his carbine across his lap, he threw the vehicle into reverse and gunned it, twisting in the seat to look out the back window.
He heard Sukarnoputri moan on the seat beside him, but he couldn’t risk looking down. Still driving in reverse he navigated the primitive road as more bullets began to strike the vehicle frame and punch holes through the windows.
There was no time or space to perform a bootlegger maneuver on the narrow track, so Bolan simply drove in reverse. The windshield caught a round and spiderwebbed, but the intensity of fire coming from the jungle had begun to slacken and he knew the members of the Indonesian crew were making for their own remaining vehicles.
Suddenly a screaming gunman raced into the middle of the road and took up a position in the jeep’s path. Kalashnikov rounds punched through the rear windshield and burned through the space around Bolan’s head. The soldier floored the gas pedal on the already erratically bouncing jeep and hurtled toward the gunman.
Green tracer fire arced through the cab of the jeep and rounds thudded into the seats. Sukarnoputri screamed at his side as the plastic screen over the gas gauge and speedometer shattered. A 7.62 mm round struck the steering wheel, and for a wild second Bolan thought it was going to come apart in his hands.
Then the speeding jeep struck the gunman. As metal made contact with flesh and pulverized it. Blood splashed into the back of the jeep, painting the seat and a battered old jerri can of gasoline.
Bolan felt the vehicle shudder as he rolled over the man. Then he was past the corpse and around a bend in the logging road.
He continued to drive in reverse, hunting for a place where the road widened sufficiently to turn the jeep around.
Driving in reverse, he was unable to use his headlights and so was unable to circumnavigate some of the more egregious ruts and potholes. The jeep was taking a brutal beating, and both he and the wounded woman were being knocked around mercilessly. She was moaning softly but when Bolan risked a glance to look at her he was surprised by how alert she appeared.
“How do you feel?” he asked. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I feel awful, dizzy and my arm and back hurt badly. But I don’t think I was hurt, you know, inside,” she said.
“Good, because we’re in a damn tight spot.”
Sukarnoputri struggled to sit up. She lifted her arm and pointed out the spiderwebbed front windshield back down the road from where they had fled.
“I only want to see my little girl again. Please you have to help me see her again,” she cried.
Bolan knew her voice was too raw with emotion to be a lie, he respond with the same honesty.
“I will, I promise you. I will help you. But you have to help, you have to fight.”
“Here they come!” she cried.
Bolan whipped his head around and saw headlights appear out of the darkness, bearing down on them with deadly speed.
He snarled something Sukarnoputri didn’t catch and continued driving. The vehicle was shaking apart from the beating it was taking on the rough road. Sukarnoputri fought her way into a sitting position and snapped her seat belt into place. Bolan pushed the gas pedal to the floor of the jeep.
Then the grenades began to rain down.
4
Sudden flashes of light and the deafening sound of explosions hammered into the Executioner. Suddenly the steering wheel was wrenched from his grip and he felt the jeep fly into the air and tilt. He rolled, weightless, for a long moment then the vehicle crashed back to the ground and he was jarred hard against his seat harness.
He heard metal shriek in protest as the roof of the car crumpled inward and felt the frame slam into his head. He hung upside from his seat belt and his M-4 flew up from his lap and smashed his nose.
He felt the inverted jeep sliding forward, hurtling across the broken road. Dirt flew up through the shattered windshield to spray him. Fumbling with the release on his seat belt, he found it and released himself, dropping onto the crumpled hood. The jeep pitched abruptly and he was thrown against Sukarnoputri.
The vehicle slammed hard into something, and Bolan was catapulted forward again. He buckled around the steering wheel and dropped against his seat in a heap.
His head was spinning from the blasts and the crash. He could feel a sticky mask of blood on his face and he gasped for breath. He reached for his assault rifle but couldn’t find it. Pulling the Beretta clear of the sling beneath his arm, he struggled to get orientated properly.
Machine-gun fire raked the bottom of the vehicle. Bullets burned through the frame and tore the covers off the seats, stuffing exploding into the air. Bolan was clipped above the elbow and felt a hammer blow on the heel of his boot. Sukarnoputri screamed, and Bolan twisted to look as she shoved herself forward through the blown-out windshield of the car.
He waited until she was clear then followed.
“Go!” he shouted.
He reached out a hand to give her support and the jeep exploded behind him.
They were tossed through the air, everything went black.
THE ROOM WAS STARK AND BARE, devoid of furniture other than a heavy metal table shoved up against the far wall. There was a panel of lights above Bolan and a bright, hot lamp on the table pointed toward his face. A drain was set in the concrete floor at his feet. He noticed the dark stains on the metal fixtures.
His eyes slowly focused on the man standing before him, an Indonesian in BDU fatigues devoid of rank, unit insignia or national affiliation. The man was bearded with bright, black eyes.
“Wake up sleepyhead.”
Bolan looked at him.
The man leaned in close, mock concern on his face. “How do you feel? You were pretty banged up there in the accident.”
Bolan said nothing.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
Bolan closed one swollen eye against the blinding glare of the table lamp. “Where’s the girl?” he croaked.
The man lifted his gaze from Bolan’s and nodded to another man standing nearby. Bolan had a sense of someone large moving out from around him in his limited peripheral vision.
The punch caught him flush along the jaw and rocked his head to the side. He slowly turned his head and spit blood on the floor. The thug who had hit him lifted one big fist to strike again.
The interviewer held up a hand to stop his muscle from delivering another blow.
“I ask the questions,” the man said softly.
“Suli.” He nodded toward the thug.
Bolan tensed, waiting for another blow but it didn’t come. Instead the thickset man walked leisurely over to the metal table set against the wall. Now that Bolan’s vision was clearing, he could make out items on the table. He saw various tools and implements,
