Blood of the Lion

by Don Pendleton

  "Por favor, señor. I am a poor man. I only offered a service to these..."

  "You still offered, guy. You helped them."

  "I did not know what bad men they are."

  "Then you're learning. And you've got a chance to make good."

  The Spaniard looked confused. "What?"

  "I want that gunboat, and I want you to man the helm for me. I'm going after Alchupa."

  "Por favor, señor, I am a family man. I have a wife and children. I do not wish to die."

  "Save it. What's your name?"

  "I am Fernando Ortega."

  "You have any rope in that canoe?"

  "Si."

  "Get it."

  Fernando stooped to pick up a coil of rope, while Bolan stood ready to stop him cold if he came up with a weapon instead. He tossed the rope to Bolan, who quickly used it to bind the Viper's hands and feet. Then Bolan sliced off a strip of the Viper's shirt with a commando dagger and stuffed the rag into Weiss's mouth. He dumped Weiss in the bushes and covered him over with thorny branches and leaves. The Viper would stay there until Bolan was ready for him.

  "You do as I say," Bolan told Fernando, "and I'll make sure you get a piece of whatever's left of Alchupa's empire when this is over."

  "I do not do the white shit anymore, señor. There was a time when I did, but..."

  "I wasn't talking about Alchupa's drugs, Fernando. I was talking about any cold hard cash he might have lying around. You want a better life for your wife and kids?"

  Fernando lit up like a Christmas tree. He nodded several times with enthusiasm. "A new life, si. Far, far away. Being a boatrunner is very dangerous."

  "And what else do you run, Fernando?"

  Fernando shrugged. "Guns. Some of the white shit, but I never ask them what it is I am hauling. I would rather not know if it's dope."

  "If you cooperate, Fernando, I'll take care of you. You try to screw me up, I'll kill you where you stand. Do we understand each other?"

  "I understand, señor. Alchupa is a bad man, very, very dangerous. I will do what you ask of me."

  "Good. Then let's go get that gunboat. How much daylight do you figure is left?"

  Fernando looked at the blazing cobalt sky. "Another three, perhaps four hours."

  "That's enough."

  And Bolan knew it would be enough. Time enough to get the gunboat. Time enough to let his closest ally, night, move in and provide the deep darkness he would need to make a blitzkrieg against Anaconda from the stinking bowels of the jungle.

  * * *

  Godfried counted twenty-eight of the Viper's soldiers along the riverbank. But there was no sign of the Viper. Maybe he had bolted, the Brit told himself. Maybe the guy was all show and no go, after all. But he doubted the Viper was a coward. Somewhere, somehow, the treacherous bastard would show up, and then Godfried wouldn't mind it one bit if he tore the Viper to pieces with his G-11.

  "Let's nail them," Khan answered. "The time has come. No prisoners. No mercy."

  "Maybe we should grab the fat man," Godfried suggested, nodding at Toby as the mercs directed relentless M-16 autofire at the Spaniards, who were retreating downstream in their gunboat. "We could use him as a hostage and play him off against Alchupa and the Viper."

  "Why?" Rolaff asked.

  "To buy us time, that's why. Then we can grab a plane and fly the hell out of here."

  "No," the Mongol said, while the din of autofire ripped through the jungle ahead, the Viper's mercs crouching along the bank, dark silhouettes behind the cover of trees and bush. "We are three against too many. The best plan of attack is to make our way into Alchupa's camp and steal a pilot."

  "Whatever," the Brit said, hefting his H&K G-11. "But one thing at a time — let's just take care of these bastards. We'll worry about getting out later."

  "I will use my arrows. They will signal your attack," Khan said.

  Godfried nodded at the Mongol, then moved out to take the attack to the enemy's right flank. Rolaff was now toting an M-16 with an M-203 grenade launcher. The Weatherby rifle was slung around the Swede's shoulder. Godfried hadn't seen Rolaff do any headhunting yet, but he knew that he was about to.

  As they closed down on the mercs, Godfried heard them hollering obscenities, in the belief that they had won a temporary victory. It was temporary, all right, the Brit thought, crouching behind a tree. Now they would all feel the sting of defeat, taste the bile of death in their mouths.

  The Mongol's first arrow drilled into the back of Toby's neck. Toby toppled to the bank like a block of concrete, his spinal cord severed by the arrow, the point jutting out of his throat. Angry, shocked mercs whipped around toward the jungle. But it was too late for them.

  Godfried cut loose with his G-11. A 40 mm grenade streaked away from Rolaff's cover, and the explosion sent mercs whirling away from the bank and splashing into the water. Godfried and Rolaff worked their field of fire from left to right, hemming in the mercs with a deadly pincer of autofire. More arrows whistled through the jungle, Khan finding targets with back and chest shots. Godfried was amazed by the speed with which the Mongol could reload the bow and fire, about as fast as the Brit could mow down the mercs with his G-11. The Mongol was good. Godfried thought that Khan could probably pick off a mosquito with an arrow at fifty yards.

  Within seconds the bank of the stream became littered with corpses, some still twitching.

  The trio of assassins moved swiftly to the bank. There they found the stream filled with human flotsam. A giant caiman was dragging a dead body underwater in its powerful jaws.

  Looking downstream, Godfried saw the gunboat rounding a bend, then disappearing. "Let's grab one of those canoes," he said. "The best defense is a good offense. We'll take the fight to Alchupa's boys."

  Khan looked up at the sky. "It will be dark soon. There will be more killing tonight. We will slip into their camp like ghosts and slay them ail."

  You're damn right we will, Godfried thought, then began leading the way through the jungle, back toward the Viper's camp.

  15

  Bolan found a pleasant surprise waiting for him when Fernando Ortega, the boatrunner, led him to his jungle hideout — a stone hut buried behind a wall of leaves and brush. Smiling, Ortega opened the padlock on the door of the hut and began showing Bolan a variety of weapons, ranging from RPG-7 rocket launchers and Kalashnikovs, to MK-2 frag grenades and just about every type of assault rifle and machine gun from both sides of the iron curtain. It was quite an impressive display.

  Bolan decided on a number of weapons that he would take, but an MM-1 Multiround Projectile Launcher was by far the most useful acquisition. The Executioner knew he would need to throw some heavy firepower at Alchupa's horde. He was outnumbered, but with the MM-1 he wouldn't be outfought. It was a master at spreading instant confusion, death and destruction. Twelve HE rounds could be fired from the squat rocket launcher in less than five seconds.

  "You like?"

  "Yeah, Fernando, I like." But Bolan knew the Spaniard wasn't in the practice of giving weapons away. "How much?" he asked the boatrunner.

  Fernando shrugged. "Nothing. Just the satisfaction of seeing Alchupa and his horde die here in the jungle. And, of course, your promise that I can help myself to some of what remains of the druglord's kingdom."

  "You're on."

  "Then take what you want."

  And Bolan did. Frag grenades. The MM-1. Spare clips for the M-16. An RPG-7. A satchel stuffed with HE rounds for the MM-1 and warheads for the Russian rocket launcher. Loaded down with the hardware he would need to tackle Alchupa, Bolan ordered Fernando to lead him back to the gunboat in the tributary.

  Darkness had begun to creep over the Amazon jungle basin. The jungle stirred with the squawks and the screeches of wild birds and monkeys. Sweating from the oppressive heat, Mack Bolan was ready. The Amazon hell would get a lot hotter before long, and he was eager to crush Anaconda, to skewer the serpent before it slipped away and spread its poison.

  On
their way to the gunboat Nabuco, anchored in the narrow tributary, Fernando had done some bragging about it. Boarding the sleek seventy-footer, which was painted green, Bolan spotted twin .50-caliber machine guns mounted on the stern. The maneaters were belted and ready for action. According to Fernando, the gunboat had been acquired from "friends" in Central America, but that was as far as Fernando would go in divulging information to Bolan. It didn't really matter to the Executioner where or how Fernando had acquired the Nabuco. All that mattered to Bolan was that it ran, and that its guns could spit out death.

  Of course, Bolan realized that he might eventually have to count on Fernando in a firefight. He had already mentioned this to the boatrunner, and Fernando had just grinned and promised he would do his part. Bolan had no doubt that Fernando would contribute. During the long course of his war, he had developed a sixth sense that allowed him to judge men on the spot, to recognize who could be trusted, who couldn't be trusted. If Fernando said he would do something, then Bolan believed him. Fernando talked like he played a big game, and Bolan decided to give the guy the benefit of the doubt.

  "Okay, Fernando," he told the boatrunner, "get in the cabin and fire up the engines. And when I tell you to, kill them." Bolan pointed over the stern toward the outboard canoe that was tied to the gunboat. "I'll go downstream in the canoe. You sit tight until I get back. And be ready for anything. Understand?"

  "Si." I understand."

  Even though he felt he could trust the boatrunner, Bolan stared into Fernando's dark eyes for a moment, searching for any hint of betrayal. You could never really tell for sure. And it never hurt to let a guy know that you were a little leery of him and his intentions. A man's word was only as good as his actions.

  "You can trust me," Fernando said, as if sensing that Bolan wanted some assurance.

  Bolan nodded and loaded the MM-1.

  * * *

  Hector Alchupa had himself worked up into a frenzy. Everything was going to hell, and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do to get back on the right track and avoid total disaster. First, he was enraged with Pablo for turning tail and running when he had ordered them to stand hard against the Viper and fight to the death, right down to the last man. Second, the cocaine was loaded on the gunboat, Lisboa, and they would have to make the dangerous journey down the river to Pinadante's outpost. Alchupa would have preferred to haul the shipment by plane, but now there was no time. The shit had been loaded and Alchupa was anxious to get out of there. He had expected a quick and decisive victory against the Viper, but he should have figured the gringos were tough hombres. Anaconda's numbers had been greatly depleted in the opening battle. Now Alchupa was stuck trying to scrape together enough men and arms for a riposte against the treacherous gringos. If there was one thing Hector Alchupa hated, it was being stuck in a situation rapidly dissolving into chaos before his eyes. He was a man who liked to be in control, a man who had to be in control. If he wasn't in control, then those men around him could well lose confidence in his ability as a leader.

  "Is it all loaded?" Alchupa screamed at Pablo, who was standing on the wharf beside the Lisboa, supervising the final loading of the shipment.

  "Yes. We are ready. Will you be riding with the shipment?"

  "No. I am going by plane. It will be quicker and I will be able to assure that fat pig of a marshal that everything is going to be all right. Now move out! There is not a second to waste."

  But suddenly, from behind him, Alchupa heard screams, a horrible shrieking that cut right through him to the marrow of hi6 bones. Wheeling, he saw that one of his soldiers was engulfed in flames. The incendiary arrow was embedded in the man's stomach. Flailing, slapping at the flames licking his face, the human torch rolled down the bank, splashing into the river.

  Alchupa got himself under control, turned again to the gunboat and urged his men to ignore the grisly distraction and get under way.

  "Move!" he shouted. "Go!"

  Diaz and twenty of his soldiers boarded the boat, and the engines rumbled to life.

  Then, AK-47 in hand, and guarded by a phalanx of more than twenty soldiers, the colonel moved into the jungle and searched for any sign of the attacker. He was shaken and scared, but he wasn't about to show it. He had an image as a fearless leader to uphold.

  "Shoot at anything that moves! Man, monkey, snake, I don't give a damn! Shoot, and keep moving. We can't afford to get pinned down."

  Alchupa had decided he had to get to the airfield. The twin-engine Cessna was his only hope of escape. He was already planning a strategy for when he faced Pinadante again, formulating excuses so fast he couldn't even see straight. Of course, being driven by mindless rage didn't help him to sort out his excuses, either. Just what would he tell the marshal? He must stall, buy time. He would let the fat pig have as much "sample" as he wanted. He would give Pinadante a million dollars' worth of "assurance" money as soon as he met him. But why had everything soured on him like this? he asked himself over and over.

  Another arrow whistled through the darkness. Another scream. Another of Alchupa's soldiers fell, one hand twitching for the arrow speared through his eyeball.

  "Fire! Sweep the jungle!"

  Alchupa's soldiers fired, raking the jungle with relentless 7.62 mm leadstorms.

  Through the fluttering leaves churned up by the barrage of ComBloc lead, Alchupa made his way back to camp. Behind him, he kept hearing more screams as arrows thunked into flesh. One by one his soldiers were dropping. Soon he would be alone, and that frightened him.

  Then he heard a mighty peal of thunder from somewhere deep in the jungle. Turning, he saw the head of one of his soldiers explode like rotten fruit.

  More rolling thunder. The Swede, he thought. The Weatherby high-powered rifle was dropping his troops in their tracks. They were all sitting ducks, lined up in the cross hairs of the assassins' weapons. There was no reason why they should have turned on him like this, he raged to himself as the camp came into sight and he tore through the bush, thorny vines scratching at his face and neck. This was insanity. Why couldn't he trust anybody anymore? Why was everybody out for themselves? It just didn't make any sense to him. He swore viciously.

  At least his troops were right on his heels, providing covering fire as they blanketed the jungle with storms of lead. But what good was that doing? They didn't know who they were firing at, or where the hell the bastards even were. The whole situation was an outrage. He felt cheated. And nobody cheated Hector Alchupa.

  Then, right before Alchupa's eyes, the tents of the camp burst into flames. Arrows sizzled through the air, and within seconds the camp was a firestorm. Black smoke entered Alchupa's nose and mouth, choking him, but at least the fire would light the way for his escape into the jungle. Then he checked that thought. He would be outlined by the blaze, a perfect target for the assassins. He would have to angle his escape away from the burning tents.

  Another soldier behind Alchupa was turned into a flaming scarecrow, then two more of his men bit the jungle floor. In seconds they changed from fireballs into shriveled black mummies. At this rate, Alchupa figured, he would be facing the assassins all alone long before he hit the selva or could board the Cessna and fly to the safety of Pinadante's camp. But he just had to make it to the plane. At least at Pinadante's outpost there would be more soldiers, more guns. If necessary, Alchupa could make some kind of last stand there. Pinadante would have to see reason. He would have to use his own guns against the Viper. Against Mack Bolan.

  Running scared, Alchupa cut through the swirling smoke and crackling flames. He sought the safety of the jungle.

  Relative safety.

  He still had a good two miles to run before he hit the airfield.

  Turning, he saw what remained of his soldiers running behind him. Luis Carmingo had the walkie-talkie set. Alchupa was about to give Carmingo the order to radio the pilot of the Cessna when an arrow drilled through Carmingo's back. Alchupa sensed that he was being saved for last, for whatever reason.
Well, maybe the enemy figured his men were expendable, but he wasn't. That was good enough for him. If the assassins wanted to play with him, then he just might last long enough to escape.

  Alchupa snatched the walkie-talkie from the dead Carmingo. His men were screaming at him, demanding to know what they should do.

  "Keep firing!" Alchupa yelled back, his face twisted with rage and fear.

  He lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth.

  Another scream.

  Another arrow took still one more Anaconda soldier into the void.

  Alchupa swore under his breath. This was a disgrace. Heads would roll for this outrage he was being forced to endure.

  * * *

  Bolan heard the engines of Alchupa's gunboat rumbling in the distance. After giving Fernando the order to cut the engines on their own gunboat, the Nabuco, he jumped aboard the motorized canoe. Fernando understood what he had to do. He had to tear into the enemy gunboat, the Lisboa, with .50-caliber machine gun fire, covering Bolan's advance on the adversary. It was time for Fernando to prove himself as a warrior, Bolan thought.

  While Fernando stationed himself behind one of the .50-caliber machine guns, Bolan guided the canoe toward the bank and stopped beneath an overhang of leaves. Hidden from the enemy, he waited.

  Around a bend in the stream came the Lisboa, gliding, unaware, into pincers of death. A searchlight on the port side of the boat cut the darkness. A second later the beam swept over the motionless Nabuco near the bank.

  Bolan and Fernando sprang their trap.

  Fernando cut loose with the .50-caliber machine gun. The searchlight popped under the lead onslaught, and blackness once more fell over the stream. The initial machine gun fire mowed down three figures on the starboard side of the Lisboa, bullet-riddled bodies colliding into one another.

  As men yelled and screamed and returned fire from the enemy boat, Bolan quickly paddled away from the bank. Swarms of .50-caliber slugs swept over the enemy boat, ricocheting off the hull from port to stern. Fernando yelled with glee as he raked the Lisboa with the man-eater.