Читать книгу Dark Alliance - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

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 first target appeared, AK-74 cradled in the crook of one arm while he chattered on a com-set. Bolan watched him push through the greenery, his image flickering as he moved from one patch of light to another. The Executioner tracked him closely, waiting for his opportunity. He stroked the Beretta’s trigger. The 9 mm slug hit the guard just above his left ear. He went down without a sound and before he hit the ground Bolan had pulled back, lost in the shadows again, his mud camouflage helping him to merge with his surroundings.

The sharp snap of the shot alerted the others. They froze, staring about them. Seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. The forest around them held shadows and light, and somewhere the man they were hunting. Com-sets buzzed with talk.

Bolan circled, picking out more wary figures. His enemies had no idea where he was now he had stopped running.

Target two was ahead of him. Less talkative than the others, he stood and listened to the jungle. His AK was up and ready as he sought his target. This guy was sharp. Alert. But it did him little good because the man he was looking for already had him in his sights.

Bolan fired a single fatal shot and the man went down.

He backed away from the killing ground and left the enemy unsure, searching and finding nothing but the dense forest.

He had counted three more, had observed their relative positions and allowed them to decide what they should do. Bolan was not in a forgiving mood. The people he had encountered since taking up his search for Maggie Connor were unrelenting in their savagery.

Not for the first time the thought entered his head that they were desperate to conceal something far bigger than illegal weapons. Ordnance, like drugs, was everyday trade to these people. The way they had responded to Maggie Connor’s investigation supported the theory that it was on a higher level than narcotics and guns.

But what?

He had to extract himself from his current situation. While he was caught in this jungle, with a trio of unfriendly locals out for blood, he could do nothing at all.

Bolan picked up the tread of a boot to his immediate right. He curled his prone body and homed in on the slow-moving bulk of an armed man. Then he detected movement beyond the man in his line of sight. This one was twenty feet to the right. They were moving in tandem, covering a strip of the forest. They knew Bolan had gone to the offensive and were tracking with more care.

The second man stepped into a clearing. He was waiting for his partner to close in. Bolan braced himself. He saw the man turn, facing his way, presenting a wider target.

He held the image, eased back on the trigger, took his shot.

As the gunman went down Bolan swiveled and tracked his partner. He had reacted to the shot, aware it had come from only a short distance away from his own position. He swung his weapon around and began to pump shots into the foliage. Bolan felt the bullets chew at the greenery close by.

A slug skinned his right arm.

The Executioner held his position, watching the dark bulk of the shooter as he twisted to get a better look at his potential target.

It was a question of who would hit their target first.

Bolan’s refusal to alter his own position allowed him that extra time to settle his aim and fire. He triggered a trio of shots, the Beretta hammering out its heavy sound in the closeness of the forest. The target flinched as the slugs hit him sidelong, angling up through his ribs to puncture lungs. He stumbled back with a heavy exhalation of breath before crashing solidly to the ground.

The Executioner picked up the merest flicker of sound behind him. Someone was really close.

The last man.

He caught a sliver of shadow on fronds to his left. The sliver expanded. Loomed over him. Instinct took over. Bolan rolled. He saw a dark shape towering over him, right arm already powering down, the intent to bury a machete deep into his skull. Bolan caught the blur of the blade as it slashed downward. Heard the soft whoosh as it cleaved the air. The blade pierced the ground as the Beretta fired. Bolan’s attacker grunted as he caught the bullets in his torso. The man toppled and the machete remained buried in the soil, inches away from Bolan.

He pushed himself into a crouch and spent the next few minutes observing the forest around him. Apart from the constant bird chatter, he picked up no other sound. He spotted no further movement. Bolan stretched his wait for another ten minutes. He felt reasonably satisfied he was alone. For the moment. Sooner or later someone would contact the base. When they received no reply men would be dispatched to find out what was happening.

Bolan realized he was far from being in the clear.