Nightmare Army. Don Pendleton
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and cold.
And the screaming. From the moment he woke to the night he was able to escape, Motumbo always heard someone screaming. Sometimes it was a man, the voice hoarse and low, sometimes a woman, the shrill shrieks lancing through his head. But it was constant, unrelenting, endless.
The men and women poked and prodded him, weighed him, made him do physical tests that he didn’t understand. Failure to comply was met with shocking force, administered by large men with devices that shot strange darts with wires attached to their handles that made Motumbo’s entire body feel as if it was on fire. He’d only needed to experience that once and afterward he had complied with their demands as quickly as possible.
In some respects, it wasn’t so bad. He was dressed and well-fed. He was even allowed to watch television for an hour each day, but sometimes the programs gave him headaches. The tests weren’t hard—at least, not in the beginning. Then one day he had been given an injection of a thick, black liquid and brought into a room with another person, a woman. Motumbo had just stared at her for a moment, as she had looked back at him. Then he had felt a strange sort of pressure in his head, as though his skull was about to split open if he didn’t do something right now, and a funny kind of warmness in his arms and legs, and the only thought in his mind was to—
No! He banished the rising memory before that terrible nightmare replayed behind his eyes again. Instead he concentrated on how he had escaped, catching a scientist by surprise when he had come in to check on the teen’s progress after the latest round of injections of the black stuff that made his limbs pulse with a warm, drowsy fire. The man hadn’t even had time to shout before Motumbo had leaped on him, bearing him to the ground and smashing his skull until it leaked blood. He had taken the man’s lab coat, identification and mask, and headed out a maintenance door he’d noticed was often left unguarded. Outside, he’d thought he was free, but had encountered another guard, who’d seen through his flimsy disguise. Motumbo hadn’t hesitated then, either. He had grabbed the man and battered his face until he had slumped to the ground. It was only afterward that he realized the guard had stabbed him in the side. He’d left the strange place, running at first, trying to put as much distance between himself and it.
The wound in his side throbbed now, but Motumbo’s pace never slowed. One hand pressed to his right side, the other held out to block low branches or to fend off a predator, he kept moving forward. Occasionally he glanced around the unfamiliar terrain, having no idea where he was or which direction his village might be. But always, always there was the insistence demand to hunt, to find...
A rustle in the trees to his right made the teenager freeze, cocking his head to pinpoint the source of the noise. He turned in time to see a blur of fur and fangs leap straight at his face The mouth of the leopard was opened wide to sink into his cheeks while the jungle cat’s front claws reached out to pierce his arms or shoulders and the rear claws raked across his abdomen to disembowel him. All of that would normally happen in the next half second as the jungle predator efficiently killed him.
But the moment Motumbo’s vision locked on to the leaping predator, time seemed to slow. The pupils of his eyes dilated even farther, taking in every detail of the large cat, from the snarl on its face to the scrap of rotting meat wedged near its upper left canine to its left paw extended a few inches ahead of the right one to hook into him first. The soaring cat turned sluggish, floating through the air instead of flying at him in the blink of an eye.
Along with the time slowdown, Motumbo was immediately filled with an insensate, killing, red rage.
Reaching out with his right hand, he gripped the left paw, heedless of the extended claws, and grabbed the right paw with his left hand. As soon as his fingers closed on both limbs, he wrenched them sideways, as far apart as he could with all of his strength, which now seemed limitless.
The crack and tear of snapping bones and ripping flesh sounded in the night. The leopard’s ferocious expression turned to agony as its forelegs were almost ripped off its body. Using the momentum of the cat’s leap, Motumbo whirled and threw the sixty-kilogram animal ten meters away. The crippled animal landed against a moss-covered tree with a sickening thud. Unable to rise, it let out a shocked yowl, as if unable to comprehend how it had gone from supreme hunter to mortally wounded in two heartbeats.
As soon as the overwhelming urge to kill had come over him, it abated, and Motumbo regained control of himself as though coming out of a daydream. He hadn’t suffered a scratch from the beast’s attempted attack, but his head felt thick and sluggish, and his muscles burned from the effort to protect himself.
A low mewling came from the base of the tree where the leopard had landed, and Motumbo walked over to it, seeing the animal writhing in pain, its front legs twisted and useless, its back legs limp and unmoving. Broke its back when it hit the tree, he thought. Careful to avoid the sharp teeth, he grabbed it behind the scruff and, with an amazing burst of strength, snapped its neck.
As he did so, bright lights popped on all around the small clearing. Motumbo looked up to see the three of the silver ghosts appear at the far end. The red rage fell over his vision again and he sprang at them, fingers outstretched to tear them apart, if he could only get his hands on one...
A loud hiss of compressed air sounded from his left and Motumbo felt the bite of the darts again, followed by searing agony that locked his limbs and sent him crashing to the ground, his face twisted in pain, a choked cry forcing its way from between his gritted teeth.
The silver ghosts looked at him from behind the strange masks they wore, and one of them held a small vial of something under his nose that made him dizzy and sleepy.
His last conscious thought before the blackness took him was what one of the ghosts said to the others. “Killed a full-grown, healthy leopard while unarmed. The company will be very pleased with our results so far, don’t you think?”
Fingers clenching the grip of his silenced SIG-Sauer P-229 pistol, Mack Bolan listened to the two men as they walked closer to his hiding spot. Talking in rapid-fire Armenian, they were close enough now that he could smell the harsh smoke from their Turkish cigarettes as it mixed with the tang of the gun oil on the hunting rifles slung over their shoulders.
Normally he wouldn’t hesitate to take them out if they got too close. The two men weren’t taking any security precautions. He could easily hear them, even over the constant wind at this altitude. Their steps were slow on the goat trail, their conversation casual, unhurried. At the moment they had no idea where he was.
When they reached the ideal position, he would stand from cover and put both men down with double taps to the chest in under two seconds. The .40-caliber bullets would smash through their woolen sweaters, crack their sternums and plow into their hearts, mangling them before exiting their backs in a spray of blood. Two quick steps forward, along with a third shot into each man’s forehead, and all he would be left with would be to make sure these men were never found.
But this situation was anything but ordinary.
Bolan had spent the past four days surveilling the mountaintop headquarters of Aleksandr Sevan, the leader of the Jadur clan, currently at the top of the Armenian mafia hierarchy. Tightly knit and bound by a strict code of honor and ethics, as well as family ties, the Armenians had resisted all attempts at agents infiltrating their ranks, with even local agents with impeccable jackets either found dead or simply vanishing, never to be seen again.
Meanwhile, over the past few decades, the Armenians had extended their tentacles from their small landlocked country to encircle both Europe and America in a stranglehold of crime and fear. With a well-deserved reputation for savage brutality and the use of violence in response to even minor threats against them, they had made inroads into every type of crime on both continents, from street crimes such as kidnapping, bank robbery, drug smuggling and sex slavery to white collar offenses such as wire fraud, bank fraud, racketeering and embezzlement. Along the way, the Armenians were willing to work with local, established mafias, such as the Russians or Mexicans, to get what they wanted, but also had no qualms about