The front man was getting careless, and Bolan held his breath, waiting for a clear shot. The man wore a white headband, and Bolan could see it bobbing just below the tips of the tall blades. He fired once, and the man froze, the headband hovering in one spot like an uncertain hummingbird.
Bolan zeroed in on the headband. He squeezed again. The M-16 cracked, and the headband disappeared. He heard a shout, and a flurry of activity in the grass told him he'd found his mark. Bolan held steady, waiting to see what the second man would do. It was difficult to be certain, but from the fractured glimpses he'd caught, the second man looked quite young.
Sliding down into the brush, Bolan started to cut an angle among the trees. If he could get closer, maybe even slide in behind them, he might be able to put a lid on things before they pulled themselves together enough to make a concerted assault.
The ground was damp, and the leaf mulch silent under his feet. The remaining pointman had stopped shouting, and Bolan couldn't tell whether the man had held his position, fallen back or come on ahead. He checked the spot every few seconds, but the angle kept changing and he was no longer sure of the exact location.
Another burst ripped at the jeep, and Bolan watched the sparks fly from the hood. A loud bang signaled a blown tire, and the jeep hunched to one side. Somebody fired back, probably Colgan, and the two positions traded short bursts for several seconds. Colgan was on semiauto, and he had a heavy finger. Bolan hoped he didn't use all his ammo before McRae got there.
Something cracked off to the right, and Bolan froze for a second, then sank down into the undergrowth. A clump of flowers trembled unnaturally, and he held his breath.
He'd almost missed them.
Two men, flat as snakes, slithered over the leaves, pressing themselves under the bushes, just barely brushing a branch here and there. So slowly that he felt as if it would take him forever, Bolan brought his rifle around. Just as he was in position, one of the men, a scarecrow in khaki T-shirt and fatigue pants, sprang up. Bolan noticed the grenade as he squeezed the trigger.
He hit the deck just as the scarecrow pitched over to one side. He heard a scream, and the scarecrow's partner started to run. Tangled in some sort of vine, he tripped and fell.
Bolan covered his head, and the grenade went off with a dull crump, like a firecracker in a big barrel.
Bolan darted through the brush, his rifle ready.
The scarecrow lay on his side. Without looking too closely, Bolan knew the man was dead. The bullet hole in his chest was nothing compared to the chopped liver his back had become. Twenty feet away the second man, his feet still snarled in the tenacious vine, lay on his face. Several shrapnel wounds peppered his back. Bolan dropped to one knee and rolled him over.
He was no more than a kid. His eyes stared at Bolan, big as golf balls. His mouth moved awkwardly, and Bolan bent to hear, but there was no sound and the mouth slowly closed. The eyes glazed over as one hand shot out and grabbed Bolan by the wrist. The kid squeezed, and Bolan made no attempt to pull away.
With a soft "oohhh," the mouth moved one last time, the eyes started to glaze over and the hand fell away.
Bolan reached out to close the staring eyes with his thumb.
Up the road an intermittent roar drifted through the trees, growing louder and more consistent. Bolan got to his feet and stepped over the tangle of vines, then cocked an ear. The roar had settled into a steady droning now. It had to be McRae's jeep, Bolan thought as he moved deeper into the trees, finishing the curve and starting back in behind the hidden gunmen.
He wondered how many there were. It occurred to him that he might be walking into the middle of a sizable patrol. But something about their tactics made him doubt it. If there had been a large group, they would not have wasted time on subtlety. They would have charged headlong, relying on numbers to make the difference.
As he headed back in the direction of the road, Bolan could hear whispering voices somewhere ahead among the trees. He moved another twenty feet in, then positioned himself behind a thick-bunked rubber tree. He still heard the voices, but he hadn't seen a thing. It was brighter ahead as the growth thinned out and then was broken altogether by the road. The sound of the oncoming jeep had vanished. If it was McRae, he would be with Colgan. If it wasn't, there should have been gunfire.
With a shrug Bolan started firing into the shrubbery. A startled shout kicked off a flurry among the leaves. Bolan waited for return fire, but heard nothing but the rush of bodies headlong through the foliage. He fired twice more, then plunged after the fleeing men. They had the edge, and he knew, even as he struggled, that they were pulling away from him.
Bolan eased up and headed out into the road. He could see Colgan, Carlos and McRae huddled between two jeeps. McRae was waving his arms vehemently as Bolan broke into awn.
14
The three young prisoners cowered in a corner of the room. McRae shoved one of them with the heel of his hand, knocking the frail kid back into the wall.
"No need for that," Bolan said.
"You butt out," McRae snapped, turning to give the big guy yet one more appraising look. "You're a guest here. Guests mind their own business."
"There's no need to be so rough. He's just a kid."
"The kid was carrying an AK. He'd cut your heart out and eat it. So tuck off."
Colgan stood by silently. The tall man had folded his arms across his chest, and Bolan watched the fingers of one hand patting an elbow. Colgan looked as if he were in an empty room. If he were aware of anything going on around him, it left him uninterested.
"Okay, Carlos," McRae said, "chain these little bastards to the wall while I figure out what to do with them."
Colgan turned suddenly and strode toward the door. Bolan followed him. He grabbed the tall man by the arm and spun him around.
"What's going on here?" Bolan demanded.
"We've taken prisoners. Nothing more, nothing less."
"And?.."
"And nothing, Mr. Belasko. That's Mr. McRae's department. I don't interfere."
"What usually happens?"
"Ask him..." Colgan turned away. He paused for the slightest of moments, balanced on the balls of his feet, then walked across the compound to his hut.
Bolan heard the sharp sound of skin on skin, then a moan. He dashed back into the prison hut.
One of the prisoners was down on his knees. Even in the dim light, Bolan could see the angry welt just beginning to swell under the kid's left eye.
The kid looked at Bolan. For a second there was a glimmer of contact, as if the kid were trying to tell him something or asking for help. But the glimmer quickly faded, and the kid turned a baleful glare McRae's way. McRae raised his hand again, and Bolan stepped forward, grabbing the raised hand and bending it back against the wrist.
"That's enough, McRae."
"You mother..." McRae ducked under and spun around, releasing the pressure on his wrist. He dropped into a crouch and bulled toward the big guy.
Bolan let McRae throw a couple of wild punches, neatly sidestepping each one, then landed a sharp left just under McRae's right eye.
McRae stumbled backward, tripping over the kneeling prisoner.
In a flash the kid was on him, trying to wrap his chains around McRae's throat. He missed twice, then butted McRae with his head. This time he succeeded in getting a loop of chain around the larger man's neck. He started to pull it tight, and McRae scrambled to get his fingers in between the bulky links and the flesh of his neck.
The kid was wiry and he was furious. McRae thrashed around on the dirt floor, trying to throw the kid off him, but he was losing control. His eyes started to bulge, and Bolan saw the skin on either side of the chain start to turn bright white. He looked at Carlos, but Carlos either didn't know what to do or had, unconsciously perhaps, chosen sides.