A shot rang out

Bolan heard the slug whack into the wall behind him, felt chunks of clay strike his shoulders. He took evasive action, going down on one knee and returning fire. The shadowy figure on the far side of the room flew backward, becoming entangled with a chair and fell hard, blood coursing from his chest and throat. He lay for a while choking on blood and sucking air through his shredded windpipe.

Bolan stayed alert, scanning the room until he was satisfied he was alone. He moved from man to man, checking for signs of life. There were none. He picked up the dropped weapons and threw them in a corner after pulling the magazines.

Then he turned and stepped outside, feeling the heat of the sun as he crossed to the old truck—and the figure bound to it.

MACK BOLAN®
The Executioner

#227 Blood Circle

#228 Terminal Option

#229 Zero Tolerance

#230 Deep Attack

#231 Slaughter Squad

#232 Jackal Hunt

#233 Tough Justice

#234 Target Command

#235 Plague Wind

#236 Vengeance Rising

#237 Hellfire Trigger

#238 Crimson Tide

#239 Hostile Proximity

#240 Devil’s Guard

#241 Evil Reborn

#242 Doomsday Conspiracy

#243 Assault Reflex

#244 Judas Kill

#245 Virtual Destruction

#246 Blood of the Earth

#247 Black Dawn Rising

#248 Rolling Death

#249 Shadow Target

#250 Warning Shot

#251 Kill Radius

#252 Death Line

#253 Risk Factor

#254 Chill Effect

#255 War Bird

#256 Point of Impact

#257 Precision Play

#258 Target Lock

#259 Nightfire

#260 Dayhunt

#261 Dawnkill

#262 Trigger Point

#263 Skysniper

#264 Iron Fist

#265 Freedom Force

#266 Ultimate Price

#267 Invisible Invader

#268 Shattered Trust

#269 Shifting Shadows

#270 Judgment Day

#271 Cyberhunt

#272 Stealth Striker

#273 UForce

#274 Rogue Target

#275 Crossed Borders

#276 Leviathan

#277 Dirty Mission

#278 Triple Reverse

#279 Fire Wind

#280 Fear Rally

#281 Blood Stone

#282 Jungle Conflict

#283 Ring of Retaliation

#284 Devil’s Army

#285 Final Strike

#286 Armageddon Exit

#287 Rogue Warrior

#288 Arctic Blast

#289 Vendetta Force

#290 Pursued

#291 Blood Trade

#292 Savage Game

#293 Death Merchants

#294 Scorpion Rising

#295 Hostile Alliance

#296 Nuclear Game

#297 Deadly Pursuit

#298 Final Play

#299 Dangerous Encounter

#300 Warrior’s Requiem

#301 Blast Radius

#302 Shadow Search

The Executioner®

Shadow Search

Don Pendleton

Wrongdoing can only be avoided if those who are not wronged feel the same indignation at it as those who are.

—Solon, Athenian Statesman c.638 B.C.

The salvation of mankind lies only in making everything the concern of everyone.

—Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Nobel Prize winner

To those who prey on the defenseless and the weak—beware. I have seen that despair and weakness in your victims and I will not stand aside and abandon them, or allow it to continue.

—Mack Bolan

To all of the coalition military personnel who have been, or are, serving in the Middle East. Thanks.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

1

Tempala Airport, West Africa.

Phil McReady wasn’t a nervous type but he felt slightly uneasy in the presence of the man he knew only as Mike Belasko. Since his introduction to the man at the airport just outside Tempala City, McReady had sensed there was far more to Belasko than the quiet-spoken, reserved persona he displayed. Belasko had stepped off the plane, checking the corner of the airfield that had been allocated to the U.S. team led by Ambassador Leland Cartwright. His manner was that of a man who didn’t trust any situation until he had checked it out personally. Because of the presidential authorization given to Cartwright’s organization, McReady had been able to take Belasko straight to the waiting car and out of the airport.

Belasko moved with the confidence of a man who knew his way around. His manner belied his physical appearance. Over six foot in height, with a solid physical build, he weighed around two hundred pounds, none of it wasted on fat. He made no play about his appearance. He didn’t need to. McReady had also noticed the quiet way Belasko spoke. He didn’t raise his voice, yet there was something in his manner that drew good responses from those he did talk to.

As far as McReady was concerned, Belasko was another addition to the U.S. government team in Tempala. That was how he had been told to view Belasko, and to ask no questions. Belasko was also to be given all the cooperation he required—again with no questions asked. It was all on a need-to-know basis. McReady had been given his orders and that was it. The moment Belasko had stepped off the plane, his eyes checking out the area as he walked across the apron to meet McReady, he showed his true calling. This was no man to fool with. McReady made a mental note to keep his curiosity in check. Plain and simple, the message was, do not ask questions and do not get on the wrong side of this man. On the other hand, McReady wasn’t an idiot. He knew why Belasko was there. It irritated him because his insider knowledge allowed him the privilege of knowing what had happened to start all this off. The frantic calls to Washington and the U.S. President. McReady had been in on all of it, and then Cartwright had started getting tight-lipped about the whole thing.

In the air-conditioned comfort of the car on the way from the airport to the city, McReady concentrated on his driving.

“So what the hell did they tell you about me, Phil?” Belasko asked. “The way you’re avoiding talking, somebody must have laid down the rules pretty hard.”

“My boss, Leland Cartwright. He said to meet you at the plane, take you to the hotel and when you’re settled in, drive you to meet President Karima. Apart from that I don’t question you.”

Belasko laughed. “What does he think I’m going to do? Shoot you if I don’t like what you ask?”

“I guess we’re all a little touchy, Mike. Since Karima’s kids were kidnapped things have been a little tense.”

“I can see why. Has the lid been kept closed on the situation?”

McReady drew breath, unsure how to handle the question.

“We all know why I’m here,” Belasko said. “Karima’s children have been taken and the kidnappers are using them as a threat. They don’t want Karima signing the agreement with the U.S. because that gives our military a foot in the door in this part of the world. The opposition see that as a means of imposing Karima’s authority on the country. They say he’ll use the American military to put down any opposition. That won’t happen. All we’re looking for are deep-water facilities at Rugendi Bay. Refueling and repair units. It will bring in a steady source of income for the country. Karima is also looking for financial backing to regenerate the copper-mining business. Tempala has vast copper deposits and Karima wants to get the business working again. The old regimes have let the business fall apart. I know that and you know that, so talk to me, Phil. I need some intel if I’m going to get those kids back.”

McReady smiled. “I’ll say one thing for you, Belasko. You can sum up the problem without taking a breath.”

“I don’t see any reason to walk around the block.”

“I guess not.”

That summed up Belasko as a whole, McReady decided. The man would tackle anything that came his way in the same manner. Direct, to the point. Given why he was there it was probably the only way to go.

It took just under thirty minutes to reach the city. They drove along a straight, tarmac road cutting through fringes of lush forest and grass. Along the way they passed gas stations and a couple of small settlements. There was a fair amount of traffic.

“Tempala is a nice place,” McReady said. “Developing at a steady pace. Joseph Karima is a good man. Runs a straight government and deals honestly with the people. The only problem he can’t get settled is the old tribal affiliations. Africa still has a hell of a time with these blood ties and such. You can have the most democratic government, build houses and power stations, run a stable economy, but it can all be knocked off track by these tribal issues.”

“And it’s Karima’s stumbling block, from what I heard.”

“You said it,” McReady agreed. “He has an internal struggle going on that’s threatening his whole power base. Rebel forces want to turn their backs on everything he’s done because they believe it will ruin the country. Damn it, the place was in ruins when Karima came into power. What he’s done in twelve years is a miracle. The people have never been so well off and they don’t want change. So the rebels have turned to terror tactics. The worst thing they’ve done is to orchestrate this kidnapping. The way Karima tells it, they want him to step down and hand over all power to the rebels. Allow them to form a new government on their terms.”

“How widespread is the news of the kidnapping?”

“As of last night it’s still in-house, so to speak. Karima has kept it under wraps. If the news does get out there would be an outcry. Family is everything to this country, and Karima’s kids are part of his strength in the eyes of the nation.”

“Ten-year-old twins?” Belasko said.

McReady nodded.

“Boy and girl. Randolph and Katherine. Karima’s wife died six months after the kids were born. Since then he’s brought them up himself.”

“What does he know about me?”

“Only that you’ve been brought in by Ambassador Cartwright, via the U.S. President. You will handle the affair on your own without interference.”

“How does Cartwright know about the kidnapping?”

“Karima trusts him. Cartwright was appointed by the U.S. President to help organize the Rugendi Bay negotiations. When Karima contacted the President and asked for his help the President told Karima he could trust Cartwright. Seems the President and Karima are old friends. Dates back to when Karima was in the States, going through law school. The men and their wives were good friends. As soon as the President heard about the kidnapping he pulled some strings.” McReady grinned. “Which is why you’re here, I guess.”

“Pays to have powerful friends,” Belasko observed.

“I’ll have to remember that,” McReady said wryly.

They reached the hotel. It was a large, modern structure set in cultivated grounds. As McReady drew up outside the main entrance, a uniformed doorman stepped out to open the car door. Belasko carried his leather shoulder bag as McReady led the way inside and up to the reception desk.

The attractive girl behind the desk smiled at him. “Back so soon, Mr. McReady?”

“With a guest,” McReady said. “You have a room reserved for him.”

“This will be Mr. Belasko?”

Belasko nodded. He signed in and took the key card the girl handed him.

“Fourth floor, Mr. Belasko.”

“Thanks,” Belasko said as he picked up his bag.

“Meet you here in the lobby in thirty minutes?” McReady asked.

“Fine.”

MACK BOLAN TOOK the elevator up to the fourth floor, then followed the wall signs until he located his room. The key card opened the door and he went in, dropped his bag beside the bed and slipped out of his suit jacket. He tossed it on the bed before crossing to the large window. He stared out across the open view of the city. In the far distance he could make out the hazy outline of a mountain chain. He stood at the window for a while, simply enjoying the view.

When he did move he picked up the shoulder bag and placed it on the bed. Taking a small key from his pocket he unlocked the zipper restraint and opened the bag. He reached to the bottom and pulled out a packed shoulder-holster rig. When the rig was unrolled, a handgun was exposed. It was a 9 mm Beretta 93-R machine pistol. He laid the rig on the bed. He took a clean shirt from his leather bag and placed it beside the Beretta. Removing his tie he went to the bathroom, stripped off his shirt and washed up. Emerging from the bathroom, Bolan pulled on the fresh shirt and put on the tie again. Before he slipped into his jacket he put on the shoulder holster.

Checking himself in the mirror on the wall he ran his fingers through his thick black hair, nodding at his reflection. “So let’s get this mission on the rails, Mr. Belasko,” Mack Bolan said to himself.

24 hours earlier

HAL BROGNOLA SEARCHED the pockets of his jacket for a cigar, sighing audibly when he found one. The director of the Sensitive Operations Group unwrapped it and stuck it between his teeth, looking ready to chew it into oblivion. He looked as if he had resigned himself to the fact that all he could do now was wait for Mack Bolan to make his decision.

The man known as the Executioner, sitting across from the head Fed, was aware of Brognola’s agitation. Bolan had been ready to take off on a few days’ R&R when Brognola’s call had reached him at the ultracovert Stony Man Farm. Within twenty minutes Bolan was on board one of the Farm’s helicopters, being flown to Washington by Jack Grimaldi.

“What’s up, Sarge?” Grimaldi had asked.

“If I knew I’d tell you,” Bolan had answered truthfully. “Only thing I am sure of is I can kiss my vacation goodbye.”

“Situation normal then,” Grimaldi said, smiling.

“You said it, Jack.”

Brognola was waiting for Bolan when the helicopter touched down. The soldier transferred to the big Fed’s car and settled back for an explanation. Brognola didn’t say a great deal as he drove to a nearby diner. They went inside and ordered coffee.

“Hal, you’re looking smart,” Bolan observed, taking in the neat shirt and tie. Even Brognola’s suit looked as if it had just come off the hanger. “Been to see the head man?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly where I’ve been,” Brognola said. “He asked to see me. Urgent meeting.”

Their coffee came and they sat drinking until the waitress had moved on.

“Urgent meeting?” Bolan reminded his friend.

“Yeah. The President wanted to ask a favor.”

“From you?”

“Christ, Striker, you don’t let even me off the hook.”

Bolan smiled, shaking his head. “Come on, Hal, we don’t need to pussyfoot. What does the man want?”

“You heard of Tempala?”

“On the west coast of Africa. Democratic independent state. The British ran the place about a hundred years ago. President is Joseph Karima. Right now he’s in some kind of talks with the U.S. Wants to offer the Navy the use of a deepwater facility. And there’s something about copper concessions as well.”

Bolan picked up his cup and drank. He waited for Brognola to speak.

“You amaze me. You’re right up to date. Karima is going through a hard time at the moment. He’s fighting a rebel faction from the Kirandi tribes who are resisting any changes that will benefit the country. These people are doing everything they can to cancel out the deep-water offer and the deal for the copper with U.S. companies. Things are starting to get serious. The rebels have started to use harassment and scare tactics against the general population. Karima has stood up to them until the latest escalation, and that’s where we come in.”

Bolan saw the look on Brognola’s face and knew for sure he wasn’t going to like what he heard.

“Just about thirty-six hours ago Joseph Karima’s children were kidnapped by the rebels. Karima has been given ten days to agree with the rebel’s demands. He must cancel all the negotiations he’s involved in and step down from office. If he refuses he doesn’t see his children ever again.”

“His country or his children,” Bolan stated. “Those rebels know how to turn the screw.”

“Which is why the President wants us to help,” Brognola said. “Striker, Karima is a friend to the U.S. From the mouth of the President, Karima is one of the good guys. He’s pulled Tempala out of the dirt and held it together through some really hard times. The future could be good for his whole country if he can complete his negotiations. The copper mining is ready to grow. The deals he has in the pipeline will bring in money and provide jobs. So would the agreement with our Navy.”

“You mentioned a favor?”

Brognola rubbed the back of his neck, chewing on his cigar.

“Okay, it’s like this. Joseph Karima and the President are good friends. They first met when Karima was in the U.S. at law school. When Karima met the girl he eventually married, the President and his wife were instrumental in helping the relationship along. They were at Karima’s wedding in New York. Karima’s wife died soon after the children were born. Boy-and-girl twins. Karima brought the kids up on his own and still found time to go into politics and become president of Tempala. It’s one of the things the people like about him. Karima is father to his children and his country. Right now the man is hurting. He needs help. Our President has asked for help, Striker. He wants you to go to Tempala, meet Karima and find his kids. All you have to say is yes. A plane is waiting to take you directly to Tempala. Cover has already been arranged. I can fill you in on the way to the airfield. I’ve got a file in the car. It will update you on everything you’ll need to know before you touch down.”

Bolan examined his cup.

“The President accepts he’ll owe us for this,” Brognola said.

“Damn right he will,” Bolan answered. “It’s going to cost you, too, Hal.”

Brognola stared at his friend.

“Big time,” Bolan said, smiling. “At least a coffee refill.” He pushed his cup across the table.

THERE WAS A CAR WAITING outside the hotel when Bolan joined McReady. They left immediately. The ride through Tempala City was interesting from Bolan’s viewpoint. He could see the good Karima had done. Clean, modern buildings stood on each side of the three-lane highway. There were some imposing structures, with a number of them showing American logos. There were a couple of buildings that showed the results of recent attacks. Slogans had been painted across walls, and windows had been broken. A blackened patch showed where a gasoline bomb had been thrown at the building, one belonging to a U.S. mining company.

“Rebels did that a few weeks back,” McReady said. “Place had only a week to go before it opened for business. Crazy thing is that all the American companies employ a large percentage of Tempalan citizens. How do you figure it? Someone phoned the local radio station and warned that this was only the start if things didn’t change.”

“How bad is the rebel problem?” Bolan asked.

“Becoming worse,” McReady replied. “They’re stepping up intimidation. A lot of it is out of the city and towns, away from the regular law-enforcement areas. Tempala only has a small military presence, and they’re spread pretty thin. So the rebels make use of that.”

“Sounds familiar,” Bolan said. “Only terrorize the people who can’t fight back, like the farmers who live in remote areas. How about the mining crews?”

McReady nodded. “Karima is trying to establish the copper production. The deposits here are huge. Which is why he wants an alliance with U.S. mining companies. It would be good for us both. But the rebels are opposed.”

Bolan smiled. “They would be.”

“Not all Kirandi are with the rebels. There’s a big percentage who have crossed the line, put the past behind them so they can improve the country. There are Kirandi in government positions, business. Hell, even Simon Chakra, Tempala’s military commander is a Kirandi.”

McReady pointed to a building ahead as the car rounded a corner. The straight approach to the government building was impressive. A wide square fronted the building. It was thronged with people enjoying the landscaped lawns and flower beds. Trees swayed in the warm breeze. Government House was a modest affair compared to some seats of power Bolan had seen. It was only two stories high, white and gleaming in the bright day. The car rolled to a stop at the foot of stone steps. Bolan and McReady climbed out. The Executioner followed McReady up the steps to the entrance, where they were confronted by armed soldiers in immaculate uniforms. Before they could respond to the challenge of the soldiers, Bolan and McReady were interrupted by a smartly dressed black man who held out his hands in greeting.

“Mr. McReady, punctual as usual. And this must be Mr. Belasko? Please come inside. The president is waiting for you.”

“Raymond Nkoya, Karima’s vice-president,” McReady said quietly as the man walked ahead of them.

Bolan and McReady followed the man into the building. He led them to a stone staircase and up to the next floor. There they emerged onto a long corridor with offices leading off both sides. All the offices appeared to be occupied. Bolan noticed there were a number of armed soldiers stationed along the corridor.

At the end of the hallway double doors opened to allow them to step inside a spacious office. A desk made from smooth, pale wood occupied a place in front of a wide window that overlooked the square fronting the building. Behind it sat the man Bolan recognized as Joseph Karima. The jacket of his light-colored suit was draped over the back of his leather chair and his sleeves were rolled up. He was in his early forties, handsome man, tall when he stood to step around the desk to greet his guests.

“Phillip, good to see you.”

“Mr. President,” McReady acknowledged. “This is Mike Belasko.”

Karima took Bolan’s hand. His grip was firm. “Thank you for coming.”

“I hope I can help, sir.”

Karima turned to McReady and Nkoya.

“Would you give us some time to talk?”

McReady nodded. “Of course, Mr. President, as long as you need.”

Karima closed the doors behind then. He indicated a chair for Bolan and returned to his own. “I am in your hands, Mr. Belasko,” he said. “Tell me what you need. If it’s in my power you’ll have it.”

“Photographs of the children would be helpful. Everything you have on the time they went missing.”

Karima picked up a file and handed it to Bolan. “It’s all in there.”

“Did the rebels have help from inside?”

“They were well informed about the children’s movements on that day. While it wasn’t a state secret it wasn’t common knowledge.”

“How many of your people had access to that information?” Bolan asked.

From Karima’s reaction he realized the man had been taken aback by the question.

“Sir?”

“It never occurred to me that I might have a…”

“A traitor in your camp?”

“So who do I trust, Mr. Belasko? How do I not know that the next person to walk through that door is one of those who conspired to take my children? If I voice my suspicions or point a finger, I risk alerting someone involved. There could be reprisals. Bringing someone into the open could push them into doing something premature. And that would put my children in even greater danger. You understand my predicament, Mr. Belasko?”

Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t, Bolan thought.

Bolan sympathized with Karima. The man might have been the commander-in-chief of Tempala, but that didn’t render him immune from treachery. Most likely it made him all the more vulnerable. Being in the seat of power placed the man at risk from enemies both inside and outside his sphere of influence.

“I can understand your position, sir.”

Karima inclined his head, eyes searching Bolan’s face. “Your words suggest you are speaking from experience of betrayal yourself, Mr. Belasko.”

“That’s another story, sir.” Bolan dismissed the subject. “I take it that because you felt exposed and unsure who to trust you decided to ask my President for help?”

“Yes. I traded on our friendship.”

“Nothing wrong with that, sir.”

“I had to go beyond my own people. A sad indictment of my trust but the way things are I had no other options. We have two tribes, Mr. Belasko, the Tempai and the Kirandi. Centuries of opposition between us. The difficulty is that not all the present-day Kirandi harbor this old tribal culture. They see the world through modern eyes. We have moved on. The Kirandi of today have pushed aside the old ways. Tempai and Kirandi have merged. We all want a new Tempala, free from superstition, looking to the future. If we don’t we will all pay the price.”

“But not everyone feels that way?”

“Not everyone,” he agreed. “Hence our rebel faction.”

Karima leaned back, his eyes wandering back and forth across the room. It took him a moment or two to regain his composure.

“Mr. Belasko, how did I fall into this situation?”

“I’d guess you have more than enough on your mind. A lot to handle. It makes you vulnerable. And that is exactly what these terrorists will use to their advantage.”

Karima took a deep breath.

“Mr. President, I make no apologies for calling them terrorists. Terrorists attempt to achieve their aims by using the tactics of coercion. Threats. Humiliation of their victims. They terrorize and hope to get what they want by those means.”

“My children are everything to me. Always precious but even more so after my wife died. Our children are the future, Mr. Belasko. Why else do we struggle to build a better world? But it angers me that these damned people use them to force me to make Tempala take a step into the past.

“Tempala is not a particularly sophisticated country, Mr. Belasko. We don’t yet have the high tech capability of the U.S.A. My security organization is basic. Even our armed forces operate on a simple level. Just men and weapons. Our mechanization runs to trucks, some artillery and a few light tanks. We have no air force to speak of. No satellite communications. In time we may improve but until then we will have to make do with what we can afford. This is why the copper mining is so vital. The contracts will bring in a great deal of revenue, which we need.”

Karima stared through the window, watching the people moving about in the square.

“Money will help to improve many things. Hospitals and education. We will be able to upgrade our utilities. More power stations to create electricity. They may seem like simple things to someone from America, but here they are necessities.

“There is a great deal to do, Mr. Belasko. Now it is all under threat from these reb—” Karima turned abruptly. “On second thought, I believe your description is more suitable. Terrorists. They are putting the future of the country at risk.”

“These people will use anything to have their demands met. Which is why we can’t let them get away with it.”

“I feel the same. I refuse to bend to their demands. But then I look at the other side of the coin. How can I risk the lives of my children? Which way do I go? Hold on to my promise to the nation at the risk of losing my children?”

“Not an enviable position to be in, sir, but we’re not going to allow it to happen, are we?”

“Are we not, Mr. Belasko?” Karima asked, more in hope than conviction. “God, how I want it to be so.”

“Then let’s see what we can do to put things right,” Bolan said.

“Tell me what you need to know.”

“First, who knows why I’m here apart from yourself, McReady and his superior?”

“To the rest of my staff you are simply here as an addition to Cartwright’s team. You are a security advisor. I have tried to keep the children’s disappearance as low key as possible. But I don’t know how long I can keep on doing that.”

“What about vice-president Nkoya? Your military commander, Colonel Chakra? Do they know the real reason I’m here? And are they aware of the kidnapping?”

“They know nothing more than that you are part of the ambassador’s team. In answer to the second part of your question, yes they know about the kidnapping. But they are both under strict orders not to act until I make a decision one way or the other.”

“Okay, so let’s go back to my earlier question. Who knew enough about your children’s movements to be able to furnish the rebels with information?”

Karima considered his answer. He was troubled. Finally he pulled up a pad and picked up a pen. He scribbled across the pad, tore off the sheet and slid it across the desk. Bolan picked it up along with the file Karima had prepared for him.

“If anyone else knew they didn’t get the information from me, Mr. Belasko.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll start from here.”

“If you need me, day or night, use the number I’ve written down. It’s my personal cell phone. I don’t give it out very often.”

Bolan stood, slipping the sheet of paper into his pocket. As he leaned forward his jacket fell open, exposing the holstered Beretta. Karima saw it, staring for a moment, then glanced at Bolan’s face.

“This really is your line of work, isn’t it, Mr. Belasko?” he asked.

Bolan closed his jacket. “We’re a long way from living in a peaceful world, Mr. President.”

“Meet the savage with his own image?”

Bolan smiled. “Something along those lines, sir.”

Reaching the door, Bolan turned the handle, then paused to look back over his shoulder. “One thing, sir. How did the terrorists contact you about your children?”

“I received a call on my—” Karima hesitated, the significance only then becoming a reality “—on my cell phone.”

2

Back in his hotel room Bolan tossed his jacket on a chair. He crossed to the small refrigerator and took a look inside. There were some bottles of water. He took one and opened it, taking a drink as he settled on the bed to read the file Karima had given him.

The information was scant, direct, and it only took a few minutes to digest. Karima’s children had been picked up from his home on the outskirts of the city to be driven to meet Karima. The drive should have taken no more than twenty minutes, but when an hour had gone by, the president received the phone call telling him that the children had been taken. He had ten days in which to carry out the terrorists’ demands. If he failed to do so the children would be killed and their bodies returned to him. The terrorists also demanded that news of the kidnap be kept from the media. As proof the kidnappers were serious, Karima was given instructions to check his garage at home. When he did he found his car had been returned, minus the children and with the driver’s body in the trunk. The man had been brutally knifed to death, his throat cut in a final gesture.

That had been two days ago. Enough time for the terrorists to travel a good distance from the scene of the kidnapping. Bolan considered the facts, and the more he thought about it the more he became convinced there was an inside connection. He opened the slip of paper Karima had given. There were only three names written on it. Karima had identified one of them as the driver of the car carrying the children. The second was Simon Chakra, whom Karima listed as his military commander. The last name, and Bolan had anticipated this, was Raymond Nkoya.

Vice-president or military commander?

It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that either of them might be involved. Given the restless nature of African politics, Bolan was aware of the way matters could evolve. There were still undercurrents of tribal loyalties endemic to the African makeup. Civil wars, the struggles between filial groups and the eternal fight against an often harsh land, these were large issues facing the continent. Some countries had weathered the transitions and were growing into stable, forward-looking regimes. Others were still making their way through the troubled times, and in some instances solid regimes crumbled under attacks from within that weakened their power base, sometimes toppling the elected government and allowing an opposition party to gain control.

Joseph Karima looked to be slipping into that kind of maelstrom. It was far from his own making, but he would have little choice if the rebel threat wasn’t reversed. They could continue to chip away at his hold on the country, destabilizing everything he was trying to create. Attacks on the infrastructure, the terrorizing of the populace, the slow wearing down of confidence and security, these were the tools of the terrorist. Karima on his own might have weathered all of these things—but now there was an added element. His children. They were being used to coerce him into meeting the rebel demands.

Bolan set aside the file. He found his bag and reached inside for the tri-band cell phone Aaron Kurtzman had furnished him with. Bolan switched it on and waited until it had located the satellite receiver. He tapped the key that speed-dialed the Stony Man number that would connect him directly with Kurtzman’s cyber complex.

Kurtzman’s gruff tones came through loud and clear.

“Bear, I need you to check out two people for me,” Bolan said. “Simon Chakra. He’s the military commander here. Then vice-president Raymond Nkoya. Everything you can find out about them. Political leanings. Family backgrounds. As far back as you can go.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

Bolan quoted Karima’s cell phone number.

“The names I gave you are the only people who should have access to that number. Gives them a direct connection through to Karima. There was a third name. The driver of Karima’s car. He was delivered back to Karima’s house in the kidnapped car. But he was dead.”

“And Karima was told about the kidnapping over this phone?”

“You got it. We may be way off but it’s all we have at the moment.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Bolan picked up the room phone and rang the number McReady had given him. “I may need transport,” Bolan told him when the man answered.

“City use, or something to take you farther?”

“Better make it the latter. I might need to go outside the city limits.”

“Nice way of putting it. Leave it to me. I’ll have something delivered to your hotel soon as I have it ready.”

“That’s fine.”

Bolan replaced the receiver. As he did he felt the room shake. The floor vibrated then the main window blew in, showering the room with glass. He felt something catch his left cheek, a sharp sensation. When he touched his hand to it his fingers came away bloody. All this happened in a micro-second, and following in the next heartbeat came the sound of the explosion. Hot air gusted in through the shattered window. The room shook for long seconds. Bolan could hear rumbling continuing outside.

As Bolan moved to the window, the rumble of the blast fading away, he picked up the rattle of debris banging against the outside wall. More windows had been shattered. People began to shout and scream. Some of shock, others spoke of pain, and Bolan knew there would be casualties. He pulled a leather jacket from his bag and zipped it over his holstered gun as he reached the window. Across the street he saw a dust cloud settling around the remains of a building. The street was littered with debris—and people. Even from his position Bolan could see the mark of bright blood against exposed skin and clothing. He turned from the window and made his way downstairs and out of the hotel.

The building, from his brief moments passing it on the approach to the hotel, had been a shop of some kind. A couple of stories high, with wide display windows showing merchandise. Those windows were gone now, as was most of the frontage. The upper floors were exposed. The street was covered with chunks of concrete, and glass lay everywhere. Cars that had been parked outside the store were half buried under fallen masonry. One was burning, throwing dark smoke into the sky. More smoke was rising from the wrecked store.

No one seemed to be in any state to help. There were a lot of walking wounded. People moving around in a daze, bloody and with clothing in tatters. The concussion had caused many of them to bleed from the ears and nose. They were wandering aimlessly.

Bolan saw his first casualty. A young man struggling to stand, unaware that his right leg was dragging behind him, reduced to bloody tatters. Splintered bone protruded through the lacerated tissue. Blood was pulsing from a severed artery. Bolan knelt beside him, his strong hands settling the man.

“Try to stay still. We’ll get help as soon as possible.”

Bolan searched for a pressure point, pressed firmly over the spot and managed to reduce a degree of blood loss.

The man stared up at Bolan, his eyes wide with shock. His face was streaked with blood from numerous cuts and gashes. “Why has this happened?”

“Right now we don’t know.”

The sound of a police vehicle reached Bolan’s ears. He looked around and saw a blue-and-white Ford 4×4 rolling to a stop. Armed police officers leapt out, staring around the site of the explosion.

“Over here,” Bolan shouted.

One of the officers crouched beside him. He seemed genuinely shocked by the condition of the injured young man.

“We need ambulances. Emergency services. Now,” Bolan snapped. “Call it in now.”

The officer reached for the transceiver clipped to his belt and began to call in rapid instructions. Two more police vehicles sped into view. Uniformed officers spilled out. One of them was a tall, powerfully built man, with sergeant’s stripes on his shirt sleeve. He began to yell orders to the other officers, directing them to specific tasks. The sergeant crossed to where Bolan was kneeling beside the injured man.

“You managing?” he asked, taking in Bolan’s bloody hands clamped about the victim’s leg.

“For the moment,” Bolan answered.

“What a mess,” the sergeant said. “Why can’t these bastards come out and fight like men? What do they expect to gain from this kind of thing?”

“Confusion. Intimidation. Anything to upset the status quo.”

“If I ever get my hands on them I’ll upset more than that.”

The sergeant glanced around and found himself face-to-face with the young officer who had called in for backup. He was about to yell at the man when he saw the shock etched on the man’s face.

“Go to the hotel, Kunda. Tell them we need blankets, sheets and towels,” he said in a gentle tone that belied his powerful physical appearance.

The officer looked at him, then turned and headed for the hotel.

“He needed that,” Bolan said.

“Ah, youngsters. We were all there once,” the sergeant replied.

Over an hour later, Bolan, dusty and bloody, sweat soaking his clothing, leaned against the side of the sergeant’s patrol vehicle. He had spent the intervening time helping to pull casualties out of the demolished store. Ambulances were still ferrying the injured to the city hospital. The dead were laid out on the road, covered with sheets. Bolan had counted sixteen. Five of them had been young children. The rescue teams were hard at it, digging through the rubble, searching for others who might still be trapped inside the building.

A group of people was clustered around a car listening to another repeat of the taped message that had been sent to the station within minutes of the bomb blast. The rebels claimed responsibility for the explosion and were threatening more if the government did not accede to their demands. They had been forced into this position because the government had refused to compromise. So the people of Tempala would pay the price. The voice on the tape made the usual excuses, used the same condescending tones as he claimed that what had happened was the fault of a repressive administration. The rebels had been forced to make this dramatic gesture. Not once during the tape did the man even hint at any kind of regret over the deaths of innocent people.

The scenario wasn’t unfamiliar to Bolan. He had seen and heard the same in other locations around the world. The work of savages who considered this kind of thing a legitimate part of their agenda. The senseless death and destruction was intended to cow the populace into favoring the demands of the opposition. In Bolan’s estimation these people had just crossed the line. They were using the most base form of coercion, and as far as the soldier was concerned, Tempala’s rebels—as he had said to President Karima—had stepped into the shadow land that marked them down as nothing more than terrorists.

“They talk as if it’s our fault,” someone close by said.

Bolan looked up and saw the big sergeant bearing down on him, clutching mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. He handed one to Bolan. The sergeant’s uniform was stained and bloody, his black skin streaked with dust and gleaming with sweat.

“That’s what they want you to believe,” Bolan said. “Make the people feel guilty so they come around to the way of the terrorist.”

“Don’t you mean our glorious rebels?” the policeman said with more than a hint of irony in his voice.

Bolan looked him in the eye. “No, I mean terrorist.”

The sergeant sized up the tall American as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind about the man yet. “You know about this kind of thing?”

“A little.”

The sergeant shook his head. “I think a lot, my friend.”

He stuck out a large hand. Bolan took it and they shook.

“Now tell me who you are. And why you are wearing a gun under that jacket you haven’t taken off even in this heat.”

There was no threat in the man’s tone.

“Name’s Mike Belasko. I arrived a few hours ago. I’m part of Leland Cartwright’s team. The man who…”

The sergeant nodded. “I know who he his. So, Mr. Belasko, what is your job on the team?”

“Security advisor.”

“That would explain the gun.”

Bolan smiled. “No fooling you.”

“My job.”

“You have a name, Sergeant?”

“Christopher Jomo.”

“You been a policeman long?”

Jomo gestured at the destruction. “When I see things like this I think too long. Then I remember why I became a police officer and I get angry. Angry at the bastards who do such things. Tempala is not a bad country. Because of President Karima things are getting better all the time. They are not perfect yet, but we’ll get there. If we weren’t being plagued by these damned…terrorists…we would get there a lot faster.”

“Nothing worth having comes without a fight, Jomo.”

“I can accept that,” the policeman said. “But not when they wage war on children.”

Jomo was looking at the five small forms covered by sheets. In death they seemed to shrink even smaller. The big man’s shoulders sank and he bent his head for a moment.

“Not the children,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Now these men receive no mercy.”

No mercy. The policeman’s words might have come from Bolan himself.

“You know one of the crazy things here,” Jomo said. “Many of the injured are Kirandi. The idiots have killed their own people as well.”

“Belasko?”

Bolan glanced round and saw McReady pushing through the crowd. The man looked genuinely concerned when he saw the state of Bolan’s clothing.

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“Yes. I’ve been giving a hand.”

McReady recognized Jomo. “I see you two have met.”

Jomo smiled. “Mr. Belasko has been a good friend today. It will not be forgotten. I must go and see how my men are doing. We’ll meet again, Belasko.”

Bolan nodded briefly. He watched the big policeman walk away. Jomo hesitated as he passed the bodies of the five children, and Bolan realized just how badly the man had been affected.

“Hey, you sure you’re okay?”

“Phil, don’t worry. I just need to get cleaned up.”

McReady sensed the hardness in Bolan’s words. “Belasko? What is it?”

Bolan took a long, hard look at the death and destruction surrounding them. He listened to the faint cries of the injured.

“This has just become a war,” Bolan said and walked away.

BACK IN HIS HOTEL ROOM Bolan used the number Karima had given him and spoke briefly with the president.

“Have you heard personally from the terrorists, sir?”

“I received a call minutes after the explosion. It was a taped message.”

“Justifying what they had done?”

“It stated that the bombing was a show of commitment by the rebels,” Karima said. “That they meant business. They threatened there could be more of the same.”

Bolan considered the implications of the statement. Something didn’t sit right. “Why now?”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Belasko.”

“The ten days they gave you are not up yet. So why suddenly embark on a bombing campaign before they know whether you are going to accede to their demands?”

“As they said, it was to show they are serious.”

Bolan shook his head. “I don’t buy that. They took your children and murdered your driver. How much more serious does it get than that?”

“Mr. Belasko, what are you suggesting?”

“I’d rather not say anything until I’m sure. I’ll contact you again once I have some news.”

“Very well. I have to leave now. I’m going to the scene of the explosion, to see for myself what these people have done.”

Bolan put down the phone. He was thankful Karima hadn’t pressed him on his thoughts as to why the terrorists had set off their bomb. At the back of his mind lurked the possibility that the president’s children were no longer a bargaining ploy. Maybe they were already dead and lost as a lever by the terrorists? It was a tenuous strand but one the Executioner had to consider. He knew he was looking at the worst-case scenario—but in his line of work looking on the dark side was a common practice. In this case he hoped it was no more than speculation.

3

Bolan had opened his travelling bag and spread the contents across the bed. His combat gear, blacksuit and boots. His combat harness already loaded and ready for action, the pockets holding additional magazines for the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle as well as the Beretta. A sheathed knife was fastened to the belt of the harness. In one of the pockets was a wire garrote. Another held a number of plastic wrist restraints. He checked the gear, then moved to the Uzi SMG, spending a few minutes stripping it down, checking that everything functioned. The soldier reassembled the weapon, then picked up a double magazine; one magazine taped to another for quick reloading. He snapped the magazine into its slot, cocked the weapon and set the safety. He had two more of the double magazines. These went into the small backpack he had brought, along with a small med-kit and some field rations. There was a canteen he would fill with water from his room fridge before he moved out. Satisfied he had everything he needed, Bolan packed the gear away in the bag and stowed it in the wardrobe, locking it and pocketing the key.

It was now early evening. Since returning to his room Bolan had showered and dressed in fresh clothing. The gash on his cheek had stopped bleeding. It stung occasionally, reminding him of the day’s violent event. He decided it was time to eat, so he called room service and asked if they could send him up something light and a pot of coffee. He was promised something very shortly.

Picking up his cell phone Bolan speed-dialed the Farm and waited until he heard the distant connection lock in. The voice that came on was instantly recognizable as Barbara Price’s.

“How’s it going, Striker?” the mission controller asked.

He told her about the bomb incident.

“Sounds like you walked right into trouble.”

“I’ve had pleasanter days. Has the Bear come up with anything on those names and the cell phone number I gave him?”

“Hold on.”

He heard paper rustling.

“Aaron didn’t find anything very interesting on either man. They both look clean. Nkoya is down as a loyal member of the government. Backs President Karima all the way down the line. He does a lot of traveling on behalf of the Tempala administration. He was on some kind of government trip about three weeks ago to London and Paris.”

“Sounds like a man who moves around a lot.”

“I suppose.” Price hesitated. “You want to share that with me?”

“Share what?”

“Striker, I know the way your mind works. You can make the most casual remark sound like an accusation.”

“Maybe I have a suspicious nature. Go with me on this. Have the Bear dig a little deeper. Look at Nkoya’s finances. See if he has anything tucked away. Money. Stock. You know the routine. Same with Simon Chakra, the military guy.”

“There’s nothing on the cell phone number yet.”

“Tell the Bear to stay with it.”

“Okay. We’ll talk later.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Striker, you take care.”

Bolan broke the connection and put the cell phone down. He stood for a while, staring at the phone. Was he being too suspicious? Looking for things that didn’t actually exist? If he was wrong no harm had been done. On the other hand…

He heard the tap on his door. Room service. Bolan crossed the room and opened the door. The muzzle of an automatic pistol was thrust in his face.

“Step away from the door,” the man holding the gun said.

Bolan eased back, the man following. Without warning Bolan’s hands swept up, fingers clamping around the gunman’s wrist. The Executioner pulled the man toward him, half turning and throwing the gunman over his hip. The African gave a startled yell as he was hurled across the room. He hit the floor hard, the gun bouncing from his hand. He squirmed over on his back, bleeding from a split lip. He saw Bolan closing in and tried to stand. He barely managed to get his feet under him before Bolan reached him, driving a hard foot into the man’s chest that knocked him back down.

The Executioner wondered if the man was on his own and turned to check the open doorway. He caught a glimpse of a dark shape lunging at him, saw the glint of metal an instant before something hard clubbed him across the side of the head. The blow stunned him. Bolan stumbled, fell to his knees, nausea rising. A second blow drove him to the floor, and he felt the room shrink around him, turning black and swallowing him.

BOLAN CAME AROUND SLOWLY, staying still so as not to alert his captors he was awake. He was on the seat of a car by the sounds and movement. He could hear the sound of the motor, feel the bump and sway as the vehicle sped along an uneven road.

There were at least two of them that he knew of. Maybe there were more. It was hard to tell from his current position. He was aware of the pulse of pain in his skull. He could also feel the sticky streaks of blood that had run down the left side of his face from the gash in his temple.

Bolan assessed his situation. He had walked right into the attack. Opening the door without verifying who was there. He made no excuses. The opportunity to check had been in his own hands. His momentary lapse had let his captors subdue him. The next question asked where they were taking him and why? The options were few. They would either question him or kill him. Bolan couldn’t see any other variants. Either way his evening looked grim.

He decided that playing dead wasn’t going to gain him a great deal. He moved and uttered a low groan, pushing upright on the seat, then flopping against the backrest. Within those few seconds he checked out the passengers. One man behind the wheel, a second sitting across from Bolan on the rear seat, holding a gun on him.

“Wake-up time, brother. Wouldn’t want you to waste your last ride missing all the local sights.”

“I can live with that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the driver said. “You’re not going to live at all.”

Bolan ignored the threat. He was checking their location. They were speeding along a dusty strip of rutted road between boarded-up buildings. It looked like an abandoned industrial area. Weeds were already choking the empty lots and creeping up the walls of derelict structures. The bush regaining its own. Beyond the rooftops the sky was starting to show red as the sun sank lower. Shadows were spreading.

The car swayed as the driver took a sharp turn, sweeping across a littered area and heading for the gaping doors of a large, empty building. The car rolled inside the cavernous building, coming to a jerky stop.

The gunman nudged Bolan with his boot. “End of the line, brother. Get your white ass out of the car. I don’t want to shoot you in here. Makes too much mess.”

The driver switched off the motor and pushed open his door.

Backing out of the car the gunman held his autopistol on Bolan, gesturing with his free hand. “You make it faster or I’ll change my mind.”

Bolan slid across the seat, his reflexes setting themselves for a fast reaction. He needed to move now, not in five minutes, because by then he would be incapable of doing anything.

“Speed it up, Benjo,” the driver said.

The gunman—Benjo—glared at the driver for using his name.

The Executioner burst into action the moment the man’s eyes flickered away from him. He launched himself off the rear seat of the car, powering himself upright. He grabbed Benjo’s gun arm, curling powerful fingers around the man’s wrist. Bolan ducked under the gunman’s arm, coming up behind the man and snaking his left arm around the man’s neck, jerking back hard. Benjo gasped, trying to suck in air through his restricted windpipe. Bolan slid his hand down to the gun in the hardman’s right hand, slipping his finger inside the guard, over Benjo’s own trigger finger. He jerked Benjo’s arm around, lining the muzzle on the driver as the man rushed around the front of the car, reaching for the handgun he kept tucked in the waistband of his trousers.

Bolan pulled the trigger. The autopistol fired, the bullet hitting the driver high in the chest. He stumbled, yelling in pain, his body bouncing off the front of the car. He was still fumbling for his weapon, feeling the pain from the wound, when Bolan fired a second time. This time he took the bullet in the side of his head. The impact knocked him to the ground and he lay in a jerking heap, blood spreading from under his shattered skull.

Benjo, shocked by the sudden, unexpected reversal of roles, struggled in Bolan’s grip. He was weakening fast, desperately attempting to suck in air. He offered little resistance when Bolan spun him and slammed him against the side of the car, snatching the pistol from his hand. Benjo felt the muzzle grind into his forehead.

“This can be easy or hard, depending on how you deal with the next couple of minutes,” Bolan said.

“I don’t know what you want.”

“We can start with why?”

“You were interfering in something that was none of your damn business. We took a contract to kill you.”

“That answers my second question then. All I need is the name of the one who gave the order.”

Despite his position Benjo managed a nervous laugh. “You expect me to tell? You might as well shoot me. I give you names I’m a dead man.”

“Don’t fool yourself I won’t do it,” Bolan said. “Your people went over the line when you set off that bomb yesterday. You killed innocent children in the name of your struggle and expect mercy?”

“Hey, man, I’m no rebel. I just took a job from them. The ones who died in that blast were just unlucky they were in the way.”

“Pity they weren’t asked if they wanted it that way.”

Benjo pushed against the muzzle pressed to his head. His face showed the anger inside. “So go home, Yank. This is not your fight. Go home before you die, too.”

Bolan’s smile was all the more chilling because it failed to reach his eyes. They were hard and cold, without a shred of pity.

“Tell me what I have to be frightened of? A bunch of backstreet thugs who bomb women and children? Real hardmen who can only kidnap the president’s young kids because they don’t have the guts to challenge him in the open?”

Bolan spun Benjo aside and pushed him away. He leveled the pistol.

“Game’s over, Benjo. You had your chance and wasted it. Time’s up.”

Benjo looked back over his shoulder. Maybe gauging how far he had to go to reach the freedom of the dark night. He even made a tentative movement with his foot. His manner changed abruptly. Benjo dropped to a crouch, yanking up the leg of his trousers, and snatched a slim-bladed knife from an ankle sheath. His arm went back in the first stage of a throw.

Bolan reacted quickly, twisting to one side, bringing the pistol back on line.

From somewhere behind Benjo a handgun fired, briefly illuminating the shadows with its muzzle-flash. The bullet hit Benjo between the shoulders, exiting through his upper chest. The velocity of the powerful slug created a substantial wound, shards of bone mingled with the lacerated flesh. Benjo fell facedown on the concrete floor, his limbs in spasm for a time.

Bolan watched the spot where the shot had come from. He wasn’t exactly surprised when he saw the tall figure of Sergeant Christopher Jomo appear. The man was in civilian clothing this time. He came to stand over Benjo, tucking his .44 Magnum revolver into his belt.

“You have a strange way of relaxing, Mr. Belasko.”

“I wasn’t given any choice in the matter.”

“I saw them bringing you out of the hotel.”

“Which you just happened to be passing?”

Jomo smiled. “I was on my way to see you.”

“About?”

“I was curious. Something made me want to know more about you.”

“Such as?”

“The real reason you are here in Tempala. I was just parking my car when I saw those two coming from the rear of the hotel dragging you along with them.”

“Lucky for me you have a curious streak.”

Jomo glanced at the bodies, then back at Bolan. “I think you’ve satisfied my curiosity here tonight. Especially why you are in Tempala.” Jomo stepped forward. “It wasn’t hard to overhear what you were saying. Now I’ll tell you something. If the president’s children have been taken, let me help. You’re going to need someone who knows the country. I was born on a farm and spent my childhood in the bush country.”

Bolan held back only for a moment. “What about these terrorists? Any thoughts on where they might take the children?”

“Out of the city, that’s for certain. Too many chances of being spotted if they stayed here. The children are known by the people. They would be recognized.”

“Sounds logical. Do they have a base? A central place they operate from?”

Jomo smiled. “My friend, this is Africa, not New York. The whole country is their base. Which is why they are hard to locate. These people live in the bush, move around as they have done for centuries. They can live off the land so they have no need for bases to store their food. They get water from the springs they know or from the water holes the animals use.”

“I get the message. So where do we start?”

“In the bush,” Jomo said.

“What about these two? Any thoughts?”

“I know the one you shot. Petty criminal. Native Kirandi. Been in prison a couple of times. Has a history of violence. He would have ended up shot sooner or later.”

“Any political leanings?”

Jomo shook his head. “He wasn’t the committed type. If you are asking if he was with the rebels I’d say no. Most likely he was hired to kill you because he was on the spot.”

“Pretty much what I heard.”

Jomo bent over the man and searched his pockets. He stood up again, waving a thick roll of banknotes. “Check Benjo. He’ll be carrying the same. He was a brother criminal.”

Bolan found a similar roll of bills. He threw it to Jomo.

“Plain and simple, Belasko. They were paid to make you disappear.”

AS THEY DROVE BACK to the hotel in Jomo’s battered Land Rover, Bolan told the sergeant about Karima’s kids. He knew he could trust Jomo, and he needed someone with Jomo’s knowledge on his side. The light was starting to fail by the time they reached the hotel. The hard heat of the day had begun to fade as Jomo parked in a dark corner of the parking lot. Bolan went in and up to his room. Nothing had been touched. His captors had even closed the door when they had left, taking him with them. They must have used the fire escape to avoid being seen. He took the shoulder bag from the wardrobe. Bolan stripped and pulled on his blacksuit and boots. He spent a few minutes in the bathroom doctoring his head wound. He packed his weapons and gear into the backpack, then filled the canteen with water from the fridge. Slipping his cell phone into one of his zippered pockets he left the room and made his way back downstairs, using the fire escape. He walked around the side of the building and rejoined Jomo.

The policeman took a look at the blacksuit. “Now you dress for business?”

“Something like that,” Bolan replied.

4

Jomo drove first to the area where Karima’s house was situated. He kept up a steady speed so as not to alert the security men stationed around the property.

“We should go that way,” he stated, pointing along the street. “Out of the city. If I had Karima’s kids that’s the way I’d go. Up country, into the bush. And I’d keep going until I was in rebel country.”

He kept driving, passing other houses, each with its own large grounds.

“They would go this way,” Jomo said. “To the places they know and where they can hide. And they will have friends out there. Their followers.”

Bolan studied the far-reaching spread of the empty plain. It was mostly flat land in the region, though there were mountains to the north and some hills in between. Between the plains and the mountain range, according to Jomo, there were great swathes of deep forest country.

“Give it your best shot, Jomo.”

The African nodded and set the Land Rover along the road. They traveled for a couple of miles until the last of the houses were well behind them. Then he slowed the SUV, stopping a couple of times to climb out and check the edge of the road. The third time he did it he beckoned for Bolan to join him. There was a full moon. It cast a pale light across the land, allowing them to see reasonably well.

“A four-wheel drive vehicle left the road here,” he said, indicating faint marks in the dust. He squatted on his heels, staring down at the tracks. “Since the kidnapping the weather’s been pretty calm. Not a lot of wind so these tracks haven’t been filled yet. I say they are two days old. No more.”

Bolan studied the tire marks. There was no doubt they had been made only a couple of days ago. Jomo’s evaluation rang true. If the tread marks had been any older they would have been obliterated by now. The edges were dry and starting to crumble, some of the upper rims starting to fall in.

“One good gust of wind and these are gone,” Jomo said.

“Heading straight north,” Bolan said. “How far to the cover of the forest?”

“Three days’ steady travel before they reach the hard growth. They would have to leave the vehicle then. Go on foot. The forest is too dense to drive through. That’s if they go that far. They might have a rendezvous point closer. Somewhere out in the bush.”

Jomo pushed to his feet and followed Bolan back to the Land Rover. They climbed in and Jomo started the motor, swinging the vehicle around and driving off the road. The tires sank into the dusty ground. Jomo pushed down on the gas pedal and the SUV surged forward. They drove for a while before Jomo spoke.

“I don’t think they’ll use the forest. More likely to stay on the plain and use the villages to the north. The tribes who back the rebels occupy that region.”

“You know them?”

Jomo laughed. “Know them? I’m from the Tempai tribe. Karima’s people. The rebels are Kirandi. The two tribes have been at each other’s throats for decades. Things don’t change as fast once you leave the big cities.”

As full darkness fell and the moon vanished behind clouds, Jomo switched on the headlights. The powerful beams cut through the gloom. Even in the dark Jomo seemed to know where he was going. The ride was bumpy. Land Rovers were not designed for smooth riding and every jolt and bounce was transmitted to Bolan’s spine. They drove at a steady speed for the next three hours. Bolan was silently grateful when Jomo rolled to a stop and cut the motor.

The night was alive with the chatter of insects and the deeper sounds of animals. There was little chance of concealing the vehicle out on the flat, featureless plain so they didn’t bother.

“It’s safer to sleep inside the vehicle,” Jomo said. “You want the front or the rear?”

“I don’t care,” Bolan answered.

From the equipment in the rear of the SUV Jomo produced blankets. He tossed one to Bolan. He also produced an SA-80 carbine, a short version of the British SA-80 battle rifle, chambered for the 5.56 mm round. This second version of the carbine was capable of taking 30-round magazines from the M-16. It was a sturdy, hard-wearing weapon, and though it had failed to excite the British military as had its predecessor, the SA-80 carbine had found its own market by being sold abroad. There were a bunch of long, beautifully marked feathers fixed to the stock, held in place by tight rawhide thongs. Jomo noticed Bolan studying the feathers.

“From an eagle. Took them myself when I was younger. I kept them all these years, part of Tempai tradition.” The African laughed. “You see, Belasko, we are all still held by our beliefs.”

“Eagle feathers beat murdering children any day,” Bolan said.

The soldier took time to remove his 9 mm Uzi from his bag before he pulled his blanket round him and settled in the passenger seat.

“I’ll take first watch,” Bolan said. “Wake you in a few hours.”

Jomo sighed. “I knew you were going to say that,” he grumbled before he settled himself down to catch some sleep.

Bolan cradled the Uzi across his thighs. He gave himself time to adjust to the African night, his eyes gradually focussing on distant shapes and the deeper shadows that enveloped them. He could distinguish between solid objects and the false shapes formed from light and dark. It was easy to become fooled by imaginary shapes, believing them to exist until close examination identified them as nothing more than illusions. He changed his line of vision often, not allowing himself to concentrate on one spot for too long. When the eyes became fixed on one spot it was not unknown for the mind to start seeing things moving. Inanimate objects took on a phantom life, seeming to shift from spot to spot. The mind, the night, and the boredom that could set in during long sentry spells combined to distract the man on duty. It was all too easy to fall under the spell.

Bolan thought about Karima’s children. What would be going through those young minds? Snatched from their normal existence to be dragged off into the wilds, surrounded by strangers who, on their own admission, were opposed to everything their father stood for. It would be a far from pleasant episode. The other side of the coin might ease the burden for them. Children were resilient beings, often showing a surprising tenacity when placed in dangerous situations. Bolan hoped that Karima’s son and daughter would be able to exhibit those characteristics.

Thinking about the children brought his attention back to the bomb incident. He hadn’t voiced his real feelings about it to Karima. That the terrorists had set off the bomb because they might no longer have the children as bargaining chips. The unexpected turn of events, coming in the middle of the kidnap process didn’t gel as far as Bolan was concerned. Why make such a dramatic gesture when they already had their lever? He accepted that trying to fathom the terrorists was difficult. They were by definition unstable and liable to unexpected changes in their procedures. But he still felt the bombing had come out of left field.

The soldier didn’t dwell on the matter for too long. Speculation only led to confusion. If there was a logical reason behind the bombing it would reveal itself in time. It wouldn’t be hurried no matter how long Bolan deliberated over it.

As the night closed in, the heat of the day slipped away, replaced by a noticeable chill. Cold air coming in from the west, drifting in from the coast. Bolan pulled his blanket tight over his shoulders. Behind him he could hear Jomo’s heavy breathing. The African was taking full advantage of his time out.

An hour passed. Bolan had just checked his watch when he heard the gentle, insistent sound of his cell phone. He took it from his pocket and accepted the call.

“Did I wake you?” Aaron Kurtzman asked, without a trace of regret.

“No,” Bolan said. “I felt guilty keeping you awake so I decided to sit up all night.”

“It’s called teamwork,” the computer expert replied. “Okay, we ran more checks on your people out there. Can’t find a damn thing out of place as far as the vice-president is concerned. If he’s off the rails he’s keeping it well hidden.”

“Okay.”

“Simon Chakra on the other hand,” Kurtzman went on, then paused. “You still awake?”

“What do you think?”

Kurtzman chuckled.

“Native Kirandi. He’s been in the army since he was big enough to hold a rifle without falling over. He came up through the ranks, then went to the U.K. to complete his officer training, as a lot of African officers seem to do. I got into some reports written about him by the officer school. It seems our boy always had a thing about Tempala’s national identity. Back then he talked a streak but didn’t show any radical tendencies. It was written down as a sort of home-boy zeal. He went back to Tempala and worked his ass off in the army. Good combat record during some internal strife over ten years back. Good officer. So much so that when Karima was made top man he promoted Chakra to military commander. Chakra has never been shy at declaring his full support for Karima and his policies.”

“All sounds good, Bear.”

“I’ll bet Karima doesn’t know about his boy having an account in the Cayman Islands. Cash deposits over the last few months. The guy has close on three and a half million in U.S. dollars. It also seems he was seen in the company of two Cuban advisor-types on an unofficial trip to Havana last month. One of our covert units in Cuba spotted him in deep talks with these guys at a villa just outside the city. They keep watch on anything happening in Cuba, take pictures and send them through to their agency. No one had recognized Chakra until a few days ago. On the global scale he’s not a real player. Sit him back down in Tempala, I guess you’d have him a good way up the ladder.”

“Be interesting to find out if any of the so-called rebels from Tempala have been cosying up to Castro’s advisors,” Bolan said.

“Way ahead there, Striker. I did some more trawling and came up with IDs on two Tempalan nationals. Rudolph Zimbala and Shempi Harruri. They are part of the ruling council of the rebel faction. Both have been mixing with our Cuban buddies. The same faces cropped up from the pictures taken with Chakra.”

“Any feedback on what they were discussing?”

“The covert team was unable to get any sound bites, only the images. But the data they sent back to home base was that one of the Cubans was seen with all three of their visitors, one Hector Campos. He is an advisor in the organization and promotion of internal resistance. Just what Tempala is going through at the moment.”

“Thanks, Bear,” Bolan said. “You come up with anything else let me know.”

“Can’t pick up anything on that cell phone number, but I haven’t given up yet. Soon as we can grab a bird I’m going to run some satellite surveillance over Tempala. See if we can pick up anything that might suggest what’s going on.”

BOLAN SAW OUT HIS WATCH, going over the information Kurtzman had furnished him with. Did the disclosed facts about Simon Chakra point to him being the man behind the kidnapping of Karima’s children? The man would certainly have been privy to the comings and goings of the president and his family. Those facts on their own didn’t make the man guilty. But they put him in the frame. Chakra would need watching until the facts could be confirmed.

It was coming up to one a.m. when Bolan roused Jomo. The policeman climbed out of the Land Rover and walked around to stretch his legs. He rummaged in the rear of the vehicle and produced a pack of plastic bottles holding mineral water. He took one for himself and handed a second to Bolan.

“You should have woken me before this,” Jomo said, glancing at his watch.

“No sweat,” Bolan replied.

The soldier took his place in the rear of the Land Rover, finding a reasonably comfortable spot. Bolan took a drink from the bottle, only then realizing how thirsty he was. He pulled the blanket around him, keeping the Uzi close and settled down to get some rest. A little while later he felt the Land Rover rock gently as Jomo climbed in and took his place in the passenger seat. Bolan let himself relax, sleep coming quickly.

It seemed only minutes later when he felt Jomo’s big hand on his shoulder. The African was shaking him.

“Belasko. Wake up, Belasko, we have visitors.”

Bolan woke quickly, the Uzi ready for use as he sat upright, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. It was already well into the dawn. Pale light flooded the plain. Somewhere close by birds erupted from thick brush, wheeling and swooping as they rose into the air. The sound of their passing came as a soft rush of feathered panic.

“Stand beside me,” Jomo said.

He was at the front of the Land Rover. He carried his SA-80 carbine with the butt resting against his hip. He stood motionless except for his large head, which moved back and forth as he scanned the close terrain. Bolan moved up alongside, Uzi in plain sight but not at a threatening angle.

“They will come out when they are ready.”

Off to the right the high brush shivered slightly. A hint of movement but enough to indicate that someone, or something was in there. Bolan spotted the disturbance but made no indication. He stayed as still as Jomo, aware they were being observed by an unseen viewer.

“Any idea who they are?” Bolan asked.

“Some of my people. One of the Tempai tribes. My people were farmers. These are bush people. Nomads. They move from region to region with their cattle. When the grass is used up in one place they seek another. On and on through each year. By the time they return to where they started the grass has grown again. It is the way they have lived for hundreds of years. Other tribes across Africa do the same.”

“Are they friendly?”

“Yes, but cautious. If you had come here with your own cattle you would probably be dead by now.”

“Territorial people?”

“Very much so.” Jomo paused. “They’re coming out.”

Bolan saw the Tempai appear from the bush from a number of locations around the Land Rover. They were tall, lean, with skin as black as ebony. They were clad in bright, patterned robes that seemed to be casually draped around their bodies. Simple pieces of jewelry adorned their wrists and ankles. Each man carried a long, slender spear which he held across his chest, resting against his left shoulder. Bolan noted that there were feathers similar to Jomo’s tied to the shafts of the spears.

“The position of the spear lets you know how they feel about you,” Jomo said. “The way they have them makes it difficult to use quickly so they are telling us they mean us no harm.”

“How would we know if they did mean us harm?”

“Man, they would throw the bloody things at us,” Jomo replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

The Tempai formed a loose half-circle in front of Bolan and Jomo. One them made a casual move with his free hand and launched into a fluid, lilting address. Jomo listened in respectful silence until the man had finished. Before he replied, the policeman showed his weapon to the Tempai, then slung it from his shoulder, muzzle down. He spoke directly to the tribesman who had delivered the speech, in their own tongue. When he had finished the Tempai spokesman nodded enthusiastically, turning in Bolan’s direction. He held out a long arm, hand held palm out.

Bolan slung his Uzi as Jomo had done, then stepped forward and greeted the Tempai with his own raised hand. There was a chorus of approval from the watching tribesmen.

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