Shadow Search. Don Pendleton
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the receiver. As he did he felt the room shake. The floor vibrated then the main window blew in, showering the room with glass. He felt something catch his left cheek, a sharp sensation. When he touched his hand to it his fingers came away bloody. All this happened in a micro-second, and following in the next heartbeat came the sound of the explosion. Hot air gusted in through the shattered window. The room shook for long seconds. Bolan could hear rumbling continuing outside.
As Bolan moved to the window, the rumble of the blast fading away, he picked up the rattle of debris banging against the outside wall. More windows had been shattered. People began to shout and scream. Some of shock, others spoke of pain, and Bolan knew there would be casualties. He pulled a leather jacket from his bag and zipped it over his holstered gun as he reached the window. Across the street he saw a dust cloud settling around the remains of a building. The street was littered with debris—and people. Even from his position Bolan could see the mark of bright blood against exposed skin and clothing. He turned from the window and made his way downstairs and out of the hotel.
The building, from his brief moments passing it on the approach to the hotel, had been a shop of some kind. A couple of stories high, with wide display windows showing merchandise. Those windows were gone now, as was most of the frontage. The upper floors were exposed. The street was covered with chunks of concrete, and glass lay everywhere. Cars that had been parked outside the store were half buried under fallen masonry. One was burning, throwing dark smoke into the sky. More smoke was rising from the wrecked store.
No one seemed to be in any state to help. There were a lot of walking wounded. People moving around in a daze, bloody and with clothing in tatters. The concussion had caused many of them to bleed from the ears and nose. They were wandering aimlessly.
Bolan saw his first casualty. A young man struggling to stand, unaware that his right leg was dragging behind him, reduced to bloody tatters. Splintered bone protruded through the lacerated tissue. Blood was pulsing from a severed artery. Bolan knelt beside him, his strong hands settling the man.
“Try to stay still. We’ll get help as soon as possible.”
Bolan searched for a pressure point, pressed firmly over the spot and managed to reduce a degree of blood loss.
The man stared up at Bolan, his eyes wide with shock. His face was streaked with blood from numerous cuts and gashes. “Why has this happened?”
“Right now we don’t know.”
The sound of a police vehicle reached Bolan’s ears. He looked around and saw a blue-and-white Ford 4×4 rolling to a stop. Armed police officers leapt out, staring around the site of the explosion.
“Over here,” Bolan shouted.
One of the officers crouched beside him. He seemed genuinely shocked by the condition of the injured young man.
“We need ambulances. Emergency services. Now,” Bolan snapped. “Call it in now.”
The officer reached for the transceiver clipped to his belt and began to call in rapid instructions. Two more police vehicles sped into view. Uniformed officers spilled out. One of them was a tall, powerfully built man, with sergeant’s stripes on his shirt sleeve. He began to yell orders to the other officers, directing them to specific tasks. The sergeant crossed to where Bolan was kneeling beside the injured man.
“You managing?” he asked, taking in Bolan’s bloody hands clamped about the victim’s leg.
“For the moment,” Bolan answered.
“What a mess,” the sergeant said. “Why can’t these bastards come out and fight like men? What do they expect to gain from this kind of thing?”
“Confusion. Intimidation. Anything to upset the status quo.”
“If I ever get my hands on them I’ll upset more than that.”
The sergeant glanced around and found himself face-to-face with the young officer who had called in for backup. He was about to yell at the man when he saw the shock etched on the man’s face.
“Go to the hotel, Kunda. Tell them we need blankets, sheets and towels,” he said in a gentle tone that belied his powerful physical appearance.
The officer looked at him, then turned and headed for the hotel.
“He needed that,” Bolan said.
“Ah, youngsters. We were all there once,” the sergeant replied.
Over an hour later, Bolan, dusty and bloody, sweat soaking his clothing, leaned against the side of the sergeant’s patrol vehicle. He had spent the intervening time helping to pull casualties out of the demolished store. Ambulances were still ferrying the injured to the city hospital. The dead were laid out on the road, covered with sheets. Bolan had counted sixteen. Five of them had been young children. The rescue teams were hard at it, digging through the rubble, searching for others who might still be trapped inside the building.
A group of people was clustered around a car listening to another repeat of the taped message that had been sent to the station within minutes of the bomb blast. The rebels claimed responsibility for the explosion and were threatening more if the government did not accede to their demands. They had been forced into this position because the government had refused to compromise. So the people of Tempala would pay the price. The voice on the tape made the usual excuses, used the same condescending tones as he claimed that what had happened was the fault of a repressive administration. The rebels had been forced to make this dramatic gesture. Not once during the tape did the man even hint at any kind of regret over the deaths of innocent people.
The scenario wasn’t unfamiliar to Bolan. He had seen and heard the same in other locations around the world. The work of savages who considered this kind of thing a legitimate part of their agenda. The senseless death and destruction was intended to cow the populace into favoring the demands of the opposition. In Bolan’s estimation these people had just crossed the line. They were using the most base form of coercion, and as far as the soldier was concerned, Tempala’s rebels—as he had said to President Karima—had stepped into the shadow land that marked them down as nothing more than terrorists.
“They talk as if it’s our fault,” someone close by said.
Bolan looked up and saw the big sergeant bearing down on him, clutching mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. He handed one to Bolan. The sergeant’s uniform was stained and bloody, his black skin streaked with dust and gleaming with sweat.
“That’s what they want you to believe,” Bolan said. “Make the people feel guilty so they come around to the way of the terrorist.”
“Don’t you mean our glorious rebels?” the policeman said with more than a hint of irony in his voice.
Bolan looked him in the eye. “No, I mean terrorist.”
The sergeant sized up the tall American as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind about the man yet. “You know about this kind of thing?”
“A little.”
The sergeant shook his head. “I think a lot, my friend.”
He stuck out a large hand. Bolan took it and they shook.
“Now tell me who you are. And why you are wearing a gun under that jacket you haven’t taken off even in this heat.”
There was no threat in the man’s tone.
“Name’s Mike Belasko. I arrived a few hours ago. I’m part of Leland Cartwright’s team. The man who…”
The sergeant nodded. “I know who he his. So, Mr. Belasko, what is your job on the team?”
“Security advisor.”
“That would explain the gun.”
Bolan smiled. “No fooling you.”
“My job.”
“You have a name, Sergeant?”
“Christopher