13
Carlos pushed the jeep along in second gear.
Over the roaring engine, Bolan could barely hear himself think. He watched the forest on either side of the road, wondering just how perverse Colgan was prepared to be. He wanted to ask the man about Cordero. A sneaking suspicion crept across the back of his skull that Colgan knew more about Harding than he was letting on. And, by extension, that would mean he knew something about Cordero.
Whenever he closed his eyes, Bolan would see the bloody horror that had been made of Frank Henson. Somebody was going to pay for that, and Bolan was dangerously close to not giving a damn who. He would love to take Harding down, then nail Cordero to a tree and send it through a sawmill. But somehow that seemed too easy. It was almost too primitive. The temptation to respond to terror with action more terrible still was seductive, almost as tantalising as two fingers of Scotch in a clean glass would be to an alcoholic.
Revenge was a drug, and Bolan had succumbed more than once in his life. He was no vengeance junkie, but there was a balance of terror that had nothing to do with nuclear weapons. It had to do with the ways in which human beings were prepared to rend the flesh of their fellows, or split open their bones and smile with the blood running down their chins like cannibals at a feast.
And in the end, it was always the helpless who suffered, who fell before the terrorist's onslaught like wheat to the thresher. It was old women, like those buried in the mound Colgan had shown him. It was children, too young to defend themselves from flies, let alone madmen with automatic rifles. It was the old men whose legs were too frail to walk in the fields, let alone run from the helicopters.
Maybe Colgan was right, Bolan thought.
Maybe death could be held at arm's length only by those who were prepared to inflict it on another.
But it seemed, not realism as Colgan characterised it, but anarchism. It was an invitation to every man on the planet to join in combat against every other man. In such a case, there were no winners, just people who hadn't yet lost.
Up ahead a cloud of parrots exploded, distracting Bolan for a moment. He stared at the trees below the horde of colorful birds. Why had they risen up so suddenly, he wondered. Then a glint caught his eye, lower down, among the trees.
It flashed once, then again. He shielded his eyes with one hand, then rapped Carlos on the shoulder. The young driver turned, and Bolan jabbed a finger toward the trees. "There's someone in there," he yelled.
Carlos leaned back, and Bolan repeated the warning. This time the driver heard him. He stomped on the pedal, then lifted into third as he gained speed. As they drew near the place where the birds had been, Bolan stared in among the trees. The flash hadn't recurred, but he was convinced someone lay hidden there.
Then, just ahead of them, a huge spout of earth rose straight up, as if a leafless tree had suddenly sprouted fully grown from the earth. As clods of dirt rained down around them, Carlos struggled with the wheel, trying to avoid a gaping hole in the road.
Bolan knew what an exploding mine looked like. He also knew what one could do to a jeep.
"Back it up, Carlos," he urged.
Colgan turned, as though in a daze, his features suddenly slack. The blue eyes were almost grey and seemed sunken into the skull as if they were retreating. His lips split wide open in a gruesome smile. He hefted his M-16 and jerked the fire control lever onto full-auto.
"Time for a little lesson in realism, Mr. Belasko," he shouted.
Bolan dropped to one knee and fired a short burst from his own rifle. The limitless jungle swallowed the deadly hail as easily as the ocean swallows a few drops of rain. A brief echo of the burst quickly died, and Carlos fought the wheel as the jeep ground its gears and finally allowed him to shift into reverse.
A second mine went off, sending another column of dark earth high into the air. It narrowly missed the jeep, and the concussion slammed into Bolan's body like an invisible fist. The thunderclap made his ears ring.
So far there had been no gunfire from the trees, but it wouldn't be long in coming. As the jeep wove crazily from side to side, Bolan thanked his stars they had been able to avoid the first mine. The plan obviously had been to immobilize them. Whoever was hidden in the dense undergrowth had been hasty, detonating the mine in front instead of behind the jeep.
They had blown it and had given their intended target a fighting chance.
Instead of panicking, Carlos used his head, backed off the roadway and slammed the tail of the jeep in between two trees. He jumped down, leaving the engine running. Bolan dove over the side just as the first wave of fire broke over the jeep.
Colgan ducked below the dash, then crawled out backward, keeping the jeep between him and the hidden gunmen.
"Can you raise McRae?" Bolan whispered.
Carlos bobbed his head eagerly.
"Do it."
"No," Colgan said, "not yet. We don't need any help."
"We will. And by then, it might be too late."
Carlos watched the two older men. He wanted to call for help, but he didn't want to risk offending Colgan. He seemed in thrall to the doctor, as if under his spell.
"Give me the damn radio," Bolan growled, grabbing for the small transceiver clutched in Carlos's hand. The shiny black box fell to the ground, and Carlos snatched at it, but Bolan was too quick.
"You win." Colgan sighed. "Give it to Carlos. He'll do it."
Carlos reached out to take the small radio and flashed a grateful smile as soon as Colgan had turned away. Bolan crawled toward the front end of the jeep and lay flat on the ground. He slid under the bumper and used the barrel of his M-16 to push away a clump of fern leaves. The firing from the ambush had stopped, and the jungle was quiet except for a nervous whisper as Carlos tried to raise McRae on the radio.
"How much ammunition do you have?" Bolan asked, backing out from under the jeep.
"Three magazines," Colgan said. "And there might be a couple more in the jeep. There's usually a bag under the seat." Colgan got to one knee alongside the passenger seat and cut loose with a short burst.
"Save it," Bolan barked. "We're outgunned, and you can bet your last dollar they've got plenty of bullets."
"Most of them can't shoot worth a damn," Colgan retorted.
"You don't even know who they are."
"Like hell I don't. It's a bunch of NPA bullies. Sure as I'm sitting here, that's who they are."
"How can you be certain?"
"I've been here a lot longer than you. And if I learned one thing, it's that the NPA couldn't shoot dead fish in a small barrel. If that had been some of Harding's chums in the Brigade, we'd already be small pieces of meat dripping off the leaves on either side of the road. Those guys are well trained. They know how to shoot and they shoot to kill. If they're going to mine the road, they're going to blow the shit out of something. Bang for the buck is something they understand. But the emphasis is on buck. There is no fiscal irresponsibility with those boys. Hell, they're just like Republicans." Colgan laughed, and it turned into a maniacal wheeze. His lungs emptied, and he lost control of himself for several seconds.
Carlos crawled up behind Bolan. "Senor McRae is coming," he said. "Ten minutes."
Bolan moved to a position behind the front wheel, then peered over the hood. Two men advanced along the side of the road through the tall grass. Bolan brought his rifle up to rest on the hood. A burst of fire ripped out of the trees and shattered the windshield. Bolan ducked below the jeep as glass clattered onto the hood and cascaded down over the fenders. Hunks of glass fell into his collar, and small slivers stuck to his neck.
He shook his head, and more splinters rained out of his hair and glued themselves to his sweaty forehead.
Bolan lay on the ground and crawled into the trees behind the jeep. Using the blocky tail of the vehicle to screen himself from the two point men, he knelt among the trees. Drawing a bead with the M-16, he clicked the fire control onto single shot. Every shell was precious.