formed into a sound-deadening carpet over many years. The air was heavy and close, producing a cloying, sullen heat. Sweat began to form on Bolan’s face and arms. He pushed on, maintaining as much speed as he could. He wanted to gain distance from his former captors. There was no way he was going back as a prisoner. If they were that desperate for his company they would pay a high price for it and for what they had already done.
As willing as his spirit was, Bolan’s body began to reveal its weakened state after a few miles. Three days of brutal pounding had taken its toll. Mack Bolan was capable of strong actions but he was not invincible. Flesh and bone could absorb only so much before it began to rebel. He could feel his limbs growing heavier, his bruised ribs pulsing with pain. Keeping on the move was not the answer. Bolan knew he had to stand and fight, rather than lead his pursuers on a run that would drive him into the ground. He would have to make an educated guess as to the number of his enemies and deal with them on that basis.
He splashed over a stream, turned and crouched on his knees at the edge of the water. Behind him he could hear the distant sound of his pursuers. He knew they would pick up his trail eventually, so he worked quickly. He dropped his Uzi and reached down to scoop up soft mud from the edge of the stream. He smeared it liberally over his face and neck, ignoring the tender flesh. He coated arms and hands, then picked up the Uzi and retreated from the stream, turning to home in on the sounds made by the men following him.
He dropped back to wait, hidden among the dense foliage, blending in with his surroundings, waiting until he had a specific target. He would let his chosen man move well into range before he raised his weapon of choice.
The Beretta was set for single shots.
He could hear the guards working their way toward his general area, voices raised. They made no attempt to silence their approach as they made their way through the undergrowth. Bolan knew he wasn’t dealing with seasoned jungle fighters. Urban streets were their normal haunts.
Okay, he thought, their loss, my gain.
The first target appeared, AK-74 cradled in the crook of one arm while he chattered on a com-set. Bolan watched him push through the greenery, his image flickering as he moved from one patch of light to another. The Executioner tracked him closely, waiting for his opportunity. He stroked the Beretta’s trigger. The 9 mm slug hit the guard just above his left ear. He went down without a sound and before he hit the ground Bolan had pulled back, lost in the shadows again, his mud camouflage helping him to merge with his surroundings.
The sharp snap of the shot alerted the others. They froze, staring about them. Seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. The forest around them held shadows and light, and somewhere the man they were hunting. Com-sets buzzed with talk.
Bolan circled, picking out more wary figures. His enemies had no idea where he was now he had stopped running.
Target two was ahead of him. Less talkative than the others, he stood and listened to the jungle. His AK was up and ready as he sought his target. This guy was sharp. Alert. But it did him little good because the man he was looking for already had him in his sights.
Bolan fired a single fatal shot and the man went down.
He backed away from the killing ground and left the enemy unsure, searching and finding nothing but the dense forest.
He had counted three more, had observed their relative positions and allowed them to decide what they should do. Bolan was not in a forgiving mood. The people he had encountered since taking up his search for Maggie Connor were unrelenting in their savagery.
Not for the first time the thought entered his head that they were desperate to conceal something far bigger than illegal weapons. Ordnance, like drugs, was everyday trade to these people. The way they had responded to Maggie Connor’s investigation supported the theory that it was on a higher level than narcotics and guns.
But what?
He had to extract himself from his current situation. While he was caught in this jungle, with a trio of unfriendly locals out for blood, he could do nothing at all.
Bolan picked up the tread of a boot to his immediate right. He curled his prone body and homed in on the slow-moving bulk of an armed man. Then he detected movement beyond the man in his line of sight. This one was twenty feet to the right. They were moving in tandem, covering a strip of the forest. They knew Bolan had gone to the offensive and were tracking with more care.
The second man stepped into a clearing. He was waiting for his partner to close in. Bolan braced himself. He saw the man turn, facing his way, presenting a wider target.
He held the image, eased back on the trigger, took his shot.
As the gunman went down Bolan swiveled and tracked his partner. He had reacted to the shot, aware it had come from only a short distance away from his own position. He swung his weapon around and began to pump shots into the foliage. Bolan felt the bullets chew at the greenery close by.
A slug skinned his right arm.
The Executioner held his position, watching the dark bulk of the shooter as he twisted to get a better look at his potential target.
It was a question of who would hit their target first.
Bolan’s refusal to alter his own position allowed him that extra time to settle his aim and fire. He triggered a trio of shots, the Beretta hammering out its heavy sound in the closeness of the forest. The target flinched as the slugs hit him sidelong, angling up through his ribs to puncture lungs. He stumbled back with a heavy exhalation of breath before crashing solidly to the ground.
The Executioner picked up the merest flicker of sound behind him. Someone was really close.
The last man.
He caught a sliver of shadow on fronds to his left. The sliver expanded. Loomed over him. Instinct took over. Bolan rolled. He saw a dark shape towering over him, right arm already powering down, the intent to bury a machete deep into his skull. Bolan caught the blur of the blade as it slashed downward. Heard the soft whoosh as it cleaved the air. The blade pierced the ground as the Beretta fired. Bolan’s attacker grunted as he caught the bullets in his torso. The man toppled and the machete remained buried in the soil, inches away from Bolan.
He pushed himself into a crouch and spent the next few minutes observing the forest around him. Apart from the constant bird chatter, he picked up no other sound. He spotted no further movement. Bolan stretched his wait for another ten minutes. He felt reasonably satisfied he was alone. For the moment. Sooner or later someone would contact the base. When they received no reply men would be dispatched to find out what was happening.
Bolan realized he was far from being in the clear.
5
The first drops of rain against his face woke the Executioner. He sat up, the Uzi on track until he realized what had alerted him. He could hear the heavy patter as the rain increased and became a downpour. Even with the cover of the forest he was soaked as he climbed to his feet. The water washed the camouflage mud from his face and arms. It had served its purpose.
Bolan took stock. Which way to go? Heading deeper into the jungle could be unwise. He might find himself in isolated territory. Miles from anywhere. He was poorly equipped. He had nothing to sustain himself. All he had were the weapons he was carrying. No food or water. No protective clothing. He wasn’t even sure where he had been held.
Colombia?
Venezuela?
The background to Maggie Connor’s investigation had mentioned both countries. Had he been brought to the border district by the subjects of Maggie’s probing? His business in Florida had uncovered facts that pointed in that direction.
Bolan knew he wasn’t going to find answers by standing around in the rain. He came to a decision. His only point of reference was the base he had escaped from. Back there he might find answers. He might also find transport out of the jungle. His captors had to have had some transport to get him to the place. A truck? Jeep? Or had they flown him in by helicopter? The thought registered