Keio Ohara, the man who had forgotten more than a ninja was ever taught, found what he was looking for—Colonel Boris Yagoda. The youthful KGB officer was wrapped tight inside a poncho. But he was not to be the shadow warrior's target. Keio wanted the man lying right beside him: the Cuban sergeant.
The fellow turned restlessly, emitted a snuffling little snore, and murmured, "Te quiero. . .", whoever he was making this sleepy declaration of love to would never hear him say it again.
Keio worked swiftly, silently and utterly without mercy. What he did was not pretty. It was not intended to be. And when he had finished the grisly task, Ohara left the hefty blade sticking through the sergeant's chest, then he melted back into the night.
Encizo punctured one of the tires with his bloodstained blade and turned to slash at the wheel on the next truck. A sentry appeared behind him without warning, wondering what the hell was going on. He thought one of his buddies was on the prowl for extra rations.
"Hey!" was all he got out before Bolan rammed a spear through his shoulder blade. Encizo, his heart still pounding from surprise, reached up and caught both man and rifle before they could clatter on the gravel.
"How are you doing?" hissed Bolan.
Encizo nodded. He was just about through.
"Grab some ammo or food from the back of that other truck and let's get the hell out of here!"
"You got it."
Bolan swung a sack of rice over his shoulder and began to withdraw. He was limping slightly; the cat's claws had dug deep.
But he was not as badly mauled as Yagoda's platoon.
In single file they scrambled round the side of the hill. Ohara carried a box of grenades. Mulanda had the rifle slung over his shoulder and both arms wrapped round a large carton of canned goods. Encizo was lugging two metal containers of 7.62mm ammunition.
They crowded into the Land Rover with the rewards of their night raid. Keio handed Bolan a medical pack. He ripped open his tattered trouser leg, doused the cuts with disinfectant, dusted the wound with powder and tied on a dressing. It was the best he could do as Mulanda rolled forward and followed the wadi without revving the engine.
No shouts of surprise or alarm echoed after them.
10
Katz propped himself on one elbow and shook his head to clear it. It was later than he intended to wake. Dawn was filtering through a bank of gray clouds to the east. It would be fully light in minutes. McCarter was still asleep just inside the doorway to the forge.
Katz splashed some water over his face. Manning must have been patrolling the outskirts of the village. Maybe Rawson was with him—there was no sign of the surveyor.
The villagers were already starting about their day's business. They kept to the rhythms of the sun and the seasons. The blacksmith plodded down the street carrying a basket of charcoal and dried cattle dung for his fire.
Katz was getting his gear together when the first scream shattered the early-morning stillness.
A second angry, protesting cry came as Katz raced down the dirt road, Uzi at the ready.
Rawson had the girl pinned down in the dust beside her hut. The cotton blouse she'd put on was ripped open. One callused hand was grasping her breast, the other was trying to shut up her screams. She squirmed to free herself but was pinned down by Rawson's weight as he straddled her middle.
"You bloody fool, Rawson!" Katz held the SMG waist high and pointing at the surveyor. Manning sprinted in from the other direction to investigate the shouts. "Do you want to screw everything up? Get off her. Now!"
The girl lay absolutely still. McCarter appeared at Katz's shoulder. But Rawson remained where he was, weighing his chances. They wouldn't dare shoot him. They needed him.
"You've got till I count to three," warned the Israeli. "If you don't move, you're a dead man."
The icy tone in his voice left no room for bargaining. "One."
Rawson knew it was hopeless to even think of going for the pistol at his hip. The three Phoenix men had their weapons trained directly on him. He would be cut to shreds before his gun cleared the holster.
"Two."
McCarter's finger began to tighten on the trigger. He saw something flicker in Rawson's eyes. Fear . . . hope?
"Three." It wasn't Katz who spoke. The deep voice came from behind them. "And now I suggest you all drop your guns!"
Their heads jerked around. The black officer standing in the street wore leopard-spot dungarees and a camouflage kepi pulled menacingly low over his eyes, which were shielded behind aviator-styled sunglasses. He waved the muzzle of his pistol toward the ground. "I said throw down your weapons!"
Three other Leopard Patrol troopers were spread out behind him. Their rifles were levelled and ready to fire. If they were surprised to find foreign mercenaries in this out-of-the-way village it didn't show. They waited only for the order to cut down these uninvited guests.
Katz dropped the Uzi. It was the only thing he could do to buy time. He cursed himself for having been taken unawares. Dawn was the obvious time for the Leopard Patrol to strike. He cursed Rawson for causing the commotion that had diverted his attention.
Manning felt the bile rise at the back of his throat as he let go of the Belgian rifle. It toppled into the dust. He was the one who was supposed to have been on watch!
Rawson did not know whether to laugh or cry. He had literally been caught with his pants down. He was not going to lose face over the girl now . . . but that was scant relief. He just might lose his life. The Leopard Patrol was not known for its tender mercies.
"And your side arms, too! Very slowly!"
Captain Mwekango, the officer with the sunglasses, was enjoying himself. The early morning hours were always the best time to surprise a village, but he had not counted on a catch like this! He nodded to the NCO who, in turn, signalled down the street for their truck to move in.
With the mercs disarmed, Mwekango's men relaxed a little—not their trigger fingers, just their expressions. These four were big men—three of them were—but without their guns they didn't look like les Affreux.
Mwekango was very curious about what this small unit was doing in Kuranda. It was going to be an amusing morning's work finding out. He could smell a promotion.
"Take them down to that blacksmith's forge," he ordered, as more of his men jumped out of the truck. "And stoke up the fire!"
"SLOW DOWN." Bolan spoke to his driver.
Mulanda eased his foot off the gas pedal.
Protected by an undulating ridge of granite, they had rejoined the main track about seven miles south of Shoba Well. Driving through the dark had made the return journey almost twice as long. There had been no junctions or intersections with any other road and yet they had seen no sign of their comrades.
Bolan glanced at his watch for the fourth time in half an hour. Surely there was no way they could have missed them?
The sun had broken through the clouds as they climbed the steep, twisting pass through the Mambosso hills.
"They must have got at least this far," said Encizo.
They crossed the disused railway line in silence, still hoping to see the old Ford truck come rattling down the sandy trail.
"If they did set off—" Mulanda pointed to the ground in front of them "—then they didn't come this way. Those tracks are the same ones we made yesterday."
"How far is it back to that village?" Bolan asked the guide.
"See those trees," Mulanda said, nodding toward a broad belt of feverthorns well down the track. "About a mile beyond that point, I'd say. Shall I go ahead and scout around, bwana?"
"No." The American commander weighed his decision for only a second. "If they are in any kind of trouble, we might all be needed."
The two men in the back were already checking their weapons.
"Park under those trees," Bolan instructed the driver. "We'll go the rest of the way in by foot."
RAWSON COULD NOT STOP his legs from trembling. How the others could take this so ca
lmly was beyond him. They had been forced to stand in the center of the street, in the direct sunlight, with their hands folded flat on top of their heads while Mwekango decided what to do with them.
The dark brown canvas flap of the truck's canopy had been folded up. Sitting there in the shade, one of Mwekango's men covered the five prisoners with a Soviet-made RPK. It was set on automatic. Two of the other soldiers were laughing as they waited for the forge to heat the tire iron.
Katz wondered which of the villagers had given Kambolo away. It hadn't taken long for the Leopard Patrol to round him up. They were fast and thorough—patting down each of the Phoenix men and removing their knives—but they had overlooked one small thing: none of the soldiers had asked Katz to remove the leather glove from his right hand.
He stared at the machine gunner squatting in the truck. Katz had one shot loaded in the finger gun and he had to decide how best to use it.
The marauder manning the RPK was too far away. To be sure of a kill, Katz had to fire at almost point blank range. He focused his attention on the officer and began to calculate their chances.
Mwekango stood with his feet apart, rocking slightly on his heels, his hand lightly slapping against his trouser leg. He missed toying with his familiar fimbo as he considered his options.
There was clearly an insurrection afoot. How many other mercenaries had infiltrated Kuranda? Bambabele must be mad to think his scheme would work. These men were nearly two hundred miles from the capital. But where else had they penetrated Kuranda?
There was a transmitter in the truck but Mwekango hesitated to call for the spotter plane. Yesterday General Mumungo had been at the controls himself. He had used the radio to tear a strip off the captain for his lack of success in collecting sufficient taxes. Mwekango had taken out his own frustrated rage on some nameless village back up the track. Now he had caught these foreigners. It was a coup that would restore him to Mumungo's favor.
There was little that scared Mwekango, except for his unpredictable commander in chief. The last officer in charge of the Leopard Patrol had been suspected of helping himself to some of the revenues he'd collected. Mumungo had castrated him personally.
Mwekango did not want to end up a eunuch. He shuddered as he thought of his three mistresses. He decided to radio for the plane immediately. But there would still be time for him to do a little interrogating of his own.
He glanced across at the unit leader. The captain detected a sense of humanity lurking in the flinty depths of the older man's eyes. How long would he hold out when forced to watch his men being tortured? It would be done slowly and very carefully . . . .
Mwekango did not want any of them dying before the plane arrived.
BOLAN AND THE NIGHT TEAM spread out in a line as they picked their way carefully through the undergrowth. The trees ahead were thinning out. Beyond the dusty vegetation, a threadbare patchwork of fields left the last half-mile to the village open.
The American pushed a thornbush aside as he considered the best way to make their final approach. Thwack!
The makeshift club caught Bolan almost full across the chest.
His wounded leg buckled under him. Caught off balance, Bolan had been knocked to the ground by a burly figure hiding behind the tree. Even as he fell, Bolan thrashed out, turning the attacker's own weapon against him.
The broken branch caught the fellow in the side, smacking him hard just below the ribs. With a hiss of pain, the assailant swept the wood aside like kindling and threw himself onto the white man.
They grappled furiously, each seeking a death grip. Both were now half-blinded by the fine dust they stirred up. Bolan still had one hand on the M-16, but the rifle was jammed between their bodies. Getting a sideways hold on the weapon, he was able to use it as a lever to push his attacker off his chest.
The man sprang back and snatched up a rock. The odds were even that he'd crush Bolan's head at the same moment he would be cut down by the rifle fire. But just as he raised the heavy stone, another powerful black arm circled his throat and dragged him bodily backward.
Hearing the scramble in the bushes, Mulanda was the first to appear. He clamped his forearm across the man's windpipe and brought his knee up hard into the small of the man's back. He dropped the stone in his effort to pull Mulanda's arm away from his throat.
Mulanda was just about to finish him off . . . . "Ziemba!"
Bolan sat up, brushing the dust from his eyes. He recognized the man now—it was the same guy the two of them had run down in the cornfield! The villager who had pleaded to come with them. It was the second time they had fought each other in as many days. Well, he had certainly recovered a more aggressive spirit.
"What the . . . ?" Encizo appeared, holding his wicked Skorpion ready to fire.
Bolan waved for him to be quiet as the Mussengamba cross-questioned Ziemba in rapid dialect.
"He says he's most sorry, bwana . . . he would not have attacked you."
"What the hell's he doing here?"
"He's been tracking the Leopard Patrol. Saw a few of them sneaking around at dawn. . . ."
More questions.
"Ziemba was making a full circle of the village." Mulanda translated the answers. "Heard us coming. . . and thought we were the rest of the Leopard men. He hid behind that tree. His only thought was to take as many with him as he could. Ziemba's quite prepared to die, bwana, but he still wants vengeance."
"It sounds as if Mumungo's men have taken the village, then," said Ohara.
"Did he hear any shots?" asked Bolan. "Was there any sound of fighting?"
Mulanda questioned the villager. Ziemba shook his head.
"Maybe the others had to withdraw to the south," suggested the Cuban. "It would explain why we haven't seen them."
Bolan shook his head. "In that case they'd have circled around through the bush and still gotten back to the road."
Ziemba spoke again and pointed to the outskirts of the village.
"There's a ravine that runs past those trees," explained Mulanda. "He was going to use it to get in close."
Bolan studied what he could through the field glasses for the moment. From this angle, the last two huts cut off his view of the blacksmith's shop and the street. But he could make out the canvas top of the . . . . Wait, there were two trucks! So the Leopard Patrol had seized the town. And his men were still there.
"Rafael, I want you and Keio to find that gully and sneak in as close as you can. Leave your pistols with me. I'm going to need them."
The two men nodded and unholstered their side arms.
Bolan turned to Mulanda. "Tell Ziemba to crawl across those fields and move in from the right."
The driver had hardly finished translating when Ziemba smacked his chest. He could accept the challenge. The tribesman jumped up and ran to the tree behind which he had hidden. He reappeared holding a longbow and a leather quiver full of savagely barbed arrows. The tip of each arrowhead had been dipped in the sap of the evergreen aconkanthera. One scratch of the toxin would kill a man after thirty minutes of lingering agony. Ziemba was ready for the hunt.
"Tell him he's not to fire until he hears the first shot," Bolan ordered. He turned to the others. "The same goes for you guys."
They synchronized their watches.
"I'll give you fifteen minutes to get in position," said Bolan. "Move out, there's no time to waste."
"How are we going to reach the village, bwana?" Mulanda asked, as soon as the others had left.
Bolan pointed down the track. "You and I are going to walk right in."
For once Mulanda's mouth was set in a grim line. He didn't like the sound of that idea at all.
WITH ONE HAND on the tailgate, Mwekango vaulted down onto the street. The message had been relayed. It would be at least three hours before the plane was due to arrive.
Was there anywhere it could land nearby? The captain thought the dirt road into town was sufficiently hard to serve as a temporary airstrip. In that case, he w
as to choose two of the prisoners to be flown back to headquarters for interrogation.
One of the troopers used a pair of tongs to pull the tire iron from the forge. The metal was glowing cherry red. It was time for the fun to start.
It was still early but already boiling hot. The mercenary invaders had been left in the sun to sweat for long enough. Mwekango nodded to his corporal to start the selection process. It would be but a cruel charade. They had discussed the matter out of earshot of the prisoners. The older man, the one who sounded a bit like an Afrikaaner, seemed the most nervous. The captain decided they were likely to break him far quicker than those other hard-eyed bastards. But Corporal Kagwa wanted to tease them some more, to play on their fears that they might be the first one to be chosen.
There was plenty of time. Mwekango did not begrudge the opportunity for his corporal to amuse himself.
The noncommissioned officer strutted down the line, pausing before each man. Kambolo stared at the ground. Kagwa stuck the wooden switch he was using as a swagger stick beneath the black prisoner's chin, and levered his head up until he could look right into the man's petrified face. It would not take long to get this one to confess what he was doing with the white dogs—in fact, it would hardly provide the squad with decent sport.
The barrel-chested foreigner who stood next to him was quite a different story. Kagwa had never before met anyone who was able to withstand their methods of questioning. If such a man existed, the corporal had the uncomfortable feeling he was looking right at him.
Rawson was standing next in line to Manning. His arm ached abominably. When the bull-necked corporal stood in front of him, he thought he was going to wet his pants. But Kagwa did not linger. He didn't want this man to know that he was the one they'd already selected.
David McCarter was worried. Not for himself—he had long ago come to terms with that. He was concerned that they would call upon Rawson as their first victim. The surveyor talked tough enough, all right, but if they put that red-hot poker near his ass he'd spill everything he knew just to save it. And that meant there'd be a full-scale sweep for Colonel Phoenix, Keio and his Cuban buddy. McCarter was not going to let that happen. He cleared his throat.
Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River Page 8
