Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River

by Pendleton, Don

  The NCO took a step closer to the captured merc. McCarter stared sheepishly at the dirt. Kagwa poked forward with his stick . . . and that was when McCarter pursed his lips and spit.

  An ugly gobbet of phlegm landed foursquare on the corporal's toe cap.

  McCarter raised his eyes to meet Kagwa's enraged expression. He gave a derisive shrug. "England expects . . . unghh!"

  The noncom rammed his stick hard into the cocky pig's solar plexus. McCarter doubled forward with a gasp of pain. He stumbled, but refused to go down on his knees.

  Katz dared not move. He'd shared the same worries and guessed precisely why McCarter had taken action. That crazy Englishman! Crazy as a fox. He had more guts than it was fair to expect of a man. There were eleven other troopers in Mwekango's patrol, but Katz silently swore he was going to get that corporal first.

  Kagwa pulled his prized Colt from his belt and waved it in McCarter's face. He let out a torrent of invective; then, catching his breath, he turned to glance over at his commanding officer.

  Mwekango nodded his approval. They could start with that impudent swine instead. It would be an object lesson for these foreigners to see how their arrogance was rewarded in the new Kuranda. And Captain Mwekango had not forgotten the question of taxes. He would line the villagers up before they started, to see what would happen to anyone who angered the Leopard Patrol. Then he'd have no trouble exacting the tribute to Buka Ntanga.

  There was one thing Kagwa wanted to do first before the interrogation started. He leaned forward and hit McCarter at the base of the neck, then smashed him again with the butt of his pistol. This time the Englishman went down, collapsing groggily to his knees.

  The Israeli seized the opportunity of this painful diversion to switch his hands over. The prosthetic limb, still encased in its glove, now lay on top.

  Kagwa stuck out his foot, directly under McCarter's face. He was going to make the prisoner lick his boot clean.

  The troopers were relaxed now, sniggering to see one of les Affreux grovelling in front of their corporal.

  Katz knew that none of them had a hope in hell. But if that was where he was going, then he'd take this swaggering noncom with him.

  11

  A movement in the back of the truck caught Katz's eye. The barrel of the machine gun was swivelling away from them. One of the men lounging in the entrance of the smithy shouted a warning.

  Mwekango, inspecting the Ford and wondering where these mercenaries had stolen an old mining truck, stepped out of the shade. The interrogation was momentarily forgotten . . . .

  Another white mercenary! And this one was being prodded into the village as the prisoner of one of the villagers. The merc was a big man with a brutal expression. It looked like he'd been wounded in the leg; still, he could not have been easy to take alive.

  The captain was so pleased that a villager had caught a mercenary that he hardly glanced at the native's rifle. If it had not been half-concealed by Bolan's body, he might have wondered where a poor farmer laid his hands on an AK-47.

  The fifteen minutes were up; Bolan could only trust that the rest of the Phoenix team were in position. He did not have to feign his awkward gait. The cuts in his leg were burning hot, and he had three big pistols tucked uncomfortably in the back of his belt.

  The men were grinning as they watched the villager jab the prisoner with the muzzle of his rifle. Mwekango strolled toward the center of the street. He decided they would start the questioning with this man. Despite his limp, the big merc had the bearing of a natural leader. A hot poker applied to that leg might produce some interesting answers.

  With an evil sneer, Corporal Kagwa half turned to gloat at Katz. What the . . . ! He had dared to unfold his hands! And why was the man pointing at him so accusingly?

  Kagwa found out as the tip of that gloved finger exploded.

  The corporal's right eye mushed into a spurting red crater.

  Bolan had stepped to one side. Both hands flew behind his back and reappeared holding two Colt automatics.

  "Gary!" He threw one to Manning as he took a left-handed bead on the nearest guard.

  His sideways movement had left Mulanda with a clear field of fire. The first burst from the Kalashnikov caught Mwekango in the shoulder. The captain spun around from the impact and crashed into the dust. The tracker continued to blast at the truck, blowing the machine gunner back into the shadowy recess. He kept on firing.

  Less than five seconds had elapsed since Katz blew the back off Kagwa's head. The members of the much vaunted Leopard Patrol were not used to the idea of anyone ever fighting back. They were utterly rattled that these men had taken the initiative against them.

  Seeing both their leader and his second-in-command cut down, the rest of the squad were left in total chaos. Three of the troopers who had been standing behind the prisoners took to their heels and ran for the cover of the nearest alleyway between the huts.

  Katz's personalized firepower was limited to a single shot. There was neither time nor point in trying to reload. A fourth man was trying to line up Bolan in his sights. Katz simply spun around and grabbed the rifleman in a terminal bear hug. The man dropped his weapon as he was crushed within that iron grip.

  McCarter had snatched up Kagwa's Colt and shot one of the guards as he dived for cover behind the old Ford. The damn piece jammed! He drew the slide to the rear and knocked out the stuck case. By the time it was re-cocked, the other soldier had fled behind the blacksmith's shop.

  Within a split second of catching the pistol Bolan had thrown to him, Manning snapped off a round at the guy by the forge. The trooper was knocked back across the white-hot charcoal and started screaming horribly. The Canadian did not put him out of his scorching misery. Manning whirled around, dropped to one knee and took aim at the last of the soldiers vanishing between the thatched huts.

  Katz was still holding the struggling trooper in both arms. McCarter plucked the man's own bayonet from its scabbard and punched it in hard between his ribs. Only then did Katz let go.

  The three men who had scurried behind the houses just kept on running. They headed for the stand of acacia trees. It looked like refuge from the bloodbath that had been unleashed. It wasn't—Encizo and Ohara were waiting for them.

  Bolan smiled grimly as he heard the crack of Keio's rifle followed by the ugly chatter of the Skorpion.

  Mwekango was not dead. He crawled toward the shelter of the smithy. Only Mulanda saw him, and he was reloading. The wounded Leopard Patrol leader made it behind the safety of the thick mud walls.

  He slithered over the rear wall of the blacksmith's shop. There were only open fields beyond, but at least there was no one in sight. Clutching his bleeding shoulder, he began to stumble forward.

  Then, seeming to rise out of the ground itself like the dusty apparition of an avenging ghost, Ziemba appeared. Mwekango stood on uncertain, shaky legs, trying to find the strength to raise his shattered arm. The black warrior used only one arrow. It caught the leader of the Leopard Patrol dead in the throat.

  Mwekango's eyes were crossed, trying to look at the thin quivering shaft that protruded below his chin. He couldn't scream—the barbed point had shredded his vocal cords. Ziemba watched as the captain toppled forward in the dirt.

  It was done. Justice had been served.

  "THERE ARE THREE MORE back there," called out Ohara, as he emerged into the street.

  Katz completed the body count. "We're one short."

  Mulanda found the tracks.

  "He should have been mine," confessed McCarter, rubbing his shoulder, "but my gun stove piped."

  The Leopard trooper must have hidden while Ziemba settled his score with the captain. Then he took off for the distant scrub. All he left behind were deep toe indentations.

  "He was running for his life," said Mulanda.

  "I expect he'll throw away his uniform and melt into the bush." Nonetheless Bolan checked the terrain through his glasses. "I doubt if he'll want to confess to
Mumungo that he was the only one who survived."

  Bolan found the first-aid kit in the back of the Ford. He redressed his leg wound properly this time as he listened to Katz complete a quiet report of what had taken place. There would be no postmortem; no apportioning of blame for this morning's bloody showdown.

  It was another round in the everlasting war.

  And they had come out ahead.

  That was all that counted.

  But their principal objective remained unchanged. It was time for them to head north, to cross that desert again, and press hard on the heels of Yagoda and Scarr.

  "Thanks," McCarter said, touching Katz gently on the sleeve as their two black drivers passed carrying the body of Corporal Kagwa. "I wish I'd had the pleasure."

  "You can do the same for me sometime," shrugged Katz.

  "Hey, pescado!" The ex-SAS officer turned away to greet Rafael Encizo. "Did you have a good night's hunting?"

  The Cuban nodded. He looked at the row of bodies stretched out by the smithy. The cream of Mumungo's personal guard lay curdled in their own blood. Encizo shook his head and said gruffly, "I knew we shouldn't have left you . . . ."

  "Well, we had to stage something just to get hold of that lovely truck!"

  Encizo grunted. He never knew when to believe the Englishman. It was Bolan who smiled. McCarter was right. They had at least solved the transport problem.

  "Get everything loaded into their truck," he ordered. He glanced up at the huge clouds sailing in from the southwest. The villagers would have to take care of the bodies. "Come on, Kambolo, hop to it. You, too, Rawson! Pull your weight. It's going to pour in a moment."

  They were bumping over the railway tracks, with the Land Rover a couple of hundred yards ahead, when the first big droplets streaked down across the windshield.

  THE PILOT'S HANDS were clenched around the controls of the Pilatus PC-6. He flinched as Mumungo cursed bitterly once more.

  The rainstorm had passed. It had spent its squalling fury against the slopes of the Mambosso hills, leaving the ground sodden, steaming and far too soft to take the weight of the spotter plane.

  "Circle the village again!" ordered the general. "Yes, sir, but I don't think there's anywhere dry enough for us to land."

  Mumungo shifted his considerable bulk and stared out of the side window. The thatched roofs were clustered directly below them. There was nothing else to be seen. Just a broken-down old truck parked at one end of the street. There was certainly no sign of Captain Mwekango and his men.

  And there had been no further reports over the radio. That puzzled Mumungo. The pilot called in to headquarters and double-checked; but they hadn't heard anything on the alternate frequencies either.

  "Fly up toward that pass," hissed Mumungo, spittle flecking the corners of his fleshy lips. He could barely constrain his rage.

  The pilot banked away to the north.

  MULANDA'S VOLLEY had killed the machine gunner, knocked out one of the taillights and smashed the radio equipment. Apart from that, the Leopard Patrol's vehicle was undamaged. It ran like a dream compared to the old Ford that Rawson had supplied. And they made excellent time on their run across the Forge. Even though they had to follow the main track, Phoenix Force reached the Shoba Well in just under three hours.

  Bolan had redistributed the team. Mulanda was driving the Land Rover, but now he carried Kambolo, Ziemba and Encizo as passengers. In acquiring Captain Mwekango's leopard spot trousers and cap for himself—the bush jacket was far too messed up to be salvaged—the Mussengamba driver unwittingly contributed to the effect that Bolan hoped would confuse any further witness to their progress into northeast Kuranda.

  Rawson was at the wheel of the truck. Bolan and Keio shared the cab with him. Hence the two potential troublemakers were split up and under watchful eyes. And Bolan was going to keep it that way until the end of the mission.

  He called a halt at the water hole to see if any evidence of their night raid had been left behind.

  "Police the area," ordered Bolan. "Rawson, bury those ration containers and that cigarette pack."

  Manning shovelled sand over the dead ashes of the Angolans' campfire.

  Whatever the final outcome, Bolan did not want what had happened here ever to be reconstructed. This was a private war.

  Mulanda finished refilling the tanks and put down the gas can. He pointed to the top of Pyramid Hill and began to mime Bolan's struggle with the leopard.

  Far from being humbled by what had befallen him that morning, Kambolo's relief at being rescued seemed only to have made him cockier. It was the second time he'd had to listen to Mulanda's enthusiastic account of the fight. And he still did not look as if he believed it.

  The tracker tugged at his sleeve, inviting him to climb up the steep slope and see for himself. It was less than half a mile. But Kambolo shrugged him off with a contemptuous sneer. It was the superior disdain that only a "civilized" native held for the "ignorant" tribesmen like Mulanda.

  Katz caught Bolan's eye and shook his head. The two men had the same thoughts. Intolerance seemed to fester here. The Israeli stalked off in disgust.

  "Come, let me show you," insisted the tracker. "You'll see!"

  He turned to the commander, pleading for just a few minutes to escort Kambolo to the scene of the duel. Bolan denied him. "Have you checked the rads, the tires . . . ? Kambolo, make sure all the canteens are filled."

  Mulanda looked disgruntled but did as he was told. One did not argue with the bwana mukubwa . The other man went to fetch the water.

  Bolan himself had not given another thought to the conflict he'd so narrowly won against the marauding predator. He did not dwell on what might have happened. His fighting instincts were fully focused on the moment, where they were needed.

  He did not question the strength that had been given him to overpower the beast, the skills that had saved him in a hundred firefights, or the tenacity to keep battling against the crushing odds of chaos. They came from the deepest wellsprings of his being. And beyond . . . .

  Long ago he had chosen.

  And he was chosen.

  Fate had dictated he be reborn as John Phoenix. He was called upon to be the cutting edge in these few rounds of the historic struggle against evil and injustice. Bolan had vowed to carry the fight until his dying breath. That was his commitment, his purpose. But he also knew when the final moment came, it would be the very force that propelled him that would also discharge him from this noble service.

  Death held no private, unspoken terrors for The Executioner . . . and that was why he was free to live large, to live in this present moment.

  Most people chose to live small—some even settled for that quiet desperation of a death in life—but it was not his way.

  He was not immortal.

  Death would claim him. He knew that.

  But when Bolan met his Maker, he'd look Him straight in the eye. Until then, he chose life. It was the only way he knew.

  "Mack!" It was Yakov's voice. "Over here."

  Bolan pushed through the tangled bushes to the spot where the older man was poking about with his cane at the edge of a shallow fissure. "Look at this."

  The bodies had been laid out end to end, loosely covered with rocks, brush and a few spadefuls of sand. The jackals had already found them—perhaps they had been scared from their feast by the arrival of Phoenix Force.

  "Scarr must have left in an awful hurry," said the Israeli.

  "Looks that way," agreed Bolan. "Time we got going too. We'll leave these to the scavengers." They continued on as before.

  McCarter stared out of the back of the truck at the blasted landscape of Devil's Forge: weirdly eroded rocks bent and broken under the crushing weight of the sun.

  "Reminds me of Aden," the Englishman said. "Up near the Yemen border. Bad country. How much farther does this go on for, Katz?"

  "We've got about another hour of it, according to Mulanda."

  Well, I'll be glad when .
. . hey, what's that? Look, back there!"

  "Looks like we've got company," said Katz. He went forward and tapped on the interconnecting window. "Don't look over your shoulder, Mack, but there's a light plane gaining on us fast."

  "Okay, keep your eye on it. Rawson, sound your horn to warn the others."

  "I think it's one of those Swiss jobs—a Porter," called out McCarter, pulling down the canvas flap. "A Pilatus Porter," relayed Katz.

  The plane flew over them as low as the pilot dared, then climbed and banked in an uncertain circle.

  "That's the Leopard Patrol's spotter plane," said Rawson.

  "Take it easy," Bolan told him. "They don't have a clue what's happened down here. Just keep driving."

  The Mussengamba tracker in the lead vehicle took off his new cap and waved as the Porter made a second pass.

  Bolan was forced to smile. "Now Mulanda's got them more confused than ever."

  This time the plane flew on steadily northward. "Damn," swore Rawson. "They're going to check out where it is we're heading in such a hurry."

  12

  The loose folds of Scarr's shirt stuck clammily to his chest, as much from nervousness as from the increasing humidity. But he was glad to be quit of the desert. That arid landscape of burnt ochers, gray browns and dirty rust gave way first to grasses and green scrub, then to vine-hung trees and tangled undergrowth spilling out onto the road.

  The driver downshifted as the gradient became steeper.

  "It gets easier up ahead, where it runs alongside the railroad," commented Scarr. The details of that earlier drive were etched in his memory.

  Yagoda, positioned in the middle of the bench seat, studied the map. Already he was looking for an alternate route back from this Blood River country.

  The South African turned to glance out the side window. He stared long in the mirror and wondered once again who it could be that dogged their tracks.