.

“I’m alone,” Bolan said.

The man shook his head in disgust. “American cowboy asshole.”

Bolan remained silent.

The man gave Bolan’s weapon system an appreciative look and kicked it into a far corner of the room.

In a split second Bolan’s hand was behind his back. He twisted and shoved the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson forward in a fencer’s lunge. The kidnapper raised his rifle, but Bolan was already in motion. He aimed and squeezed the trigger.

The gunman’s head snapped back as if he had taken a hard jab to the jaw. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the matting.

“Diwangkara!” a voice shouted from the cellar. The voice rose in urgency. “Diwangkara!”

“Diwangkara’s dead,” Bolan said as he crossed the matting and reclaimed his rifle. He crouched by the hatchway. “And so are you, unless Pieter Ryssemus walks up those stairs now.”

“Preacherman injured,” was the reply.

“So carry him.” Bolan put a fresh magazine into the carbine and racked the action. “Like your life depended on it.”

Bolan took a fragmentation grenade from his belt and pulled the pin. He retained the grenade with his fingers clamped on the cotter lever. He tossed the pin down the stairs and listened to it clink on the steps. He took a moment to let that sink in downstairs. “Dutch Intelligence and the Australians want the missionaries.” Bolan let that sink in for a moment, as well. “You come up right now and bring Pieter Ryssemus with you, alive, or you’ll join Diwangkara.”

Waiting for the response, Bolan monitored the noises outside. Adamsite was a persistent gas, and its effects lasted for hours, but the island was several kilometers in diameter, and he by no means had control of it.

“I come up,” the man in the cellar said.

“Do it slow.”

The timbers of the stairs creaked.

Pieter Ryssemus appeared in the hatchway. Bolan stayed stone-faced as the missionary staggered up the steps. He was a tall man, but his upper body listed in an ugly fashion from a broken collarbone. He was missing several fingers, and his body was covered with burns, bruises and wounds. The missionary had been tortured, not by professional interrogators or even amateurs wanting information. He had been tortured by those who had given in to their hatred. They had tortured the old man for the pleasure it had given them.

There was a Swedish Carl Gustav submachine gun pressed to the old man’s temple. The kidnapper stood behind the Dutchman, using his prisoner as a shield. He held Ryssemus’s injured arm cruelly twisted behind his back. Most of the terrorist was hidden behind the missionary’s body. His eyes glared over the top of his weapon, and he wore a red turban like the rest of his sect. Tattoos crawled up the corded muscles of his forearms. Ryssemus flinched as the gun muzzle was rammed even harder into his skull. The terrorist smiled and revealed missing teeth.

“Drop your gun, GI.”

The laser sight on Bolan’s carbine clicked on with pressure from his hand, and a red dot appeared just below the kidnapper’s turban.

“Drop yours,” Bolan replied.

The man’s hand whitened on the grip of the submachine gun. “Drop your gun!” he screamed.

Bolan frowned and lowered his rifle slightly.

The terrorist grinned. He did not notice the red laser dot came to rest on his gun hand. “Now, GI, you—”

Brass sprayed as the action of Bolan’s carbine clicked. The Swedish submachine gun fell from the shredded remnants of the terrorist’s hand. Ryssemus fell from his grip as the kidnapper’s eyes widened in horror at the sight of his wound.

The expression became his death mask as Bolan put a 3-round burst through his chest.

The kidnapper tumbled down the stairwell. Pieter Ryssemus collapsed on the floor. Bolan moved swiftly down the stairs. The terrorist lay sprawled in the lower chamber. Bloodstains on the floor and the fetid air of human suffering attested to what the lower room had been used for. Bolan found the pin from his grenade and replaced it. He scanned the room swiftly and took several maps, documents and a cell phone. He knelt beside the dead man and peered at his arm intently. Among the writhing tribal tattoos was a distinctive shield. An Asiatic dragon coiled across the background. Superimposed over the dragon was a very western looking cartoon owl. Above the owl was a tiny, stylized parachute canopy.

The dead man was also wearing dog tags.

Bolan memorized the tattoo. He snapped the dog tags from around the man’s neck and took the knife that was sheathed in his sash.

The soldier went back up the stairs. The old man groaned. “Famke?”

“She’s safe. She’s waiting for us.” Bolan surveyed the missionary grimly. He was in bad shape. “Sir, can you walk?”

“I prayed to God for salvation, and you came.” He clasped Bolan with his good arm and struggled to rise. Bolan had to do most of the work to get Ryssemus on his feet, but the old man steadied himself and nodded. “But God also helps those who help themselves, and I will walk from this place.” The ghost of a smile passed over Pieter Ryssemus’s mashed lips. “But I do not know if I can run.” He looked down at the submachine gun on the floor. “Swedish.”

Bolan scooped up the weapon. “Can you shoot?”

“I was a soldier in the army before I became a soldier of God.” The missionary slung the weapon over his good shoulder and took the grip in his hand. He looked back down the stairs at his torturer. “And we are among men who have fallen from the grace of any God I know. I will pray for their souls.” The smile ghosted back across the old man’s face. “But later.”

Bolan nodded. Missionary life was hard. They often went where disease, poverty and human suffering were at their absolute worst. The Executioner had only to look in the old man’s eyes to know he was about as tough as they came.

The soldier clicked on his radio. “This is Striker. I have the package. I am extracting.”

Ryssemus raised a hopeful eyebrow. “Helicopters are coming?”

“I have a canoe.”

The old man blinked.

Bolan smiled. “Come on. We have a submarine to catch.”




2


Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“Well, you’re the hero of the hour.” Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman said, “That was about as slick a rescue op as has ever been done. One for the textbooks.” Kurtzman made a show of cringing in disgust and waving his hands. “An Adamsite gun, ugh! Gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it. The Cowboy is a sick man.”

Bolan stared into the distance, distracted.

Kurtzman grinned hopefully. “I hear a certain supermodel was suitably grateful.”

Bolan frowned slightly but not at Kurtzman.

The computer expert sighed. “What’s bothering you?”

The soldier glanced at the sketch he had made. “What’d you make of the tattoo and the dog tags?”

“A little, why?”

“That guy was in command.”

Kurtzman cocked his head. “What about Regog and Al-Juwanyi?”

“It was their show,” Bolan agreed. “But the guy in the cellar was in command, at least tactically, and he wasn’t part of the ceremony. He was wearing a red turban. He was Javanese. He may have been Muslim, and he was definitely more than just another member of the pandekar’s sect.

“Really?” Kurtzman’s interest was piqued. “How so?”

“I don’t know.” Bolan shook his head slowly. “His vibe. He didn’t act like some fanatic on guard duty who was missing out on the show of a lifetime. He was way too cool. If he was part of the congregation, he should have come up out of the cellar in berserker mode, foaming at the mouth with two feet of steel in each hand. Instead, he starts making like an FBI negotiator. I don’t think the riflemen he sent out were part of the party, either. I wish I’d had time to check them out.”

Bolan sat back in his chair. “What’d you get on the sketch I gave you and the dog tags?”

The Bear held up the tags. “These were simple enough. We’ve got his name, Pak Widjihartani, and his serial number, which implies to me that he at least made sergeant.”

“You think he’s Indonesian army?”

Kurtzman put down the tags. “I would, except that at the top of the tags are the letters LE.”

Bolan raised an eyebrow.

The computer expert grinned. “Légion Étrangère.”

Bolan raised his other eyebrow. “You think our boy is French foreign legion?”

“I’m betting he was. I’m running what I can on his dog tags now, but I don’t think I can get much without actually trying to break into Legion records, and I’d like to try and go the legitimate route first. We do not want to officially piss off the French foreign legion.” Kurtzman let out a long breath. “But I doubt very much your pal was acting in any official Legion capacity when you met him.”

Bolan was forced to agree, but something about the scenario still bothered him. “How about the tattoo?”

“I don’t know.” Kurtzman grunted noncommittally. “Some kind of insignia? I couldn’t find anything exactly like it in any open military databases, but soldiers have been giving themselves unofficial unit or specific mission patches and insignia since the French and Indian wars. If this is a legion insignia, I bet it’s an unofficial one, and not tolerated on formal uniform dress. I suspect it’s a custom job. Probably has to do with his company’s special role or a mission.” Kurtzman sighed again. “Assuming of course that he didn’t have it done when he was in the Indonesian army and then joined the legion later. A fair number of legionnaires are veterans of other services. I’m running a check to see if his name or the insignia pops up on any Indonesian or Asian military database we have, but so far we haven’t turned up anything. Of course, people who join the legion are allowed to change their names, and often do, so the one on the tag may not be the one his daddy gave him.”

“Any other good news?”

“Yeah.” Kurtzman grinned lopsidedly. “It’s a tattoo. He could have made the damn thing up when he was drunk.”

“Bear,” Bolan said, sighing wearily, “what would you make of it?”

“All right. Best guess.” He peered at the sketch again. “The dragon could mean anything, though if I had to bet, it probably has something to do with service in Asia. The owl might mean some kind of night operations. It’s a specialization in the legion. The parachute’s a no-brainer. Your boy was airborne, and in the French foreign legion, the paratroops are the elite.”

Kurtzman wasn’t telling Bolan much he didn’t already know, but he was confirming his suspicions. The computer wizard stared at the sketch again. “These guys could be mercs. It’s not unknown for guys to get out of the foreign legion and go to work for someone else. ‘Legionnaire’ certainly has some prestige attached to it. Maybe the mullah felt that he needed some extra muscle with the United States and Australia hunting him.”

Bolan had considered that. “He already had an island full of muscle with the pandekar and his boys. Both men were also very religious. Al-Juwanyi is Taliban and Regog is part of the al Qaeda cell network in Indonesia. Neither organization is known for hiring outsiders. These guys are definitely part of the puzzle.”

“Okay, but making them fit isn’t going to be fun.”

Bolan was all too aware of that. He trusted his instincts, but there were no facts to back them up or leads to take them anywhere. “What about the cell phone and the documents I collected on the island?”

Kurtzman clicked a few keys on his keyboard. The monitor showed Carmen Delahunt rapidly pounding the keyboard at her workstation. She looked up and blew a lock of red hair away from her eyes. “What’s up, Aaron?”

“Striker is here, and he’s hoping for some answers. Got any?”

She punched up information. “The cell phone’s memory had some numbers in it. Several were to Jakarta, and not surprisingly, they were to phones that were stolen. One led to Bali, and again, dead-ended to a stolen phone. One anomaly was a number that led to French Guiana, which, as you can guess, dead-ended.”

“The French foreign legion has its Jungle Warfare School in French Guiana,” Bolan said. “Bear, I want a country study, now.”

Kurtzman began tapping keys, and a map of South America popped up on his screen. Information began scrolling. They read an encyclopedia-like description of the French colony.

Bolan stared hard at the map inset on the screen. “What kind of transnational issues are we looking at?”

“Very few. They’re always asking for increasing autonomy from France, but in public votes only a small percentage of the population supports seceding from France, and they’re not a violent faction. Their neighbor, Suriname, claims a strip of their territory between the River Litani and the River Marouini, but it’s never come to a military struggle. There is limited illicit marijuana growing along the coast, but that’s mostly for local consumption. Interpol considers them to be a minor drug transshipment point to Europe at best. Unemployment is a problem, but not monumental.”

“What’s the Muslim population?”

Kurtzman could see where Bolan was going. “Miniscule, not enough to register in official population charts. French Guiana is overwhelmingly Roman Catholic. The Muslim community are immigrants, and most likely to be businessmen or university-educated professionals working for French companies.” The computer expert’s brow furrowed in thought, and he hit more keys. His map tracked westward and information scrolled. “Suriname, however, does have a significant Muslim population.”

“From Java,” Bolan concluded.

Kurtzman hit a key triumphantly. “Bingo. Suriname was a former Dutch colony, just like Indonesia, and the Dutch imported a lot of Javanese for labor.” He lost some of his exuberance. “But that still doesn’t get us anywhere. The Javanese are in Suriname, and there are almost none to speak of in French Guiana. It’s a nonissue.”

“But our boy had a contact there.”

“He called a phone number there. They’re two tiny countries on the northern tip of South America, and it’s a small world.”

“Our boy was al Qaeda.” Bolan shook his head. “They don’t do anything small. He was on a mission, a high profile kidnapping and murder, and he had presets in his cell phone. Those would all be important contact numbers. One of them was in French Guiana.”

“Well, it is intriguing, I’ll grant you.” Kurtzman leaned back in his wheelchair and laced his fingers behind his head. “But how you’re going to string this all together into anything significant is beyond me.”

“I’m not.” Bolan leaned back and matched his comrade’s posture. “You are.”

“You know, I knew you were going to say that.” Kurtzman sat straight up. “How do you want to play it?”

“Suriname has a significant Muslim population, predominantly Javanese, and Regog was a Jokuk stylist, heavy into religion and mysticism, and now it looks like at least some splinter sect of it has gone militant. Do whatever you have to to find any practice of Jokuk-style pentjak-silat in Suriname. Find a connection, no matter how tenuous, and then make it lead to French Guiana.”

“All right.” Kurtzman chewed his lower lip in thought. “But this is getting thin, sniper. I trust you, and I trust your instincts, but we are officially grasping at straws.”

“I know,” Bolan said. “But I trust you, Bear. I trust your instincts, and you’ve worked with a lot less.”

Kurtzman laughed. “You keep talking like that, and you’re gonna have a date for the prom.”

Bolan smiled. “Here’s the part where you lose that lovin’ feeling.”

Kurtzman read Bolan’s mind. “You want Akira and me to hack the French foreign legion’s military records.”

Bolan nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Striker, if you’re accepted into the legion and want to change your identity and get away from your past, they do everything in their power to help you. This is the kind of info they’re going to keep protected. You know what kind of a stink it’s going to raise if we get detected breaking into their military databases?”

“So don’t get detected,” Bolan replied.

“Jeez, Striker, hacking France is—”

“Keep it real mission specific. Find Pak Widjihartani if you can, and any other aliases he may have. Find out where’s he’s from and where he’s been. If he was a legionnaire, find out what regiment he served in and where. Other than that specific info, no sight-seeing. Don’t download anything else France or the legion would find sensitive, but I have got to have Pak.”

“All right.” Kurtzman considered the enormity of the task before him. “I’ll lay out a battle plan for Akira and pull up our French translator programs. I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of operating systems and safeguards the French foreign legion is using, but I’ll start on the assumption it’s using the same protection of information protocols as the regular French military. I’ll have Carmen download and collate every useful piece of information on the legion that she can find and get a copy made for us. The legion is one of the most colorful military units in the history of mankind, and it should make interesting reading on the plane.”

Kurtzman’s eyebrow rose once more. “I’m assuming you’re getting on a plane.”

“Yeah.” Bolan yawned and nodded. “But I need a nap. I’m gonna take twenty-four hours’ downtime. Then I want to meet with you again to see what we have. Assuming it’s anything, I’ll need Barbara to arrange a flight to Suriname. I’ll need an updated passport and a French visa, and get me a full warload delivered to the U.S. Embassy down there.”

“I’m on it.”

“Okay.” Bolan rose. “I’m sacking out. As soon as you have that information package on the legion, call me.”

“One thing, Striker.”

“What’s that?”

“You be careful about messing in legion business. They have a reputation for killing people who mess with them.”

“I’ve heard that.”




3


Paramaribo, Suriname

Bolan removed the bandage and surveyed the handiwork on his arm. It would have to do.

Sweat stung his arm as he stepped out from the air-conditioned hotel, and his shirt soaked through from the ninety-degree heat and the matching humidity. Suriname sat at the top of South America less than two hundred kilometers from the equator. As a nation, Suriname consisted almost totally of its coastal strip; and once one strolled half a kilometer from the surf and sand, the sea breeze ended and the cloistered heat of the tropical rainforest began. The capital city followed the geography. The Europeans clung to the coast. Modern European Dutch-style businesses and homes clustered along the beaches and the waterfronts of the capital. Once one went inland, the tin shacks of the ever-growing ghettos clawed space out of the jungle.

Bolan put the blissful breeze of the sea to his back and walked into the blast furnace.

He was walking into a part of the capital that most people avoided after dark, and where police went only when heavily armed and in number.

Bolan got the directions from the U.S. Embassy, but he could have followed his nose. It was evening, and with the setting of the sun the act of cooking had become tolerable. Bolan walked the invisible borders of the shantytowns by scent and turned to follow the aroma of jasmine rice, curry and simmering coconut milk to the Javanese quarter.

Bolan had few illusions. He was barely armed, and his ruse was as thin as hell. He would not be able to withstand more than a few moments of scrutiny, and if it came to a fight he would never live to reload the little .22 Walther PPK/S tucked in the small of his back. The knife tucked in his boot would be of even less use against men who had spent their entire lives practicing the dances of death with foot-long kris knives and parangs.

People sat outside on the stoops and rattan chairs, taking their ease, or leaned out the windows to try to catch some hint of the evening breeze. They smoked cigarettes and looked sidelong at Bolan with undisguised suspicion as he passed.

Bolan consulted his mental map and approached the practice hall of Pandekar Ali Soerho.

Soerho was a pandekar of high repute, of the Jokuk style, from the same lineage as Regog. In this confrontation, Bolan would not have tactical surprise or Adamsite gas to back him up against this mystic warrior and his circle.

The hall was a WWII-vintage Quonset hut that had been repaired many times. Tin siding had been used to patch the walls and the roof. Woven rattan screens covered the windows. The scent of sandalwood incense drifted from an open door that was obscured by hanging strings of cola nut beads. Two men sat on the stoop smoking pipes with incredibly long stems. They wore T-shirts, shorts and sandals and looked like everyone else in the quarter seeking relief from the evening heat. The veins crawling across their corded, rock-hewn forearms, and callused hands bespoke of long weapons training with blades and staves.

The two men watched Bolan approach with supreme disinterest.

When Bolan neared to a few feet, the two men suddenly rose with fluid grace. They flared out heavily developed shoulders and stood in his way like temple guardians carved of stone. Bolan smiled, but the smile he gave them was very sad, as if he were in mourning. He bowed his head toward both men respectfully. “Asalaam aleikum.”

The two sentries blinked in surprise as Bolan greeted them in Arabic. They bowed back, but their wary eyes were still hooded like hawks considering prey.

“What do you want?” the taller of the two men asked in French.

“I need to speak with Pandekar Soerho.” Bolan bowed slightly again. “One of us is fallen.”

Bolan took out the knife he had liberated from Pak Widjihartani’s corpse in Indonesia. Widjihartani’s legion dog tags were wrapped around the hilt. The two men sucked in their breath in dismay. The taller one surveyed Bolan intensely. “And you?”

Bolan pulled up his sleeve. His arm still burned where the tattoo had been scrawled into his skin. The tattoo was not deep, but direct injections of cortisone had been required to get rid of the swelling. The CIA developed inks would dissolve within days. The job had been done by a former Navy SEAL who owned his own tattoo parlor and contracted out tattoos needed by agents going undercover. The man was a pro, and even though the tattoo was less than forty-eight hours old, it looked like Bolan had borne it for years.

The tattoo was of a shield. A dragon was scrawled across its background, and a stylized owl parachuted across the front of it.

The sentries stared at the tattoo and nodded slowly. The taller one took the knife from Bolan and motioned for him to follow them inside.

The scent of sandalwood was very strong. The walls were covered with crossed spears and staves. Short swords and knives with blades that curved in every possible direction were everywhere. Batik prints of gods, heroes and demons covered the patched, steel walls. The incense sticks near the altar had burned low. The evening’s instruction was over. Two men swept the floor, and another dusted the altar.

Ali Soerho sat cross-legged on a mat. Bolan scrutinized the pandekar carefully as he unfolded his legs and seemed to grow out the mat like a tree. He was a slightly built man who looked to be around fifty. Bolan knew that looks could be quite deceiving in martial-arts masters. Soerho could be anywhere from fifty to seventy, and to have reached the rank of pandekar his slight build and gentle features hid his power like silken cloth wrapped around an iron dagger.

The taller of the men escorting Bolan approached the pandekar and bowed deeply. He leaned in close to his master and whispered to him for long moments before presenting him with the knife Bolan had brought. Soerho accepted the weapon reverently and went to lay it upon the altar. His man and the two men sweeping fell into rank behind the pandekar as he approached Bolan.

The man dusting the altar ceased his cleaning and pulled out a cell phone.

Bolan bowed low to the pandekar. The master bowed back and spoke in very rough, halting French. “You speak Arabic?”

Bolan bowed again and replied, “I am only just learning, to further my studies of the Holy Koran.”

One of Soerho’s men quickly translated. The pandekar nodded at Bolan’s wisdom. The tall disciple took over as interpreter. “You knew Pak?”

Bolan pulled false foreign legion dog tags up from around his neck. “We served together in the legion. It was there that I converted to Islam.”

The man with the phone clicked it shut and went back to his dusting. Bolan noted he was working his way back the way he had just come and was putting himself between Bolan and the door. The pandekar spoke through his translator as he gestured at the knife and the dog tags on the altar. “How did you come by these things?”

“How much have you been told?” Bolan countered.

The Javanese had a very rapid discussion in their own language. Bolan decided to interrupt it. “There was an attack. Pak and his men were overcome and killed. We believe it was done by special forces, most likely Australian SAS.” Bolan let his eyes harden. “We believe we were betrayed from within.”

The taller disciple looked shocked as he translated.

Bolan’s face was stony as he openly scrutinized the men before him. One of the disciples flinched as he met the soldier’s tombstone stare. The big man had come looking for a traitor. It was very clear that he did not consider them above suspicion. The Executioner repeated himself slowly. “How much have you been told?”

The taller disciple cleared his throat. “Only Ki has been—”

“Where is Ki?” Bolan demanded.

“I am here.” A man parted the strings of beads blocking the door. He was short but had almost inhumanly wide shoulders. He was naked save for shorts and sandals. Every muscle in his body stood out in high relief, as did numerous scars, some of which Bolan recognized as bullet and shrapnel wounds. Tattoos crawled along his biceps and shoulders. Both the man’s physique and the way he carried himself were reminiscent of a brutal and battle-hardened Bruce Lee. The two men measured each other. Bolan was relieved that the man did not sport the owl and dragon tattoo.

The man wore round, French military dog tags.

Bolan nodded at him. “Ki.”

“Ki” looked at the sheathed kris and the dog tags on the altar. He then stared long and hard at Bolan’s tattoo. “You served with Pak?”

Bolan threw caution to the wind. “We met in the Pacific. I was in the 5th Foreign Regiment. I spent most of my time at Fantagataufa and a number of the other atolls.”

It was a wild gamble. The 5th Foreign Regiment had been stationed in support of France’s nuclear testing in the South Pacific. Their activities had great political sensitivity, and the regiment had since been dissolved. Their top-secret duties and subsequent disbandment allowed Bolan to make up almost any kind of story. The Achilles’ heel of the ruse was that French-owned atolls were tiny communities. The communities of the legionnaires even tinier. If Ki had served in the same theater, Bolan was toast.

Ki watched Bolan like a hawk as he digested Bolan’s story.

Bolan met his gaze without flinching. “How much have you been told?”

Ki never stopped trying to read Bolan’s eyes. He looked down at the tattoo on Bolan’s arm once more. “I do not know you,” he finally announced. “This will require verification.”

“Of course.” Bolan frowned impatiently but nodded. “I am going to give you a telephone number.” He reached slowly into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small pad and a fountain pen. “Memorize it and destroy it.”

Bolan flipped open the pad and turned the pen over. Suddenly he pressed the pocket clip.

The pen hissed in Bolan’s hand as it shot a stream of pressurized CS tear gas directly into the pandekar’s eyes.

Bolan flicked the notebook into Ki’s face as the pandekar staggered back into his disciples. The blow had no impact but Ki brought his hands up to cover his eyes. Bolan put his thumb on the butt end of the pen and thrust the blunt object into Ki’s esophagus.

Ki’s knees wobbled as he gagged.

Bolan jumped to put Ki between himself and the rest of the disciples. Blades appeared in their hands.

With his free hand, Bolan ripped the dog tags from around Ki’s neck.

The man by the door ripped a rattan stave from the wall, and it blurred about his body like a propeller as he came for Bolan. The Executioner emptied the rest of the gas-pen at the men surrounding the pandekar and broke for freedom as they flinched. Bolan broke sideways and ran at a dead sprint for the eastern wall of the hut. He chose a rusty looking five-foot section of tin siding that had been used to patch a hole in the ancient structure, and hit it like a fullback.

Metal screamed. The rivets holding the siding tore free, and Bolan and the entire section of siding exploded into the night. He rolled in the muck of the alley and came up running.

The disciples boiled out of the hole Bolan had made. They were shouting at the top of their lungs. The soldier could guess what they were yelling to the barrio around them at large.

“Stop him!”

A man rose from a stoop and raised his hands as he stepped into Bolan’s path. The Executioner ripped him off his feet with a forearm shiver without breaking stride.

People were coming out of their houses. The big American did not look back, but he could hear a mob swiftly forming behind him. The road ahead began to fill with alarmed citizens. Bolan drew his pistol as he ran, raised the gun in the air and fired off three quick rounds. The flat snap-snap-snapping of the little pistol cut over the sounds of concern and alarm.

The people ahead of Bolan parted like the Red Sea as he ran among them. But the angry mob behind was undeterred.

There was only one avenue of escape, and that was to run.

Bolan retraced his path. It wasn’t the quickest way out of the quarter, but it was his safest bet. He knew furious phone calls were crisscrossing, trying to arrange solid resistance ahead to cut him off. Bolan held up his gun to deter anyone who appeared before him. His heart hammered in his chest as he used his size and speed to put distance between himself and the ever increasing mob chasing him.

Bolan caught the scent of cayenne pepper as his lungs heaved. He pushed himself into an all out sprint toward the smell. A pair of dark-skinned men looked up in surprise as he charged past them.

Bolan burst into the Creole quarter. He had no friends here, but neither did the Javanese. He raced across a footbridge and tossed his pistol and holster into the canal below. A gun would not help him here. Behind him, he could hear people shouting at one another in a mix of languages. Creoles began coming out of their houses to see what the ruckus was about.

Many of them carried machetes loosely in their hands.

Bolan ducked down a side alley and quickly lost himself in the maze. He slowed to a walk and let his breathing return to normal. He was still in a dangerous part of town, and he did not expect any Creole to protect him out of Christian charity. But the five thousand Dutch guilders he carried in his belt could buy a great deal of indifference, and probably an anonymous ride back to the embassy, as well.

Bolan held up his prize. The dog tags he had taken from Ki glittered dully in the dim light.

It was time to give Kurtzman something to do.




4


Ki clutched his bruised throat as he spoke hoarsely over the phone. “Pak has been compromised.”

The voice on the other end of the line did not sound overly concerned. “How so?”

“They had his dog tags. They followed the trail here. They know he was a legionnaire.”

“Was a legionnaire,” the voice said. “So what?”

Ki’s face tightened with more than the pain in the hollow of his throat. “The man took my dog tags and escaped with them.”

“Well, now, that is an unfortunate turn of events.” The voice paused. “So, just for my edification, this man came in, claiming to be a legionnaire, and then beat up you, the pandekar, your friends, stole your dog tags and ran off into the night with them?”

“Yes.” Ki’s jaws were clenched. “That is about the size of it.”

“Tell me, where did he go? I assume you mounted some sort of pursuit?”

“We did. We chased him for some distance through the streets, but he was lightning fast. His attack at the pandekar’s was sudden and unorthodox. As was his escape. He is obviously some kind of professional.”

“Do you believe he is a legionnaire?” the voice said, this time more in reflection than sarcasm.

Ki had been devoting a great deal of thought to that question. “I do not know. The way he acted, it was clear he is a very experienced soldier. Things like that cannot be faked. Whether he served with Pak in Polynesia…” Ki’s scowl returned. “Without a name, that will be very hard to verify, with the unwanted attention it could attract.”

“Indeed,” the voice agreed. “Tell me, how was his French?”

Ki considered that. “Not perfect, and he spoke with an American accent, but that does not prove anything. The only legionnaires who speak good French are lying Frenchmen.”

The voice on the phone snorted derisively. “That is true.” The voice lowered. “But in your opinion, is he a legionnaire?”

“He had the dog tags, but I did not get to see them up close. He had the same tattoo as Pak and others who served as security in the atolls.” Ki grunted and shook his head. “But my instincts tell me no. I do not believe he is legion.”

“That is all I need to hear you say.”

Ki rubbed his throat. “So what do we do?”

“Let us assume your instincts are correct, and he is American. To my knowledge, the United States has no military or intelligence assets in Suriname to speak of. The only real place he can take genuine sanctuary or receive any sort of aid is the American Embassy.”

Ki spoke bitterly. His hand went to his chest, to the place were a familiar weight was uncomfortably missing. “He has my dog tags.”

“Yes, and if he has reached the embassy, he will be able to contact his confederates stateside. It will only be a matter of time before they determine who you are.”

“What do you propose we do?”

“Tell the pandekar to gather men he trusts. Cover the embassy now, twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later, he must come out. When he does, you and your men will kill him. I will send Cigarette and Babar to back you up, but you will lead, and you and the pandekar’s men must see to finishing the job. If you fail, then whatever kind of stink rises up, it must be a Javanese stink and one that ends in Suriname.”

Ki looked at the weapons mounted on the walls. They would be of little use in the coming confrontation. It was the weapons in crates beneath the cellar that would tell the tale now. “And if he somehow escapes us?”

Once more the voice on the other end of the line did not sound concerned. “If he somehow escapes and learns your identity, then he will most certainly come here.” The voice paused significantly. “And then I will most certainly kill him.”

Secure Communications Room,

U.S. Embassy, Suriname

KURTZMAN WAS CLEARLY unhappy. “Striker, we can’t keep plundering French military records.”

His brow furrowed on the videophone link. “We’re risking a lot. Busting into Suriname’s military database would be one thing, but France is a very modern country, with some of the most sophisticated technology in the world. In some areas of technology, France is even ahead of us. And right now, in all honesty, I cannot guarantee you that we’re getting in and out undetected. Much less what kind of electronic tracking and countermeasures we may be subjecting ourselves to. If French Military Intelligence catches a whiff of us and goes on a war footing, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that they could find us in spite of our fire walls and back doors.” Kurtzman shook his head. “I feel the risk may soon be too great.”

Bolan considered the problem. “Okay, but what have you got?”

“Well, there are some small hitches with the translation programs. The French foreign legion is kind of archaic in its military terminology. It’s also kind of tribal and has a lot of its own slang. Akira’s working on it, and—”

“And what have you got, Bear?”

“I’ve got French Foreign Legion Caporal Ki Gunung. Caporal in the Foreign Legion is a lot closer to sergeant in the U.S. or British military as far as authority and responsibilities than what we think of as a corporal.”

“What else have you got on him?”

“He’s active legion, and didn’t change his name when he joined up. He joined the 2nd Parachute Regiment and made it into the Deep Reconnaissance Commandos. The legion’s best of the best.”

Bolan consulted his map. “The 2nd Parachute Regiment is stationed in Corsica. What’s our boy doing in South America?”

“He’s a certified hand-to-hand combat and commando instructor.” Kurtzman scanned his notes. “It seems he was transferred as a specialist to the 3rd Infantry Regiment and the Jungle Warfare School in French Guiana.”

“Interesting,” Bolan replied. “But if he’s active with the 3rd Infantry Regiment, what is he doing here in Suriname?”

“Well, his current post is less than a hundred miles from where you are now. What he’s doing on the wrong side of the Maroni River, we don’t know. He could be AWOL, or he could be there with permission. Of course, Suriname and French Guiana do have a disputed border area. He could actually be there on some kind of mission.” Kurtzman stared at Bolan fixedly. “That would take a great deal more probing of heavily secured French military files.”

“Just do what needs to be done. Hit and git when you feel someone tracking you.”

Kurtzman sighed. “Striker, do you have anything to directly tie the French military to terrorist actions taken by al Qaeda?”

Bolan shook his head. “No. All I’ve got are my instincts, and they’re going off like fireworks on the Fourth of July on this one.”

“Well that’s good enough for me, Striker. You know that.”

“Bear, something really nasty is coming down the pipe.”

Kurtzman nodded slowly. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go to French Guiana to poke around.”

“YOU’RE NUTS.” CIA Station Chief Kira Kiraly gazed at Bolan steadily.

Bolan shrugged. “Yeah, well…”

The station chief blew a lock of hair off her brow. It was just before dawn, and the heat was already rising. “So what are you expecting, again?”

“I’m expecting to get hit, by anywhere from ten to thirty accomplished martial artists and terrorists, armed with anything from machetes and AK-47s up to and exceeding rocket-propelled grenade launchers.”

Kiraly nodded once. “Right.”

It was clear she believed that Bolan was insane. The station chief was short, blond, sarcastic and very well put together. She didn’t look at all like a senior spook.

Bolan knew those were always the best kind.

“Listen.” Kiraly shook her head. “I know I’ve been told to extend you every courtesy, but—”

“What can you do for me?” Bolan smiled winningly. “I’m sorry about it being such short notice.”

She held up some keys. “I have a Volvo station wagon.”

Bolan shrugged. “Safest car on the road.”

“I love that car,” the station chief warned. She seemed deadly serious. “The air-conditioning works. You have no idea what kind of premium that is around here.”

Kiraly led as they crept around the embassy in the predawn gloom toward the parking area. A pair of Marine embassy guard jeeps and a VW Bug were parked in a line.

Bolan suppressed a grin. Slightly off to one side, parked in the place of honor, gleamed a brown Volvo station wagon with diplomatic plates.

“It’s beautiful,” Bolan acknowledged.

“Thank you.” She searched Bolan for sarcasm. “Maybe it would be best if I drove.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I think it would be best if someone drove and someone shot.” She looked Bolan up and down with genuine appreciation. “I’m going to trust you on the shooting part.”

Bolan shrugged. “I’m thinking the airport is a death trap.”

“I agree.”

Bolan glanced eastward toward French Guiana. “It’s just under two hundred miles to Cayenne.”

“Have I shown you the embassy armory?” the station chief inquired. “It’s lovely.”

THE VOLVO FLEW through the rainforest. After passing Nieuw Amsterdam, the coastal highway had swung inland. They were about thirty miles from the Maroni River and the border with French Guiana. Lush jungle encroached on either side. It was high noon, and the heat was scorching. Sane people in South America spared themselves and their vehicles during this time of day. They passed few cars and saw even fewer people. It was a perfect place for an ambush, and if the enemy was going to do it, they would have to do it soon.

The outside temperature was more than one hundred degrees. It had rained buckets ten minutes earlier, but there was no sign of it save occasional steam rising out of the shelter of the jungle. The Volvo slid down the highway like a blissfully air-conditioned dream at a comfortable sixty-five miles per hour. Comfortable was the word. If Kiraly suddenly floored it, Bolan doubted much more would happen.

The car hit a pothole and the package tied to the luggage rack thumped on the roof, a metallic reminder.

Bolan watched the heat images shimmer on the road ahead. “I know the air-conditioning is on, but why don’t you open the windows?”

Kiraly hit the power windows and superheated air swept inside the car interior. The speed of the car did little to mitigate the heat. The sunroof slid open, and the sun blasted down like light through a magnifying glass.

“I see why you love this car,” Bolan said.

She shook her head decisively. “You’d better not get this car killed, or…” Her voice trailed off as she caught Bolan’s expression. “What?”

The soldier reached for his rucksack on the floor. “Here they come.”

In the side mirror Bolan could see a pickup truck pulling out of the heat mirages behind them. It was coming up very fast.

Four motorcycles fanned out around it like outriders of the Apocalypse.

“Drive,” Bolan commanded.

Kiraly put the pedal to the floor of her ten-year-old, four-cylinder station wagon. They weren’t going to drive their way out of this one.

The pickup was gaining steadily. The motorcycles flew forward like hornets. Each bike carried two men. One man drove; the man behind carried a gun.

They would be in range in seconds.

Bolan clicked down the folding metal foregrip on the Beretta 93-R. The detachable skeleton stock was already affixed. He flicked the machine pistol’s selector switch to 3-round-burst mode, grimacing as he turned in his seat. The gunners on the motorcycles were carrying FN-FAL rifles. The big battle rifles were easily capable of chewing a Volvo to pieces. Accuracy would be problematic, but the assassins probably weren’t worried about that.

They intended to drive right up and dump their weapons into the car on full-auto at point-blank range.

Bolan stood up through the sunroof, shouldered his weapon and braced himself in the frame. The wind ripped at him as Kiraly pushed the car for all it was worth. Bolan roared over the searing wind, “Keep it straight!”

One of the motorcycles suddenly shot forward like an arrow. The driver’s face was lost behind the mirrored visor of his helmet. The gunner’s leer of blood lust was openly visible. He struggled to aim his weapon at the rear tires of the Volvo. Bullets ripped divots out of the road surface as his weapon hammered on automatic. The range was too long and the rifle too powerful to control, and his burst climbed away from his target.

The driver gunned his engine and shot forward to close the distance.

Bolan grimaced. Trying to shoot out the tires meant the enemy was going for a capture.

The gunner steadied himself for another burst. Bolan ignored him. He peered along the barrel, then squeezed his trigger.

The driver jerked backward as the burst walked up his chest and neck and punched in the visor of his helmet. The scream of the gunner was lost as the motorcycle went up on its rear wheel and drove out from under the riders. Gunner and driver hit the road in a seventy-five-mile-per-hour pinwheel of breaking bones. The other three motorcycles swerved wildly to avoid the rolling carnage.

Behind them the pickup continued to close in.

Bolan steadied himself and aimed his weapon. The three rifles facing him ripped into life.

The only defense was offense. Bolan stood and shot.

A second motorcycle spun out of control as the soldier printed three 9 mm hollowpoints into the driver’s chest. Men and motorcycle rolled in an orgy of twisting metal and rending flesh. The other two gunmen continued to fire.

Bolan’s jaw slammed against the roof of the Volvo, and he nearly lost his weapon as one of the rear tires exploded with a lucky hit. He was nearly flung from the sunroof as Kiraly violently overcorrected to keep the car on the road. Bolan held on to the luggage rack for dear life, but the aluminum strut ripped free in his hand. Only his legs scissored around the headrest kept Bolan connected to the car as the vehicle fishtailed.

The Executioner squeezed his knees together with all of his strength as he took the Beretta in both hands. Kiraly could barely keep the car on the road. Bolan fired burst after burst trying to compensate for the slewing vehicle. The motorcycles came on with both rifles blazing. Bullets chewed into the rear bumper. The remains of the rear tire shredded away, and the Volvo dipped sickeningly to one side. Metal screamed as the wheel bit into the roadway. The roof of the car tore in a line beside Bolan’s elbow, and a whip cracked by Bolan’s ear as a bullet missed his head by inches.

The Beretta recoiled in Bolan’s hand and locked back on empty as he fired off his last burst. The driver of the closest motorcycle jerked as a bullet took him in the shoulder, and the gunner behind him rubbernecked as the second bullet of the burst took him in the face. The gunner fell off the back motorcycle with his rifle still firing.

The burst from his dead hand climbed up the back of his driver.

The motorcycle veered sharply as the driver collapsed and fell into the path of his wingman. Breaking humans and breaking motorcycles bounced and rolled in their death throes across the pavement.

The pickup came on, hitting a body and rolling right over it. Armed men stood in the truck bed clinging to the roll bar. Bolan recognized the shape of an RPG-7 rocket launcher. The truck was closing to within range.

Bolan dropped the Beretta and shoved himself backward to secure his footing in the car. He reached for the flopping remains of the luggage rack and pulled off the bungee cords that held his package.

The Executioner ripped the canvas cover off the M-60 general-purpose machine gun.

He racked the action of the M-60 and pulled open the legs of the bipod. He crouched in the sunroof and leaned into the machine gun’s shoulder stock. The lurching of the stricken Volvo made aimed fire almost impossible. Bolan squeezed the trigger and began walking the smoking lines of tracers into the pickup.

The front of the truck sparked with bullet strikes. The Volvo bounced as it hit a bump in the road, and the rest of Bolan’s burst went high. There was almost no way to keep the weapon steady. The soldier paused to align his weapon again and fired another burst. The passenger side of the windshield went opaque with bullet strikes before Bolan’s burst climbed off aim again.

Flame blossomed around the roof of the truck as the antitank rocket roared out of its launch tube in answer.

Bolan’s voice thundered at parade ground decibels. “Right! Right! Right!”

Kiraly yanked the wheel. The football-size warhead of the rocket-propelled grenade flew past the car on a column of black smoke and detonated in the rainforest beyond.

“Brakes!”

Kiraly stood on the brakes, and the car spun screaming into the guardrail. Bolan bounced inside the frame of the sunroof with bone-cracking force. The Volvo careened into a smoking stop. Bolan slammed the M-60 back down across the roof and lined up his sights as the pickup approached.

Bolan squeezed the machine gun’s trigger. Tracers walked up the pavement in a line for the front of the truck. The smoking Volvo was finally motionless, and the Executioner had a stable platform from which to use his sights. He leaned into his weapon and held down the trigger. Sparks flew off the grille as he got hits. Sparks flew and bits of metal pinged away from the front. The missile man in the back was desperately ramming a fresh rocket into his launch tube. The hood of the truck flew up as its catch smashed apart. Smoke and flames were whipped by the wind. Bolan paused as the truck closed to one hundred yards, and raised his aim.

The Executioner put his front sight on the driver’s side of the windshield and burned the rest of his belt. The popped hood ripped away, and the rest of the windshield collapsed inward. The nose of the dying truck swerved one way and then the other as if someone were wrestling with the wheel, and then spun as if someone had violently won the fight.

The truck veered across the road, hit the guardrail and somersaulted off the highway. The men in the back went flying.

Bolan’s spare belt of ammo for the M-60 had miraculously stayed attached to the canvas tied to the roof. He laid the belt into the feed ramp and clacked it shut. “Go, get us away from the scene and then pull off the road, we’ll—”

“We’ve got problems,” Kiraly said.

Bolan glanced around. It was only a two-lane highway. A few hundred yards ahead a pair of military-style jeeps blocked the road in a V formation. There was nowhere to run, and the Volvo was in no shape for a chase, anyway. Bolan racked the M-60’s action. “Floor it.”

Metal screamed as the remaining rear tire clawed for traction and the side panels sparked themselves free of the guardrail. A man stood beside each jeep carefully aiming a rifle across the hood. Bolan slid back down into the car.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Kiraly flinched at the deafening blast as Bolan shot out the windshield. He pulled up his knee and kicked out the sagging glass panel and then shoved the M-60 forward onto the hood.

The Volvo limped up to forty miles per hour. Kiraly shook her head in horror at the apocalyptic game of chicken. The riflemen ahead began firing.

“Don’t stop,” Bolan said as he began triggering bursts from first at one jeep and then the other. The bipod slid on the hood, and Bolan’s shots were all over the map. Aimed fire began hitting the front of the Volvo. Bullets tore into the grille. Bolan’s side mirror was shot away, and Kiraly flinched and screamed as a bit of the headrest by her ear disappeared. Steam spewed from bullet holes in the hood. Kiraly kept her foot on the gas, and the dying Volvo lurched on like a Swedish kamikaze.

Bolan fired burst after burst and suddenly the two jeeps were right in front of them. The two riflemen hurled themselves away from the impending carnage. Bolan yanked the red-hot machine gun back into the car and clasped it across his chest.

The Volvo hit the roadblock at forty-seven miles per hour.

The jeeps spun away in opposite directions as the front of the Volvo folded like an accordion. Front and side air bags blew forth from the safety panels and violently expanded to obscure Bolan’s world as the Volvo sailed on. The car burst through the guardrail and came to a halt against a forty-foot ironwood tree.

Bolan ignored the stars in his vision and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He ripped free the knife on his belt and gutted the air bags pressing against him. He yanked the door handle but nothing happened as the air bags deflated around him. The soldier threw his shoulder once, twice and the third time his door burst open. He fell to the mud and gravel, clutching the M-60. He lurched up and slammed the weapon across the roof of the vehicle.

A gunshot rang out instantly, and something plucked at the collar of Bolan’s shirt.

He clamped down his trigger and sprayed an arc of bullets before him. He caught sight of the two riflemen crouched beside one of the mangled jeeps. The Executioner kept his trigger down and forced them under cover with sheer firepower.

Kiraly’s .45-caliber Glock pistol began barking on rapid semiauto from the driver’s-side window. Bolan maintained fire and riddled the jeep into smoking ruin. He let off the trigger and glared down his sights. Brass shell casings rolled across the pavement. There were no other sounds except the ticking, hissing, dripping and steaming sounds of dead and dying automobiles.

The soldier kept his hand on the trigger as he slid the M-60’s sling over his shoulder. He crouched and came around the Volvo with the machine gun in the hip-assault position. He looked both ways, but nothing moved. Save for the jungle itself, there was no cover to be had except for the destroyed automobiles. Bolan crossed the road covering the jeep. He stepped around and found what he had been expecting.

Broken glass, spent shell casings and blood.

The Executioner walked to the edge of the highway and swung a leg over the guardrail. There was a bloody handprint on the curved metal. Bolan took a deep breath and scanned ahead. Six feet away the jungle was a solid wall. He looked down into the mud beside the highway. There were boot prints.

Two sets of them.

They were clearly two different sizes, but both sets of prints had the exact same pattern of tread marks. The smaller set of prints faltered and smeared twice on the right hand side. The larger set grew deeper. Bolan nodded. One of the men was definitely wounded. He memorized the pattern of the treads for a future sketch and walked back to the road. He picked up a couple of his opponent’s spent shell casings and pocketed them and then returned to the car.

Kiraly lay back like a wet rag in the driver’s seat. Her nose was broken and so was her left hand. Her spent Glock lay in her lap with the action racked back on an empty chamber. She gave Bolan a bruised smile and reached up to pat the cracked dashboard.

“Volvo. Safest car on the road today.”




5


Hotel Cayenne, French Guiana

“What do you think?”

Kurtzman responded over the videophone link. “Nice piece of work there.”

Bolan glanced at the sketch he had made of the tread patterns he had seen in the mud by the highway. “So what did you make of them?”

The computer expert hit a key and an image popped up on Bolan’s screen. It was a pair of combat boots. They were distinctive in that they had a leather flap and two buckles in addition to the laces. “They’re standard French military issue, and, not surprisingly, standard issue to the French Foreign Legion, as well.” Kurtzman grinned. “Like I said, nice piece of detective work there.”

“What did the Cowboy make of the shell casings?”

“French manufactured .223 ammunition.” Kurtzman punched another key, and John Kissinger’s report popped up on the screen. “Cowboy says whoever those two boys shooting at you in Suriname might be, they were firing the latest generation FAMAS G-2 rifle, and doing it with French army ammo.”

Bolan grimaced as he forced himself to stretch. The bouncing around he’d taken in the Volvo during the battle and the subsequent crash left his body feeling like he’d lost a bar fight.

He considered the battle. “The guys on the motorcycles and the truck were more of the pandekar’s boys. Had to be. I’m betting the rocketeer was our friend Ki. The two guys at the roadblock were our real players.”

Kurtzman raised an eyebrow. “Legionnaires?”

“Actually, I’m thinking French Foreign Legion deep reconnaissance commandos.” Bolan shrugged and rolled his neck to work out the kinks. “But I can’t prove that yet.

“The guys on the motorcycles were fearless, but they were strictly local talent. The other two were highly trained professionals. They engaged with aimed fire and took out the vehicle. Our boys closed in for the kill, and when I opened up and wounded one of them they extracted under fire, right into open jungle. If I had to bet, I’d say those two guys went ‘escape and evade’ and walked home all fifty miles through the rainforest. They were ghosts.”

Kurtzman was clearly troubled. “Deep reconnaissance commando kind of ghosts.”

“That’s my current theory.” Bolan shrugged. “Until I can come up with something better. You get me my stuff?”





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