"These folks don't like the central government any more than we do," said Radic, sipping on the strong brew. "They refuse to settle down. It's not their way. They've always been wanderers."
"And that kind of freedom can't be tolerated."
"No. Yet the Gypsies still crisscross the borders of all the eastern European countries. An underground society quite apart from the state."
"Do they know we're on the run?"
"Yes, they guessed as much. They heard the dogs, too." Radic looked puzzled when the unmarried daughter came over and knelt at his feet. She tugged off his shoe and began to unwind the strips of torn vest. He seemed rather embarrassed to receive this kind of attention and turned his head to talk to her father again.
Radic asked a question — Bolan heard him repeat it twice — but the Romany leader chose not to reply. Instead, he ordered the younger man to resume standing watch by the rocks.
"I asked him how they got over here. They must have crossed the river someplace," said Radic, as the girl wrapped a fresh compress into place.
Her father glanced toward the nearest mountain, fingering a necklace heavy with silver charms and carved amulets. After careful consideration, he replied with a nod toward the river. Radic translated his directions with a grin. "There is a ford down there. A traditional crossing place used by horse traders. If we know of it, others will, too. There are many paths through these hills. See that spur up there, it covers one of the old trails... Go through those pine woods and behind the ridge you'll find a way leading up to the high pass."
"Thank him for us," Bolan said.
Before he could convey their gratitude, Radic was interrupted by a shout from the lookout. The Gypsy ran into the encampment, brandishing his gun toward the south. "Soldiers! Six or seven of them coming through the trees."
"Dogs?" asked Radic.
"I didn't see any."
"We've got to leave, Mr. Bailey. There's a patrol heading this way."
The older man scuffed the dirty bandages into the fire. "You'll find an old monastery — in ruins now, I think — that marks the very top of the pass. A mile beyond that is the border. Hurry!"
Bolan set off for the belt of pine trees above them. Radic waved goodbye to the women and followed his friend.
They scrambled up the hill, ducking behind the boulders and sprinkling of young evergreens. Both realized that the Gypsy folk they left behind would be given a hard time by the government forces.
Bolan stopped.
The photographer had just caught up with him when he realized the American wasn't going on.
Bolan turned around to look in the direction of the Gypsy camp. He shook his head.
It was time to make a stand. Bolan was tired of being herded, tired of having a hungry pack snapping at his heels.
"One lousy shotgun against a whole squad. That's no odds to leave them with," he said.
Bolan palmed the 93-R. He double-checked the magazine, pushed up the safety button, set the weapon for short bursts and deployed the fore grip.
"You wait here," he said briskly.
"I'm going back, too," Radic replied evenly.
"Then keep behind me and stay down."
They retraced their steps toward the dell, careful to use every scrap of cover. Bolan could see the roof of the caravan behind the bushes.
Suddenly they heard a shotgun blast. It was quickly answered by the sharper crack of rifle fire.
Fifty more paces and they reached a quartz-studded block that gave them a sheltered view of the grassy depression below.
The old Romany's son-in-law's body lay crumpled beside the path. The soldiers were laughing among themselves as they surrounded the wagon in a loose semicircle. Still clutching her baby, the woman ran between the troopers to where her man had fallen. No one tried to stop her.
The sergeant had the older Romany and his wife standing against the side of the painted truck. The sobbing woman was bent over her husband's corpse. The shotgun lay next to him on the ground.
"Bastards!" muttered Radic, impatient for the big man to make his move.
One of the soldiers dragged the young girl out of the vardo door. He made a lewd suggestion that amused the others. Her father rushed forward to help his daughter, but a hard clip on the side of the skull with a rifle butt sent him to his knees.
The sergeant started shouting.
"He's threatening they'll have her daughter one after the other, unless the old woman tells them which way they saw us go."
"Move down to the left. Toss some stones into the back of those bushes," ordered Bolan. Radic wriggled away to create a diversion.
One of the soldiers sat down on the grass to enjoy the show. Another handed his rifle to a comrade, shed his tunic and started to unbuckle his belt. The sergeant tugged at the old woman's gold earrings, forcing her to turn and watch what was about to happen to her daughter.
There was a loud rustling through the nearby undergrowth.
"There must be more of them back there!" Two of the men unslung their rifles and warily approached the thick screen of bushes.
"Find me another dark-eyed beauty like this one," called out the squad leader.
Five men were left in the open.
The Executioner reared up from behind the rock. Three times the 93-R delivered its message of death. The three men nearest the fire lay suddenly lifeless.
The soldier who was undressing saw the cold-eyed stranger taking aim. He tripped over his own pants in his haste to squirm away.
The sergeant reached forward, trying to use his captive as a shield. She struck back unexpectedly, clawing his face so fiercely that the skin was stripped off in shreds. The daughter, her blouse torn open, seized the officer's leg and pulled backward. He sat down with a thump. The next 9mm parabellum slug blew off the back of his head.
The two privates near the bushes both fired at once. Bolan rolled away to one side as the top of the rock exploded in zinging chips of grit.
Radic chucked another handful of loose stones right at them. Both men were distracted. Bolan sighted, snapped off two more bursts and the soldiers staggered back into the weeds. Ugly red stains soaked through their tunics.
The last man, still clasping at his trousers, tried to escape down the path. He glanced over his shoulder at the black-clad doombringer on the slope above the dell; in his terrified flight he paid no heed to the newly widowed woman crouching beside her dead husband. She had placed the baby on the grass and now held the shotgun in her hands. The soldier was less than ten feet away when she pulled back on both the triggers. The blast all but cut the man in two.
"That makes seven," said Bolan.
Radic stood up, too. His legs were trembling. He glanced across at the American. The man looked drained, empty. There was no arrogance or pride in what he had done, only a bleak pity for the persecuted wanderers.
They threw the bodies in a ravine behind the trees and covered the spot as best they could with brushwood. The Romany family would bury their own.
The leader approached Bolan. "You helped us," the old man said. "We do not forget such things. You are brother to the Rom."
Radic translated the remarks while the Gypsy chief removed an amulet from his necklace.
It was a small ivory dagger with a curved blade, less than two inches long, delicately carved and yellowed with age. The pommel was shaped in what looked like a pig, and scratched into the surface of the blade were the stick-figure of a hunter with a bow, and seven stars.
"It was fashioned from the tooth of a boar," said the old Gypsy. "Wear it always! It will protect you and bring you good fortune when you need it most."
25
The overgrown trail was there all right, just as the old man had said, but it was difficult to follow; obviously it had not been used as a regular footpath for many years.
As Bolan and his companion toiled up the steep slope they were soon able to view the sweeping vista below. Curving away to the northeast, the river valley widened in
to a checkerboard of rich farmland. In the distance, grayish smudges from the processing plants on the outskirts of Mokravina rose into the sky. Three tall steeples marked the town itself.
"I thought I caught a glimpse of the old ruins," Radic said, panting. He shaded his eyes to scan the notch between the craggy peaks above them.
The way ahead was partially blocked by a landslide of tumbled rock. Bolan guessed that it must have happened some seasons before. Thick weeds and young saplings were already sprouting in the crevices. He tried to estimate how long it would take them to reach the pass. Scrambling through that pile of stones was going to cost them precious time. Still, if they could make it to the top in three or four hours, they might be able to slip across the frontier under cover of darkness.
He clambered over the last of the fallen rocks, and waited for Radic to catch up. The reporter's limp seemed even worse than before, and his pale forehead was slick with perspiration. Bolan would have said nothing, but Radic glanced back down toward the river bottom and saw the soldiers too. "There's a whole platoon coming across. Difficult to tell from this distance, but it looks as if they've got the dogs with them."
Bolan fingered the boar's-tooth dagger he'd been given. It hung round his neck on the same chain that carried April's ring. "Even if the Gypsy family is safely away, the hounds could pick up our trail. They might even find those bodies."
Off to the right, Bolan spotted the insectlike figures of another patrol crossing a path in the woods. He urged his companion on.
Half an hour later the gradient eased a little. A faint trail of beaten earth forked off to the high pastures that were already brightly speckled with alpine flowers. They could hear the tinkle of a sheep's bell somewhere above them. Radic's labored breathing was beginning to worry Bolan. He pushed on for another five minutes and then sat down on a springy tussock.
"They'll gain on us if we stop now," Radic said.
"You're right," Bolan admitted. "But they'll catch up with us for sure if we get so tired we can't go on at all. Take a ten-minute break, George. I could use a breather myself."
The photographer slumped on the grass. It took him only a few moments to drift off.
Bolan used the time to inspect his weapons carefully. Then he double-checked their bearings with the miniature compass from his survival kit. There was a good chance they would leave those men behind them stranded on the mountainside at nightfall; they wouldn't risk moving after dark.
Radic sat up suddenly. "Sorry!" he blurted out. "I didn't mean to..."
"It's okay," Bolan told him. "We both need the rest. I'm going to catnap for five minutes. You keep watch. Then we'll try to make the pass while it's still light."
Trained to sleep anywhere, even under the most adverse conditions, Bolan shut his eyes and willed himself to relax.
But the darkness of his mind was not complete. The horizon of his subconscious flickered red with gunfire and flames. Battles fought long ago and far away still raged within. Ghastly images that might have driven another man mad floated past in grisly succession.
The distant throb of a helicopter rotor scudded along the threshold of his awareness: gunships in Nam... the Dragonfire...
He was snatching for his gun, rolling off to the side, as the shadow swept over him. A troop carrier heading straight for the pass rose like a raptor on the updrafts and vanished between the peaks.
They could have been spotted. Bolan was angry. "Why the hell didn't you..."
But Radic wasn't there.
Bolan looked around. Not ten feet away, anchored by a pebble on a large rock, was a rolled-up note. Radic had torn the paper from his reporter's pad. Bolan flattened out the message and read:
I am only slowing you down. I have gone back to see if I can mislead our pursuers. Take the film and make sure the world knows who the real culprits are. Good luck, Mr. Bailey.
G.R.
Bolan did not race after the photographer. Radic knew what he was doing and Bolan respected his decision — Bolan would not want to be chased out of his own country, either.
Bolan's eyes skipped to the bottom of the note again. "Mr. Bailey" it read. The brave young man had gone off to almost certain death without knowing Bolan's real name. In his warrior's profession, Bolan had met several truly courageous men; he would always number Georgi Radic among that rare elite.
He put the other survival items in his pocket. The note reminded him to check the small film container in the hollowed heel of his boot. Then he touched a match to the corner of the note and let the curling ashes drift away on the breeze.
The chopper had not reappeared. Bolan reasoned that the pilot had found a clearing along the border fence broad enough to set down the troops. Now they would dig in and wait.
Even if Radic did succeed in drawing off some of the trackers, and perhaps confusing them for a while, their dogs would still sniff out the other trail. And, with reinforcements now in place in front of their quarry, they could finish off the squeeze play when it suited them.
Bolan traveled faster, unburdened by a companion, but with a heavier heart. As he walked he kept a fix on the weathered stone walls of the monastery, which grew closer with every step.
Bolan pondered his grim situation as he willed himself up the final incline.
He was framed for a murder he did not commit. Stranded and alone in an alien land, he was unsure of which man's hand was against him or where he could turn next. And now he faced a hostile frontier.
But these impossible conditions, coupled with the kind of heroism displayed by Georgi Radic, only strengthened Bolan's resolve to survive and take the battle to the enemy.
There were people everywhere who were willing to risk their lives to rid themselves of the burden of tyrannical leaders, secret police, criminal bureaucrats and the cruel hand of stale ideologies whose demand for innocent blood could never be sated.
Bolan was going to fight — for people like Georgi Radic who made the final sacrifice. Their battle for freedom was Bolan's battle.
As long as he lived and breathed, he was going to strike back.
He was equipped with the skills and experience to wage a war every bit as ruthless as that waged by the foes of freedom and dignity.
Colonel Phoenix had been tied up in red tape, trapped by double-talk. And now, having failed to kill him, a highly placed mole was trying to tame Bolan to serve a traitor's whims.
But no more!
Mack Bolan was going to be himself again.
He would attack before dawn.
26
Only a part of the small monastery was in ruins. The front wall had crumbled away to reveal the cracked flagstones of the courtyard within; the roof of the main hall sagged badly, and its gradual collapse had sent the slates slithering down onto the walkway that surrounded it. But the squat tower was still intact, and a wisp of smoke curled from the kitchen chimney.
Bolan approached the open gateway. The wooden door leaned drunkenly, its hinges rusted beyond use. He unholstered the Beretta but concealed it behind his leg.
A small plot of land in the corner of the courtyard had been planted as a vegetable patch, with a trellis for beans against the wall.
Bolan was wondering who the gardener was when a voice came from a window in the keep.
Bolan turned at the sound, though he could not make out the words. The voice spoke again in German, then in a gruff and throaty English.
"You won't need that here. I shall not harm you."
The American fighter made certain that whoever was up there could clearly see he was putting the pistol back under his jacket.
The door at the bottom of the tower opened with a squeak and out stepped a monk. Bolan guessed him to be about sixty-five. He was bald, apart from an unkempt fringe of white hair. He wore rough homespun clothes and had a firm handshake.
He ushered Bolan into the kitchen, sat him on a bench at the table and served him an earthenware bowl of hot potato soup without asking a question.
&nbs
p; "What is this place?" Bolan waited for the food to cool.
"Originally it was a monastic retreat built in the early fourteenth century. It was later seized from the monks," explained his host. "By 1800 it had changed hands again, and so it went, slowly falling into disrepair. Now I tend it alone. My name is Brother Josef. I have found peace here..."
His voice trailed away in a sigh, as if he knew the arrival of this man marked a shattering of the quiet contentment he treasured, but he accepted that as preordained.
Bolan sipped on the soup. It was good. He looked around. "This place is never going to get back on the map."
"A shepherd takes shelter here when the storms come. In return he brings me the few things I need: razors, salt..." and the old monk looked a little guilty as he added "...and tobacco sometimes."
Bolan fished in his pocket and produced a battered cigarette pack. "Here. Keep them."
Brother Josef carefully extracted one bent cigarette. His gnarled fingers gently stroked it straight, then he broke it in two, selected the slightly longer part and lit up. Bolan watched him. It did not seem to be the gesture of a man of the cloth.
"You followed the old pilgrims' path up from the river?"
"Yes," replied Bolan, intrigued as to who this man really was. "How did you get here? I mean, originally."
The monk ignored his question. There were more pressing matters to be discussed. "You know they are waiting for you, don't you?"
Bolan nodded. "Do you know how many men have landed on the mountain?"
"Yes. I saw them." Brother Josef moved to the kitchen window and pointed to the lip of the pass. "From that outcrop you can look down on the border wire. They maintain a bare strip about a hundred yards wide. The helicopter has landed on a level ledge near the watchtower. I counted fourteen men. They are entrenched, with machine guns covering the path... others are constantly patrolling through the trees."
Bolan stared into the flames of the kitchen fire. The 93-R, his knife and a wire garrote — not much artillery to take on a squad armed with machine guns. And these men were expecting him. But his plan remained the same: strike before dawn.
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