more likely. Setting up an ambush in broad daylight on a public road says overreaction.”
Brognola sighed. “What did Maggie stumble on to?”
“They didn’t want me to get to Riba Bay. Maybe that’s where I’ll get some answers.”
“Striker, I just got feedback from Bear. He has some results from the data you sent him. Riba Bay is your target.” He read out an address. “Belongs to Raul Manolo, a suspected Colombian gunrunner. We’re still analyzing the rest.”
“Enough for me to go on,” the Executioner said.
The wail of approaching sirens cut the air. Bolan saw vehicles in the distance.
“That the cavalry arriving?” Brognola asked.
“Yeah. I’ll get back to you when I can.”
As Bolan finished the call he saw a couple of Florida State Trooper cruisers rolling to a stop. Behind them was an ambulance. He stepped forward to meet the armed officers, showing his badge. A paramedic ran up behind the troopers.
“There’s a man in the truck who needs medical attention,” Bolan said. “He’s been shot.”
The medic nodded and waved his partner in. They went directly to the rig. One of the troopers took a look around. He stared at the sprawled bodies.
“Damn,” he said. “We’ll be filling in forms for a week on this one. You want to tell me what the hell has been going on here, Agent Cooper?”
4
Colombia
The Executioner wasted no time. He couldn’t be sure how far the sound of the shots might carry.
He turned to Ricco and unlaced the combat boots he was wearing. Then he loosened the belt holding the man’s olive-green fatigues in place. Bolan stripped them off and pulled them over his own legs. He notched the belt tight around his waist. He sat down and pulled on the combat boots. They were near enough to his own size. He took his time with the laces, making sure the boots were secure before dragging the bloodied shirt from the body and pulling it on.
Crouching over Noriamo he freed the Uzi from around the dead man’s neck, looping the cord over his right shoulder. He checked the body for extra ammunition and found a single clip in the man’s back pocket. Stepping to where Santiago lay Bolan flipped open the blood-drenched linen jacket and saw the man had been carrying a 9 mm Beretta in a hip holster. The holster was held in place on Santiago’s belt. Bolan freed the belt and slid the gun and holster off. He transferred it to his own belt. He took the Beretta out and checked the magazine. Full. He cocked the weapon and returned it to the holster.
He stood beside the cell door, breathing deeply as he looked at Maggie Connor.
He would not forget her.
And the men who had ordered her cruel death would not be forgotten.
Bolan opened the cell door and eased it back just enough to check the passage. It was deserted. At the far end a partially open door let bright sunlight pierce the gloom. That was his objective—reach the exit, then make another assessment. He slipped through the door, the Uzi ready in his hands. He broke from his stance and traversed the passage quickly. Flattened against the inner wall he peered out the open door.
He saw a rough-hewn compound, three crude huts. A stream ran across one side of the clearing. Dense green jungle pressed in on all sides. Bolan saw a flicker of movement to his right. An armed man in fatigues came into sight from behind one of the huts. He crossed the compound, lighting a thin cigar as he walked. An AK-74 dangled from a shoulder strap. The man looked relaxed. He was making his way in the direction of the cell block.
Bolan cleared the door, the Uzi up and spitting 9 mm slugs. He caught the approaching man before he had a chance to react. The guy twisted under the impact of the burst, dropping to his knees, then facedown. Bolan ran up close, snatching the AK from the guard’s shoulder and looping the sling strap around his neck.
Bolan heard men calling out in Spanish. He pinpointed the location, bringing the Uzi back online so the armed figures piling out of one of the buildings at the sound of his first shots ran directly into the blazing volleys. Two figures tumbled to the ground, never really seeing the face of the man who had delivered them to quick death.
The others pulled back into the cover of the building they had just burst out of. Whatever they might have expected, the sight of the Executioner, in full killing mode, overwhelmed them. These gunmen were used to their victims being tied up and helpless without any will or skill to stand up to Raul Manolo’s power.
By the time they pushed back outside, determined not to allow their prisoner to defy them, Bolan was out of their sights, his moving figure already fragmented and shadowy as he forged ahead into the surrounding jungle thicket.
Bolan’s entry into the dense foliage was accompanied by the chatter of automatic weapons behind him. He heard the snap and whip of slugs penetrating the greenery, shredding leaves and thin branches. The moment he was swallowed and hidden temporarily from view he angled his line of travel. In the distance a number of voices called to one another, and more shots rattled from weapons.
The Executioner kept moving. The ground underfoot was soft and spongy, a layer of detritus from trees and bushes that had formed into a sound-deadening carpet over many years. The air was heavy and close, producing a cloying, sullen heat. Sweat began to form on Bolan’s face and arms. He pushed on, maintaining as much speed as he could. He wanted to gain distance from his former captors. There was no way he was going back as a prisoner. If they were that desperate for his company they would pay a high price for it and for what they had already done.
As willing as his spirit was, Bolan’s body began to reveal its weakened state after a few miles. Three days of brutal pounding had taken its toll. Mack Bolan was capable of strong actions but he was not invincible. Flesh and bone could absorb only so much before it began to rebel. He could feel his limbs growing heavier, his bruised ribs pulsing with pain. Keeping on the move was not the answer. Bolan knew he had to stand and fight, rather than lead his pursuers on a run that would drive him into the ground. He would have to make an educated guess as to the number of his enemies and deal with them on that basis.
He splashed over a stream, turned and crouched on his knees at the edge of the water. Behind him he could hear the distant sound of his pursuers. He knew they would pick up his trail eventually, so he worked quickly. He dropped his Uzi and reached down to scoop up soft mud from the edge of the stream. He smeared it liberally over his face and neck, ignoring the tender flesh. He coated arms and hands, then picked up the Uzi and retreated from the stream, turning to home in on the sounds made by the men following him.
He dropped back to wait, hidden among the dense foliage, blending in with his surroundings, waiting until he had a specific target. He would let his chosen man move well into range before he raised his weapon of choice.
The Beretta was set for single shots.
He could hear the guards working their way toward his general area, voices raised. They made no attempt to silence their approach as they made their way through the undergrowth. Bolan knew he wasn’t dealing with seasoned jungle fighters. Urban streets were their normal haunts.
Okay, he thought, their loss, my gain.
The
