in the manâs thoughts by calling out all the inane questions. He scaled the tree and kept climbing until he came to a limb strong enough to support him. Bolan slithered out on it like a snake and then trained his weapon on the man below where he struggled to get away from the bullet-riddled tree limb.
His finger drew back smoothly as he squeezed off the shot. The heavy slug tore through the mercenaryâs right shoulder, driving him flat onto the ground. His right arm twitched as he tried to lift his pistol. As he reached over with his left hand, he froze. His head came up and he looked down the barrel of Bolanâs Desert Eagle.
âDonât,â was all Bolan had to say. The man collapsed and lay on the ground, seemingly beaten. Remembering how the driver had been so contrary, Bolan kicked the pistol away from the manâs hand, patted him down and then grabbed his broad belt and heaved. He tossed the man a few feet away, waiting for a hand-grenade detonation.
Nothing.
âWho do you work for?â
âThe highest bidder,â the mercenary said. He struggled to raise his body off the ground. His left hand pressed into his belly as if he needed the support to hold in his guts, then he painfully sat up. âJust like you,â he grated out.
âWho do you think I work for?â
The mercenary tried to shrug, but the bullet he had taken to his right shoulder caused him to blanch in pain instead.
âSame as me. Highest bidder.â
âWhereâs the gold?â
The man laughed harshly and turned his head. Bolan read more into the manâs quick glance to the right than he did in the words. The mercenary rubbed his left hand along his belly.
âWhere were you going in the truck?â
âGoing to blow it up. No evidence.â The man lifted his left hand. Bolan fired a round through the manâs head but not before a weak, determined finger pressed the button on a small radio detonator he had retrieved from some hidden pouch. The ground shook so hard it made Bolan think heâd gotten caught in an earthquake. Then the door opened on the blast furnace, and fire raced toward him from the direction of the truck. It had been wired as a gigantic firebomb intended to cover the mercenariesâ tracks.
Instead, it had given birth to a new forest fire that threatened to devour the Executioner.
3
The heat threatened to boil the flesh from Bolanâs face. Throwing his arm up to protect his eyes, he saw the worst had happened. The mercenaries had been driving back to the junction of the main road to blow up the truck. The resulting fire would cover their tracks completely.
He had to admit their scheme had almost workedâand it had almost killed him. If he had not pursued the mercenary he had blown out of the tree so aggressively, he might have been near their truck when it blew. As it was, though, he couldnât get to his car to escape. Through the wall of scorching-hot flame, he saw the paint on the car he had stolen begin to blister. Then the entire car erupted in a secondary explosion as the flames reached the gas tank.
Bolan headed deeper into the forest. His flesh tingled from the heat. If he didnât put some miles between himself and the fire, he would be charbroiled in only a few minutes. He fell into a distance-devouring jog that carried him along the dirt road toward wherever the mercenaries had come from. As fast as he was, as determined to escape the fire as he could be, the conflagration crept closer and began to warm his back. He put his head down and put on a little more speed, shifting his gait from a jog to a run.
It did no good. The inferno behind him filled the sky with burning sparks that cascaded over the landscape for hundreds of yards. Even sucking smoky air into his burning lungs, Bolan covered a mile in a little over five minutes. And he still wasnât far enough away to feel safe. It was as if the fire toyed with him, letting him get a little farther toward safety before roaring to catch up and spit burning embers onto his clothing. Thinking to veer away from the fire at an angle, he turned off the road and found the dry undergrowth ablaze. He cut back to the road, hoping to go in the other direction, but found it similarly blocked.
He realized these excursions to either side of the road only wasted time and let the fire surge closer, so he continued along the road, eyes watering and lungs screaming from the acrid smoke. Bolan hoped to find out why the mercenaries had come this way but saw no trace of them or what they had been up to.
Running through the smoke-filled air was making it difficult to breathe. The atmosphere looked like L.A. on a smog-alert day and tasted like the inside of a barbecue pit. Over the loud crackling of fire dogging his every step, he heard the whup-whup of a chopper overhead. Bursting into a small clearing, he saw the small helicopter and waved.
The pilot saw him and came lower, buffeted by strong ground winds kicked up by the fire. Landing was out of the question because takeoff would be impossible. The pilot gestured frantically, pointing to a spot away from the road, then he gunned the engine, rose vertically and beat a hasty retreat.
Bolan wished the pilot had tried for the pickup. No guts, no glory, but the pilot was not a military flyer, and Bolan could not hold his caution against him. It just made his own evacuation more difficult, but the only chance he had was to trust the pilotâs judgmentâ¦even if the man might be one of the mercs who had stolen the gold.
The idea died almost as it formed in his head as a working hypothesis. If he had been another of the force that had robbed the gold mine, all the pilot needed to do was leave. Bolan would stumble about until the fire eventually overtook himâunless he was actually on his way clear of the fire. Knowing the danger of analysis paralysis, Bolan lowered his head and, putting every ounce of energy into the run, headed in the direction the pilot indicated. He burst into another clearing before he realized he was leaving a heavily wooded patch and saw a half-dozen firefighters setting up a small camp. Dressed in their bright yellow fire-retardant gear and respirators, they looked like creatures from another planet.
One turned and pushed up his face mask, letting his oxygen line drape down, so he could shout, âWhat the hell are you doing here?â
âHad a car wreck.â
âYou from the mine?â The man gave Bolan a quick once-over and dismissed him as an idiot who let himself get caught by staying too long after the evacuation warning had been issued.
âJust out for a drive when the fire cut me off from the main road.â
âThat fire was set,â the firefighter said. He looked more intently at Bolan. The Executioner did not have to be a mind-reader to know the firefighter thought Bolan might have set the new fire.
âSomething exploded behind me. A truck,â Bolan said. âThe fireâs coming this way fast.â
âWe know.â The firefighter turned to glance at a laptop showing an aerial view of the area. Bolan got his bearings and realized how lucky he had been sticking to the road in his escape. If he had veered to either side of the road for long, he would be fried by now. The detonation had sent out flames in a V pattern.
âGet him out of here,â ordered another firefighter with three bright orange stripes circling the arms of his yellow fire suit.
âYou
