he squeezed the trigger on his M-4.
He put two 3-round bursts into the front windshield of the pickup, shattering it. The pickup swerved hard to the right and the front tire rolled up an embankment. It rolled onto its side as it half climbed the embankment, then slammed into the gnarled and twisted trunk of a squat jungle tree. The hood crumpled under the impact, then the truck flipped. It struck the broken road hard, the cab smashing flat with a crunch followed immediately by the thunderclap of metal on metal as the second chase vehicle slammed into the first. The overturned truck spun away from the contact like a child’s top while the second vehicle lost control and careened off into the heavy underbrush beside the road.
Bolan scrambled up and grabbed hold of the open rear hatch from the inside and yanked it closed.
“You killed them all!” Sukarnoputri shouted as Bolan shoved himself back into the front seat.
“I doubt it,” Bolan muttered. “And stop shouting.”
“Whatever you say!”
“How did you know that was Laskar Jihad?” Bolan asked, buckling his seat belt. He placed his still smoking M-4 carbine muzzle down between his legs.
“I know because I know. They tried to stop me at a roadblock where this access road starts off the main regional highway. Your people gave me very good car. I drove into the ditch and around them, no slowing down. But they caught up with me at the hangar. I got away.”
“Good job,” Bolan said.
“I want more money. This was a stupid place to pick you up.”
“I’m not the company accountant. And I needed to get to Jakarta in a hurry.”
“Why? What do you have to do?”
“You’re not getting paid to ask questions,” Bolan pointed out. “And slow down. No one’s chasing us anymore. You’re going to shake my teeth out of my head if you don’t wreck us first.”
“First I do good driving then you’re worried I’ll wreck you?”
Bolan turned to look at his driver. She was slim and pretty with raven hair. When she took her eyes off the road to meet his he saw a calculating intelligence.
Bolan turned his attention toward the road. A thick wall of tropical forest formed a shadowy corridor along the logging road. Vines, branches and rotted logs had fallen across the single lane, forcing Sukarnoputri to swerve the vehicle around the obstacles while navigating potholes, rain-wash trenches and protruding rocks.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Offroad, back down to the regional highway, then the road into Jakarta. Forty-five minutes, maybe one hour.”
“Patrols? Roadblocks? More Laskar gunmen?” Bolan asked.
“Possible. There are Indonesian marines in the area to combat Laskar’s influence. Sometimes it works, sometimes not.”
They rounded the corner fast and Sukarnoputri screamed. Headlights filled the windshield as another car raced up the narrow road toward them. Sukarnoputri yanked the wheel hard to one side, swerving to avoid the onrushing vehicle. The SUV lurched to the left, and there was a horrendous screech as the two vehicles skidded off each other. A shower of sparks formed a rooster tail in the driver’s window, and Bolan had an impression of a battered jeep filled with figures.
Immediately behind the first vehicle was a second, and Bolan caught a glimpse of a third set of headlights beyond. Then the front of the SUV bucked up hard and came down, leaving the windshield filled with the leaves and branches of jungle foliage.
Sukarnoputri tried to turn the SUV back out of the jungle, but suddenly the massive trunk of a tree appeared in front of the out of control SUV. Bolan threw his arms up instinctively.
The impact was followed by the violent reversal of momentum. As the hood crumpled and the fender was bent inward, Bolan was thrown hard against his seat belt. He felt something smack his face, then heard the air bags deploying.
He was blinded by the emergency cushion and could see nothing of what was happening but felt the car begin to roll. His world suddenly inverted, and he was thrown against his door. Then just as suddenly he slid up in his restraint to bang his head on the roof as the SUV completed its roll and landed on its blown-out tires. The air bags settled, quickly deflated and Bolan sprang into action.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
He snapped the release on his seat belt and reached for his door handle, but the door refused to budge. There was no answer from Sukarnoputri.
“Are you all right!” Bolan repeated, shouting.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said.
The Executioner threw his shoulder against the inside of the passenger door.
“Can you get out?” he asked.
“No, my door is jammed!” Sukarnoputri’s voice sounded panicky.
Bolan leaned back and kicked. With a screech the stubborn door finally opened. Bolan snatched his M-4 and scrambled out.
“Come on!” he snapped.
He looked over the caved in hood and saw a short convoy of three vehicles stopped in the middle of the logging road on the other side of the thick brush from his wreck.
Two Indonesian men dressed in grungy civilian clothes and packing AKM assault rifles appeared. Bolan moved toward the rear of his vehicle as one of the men raised his assault rifle to fire. The Executioner drew a snap-bead and put the man down.
Bullets struck the ruined SUV, and Bolan sensed Sukarnoputri crawling out of the wreck behind him. He pivoted his barrel across the collapsed roof and fired a second time, putting the other man down as well.
Angry shouts came from the road and weapons up and down the length of the convoy erupted into action. A hailstorm of lead cut through the jungle, ripping the flora apart, shredding bark and leaves and riddling the SUV.
Pinned down, Bolan struggled to act.
3
The Executioner threw himself over the screaming woman.
“Crawl for that tree!” he ordered.
Twelve yards ahead of them an old jungle giant had been battered down in some monsoon gale years before. Its trunk would form a bulwark against the withering gunfire tearing up the topography around them.
He shifted his weight off her body and immediately she started scrambling forward, her belly tightly to the ground and her head down. Bolan let her crawl a body length ahead of him, then began to follow.
Sukarnoputri reached the log and made to slither over it but another burst tore splinters of wood from the dead tree and she froze.
Bolan charged forward, coming up to his hands and knees, and rammed his shoulder into her, sending her tumbling over the top. He landed atop her in a tangle of limbs. She whimpered at the treatment, but he ignored her protests and scrambled into position.
“Stay
