Dark Alliance. Don Pendleton
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with him, hammering down with the ferocity only found in tropical climes. The already-soft jungle floor became waterlogged. The downpour soaked through to his skin. Despite the rain the temperature stayed warm, and once the downpour ended, the sullen heat would return with a vengeance. The enclosed atmosphere would trap the warmth in a steamy cocoon.
Bolan came to the edge of the jungle. He stared across the clearing at the silent base. There was no movement or sound. Just the bodies of the gunmen he had taken down on his exit from the cell block. He spent the next thirty minutes circling the area, viewing it from all angles and confirming his thoughts. The place was deserted and he saw no means of transport. On the farthest side of the clearing he spotted a flat patch that bore the imprint of a helicopter’s landing gear. There were dark patches from oil seepage, as well.
He moved back to the cluster of buildings, still cautious.
There were three empty stone huts. One had an open frontage and served as a crude kitchen. There were sleeping quarters, with rough wooden pallets holding blankets. The final hut would have been the HQ and storage area. When Bolan went in he saw a radio transceiver against one wall. Equipment was strewn around the place. He spotted a case of bottled water. He opened one and took a long drink.
Crossing to the radio Bolan flicked on the power switch. The set remained dead. He followed a power cord and saw it disappear through the stone wall. He stepped outside and walked behind the building where a lean-to protected a portable generator unit. He checked out the small motor that drove the generator. About to fire it up he saw that someone had removed the lead that connected to the spark plug in the cylinder head. No spark, no ignition. No power to the radio. Someone had been thinking on his feet. The missing lead was probably in the pocket of one of the dead men back in the jungle.
The Executioner went to the makeshift kitchen and searched for food. In a metal locker he found some cans of corned beef. He broke the ring pull seal and opened a can. The smell of the meat made his empty stomach growl. He used his fingers to gouge out a portion and ate sparingly. He ignored the demands of his appetite. Overeating would be dangerous. He took the can with him as he returned to the HQ hut, and ate a little more corned beef, washing it down with some water. He moved one of the crude wooden chairs closer to the door to see the landing site. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the thick stubble that had grown during his captivity. He waited patiently, allowing his body to recharge.
THE DISTANT SOUND CAUGHT his attention. It rose and faded, broken up by the drumming of the rain on the roof. But it was a sound Bolan recognized instantly. Rotors beating the air.
The helicopter was getting closer. The sound was building. Then he saw it. A red, silver and blue Bell 206B3 JetRanger III. It came into sight above the tree line, angling down as it swooped over the base. Bolan watched it circle a number of times before the pilot settled it onto the landing site. The rotors began to slow as the power was cut. No one climbed out, even after the rotors ceased moving. They were being cautious. The guards had not shown themselves and radio silence remained.
The Executioner knew he would have reacted the same way given the circumstances.
Eventually, hatches opened and the pilot and his passenger climbed out. Both men were armed. Huddled together at the front of the chopper they discussed how to handle the situation. There was no doubt they had spotted the dead men.
Bolan ran a double check of his weapons. The reloaded Uzi was set to one side. He set an AK-74 for full auto mode. He knew the men were not there to ask after his welfare. He saw them move, AK assault rifles in their hands as they double-timed in the direction of the camp. They were aiming directly for the hut where Bolan was waiting.
He watched the two men as they closed in.
The lead man opened fire as he approached the hut. Bolan saw the wink of flame from the black muzzle.
He snapped up his own weapon, returning fire that ripped splinters from the door frame, then continued on to puncture the gunner’s torso in a bloody spray. The man stumbled back, face contorted, mouth open in a warning shout. Bolan hit him with a second burst that rolled him along the side of the hut and dropped him facedown on the sodden ground.
A blur of movement showed in the open doorway. The second man ignored his partner’s warning and ran directly into Bolan’s line of fire. The Executioner held his finger on the trigger and cleared the magazine, blowing his target to shreds.
Crouching, he fed in a fresh magazine and cocked the assault rifle before he did anything else. He climbed to his feet, feeling the overwhelming fatigue returning, and knew if he didn’t get some rest he was going to fall flat on his own face. He had to find out why he’d ended up at the camp and what Raul Manolo was planning. But first he had to make his final escape.
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