Jungle Justice. Don Pendleton
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That still left two, and one of them apparently decided it was safe to charge Bolan, pitting a six-inch blade against his pistol. The soldier could’ve double-tapped his enemy with ease, but there were too many civilians ranged behind the target for a guaranteed clean shot. Instead, he braced himself, prepared to meet his would-be killer hand to hand.
The youngster wasn’t bad, slashing at Bolan with a move that could’ve split his face or throat, but in the end he wound up cleaving only air. Bolan had ducked and sidestepped, lashed a kick into his young opponent’s groin, and watched the fight bleed out of him as he collapsed onto all fours. It was a simple thing, from there, to whip the Glock across his skull and leave him stretched out on the pavement.
One blade left, and Bolan’s contact had it more or less in hand, grappling with his opponent chest-to-chest, arms raised well overhead, the knife’s long blade reflecting glints of neon from surrounding signs. With all hands occupied, the two combatants waltzed and waddled, lurching back and forth across the sidewalk, ringed by spectators.
Bolan was moving in to break the standoff, when a gunshot cracked somewhere behind him and the young knife-wielder’s head exploded, spattering his adversary with a spray of blood and tissue. Bolan’s contact violently recoiled, shoving the corpse away from him, and thereby saved himself from the next shot.
“Get down!” Bolan cried, rushing even as he spoke to grab one of his contact’s arms and drag him into London Mews. The young man struggled, fought him, until Bolan shoved him hard against a filthy wall.
“We don’t have time for this!” he snapped. “No saffron on the menu, get it? Someone wants you dead. We need to get the hell away from here.”
His contact registered the password, blinked at Bolan in surprise, then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I understand. This way!”
The next gunshot was well off target, fired from somewhere on the street into the alley’s mouth. It ricocheted off dirty bricks and burrowed into garbage, while the Executioner followed his contact through London Mews. A clutch of beggars tried to intercept them, then fell supine at the sight of Bolan’s gun.
They burst from the alley into another crowded street. Calcutta had no other kind, it seemed, and Bolan had mixed feelings for the crush of soiled humanity. Bodies provided cover, but they also clogged his field of fire. Pedestrians might shield him from his unknown enemies—or there might be assassins in the crowd, ready to slip a blade between his ribs.
Without a vehicle or ready options, Bolan trailed his contact south along a street he soon identified as Churchill Boulevard. The street was lined with panhandlers and prostitutes, with a snake charmer performing on the corner just ahead. As they approached the intersection, yet another thug appeared in front of Bolan’s guide, this one clutching a stubby pistol in both hands.
Before Bolan could aim and fire, his contact stooped beside the snake charmer, plucked up a startled cobra from the old man’s wicker basket, spun and pitched it straight into the shooter’s face. Their adversary squealed and dropped his weapon, flailing at the reptile draped around his shoulders.
Bolan left him to it, racing past and following his contact through a hard right turn into another carbon-copy street. They found a recessed doorway, ducked into its shadow, Bolan’s contact peering out to check the street behind them.
“That was pretty slick,” Bolan said, “with the snake. I didn’t catch your name in the excitement.”
“Abhaya Takeri,” the young man replied. “And yours?”
“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. Today, at least.
“I don’t believe we should remain here any longer, Mr. Cooper.”
“Where—”
Before Bolan could put his question into words, a bullet struck the wall beside Takeri’s head and ricocheted into the street. A woman screamed, perhaps wounded, beyond his line of sight. Takeri turned at once, pushed through the door behind them, Bolan following into a tattoo parlor.
There were two chairs in the shop, both occupied by customers. The tattoo artists looked like twins, emaciated stick figures with matted hair and Fu Manchu mustaches going gray. Between the cloying incense, the whine of tattoo needles and demonic artwork mounted on the walls around him, Bolan felt as if he’d stepped into the third circle of Hell.
One of the artists said something he couldn’t understand. Takeri answered curtly and proceeded through the tiny shop toward a back room. They rattled through a screen of dangling beads, hooked left to where the back door stood propped open with a wooden crate and shouldered through into an alley barely wide enough to let them pass in single file.
Bolan had no idea who would construct an alley so narrow, or why, but it appeared to be a dumping trough for litter thrown from windows overhead. Thankfully, most of the discarded refuse had been dry—paper and cardboard, empty cans and bottles, scraps of wood and plaster board—instead of offal and the like. They clambered over knee-high dunes of rubbish, slogging north along the claustrophobic passageway, Takeri hissing steadily for Bolan to keep up.
“I’m right behind you,” Bolan said, then ducked as bullets started flying through the alley, gouging furrows in the brick to either side.
He crouched and swiveled, bruised a hip in those close quarters, lining up his Glock on a dark figure at the far end of the alley. Bolan saw the shooter’s muzzle-flash and fought the urge to flinch from it, squeezing his pistol’s trigger twice in rapid fire.
The echo of his shots was thunderous inside the alley, punctuated by the sound of cartridges rebounding from brick walls. He saw his human target stumble, turn, collapsing on his face. When the shooter did not immediately rise again, Bolan dismissed him, moving on.
Takeri reached the next street, plunged across it without looking left or right, while horse-drawn carts and rickshaws bustled past him. Bolan dodged a battered taxi cab and followed, gaining on Takeri as his contact reached the sidewalk opposite, then ducked into another darkened doorway.
Stairs this time, with people lounging on them, possibly asleep. Takeri hurdled each new obstacle, cursing when one reached out to snag his cuff, kicking to free himself. Another hand found Bolan, tried to grasp his ankle, but it lacked the strength to hold him. Moments later, they were pushing through another door and out onto the building’s roof.
“Where to?” Bolan asked, as he paused to catch his breath.
“With luck, they may not find us here,” Takeri answered.
Any hope of that was dashed a moment later, with the sound of angry voices and a gunshot from the stairwell. Bolan spun to face the doorway, leveling his pistol, but Takeri stepped in front of him.
“Better to run while we still can,” Takeri said.
“Run where?”
“Across the rooftops, there.”
Takeri pointed, already in motion as he sprinted toward a nearby parapet and launched himself through space to land on the rooftop of a building to the south. Bolan went after him, immediately thankful for the narrow alleyways that seemed to be Calcutta’s fashion. He was tiring, and a broader leap, followed by three or four more of the same, might well have winded him.
They crossed four rooftops, running hard, before Takeri found another open door and led the way down darkened stairs—unoccupied, this time—to reach the street. Bolan had not looked back to see if they were being followed, but he took it as a given. They would have to stand and fight soon, even if Takeri’s preference was an all-night run.
Bolan was on the verge of saying so when they emerged onto the crowded sidewalk and his contact hailed a passing cab. The driver stopped at once, and they piled into his back seat, almost as if the ride had been prearranged.
Bolan glanced through the cab’s rear window and saw no one in pursuit. Relaxing for the first time in what felt like hours, he sat back and stowed his pistol in its armpit holster.
“So,”