Coming up on the enemy boat from the stern, Bolan pulled the pins on two MK-2 frag grenades and pitched them over the rail. As the frag bombs detonated, victims screamed and the wounded and the dying flipped overboard.
Bolan vaulted the rail. Fernando had been told to end his .50-caliber onslaught as soon as the grenades blew, and right on schedule the machine gun fell silent. So far Fernando was proving he was a worthy ally.
M-16 blazing, Bolan stitched the survivors of the frag blasts. Dark figures were kicked over the rail by Bolan's M-16 autofire, or flopped across the deck as 5.56 mm slugs tore their camous to shreds.
Lifting the pin on another MK-2, Bolan lobbed the grenade through the doorway of the cabin as two soldiers charged out of the war room with blazing AK-47s. The explosion ripped the soldiers to bloody rags, and bits and pieces spattered the bulkhead of the cabin.
Bolan moved toward the cabin, the stench of blood and cordite in his nose. His eyes riveted on the cabin, he didn't see Pablo Diaz lunge up from behind the .50-caliber machine gun nest. But when Diaz rushed him, machete raised, Bolan heard the thump of his boots on the deck. Spinning, he looked into the crazed eyes of Diaz only a few yards away. Just as the machete began its descent to split Bolan's face, the night was ripped asunder by the roar of .50-caliber machine gun fire. Heavy lead chopped up Diaz's side, kicking him toward the rail. With superhuman strength, the Spanish giant fought through the lead typhoon, trying to gel to Bolan, but the .50-caliber leadstorm drilled him in the chest, then the face, bursting his features, shattering his skull and finally flipping him over the rail.
Bolan looked toward Fernando. "Hey!"
"Sorry, senor. I did not think that you saw him. I am pretty good shot, eh? I told you I was good. I told you I could be trusted, no?"
Bolan looked around the deck. It was littered with corpses, and the metal floorboards were slick with blood. Soon he spotted what he was looking for — the plastic-wrapped kilos of cocaine, the poisonous backbone, the sinister lifeblood of Anaconda.
Smoothly Bolan rolled over the railing, landing with catlike grace in his canoe, then he pulled the pin of an incendiary grenade and pitched it over the railing. Seconds later an explosion, then a fiery whoosh began to consume Anaconda's cocaine payload.
Cranking on the rope starter, Bolan fired up the motor of the canoe. Quickly he made his way back to the Nabuco. As he got aboard, he found Fernando grinning like a fool.
"We do good work together, eh, señor?"
"It's far from being over, Fernando. Now we hit Alchupa's camp. Hard."
"I understand." Then Fernando looked toward the pyre that had been the Lisboa as flames licked over the deck. "Señor?"
"Yeah?" Bolan growled.
"Were there any spoils on that boat?"
"What?"
"Spoils."
"Just a few million dollars' or more worth of cocaine. You want it that bad?" The Executioner looked over his shoulder at the burning gunboat. "Be my guest, Fernanda"
"No thank you, senor. I am happy being the captain of your vessel. I am content being family man. Besides, I told you, I do not do the white shit anymore."
"Good for you."
"And bad for them," the boatrunner muttered to himself, looking at the corpses bobbing in the stream.
16
Alchupa hit the selva with one thought in mind: to get the hell out of there. Less than twenty yards ahead, he saw the Cessna's propellers began to spin. Freedom. Escape. It was all or nothing now. The colonel heard the rasping breath of his soldiers as they ran up on his heels. They, too, realized flight to safety was imminent. Silently he cursed them for being more concerned about their own personal safety than his flight to freedom. After all, he was more important than they were. He was just about to order them to fall back and provide covering fire so that he could board the plane, when something streaked over the tall grass beside him.
All or nothing became nothing, and Hector Alchupa cursed the dog and the dog's mother who turned the night into hell.
Instantly, even before the 40 mm grenade hit into the fuselage of the Cessna, Alchupa knew what was going to happen, and he screamed in horror and rage. His escape went up in flames.
"Nooooooo!"
The Cessna was pulverized in a tremendous explosion. Twisted scraps of metal whirled away from the fireball, banging into the selva around the colonel. Covering his head, Alchupa hit the grass. When debris finally stopped falling, he looked back, enraged, at the forbidding, dark tree line of the jungle. The attack had come from there. But how? He had to find the assassins and finish them. But nothing was going right. He briefly wondered if he was even up to the task of flushing out the assassins and slaughtering them in their tracks, then he cursed himself for having such cowardly thoughts, for almost giving into such defeatist feelings.
As frightening as the situation had become, Alchupa saw his worst fears realized in the next moment. His soldiers turned tail and began fleeing for the jungle, running helter-skelter in their panic. Alchupa would never have thought he would be capable of killing his own men, killing soldiers who had served him faithfully, but the urge to kill overpowered him now. The past few hours had snapped his nerve. There was no point in keeping his fury under control any longer. Fury just might win back the night and turn the tide of victory his way.
"Come back!" he raged at his troops, and when they didn't stop, he decided it was time to drive his point home. With his Kalashnikov he mowed down two of his men, stitching a line of 7.62 mm slugs up their spines. "Cowards! Stand and fight!"
It was no use. Hector Alchupa's world was crumbling into utter ruin, and his trusty, loyal soldiers didn't give a shit.
The colonel's personal black siren of doom sounded again. In the blink of an eye, the sky rained fire down on Alchupa, and his brief unleashing of raw fury ended abruptly in a firestorm.
Arrows streaked from the jungle and thunked into the ground in a ring around the colonel. As soon as they found their mark, the incendiary arrowheads burst and fire blazed, consuming several square yards of brittle dry grass around the colonel within seconds.
Surging through a narrow gap in the wall of fire, the colonel viciously cursed his men. They had already vanished into the jungle, and were heading for the river. Now he was alone, forced to confront the assassins himself.
Even though he was down to the last 30-round banana clip for his AK-47, Alchupa was determined to find the hired killers. If he stayed low to the ground, using the tall grass as cover, then he could advance toward the jungle. It was his only chance. To stay in the selva meant certain death.
It was a long time since Hector Alchupa had felt such a burning hatred, such a murderous rage to kill. The assassins had pushed him too far. There comes a time, he thought, when enough is enough. There comes a time when a man has to hold his ground and fight, no matter what the odds.
* * *
Geoffrey Godfried was a man who always felt strong and in control. But when the odds were stacked his way, he felt invincible.
The odds were now piled high in his favor. Sky-high. The best was yet to come for him, he thought, and the worst was about to happen for the colonel.
Godfried was already thinking ahead. Unless he missed his guess, Mack Bolan would show himself, sooner or later, somewhere in the vicinity of Alchupa's camp. He hoped it was sooner. Regardless of what the Mongol said, Bolan didn't have a place in the world as far as Godfried was concerned. He was nothing more than a bleeding heart crusader. Eventually Bolan would want to kill the three of them, simply because he would feel they were his enemies. They were murderers for hire, after all. But wasn't Bolan a killer, too, a cold-blooded death machine? Bolan killed for ideals, whereas the three of them killed for money. So what was the difference really? Killing was killing. The Executioner was fair game, Godfried thought, for he was part of this war, too. This was a winner-take-all fight.
Godfried wanted to use Alchupa as the bait to lure Bolan into a death trap. When he returned to t
he U.K., he wanted to be able to present the head of Bolan to some of his sponsors. Hell, hadn't the Columbian colonel wanted to do the same thing? By icing Bolan, Alchupa had believed he would command more respect and could bargain for the highest bidder. Godfried would just do the same. But first he had to bag the colonel.
The British killer turned and looked at the Mongol. In the wavering firelight, as the selva became an inferno beyond them Liao Khan appeared sinister. He wasn't a man who could be trusted, Godfried thought. Khan talked about honor and how a worthy man, a man of character and principles, had a place in the world, but Godfried couldn't help but wonder if that was all bullshit, a smoke screen so that the Asian assassin could achieve his own goals, whatever they were. Godfried suspected that all the Mongol really wanted was to get out of the Amazon jungle and return to the parched soil of the Mongolian plateau.
"Unless I'm wrong, Bolan will be coming," the Brit announced.
"So? And?"
Godfried twisted sideways to level a hard gaze at the Swede. "So? And? Bolan could help us get out of here. We haven't done anything to him. Surely he would want us as allies."
"Get to the point," the Swede said, his voice a harsh whisper nearly drowned by the roar of crackling flames. "You are making less sense to me with each passing moment."
Godfried was getting pissed. "My point is to catch the colonel. He's what Bolan wants, right?"
The Mongol grunted.
"What does that mean?" Godfried asked.
"It means you may have a point."
"Damn right I do. We need a boat. We need another gun for whatever might be waiting for us downriver — army patrols, or some of the colonel's buddies, whatever. Hell, we could end up facing a whole other army before we got ten miles downstream. Think about it."
"Then let's bag us the head snake of Anaconda," Rolaff said, and, M-16 in hand, he broke from cover, surging ahead into the tall grass of the selva.
Khan moved out to Alchupa's left flank. Godfried waited behind for a moment, then bolted out of the jungle, cutting into the grass in a crouch. As the inferno gathered force and the flames spread, he saw a head bob over the grass to his left. The colonel became an easy target, his figure lit by the intense fiery glow all around him.
"Alchupa!" Godfried yelled. He ducked as he anticipated the colonel's reaction.
Alchupa sprayed the grass with a long burst of AK-47 autofire.
Looking up, Godfried saw the colonel still clearly outlined by the firelight. The perfect target became an easy mark.
A Mongol arrow drilled into Alchupa's shoulder. Screaming, he fired wildly. As he toppled, he pulled back on the trigger, emptying the entire clip in a blind panic.
Godfried rushed ahead. A second later he parted the grass, and with a savage kick, he knocked the assault rifle out of Alchupa's hands. The blow shattered the colonel's wrist.
Godfried decided to savor this moment of triumph. He pointed his G-11 at Alchupa's contorted features.
"Why?" Alchupa snarled through clenched teeth, as Godfried was joined by Rolaff and Khan. "I offered you everything."
"You didn't offer enough, Colonel," Godfried said, the head from the fire sheathing his face in an orange glow. Bending over, the Brit grasped the arrow and pushed down. Then, as Alchupa screamed, Godfried punched the heel of his boot into the colonel's chest. Pinned to the ground, Alchupa lay rigid, his eyes bulging in pain and disbelief.
"I believe there's an Executioner who would like to talk with you," Godfried announced.
The colonel looked up at him, confused.
Godfried twisted the arrow. He was unaware that he was smiling while the colonel screamed through gritted teeth.
* * *
As soon as Fernando pulled the Nabuco up to the wharf, Bolan disembarked. MM-1 in hand, he ran down the wharf, primed and ready to deliver decisive death blows to Anaconda.
"Wait!"
Bolan stopped and looked back as Fernando hit the wharf, running. There was a Kalashnikov in the boatrunner's hands, and he looked anxious to use the weapon.
"I go with you."
"Why not?" Bolan said, and forged into the trees. Less than ten feet into the jungle, he smelled the smoke and the stench of burning flesh. Someone had already hit Alchupa.
"Fife," Fernando breathed, moving up behind Bolan, who was crouching for a moment behind a tree, searching the jungle. "I can find Alchupa's camp for you. I have been there recently. I sold him three dozen AKs and a dozen RPGs." Fernando shrugged when he met Bolan's ice-cold stare. "Another bad deal with bad men, eh? But I have to make a living. Perhaps this is the chance for me to, how do you say, redeem myself for my sins. Eh?"
"We'll see."
"I am sincere."
"I believe you are, Fernando. Where's the camp?"
"It is just ahead."
"Lead the way."
Swiftly but cautiously, combat senses on full alert, Bolan followed Fernando.
After they'd left behind the flaming Lisboa, their journey downstream had been uneventful. But now gut feeling told Bolan that was about to change.
Several minutes later they reached Alchupa's camp, or rather, what remained of the colonel's jungle hideout.
A raging firestorm greeted Bolan and Fernando. The fire had spread from the tents and was now lapping ferociously through the bush, fingering flaming tongues up countless trees.
"Mother of God! Unless there is a storm..."
Fernando didn't have to tell Bolan that hundreds, maybe even thousands of acres of the jungle would be consumed in the firestorm unless a tremendous rainfall extinguished the flames. A full moon and countless stars had guided them downstream in a gunboat, so a thunderstorm was unlikely, at least not very soon. The fire would just have to rage out of control.
There was a fire in Mack Bolan's heart, too, for in the next moment he became more concerned with animal man.
The Executioner counted ten figures bolting through the jungle to his left. They were racing at breakneck speed for the stream. Whether they were Alchupa's cutthroats or the Viper's mercs, it didn't matter to Bolan.
They were the enemy.
Bolan triggered off four HE rounds from his MM-1. As the explosions ripped through the jungle, flinging men into the air like broken bowling pins, Fernando cut loose with his AK-47.
Unleathering Big Thunder, Bolan decided it was best not to take any prisoners at this stage of the battle.
Three of Alchupa's goons escaped the first fireblasts, but were still outlined in the shimmering curtain of firelight. Bolan dropped the trio of cutthroats with thunderous peals from the AutoMag. Three headshots. Three lightning kills. Three more dead savages.
The Executioner was ready to move on in the direction from which the latest victims in the jungle fight had come, when a voice hollered, "Bolan!"
Instantly Bolan and Fernando ducked behind trees for cover. Bolan searched the gloom beyond the firewall, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. He waited, listened with mounting impatience. One minute it seemed that he was the hunter, the next he was the hunted.
Then he saw a figure flung away from the trees. Hector Alchupa stumbled, pitched face first to the ground, landing near the center of the firestorm. Grunting, he struggled to raise himself on his hands and knees. A slew of vile curses ripped from his mouth. The arrow stuck in the colonel's shoulder didn't escape the Executioner's gaze. Sweat was pouring down the colonel's face. Fire swirled around him, and the closeness of the heat and the flames appeared to have terrified the renegade Colombian colonel.
"Listen up, Bolan," the same voice called out once again.
"Show yourself."
A second of taut silence stretched out. Flames crackled, rotten branches groaned in the hellish blaze. Then Geoffrey Godfried walked through tendrils of black smoke, the G-11 in his hand. He looked like some avenging angel of death.
"I could have killed you right now if I'd wanted to, Bolan."
Bolan decided it was best not to try to call Godfried's bluf
f at the moment. He knew that the other two hired murderers were out there somewhere.
"What do you want?"
"A deal."
"I'm listening. But I'm not making any promises."
"Okay, fair enough. You want Alchupa, well, there the bastard is, right there."
Silence. Then Bolan asked, "What's the deal?"
"That you help us get out of here."
"Bolan!" Alchupa yelled, struggling to prop himself on his elbows. "Listen to me. They will turn me over to you like a lamb for the slaughter, but they will kill you, too, the first chance they get. You cannot get out of the jungle alive. Marshal Pinadante will be waiting for you downriver."
With the heel of his boot, Godfried kicked Alchupa to the ground. "Shut up!"
"Let him talk," Bolan growled at Godfried. It would be easy to drop Godfried with a headshot, Bolan knew. The guy was standing out in the open, lit up like some devil by the roaring fire. But Bolan realized he, too, had to get out of the Amazon, and there was only one way left for any of them to go — downriver. Besides, it sounded to Bolan as if Alchupa's sponsor was nearby. There was little doubt in Bolan's mind that this Pinadante was involved with Anaconda. As long as he was going downriver, Bolan figured he might as well keep on searching out and destroying Anaconda wherever it was nested.
"Who is Pinadante?" Bolan asked Alchupa.
"He is marshal of the Brazilian army," Alchupa answered.
"Your sponsor?"
"What?"
"Is he financing Anaconda?"
"I am financing Anaconda!" Alchupa angrily shot back. "I am in charge. Me alone!"
"Yeah, you are alone, Alchupa. Your men are all dead. Your precious shipment of coke is about to sink to the bottom of the river. The only thing that will be getting high on your coke will be the caiman and the piranha. Now the best thing you can do for yourself is lead me to this Pinadante."
"Will you let me live?"
Blood of the Lion Page 14
