It seemed almost surreal as other drivers who passed him looked at his bullet-riddled vehicle with expressions that ranged from mild curiosity to utter shock. A few more minutes elapsed and the motorcycles suddenly turned onto a side street that led south out of the city. Bolan continued following at a distance, now curious more than intent on catching the motorcyclists and dispensing some good old-fashioned street justice. Obviously they wanted him to tail them, and they were doing a good job of keeping far enough ahead so he could follow them, but not so close as to arouse his suspicions.
More trouble seemed to appear out of nowhere as Bolan realized he’d picked up a tail. He wondered for a moment if they had put a car on him in the rear position, but then he dismissed it. This driver was no professional. If the enemy bothered to set up a way to box him in, they wouldn’t send anyone so sloppy. His pursuer had little to no experience in the fine art of inconspicuously tailing a vehicle. An amateur all the way, and that meant someone who could get in harm’s way.
Bolan’s eyes alternated between the motorcyclists and the tail. Eventually they got off the highway exit and proceeded along a dusty road. The Executioner figured if he was headed into an ambush, this would be the perfect spot, and this time he meant to be prepared. He waited until the dust obscured his vehicle at both front and rear, then steered off the road and maneuvered into a thick stand of brush. Bolan bailed from the driver’s seat and scrambled over the rear seat to the storage area. He saw the trail of the vehicle that had been following him continue past without slowing—the driver hadn’t even spotted him.
Yeah, definitely an amateur.
Bolan retrieved several 30-round detachable box magazines loaded with 5.56 mm NATO rounds. They fit the next item he withdrew from the weapons bag, a carbine version of the Fabrique Nationale FNC. The weapon packed the versatility of a full-auto assault rifle in a virtual submachine gun profile. In fact, the FNC was often mistaken for the HK33 at first glance, but the two were quite different in a number of ways. Bolan had come to prefer this assault weapon above almost all others because of its reliability in close-quarters combat.
The Executioner performed a final check on the weapon before locking and loading. Then he placed it on the seat, backed from cover and onto the road, and proceeded in the direction he’d been heading. Now he had both the enemy and the unknown tail in front of him; they would either be surprised to encounter each other or realize both of them had been duped. In any respect, they had made the mistake of putting the ball in play.
And the Executioner was a veteran of this particular game.
THE RED-CLAY ROAD, pockmarked with ruts and divots, terminated at a copse of tall pinnate palms that formed a natural canopy over it. From this point it appeared to end, but through the windshield Bolan observed the fresh tire tracks that seemed to pass into the dark, variegated brush beyond that point. The soldier put the SUV in Reverse, traveled roughly fifty feet, then downshifted to Drive and gunned the engine.
The tires churned rocks and dust in their wake as the SUV lurched into motion and crashed through the brush into a natural, jungle darkness beyond. As Bolan had suspected, there was a man-made road beyond the concealed entrance and through the gloom ahead he could see a wood-and-barbed-wire gate positioned between thick, makeshift posts. The soldier poured on the speed and would have crashed through the gate, but was stopped short by the sudden appearance of the vehicle that had tailed him.
Bolan swung the wheel to the right to avoid crashing into the side of the car, but the move put him on a collision course with a massive tree trunk. He leaned on the brakes, but the tires found no purchase on the slick, mossy ground and the front end of the SUV slammed into the tree hard enough to deploy the air bags. Bolan snatched the FNC off the seat and exited the vehicle at the same time as the other driver bailed. He turned the weapon in the driver’s direction.
The Executioner took in the entire scene within a heartbeat and his combat senses negated the petite, dark-haired woman as a threat. The half-dozen armed men approaching from the opposite side of the gate, however, were another matter entirely. Bolan managed to reach the young beauty just in time to drag her down behind the cover of her sedan. The air around them came alive with a metal storm of rounds that whizzed overhead like a horde of angry bees.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
Bolan grimaced. “Later. Now get in.”
She tensed at first, standing her ground, but let Bolan haul her into the front seat. The woman got her legs in under her own power before Bolan slid behind the wheel and whipped the nose of the sedan into a collision course with the gate. As he picked up speed, Bolan stuck the FNC out the driver’s window and triggered it one-handed to keep the gunners’ heads down. The sedan, while small, did a fair job of smashing into the makeshift gate and ripping the pine frame from the uprights, which were obviously dry-rotted from the elements.
Bolan rammed into one of the gunmen who didn’t get out of his path quite fast enough. The guy’s head connected hard with the windshield at an awkward angle and produced an audible crack. Bolan swung the muzzle of the FNC into acquisition on two more targets and snapped off a few short bursts. Brass shells ejected from the weapon and tinkled against the metal body of the sedan, followed by screams of agony as the pair fell under the Executioner’s marksmanship.
The soldier ordered the woman to keep her head down as he rolled out of the seat and away from the vehicle. He landed on his feet, pivoted in the direction of the remaining trio of shooters and swept them with a sustained volley. One man took three rounds to the pelvis and another took two rounds to the abdomen. The remainder of the 5.56 mm slugs cut through the chest, neck and head of the last target, and a gory, crimson mess exploded through midair as the man’s corpse folded to the jungle floor.
Shouts and the sounds of booted feet approaching signaled it was time for the Executioner to make his exit. Under normal circumstances he would have stayed to fight, but he now had a bystander to consider, one who obviously had no idea upon what sort of mess she’d stumbled, and he couldn’t risk getting her killed. There would be another place and time, another battleground on his terms. Bolan entered the SUV, grabbed the weapons bag and sprinted for the sedan.
The woman had taken her place behind the wheel now, and Bolan managed to leap through the open window of the passenger door just as she jammed the stick shift into Reverse and hauled out of there. His head ended up in her lap, but she seemed oblivious, apparently more intent on getting out of there as fast as the four-cylinder engine could take them. By the time Bolan had righted himself in the seat, the woman had cleared the tree line and picked up speed as she struggled to keep the wheels on the slick, dusty surface of the road. Twice she almost lost it, and Bolan finally looked over his shoulder to verify they weren’t being followed before he spoke to her.
“You can ease off. We’re in the clear.”
“You want to tell me who you are now?” she demanded. “And what the hell all that was about?”
“It depends,” Bolan replied easily. “You want to tell me why you were following me?”
“I didn’t know I was following you,” she snapped. Then she looked at him, noticed his easy smile and added, “I mean…at least until I realized you were following the guys on the motorcycles.”
“What’s your business with them?” Bolan asked.
“Uh-uh,” she countered. “I’ve given you something, now you tell me what you’re doing here and what your beef is with those men.”
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
“So you’re with the American government.” She smacked the
