More to the point, why bother to do something another handful of men could undo just as readily? But that was a question Bolan didn't dare consider. He believed because he had to believe, that good was better, that good would endure because somewhere there really was justice. But it was a justice that relied on something other than a gun. It staked a claim on men's souls, and they hugged it to themselves because they knew it was right.
The light went out in the advisers' tent. Bolan felt himself coil a little tighter, and he edged down the hill a bit. The moon was behind him, and he could see his own shadow sliding slowly along the grass ahead of him.
The light flashed on in the tent again, just for a moment, and the warrior froze. He held his breath as if a single inhalation would be fatal. The light was out in the tent again, and this time he saw a figure slip out of the tent. It darted like the shadow of a bat, back along the canvas wall, then disappeared into the trees at the foot of the hill. Whoever it was was heading straight toward him. Bolan scurried to the left, found a cluster of boulders overgrown by tangled vines and lay still, his arms covering his head.
He heard music, as he had the night before when he'd bumped into Caspar Washington. It was the blues, and Bolan held his breath as the tinny sound drew closer, trivialized by the earphones. The warrior pressed himself into the vines, ignoring the hundreds of thorns slashing at his skin and piercing his clothing.
When the music passed, he took a shallow breath, then raised his head. The man had gone past and was now standing among a clump of trees near the crest of the hill. But it wasn't Cazz Washington. This man was too tall and too thin. He seemed confused, standing there among the shadowy trunks, twisting his head from side to side, as if trying to get his bearings.
Bolan craned his neck, but the man's face was hidden from the pale wash of the moon. A moment later he was gone, passing over the crest of the hill and moving down the far side. The warrior told Rivera what was going on, then got to his feet and started after the man.
The moon disappeared behind a massive black cloud. Bolan looked up at it to gauge how long he had in darkness. The cloud was moving slowly, its edges a brilliant white, the rest as black as coal. Picking his way from cover to cover, he reached the crest of the hill in ninety seconds. He hit the ground, breaking his fall with stiffened forearms and crawled another ten yards. It was starting to brighten again when he crawled in behind a stand of trees just below the far side of the ridge.
His quarry was nowhere to be seen.
Bolan didn't want to move until he knew where the man was. But if the guy was on the move himself, he'd never be able to catch him. The Executioner decided on action. He got to his knees and peered out from behind a slender tree. The far side of the hill was more heavily wooded, shading down into genuine forest about threequarters of the way down. The terrain of northern Nicaragua was a strange mix of grassy hills and valleys clotted with thick rain forest. The dark green seemed to flow like water in the valley bottoms, lapping up the hillsides just so far, then running out of steam.
Easing downhill, he kept his eyes on the tree line, about a hundred yards below. Working on the assumption that a beeline was the most logical route, he confined himself to a swath no more than twenty-five yards wide, trying to keep to the center. The grass was stiff and dry, but he thought he saw a couple of places where it had been recently broken. Bending low to cut his exposure, he searched the dry grass ahead, found another slight indentation, then another just beyond it.
They were just short of his own stride, and he put his quarry's height at an inch or two under his own six-three, so it was a decent match. In places, the hillside was too dry and nearly barren. The earth itself showed no signs of recent passage, and he skipped on to the next patch of grass. Once again, he had to search for a few moments before he found the next footfall.
Only fifty yards from the trees now, he worried that he might be seen. The moon was back, bathing the hillside in milky light, and he was a sitting duck for anyone among the trees. Shifting his AK-47 to his left hand, he raked his fingers through the dry grass until he found a few snapped blades. The next patch was canted to the left, and Bolan shifted direction.
He walked right into it.
The slug slammed into his left side just above the hip.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bolan lay on the ground. He had landed heavily, winding himself. The wound wasn't serious, but he could feel the sticky blood seeping down his hip. Even in the dark the insects sensed it, and several flies began to buzz around him. The warrior slapped at them, trying to keep them away, but they were too persistent for so simple a defense.
He hadn't heard the shot and considered himself lucky to be alive. What he couldn't figure was how the shooter had missed him. He tried to pick up some movement among the trees to pinpoint the location of the gunman, but it was impossible to make out any detail in the darkness.
The AK-47 had skidded away when he'd fallen, and he patted the ground now, trying to find it. Finally his fingers found the barrel and closed over it. He pulled the weapon toward him with his fingertips, then found the trigger guard and curled a finger through it.
Then it hit him — they hadn't killed him because they didn't give a damn. He'd been decoyed. All they wanted was to get him out of the way while they went after their real target — Rivera.
Bolan got to his feet, sending a jolt of pain rocketing across his hip. The slug had gouged through the flesh between hipbone and rib cage, leaving a furrow deep enough to feel through the cloth of his shirt, now sticky with blood.
Ignoring the pain, he ripped the sleeves off his shirt, knotted them together, then twisted them into a tight band and cinched them around his waist. It hurt to put pressure on the wound, but he had to stop the bleeding. As he started back up the hill, he called Rivera on the handset but got no response.
Bolan cursed and started to run. His strength had seeped away with his blood, and the going was tough. His feet felt as if they were encased in concrete, and every breath stretched the sore muscles over his hip. At the top of the hill he looked down on the camp, which seemed to be as peaceful as it had been earlier.
Angling across the hillside to a spot that would bring him halfway between Rivera's tent and the advisers' tent, he picked up speed. As he ran, he took the safety off the AK. The moon was covered with clouds, and the sky was completely dark. Wisps of fog coiled among the trees as he entered the narrow strip of forest at the bottom of the hill, and he could no longer see either tent.
He picked his way through the snarled undergrowth until he could finally see the dark bulk of a tent. But it wasn't Rivera's. It was his own. He charged straight ahead, finally tearing into the open and stopping, breathless, to get his bearings. A small circle of light appeared on the wall of Rivera's tent, then vanished. Ignoring the fire in his side, Bolan broke into a run.
He was in the center of the camp now, his feet kicking up clouds of dust as he pounded across the parade ground and through the primitive obstacle course. He stopped again beside the palisade. He could see Rivera's tent, its flap open, but nothing moved.
Charging across the last open space, he burst into the tent, the AK up and ready. He heard a thump in one corner and dived to the ground.
"That you, Belasko?"
"Who's there?" Bolan whispered.
"It's me, Cazz."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"I had a funny feeling. I came to check things out, but somebody slugged me. I don't know, man. I don't like it. Rivera isn't here, and…"
"Put on a light."
"That's what I'm looking for. I dropped my flashlight and I can't see squat in here."
"You got a match?"
"Yeah." Washington cracked a match on his thumbnail. "Here it is." The match went out and, a moment later, was replaced by the small beam of a pocket flashlight. "They must have taken him," Bolan said, "Let's go."
"Go? Where the hell we gonna go, man? You don't know where they
took him."
"Suit yourself," Bolan snapped. "Give me the light for a second." Washington stepped close enough to hand him the flashlight. The warrior dug into the mound of clothing and equipment in one corner of the tent.
"What're you lookin' for, man?"
Bolan's hand closed over the infrared glasses. "These," he said, holding them up for Washington to see. He slipped the strap over his head, crammed a couple more clips for the AK into his shirt and dashed out of the tent.
He heard Washington right behind him. "Look, man, if you're gonna do something stupid, I guess I got to go along and bail you out."
Bolan held up a finger. The sound of a jeep cranking up drifted toward them. He swiveled his head, trying to get a fix. Then the engine caught and the transmission whined.
"There." The warrior pointed at the hill. "It's on the other side. Damn! I was right there." He started back toward the hill. Washington sprinted past him, his stubby legs pumping like pistons. Then the man veered to the left, and Bolan charged up the hill. He was a third of the way up when he heard another jeep, this one behind him. He turned to see what was happening and saw the jeep lurch out of the shadows by the motor pool. A moment later it spun to the left, kicked spurts of dust behind it and bounced toward him up the hill. Men started to shout, and Bolan saw three or four shadows rush out of the tents, rifles in hand. He debated organizing a team but decided against it. Speed was going to be more important than firepower.
The jeep slowed, and Washington downshifted, backing off on the clutch to hold it steady while Bolan jumped in. Then, jerking the shift lever, Washington floored it. The back wheels spun on the dry grass for a few seconds before the treads bit into the earth and the jeep darted forward. At the top of the hill they stopped to get their bearings. Headlights slashed through the trees a quarter mile away.
Washington gunned the jeep all the way downhill, controlling the vehicle with some fancy gearshifting. At the bottom he nudged it through a narrow break in the trees. A sharp turn halfway through caught Bolan by surprise. Both men ducked under the overhanging branches, and then the jeep was in the clear. A narrow field of plowed earth stretched away in both directions. Across the dusty furrows Bolan saw tire tracks heading off to the left.
Washington saw them at the same time. Jerking the wheel, he pushed the jeep out into the open. It rocked through the deep ruts, nosing up, then down like a small boat in heavy seas.
The headlights were gone, but Washington seemed to know where he was going. He let the vehicle settle into a pair of furrows, then gunned the engine, ignoring the earth scraping at the undercarriage.
They picked up speed, but still couldn't run flat out. There was just too little clearance. Washington fought the wheel to keep the jeep under control in the uneven furrows. Twice it canted over as the tires climbed the side of a furrow, but Washington was equal to the challenge. The trees on either side of them began to narrow to a point, as if jeep were speeding into a funnel. The first burst of rain splattered the windshield, and Washington cursed. He clicked on the wipers, but the dust and rain just coated the glass with a veneer of thin mud.
"If I had my Caddy, I'd just squirt a little water on those suckers and we'd be able to see." Washington reached forward to knock the windshield down. "Better to get a little water in the face than one of those damn trees," he said through gritted teeth.
They bounced out of the plowed field and slammed into the stem of the funnel with the engine beginning to snarl as Washington opened it up. "This road heads deeper into Nica. I hope those guys know where they're going, because we can get hung out to dry with no sweat."
"They know. They've been trying to get to Rivera since he got here. Everything's been carefully planned. What I don't get is why they decided to capture him instead of kill him."
"Maybe it isn't the same guys. You ever think of that?"
Bolan shook his head. "No, I didn't. You might be onto something."
"Yeah, but what? Unless we know, it isn't gonna help us much, is it?"
"You have any idea what you're letting yourself in for?"
"Do you?"
"Not really."
"There you go, then. A couple of dumbass soldiers of fortune. What the hell? Life's too short to worry about it, man. Besides, it isn't often you meet a white boy who knows who Luther Allison is. I expect you must be some kind of rare specimen who's got to be saved from extinction. You know, like the snow leopard."
"Whatever you say, Cazz." Bolan grinned.
"What is your story, anyhow?"
"I'll tell you sometime."
"Hey, I know how it is. I been there. I won't ask again."
"Can you think of anyplace they might be headed?"
"Just one. There's an abandoned cantina about two miles ahead. Just a dirt intersection, but the place used to do a good business when we first got here. But some of the boys got a little rowdy, you know. The locals didn't like it, and they stopped coming. Then Robbins put his two cents in when he got here. Said it was making it too easy for the Sandies."
"Makes sense."
"Yeah, but where's a man supposed to get a drink?"
"How long has Robbins been here?"
"About a month or so. Maybe five weeks. Hard-assed mother, he is. Knows his shit, though."
"What's his story?"
"Listen, you didn't tell me yours, he didn't tell me his. Guys like us, we either have a dozen stories or we don't have any. My guess is Robbins has a dozen easy. Probably twice that."
"He doesn't like Rivera, does he?"
"Hell, do you?"
"I don't know. I didn't, but I'm starting to second-guess myself."
"Bad idea, my man. Go with the gut, that's my philosophy."
"You're right, Cazz."
"I know it."
"Let's work on the assumption they went to the cantina, then. At least as a first stop. They probably don't want to keep him there. It's to close to camp. But they might use it as a staging area. Maybe an airlift."
"Could be. There's a big open field behind the place. Perfect LZ."
"Let's take the last half mile on foot."
"You up for the hike?"
Bolan grunted.
They rode another mile in silence, Washington trying to keep the engine noise to a minimum. He pulled off the road into a small patch of weeds just big enough to accommodate the jeep. "End of the line. We better go on foot from here on."
"We have to assume they left an ambush to cover their asses," Bolan said.
"I was thinking the same thing."
"Let's do it, Cazz."
Bolan jumped down from the jeep. The landing jolted his injured hip, but he bit his tongue and said nothing. Washington jerked the key loose and tucked it under the driver's seat. "It's up under the springs in case you need it, man."
"We're going in together and we'll come out together."
"Let's hope so, my man."
Chapter Thirty-Six
The cantina sat back off the road like a box of bleached bones. Its front was a dirty gray window, its parking lot a dust bowl. Two jeeps were parked at the rear of the structure. Bolan and Washington crouched in the trees and watched.
"Bingo," the warrior said.
"Maybe, maybe not. Everybody in camp knows about this place. For all we know it's just some weed-heads come down for a smoke without the man peeking over their shoulders."
"You don't believe that and neither do I."
"Just touching all the bases."
"See the four men in the trees across the road?"
"No. Where?"
"There," Bolan replied, extending his arm through the bushes.
Washington followed the point. "Looks like they're expecting some company."
"We're here, and we have to take them out first thing. I don't want to go up against the building with four guns at my back."
"Deadly force?"
"Not if we can avoid it. I want Rivera, but I don't give a damn about the others. They can walk if they
want. But we can't move until they're out of the picture."
"Got any ideas?"
"Just one. Follow me."
Bolan eased back away from the road. The farther away he got, the thicker the vegetation. Another ten yards and they were completely hidden from the road.
The warrior crouched beside Washington and whispered, "We have to go back past that last bend in the road. I want to come at them from behind. That means we've got to move fast. It's a big detour."
Washington nodded.
It took nearly fifteen minutes to reach the bend and another five to work their way back to the road itself. Bolan was the first one to cross. He crouched, checked both ways, then waved Washington across.
As they doubled back toward the cantina, Bolan stopped every fifteen or twenty yards. Somewhere up ahead four men with automatic rifles waited for him. It wasn't his intention to kill them if he didn't have to, but he had no such illusions about their intentions. One mistake would be all he'd get the chance to make.
The ambush was just ahead. The men lying in wait had made a mistake, gathering in a tight knot instead of stringing themselves out. Bolan understood that. Nobody wanted to die, and it was easy to fool yourself into believing that you could only die if you were alone. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
"We can't afford any noise. One shot and the game's up," Bolan whispered. "We have to surprise them and hope they're too stunned to put up a fight."
"And if they're not?"
Bolan shrugged. "Play it by ear."
Using hand signals, employing words only when absolutely necessary, he explained what he wanted Washington to do, then what he planned to do. It was critical that they work in tandem. It was only in a joint effort that success, with the requisite silence, was possible.
Washington nodded his understanding, and the Executioner slipped away, making a wide circle to move in behind the group of men. Washington inched closer, every painstaking step as precisely planted as if he were moving through a mine field.
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