Hostile takeover

Genocide is spreading through the jungles of South America. The swift and silent massacre in villages on the Ecuadorian border seems to be part of a larger plan fueled by blatant greed. Mack Bolan heads into the rain forest to expose the truth behind the slaughter and put an end to this new wave of atrocities.

Bolan comes face-to-face with pure evil when he gets caught in the cross fire between a rogue army general hungry for power and a ruthless multinational corporation plotting to reap billions from the blood of the innocent. But the Executioner is ready to lay his trap as he heads deep into the bush to stalk the deadliest predator of all—man.

The masked man came in low

Mack Bolan staggered backward, lining up his sights on his opponent. Before he could draw a bead, the man was on him, grabbing the pistol. Bolan hit the earth with a breath-stealing thump, his gun flying from his hands. His opponent jumped on top of him and settled on his chest, crushing the air out of his lungs.

Just as Bolan’s vision began contracting to a fuzzy gray tunnel, his hand scrabbled over the other man’s mask and found his unprotected throat. Curling his fingers, Bolan threw a short punch directly at his enemy’s Adam’s apple. Taken by surprise, the man choked. His grip slackened for a moment, and that was all Bolan needed.

Twisting his upper body, he wrenched the merc’s hands from his throat and shoved him off.

Bolan rose first.

Tackling his opponent, he slammed his interlaced fingers into the back of the man’s neck.

The merc collapsed to the ground, with the Executioner on top of him, and lay there, unmoving, as one last breath wheezed out of him.

Jungle Hunt

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Do not call the forest that shelters you a jungle.

—African proverb

I often find that those who rape and pillage villages within Third World nations think no one will notice or care. And I am happy to show the perpetrators the error of their ways.

—Mack Bolan

The

Mack Bolan

Legend

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Travis Morgan for his contribution to this work.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Quito, Ecuador

The air in the large office, located in a nondescript building on a side street of the capital city, was humid and still, barely stirred by a slow-moving ceiling fan. The daily rain had already come, leaving a damp scent of water ignored by the two men in the room.

Jaime Cordero sat in the guest seat, a leather-upholstered wingback chair that squeaked with his every movement. A thin, stooped man, his shoulders were hunched from decades of civil service, service that had worn on him over the years, lined his face, eroded his stature, receded his hairline. His brown, off-the-rack suit hung on him like a scarecrow’s costume, a stained tie loosely knotted around his neck. His watery brown eyes, magnified behind thick-lensed glasses, roamed nervously around the room, but always came back to rest on the alligator briefcase resting on top of the large mahogany desk.

The man sitting behind the desk was the exact opposite of Cordero in every way. Alfredo Roldos was the picture of health, his slightly protruding stomach hardly showing under the vest of his tailored navy three-piece Savile Row suit. His thick black hair, accented with just a touch of silver at his temples, was brushed back from a handsome widow’s peak. His manicured hands were swift and sure as they clipped the end off a Don Conti Robusto. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”

“N-no, Mr. Roldos—I simply wish to take care of our business.”

“Of course, but I hope you do not mind if I indulge.” Roldos applied an even blue flame from his butane lighter to the end of the cigar, drawing smoke slowly and letting it leak out the side of his mouth.

“No, sir.”

Roldos savored his Robusto for another minute, exhaling the smoke in lazy plumes that were barely stirred by the overhead fan. Across the desk, leather squeaked as the other man shifted uneasily.

At length, Roldos set his cigar down in a mirror-bright silver ashtray. “Well, I suppose we should get down to business.”

* * *

GALO MOVED SILENTLY through the sweltering tropical jungle, his bare feet making no noise on the thick carpet of rotting vegetation and wood. His breechclout covered his private parts, but the rest of his body was naked, decorated with bright red paint and a handwoven braided necklace. His curious brown eyes looked out at the world from a round face topped by straight black hair cut bowl-style. His unblinking gaze was currently fixed on the prize he sought a few yards away. Although the forest around him teemed with noisy insects and small animals, Galo tried his hardest not to make a sound as he crept forward.

The bird he was stalking, a toucan with primarily black feathers, save for an orange-and-red chest, with a red circle around its eye, shuffled along a branch, eyeing a cluster of guarana berries. Galo was only three yards away, then only two… .

The rumble of a large engine in the distance silenced all of the nearby fauna and made Galo’s head whip around. The red-breasted toucan he’d been stalking spread its wings and launched into the air.

A frown crossing his normally happy features, Galo took off through the jungle, leaping fallen tree trunks and avoiding dangling vines as he ran toward the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming closer to him, and he thought the vehicle must have been taking the single-lane road to his village.

Galo’s heart quickened at the thought of visitors, who often brought strange and magical devices from the world outside their small jungle home. Small boxes that showed amazing pictures, devices that fit into a hand that allowed the holder to talk to someone they could not see, who might be a dozen, or even a hundred miles away. Perhaps he could even trade some of his wood carvings for a pair of the dark glasses that fit over his eyes and blocked the sun, or even, if he was lucky, a knife with a blade that folded into the handle like the one his father owned.

The tenor of the engine changed and Galo sensed the truck had stopped somewhere nearby. He crept through the thick foliage, mindful of the brightly colored tree frogs whose skin exuded a deadly poison, until he could see the olive-drab truck. When he did, his brows knitted in a frown—these were not the usual missionaries or traders that came to their isolated village. This truck looked menacing, a large interloper in the verdant, peaceful jungle.

And the men it carried—with their pale white skin and hair on their faces—were dressed in black clothes. But as he watched, they changed into long-sleeved shirts and pants that mimicked the greenery and shadows of his home. They didn’t carry the usual equipment of those coming to trade with his village, either—each man had either in his hands or slung over his shoulder a big, long, black piece of metal that resembled the rifle his father used for hunting, but much uglier and more dangerous-looking. The men talked in a strange language and smoked cigarettes, the acrid smell making Galo’s nose twitch and his mouth dry.

Another man dressed in tan clothes and a safari hat got out of the front of the truck and talked to the men in back in their peculiar language. The smoking men all laughed as they checked their large black rifles, then the leader walked back to the front of the vehicle and got in, as the others climbed into the back. The truck started moving again, heading toward Galo’s village. He followed, paralleling the truck through the jungle.

* * *

ROLDOS EXAMINED THE sheaf of papers the other man had placed on his desk. He already knew what they contained, but skimmed the odd paragraph here and there to ensure nothing had been inserted at the last minute. “Everything seems to be in order…mineral and logging rights for an area in Ecuador’s interior rainforest…” He named the longitude and latitude coordinates. “And you’re sure this is on the edge of Yasuní?”

Cordero nodded, his head bobbing on his neck like a stork. “I checked the numbers myself—the territory abuts the park, but does not encroach on it.”

“Excellent. The ten-year term is listed here…” Although I’m sure we won’t need the space for nearly that long, Roldos thought. “There is nothing left to do but sign.” Taking a gold Mont Blanc pen from his shirt pocket, Roldos signed the copies where necessary with a bold flourish, then pushed the assignation of rights contract back to Cordero, who hesitated only slightly as he picked up the pen, his expression twisting on his strained face, as if suffering a late attack of conscience.

Without saying a word, Roldos reached down for the handle of the aluminum briefcase sitting on the floor behind his desk, lifted it and set it on the table. Cordero’s eyes widened when they fell upon the case.

“You—you promise that the indigenous peoples of the area will not be harmed, sim?” he asked, his gaze lingering on the case’s smooth surface.

Roldos smiled, a warm, relaxed smile that lit up his face—and stopped a mile short of reaching his eyes. “Jaime—please. The natives are a huge part of our operation. We’ll need experienced guides who can show us the area and expedite access to the more remote regions. Making contact with them is crucial. We’ll be compensating them well for the trouble,” he lied.

The other man’s head nodded almost unconsciously at Roldos’s smooth voice. He bent over the contracts and scribbled his name on the line, sealing the deal.

When the last copy had been executed, three copies safely tucked away in Cordero’s battered briefcase, with another set residing in the top drawer of Roldos’s desk, he slid the metal case across the desktop toward the other man. With slightly trembling fingers, Cordero reached for the case, almost clutching it to his chest before restraining himself and setting it on his lap. His head came up as he looked at his benefactor, the naked question all over his face.

Roldos permitted himself a slight chuckle and waved his hand. “It’s all right, my friend. You will not insult me—if I were in your shoes, I would want to look inside, too. Go ahead, you’ve earned it.”

Cordero flipped the catches on the case and slowly opened it, inhaling audibly when he saw what was inside—two hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars, enough for him and his family to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.

“Thank you, Alfredo, thank you.” Cordero closed the case again, stood and shook Roldos’s hand.

“No, my friend, thank you.” Roldos escorted the Assistant Secretary of the Interior to the door, said goodbye and made sure his secretary showed him the way out.

Once he was alone, he closed the door and locked it. Striding back to his desk, he sat and took a satellite phone from another desk drawer. Activating it, he dialed a number from memory. It rang three times, then a connection was made.

“Ja?”

“The contract is signed. Begin the operation.”

“Ja.”

Roldos broke the connection, put the phone away and reached for his Robusto again, intending to smoke it down to the butt. And in a few days, we’ll be on our way to making more money than anyone’s ever seen.

* * *

STILL TRAILING THE TRUCK, Galo scrambled across a large tree trunk that had fallen the day before and presently spanned a plant-choked ravine. The voracious denizens of the rainforest were already going to work on it, however, and soon it would be eaten away and fall into the divide, to rot and return to the earth. But for the moment, it made an excellent natural bridge.

On the other side, Galo scurried through the underbrush, with less than fifty yards to go until he reached the village clearing. He was about to emerge from the jungle and greet the visitors when he heard screams, followed by a sound he knew all too well—the sharp crack of gunfire.

Dropping to his stomach, Galo crawled forward until he was able to peek under a large cluster of purple orchids and watch what was happening to his friends and family.

The men from the truck, their heads covered by cloth masks, were all out of the vehicle and splitting up throughout the village, which consisted of about a dozen thin-walled huts on stilts with thatched roofs. The inhabitants, including Galo’s mother and father, had been coming out to greet the newcomers, but presently ran in terror, only managing a few steps before being gunned down and dropping in their tracks. The men were focused, efficient and deadly. Two-man teams moved from hut to hut, checking inside and shooting anyone they found. Screams of terror were cut off instantly by bursts of automatic-rifle fire.

Galo was frozen where he lay, mouth locked open in a silent scream, unable to run, unable to move. In a few minutes it was all over, save for the occasional single shot as the merciless killers swept through the village one last time, finishing off the wounded. A burst of rifle fire sounded in the distance, and a pair of the camouflaged men emerged from the jungle on the far end of the village, their rifles smoking as they laughed to each other.

The man in the cab, the leader of the operation, stood on the running board of the large truck, face partially shaded by the safari hat, his light blue eyes sweeping across the shattered remains of the village and the motionless bodies of its inhabitants.

The men regrouped at the truck, climbing in only when the man in the hat gave the signal. The vehicle turned around in the clearing and had begun heading out when it came to a halt. The man in the hat rolled his window down and peered out at the jungle—right where Galo was hiding.

Ducking his head, the boy held his breath, not daring to move. The truck stayed where it was for what seemed like an eternity. Galo’s heart hammered in his chest as he expected to hear the savage bark of the killers’ rifles any second. He was steeling himself to jump up and run deeper into the forest when the truck’s engine revved up again and it moved out down the road, its growl growing fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear it.

Yet still Galo stayed where he lay, under the orchids, not daring to move.

A light rain began falling on Galo, the slaughtered village…everything.

Still, the boy did not move.

1

Even dressed in khaki chinos and a bright tropical shirt—dark blue with palm trees and red-and-yellow macaws patterned all over it—Mack Bolan felt underdressed as he moved through the huge, raucous dance party in the favela of Rocinha, one of Rio de Janeiro’s worst slums. Even the police feared coming into the seemingly endless blocks of closely packed, brightly colored two- and three-story tenements, each of which often contained several families living almost on top of each other.

Rio’s government, however, was prepping for the 2016 Olympics, and high priority was to clean up the favelas and crack down on the flourishing crime spawned there, especially the drug trade.

That was why Bolan was here. Street intelligence said that Thiago Bernier, one of the city’s top drug lords, was making a rare public appearance here, accepting tribute from the slum dwellers while presiding as the unofficial “king” of the baile, or dance party. Although Stony Man and the U.S. government typically left internal policing to the respective country, Bernier was the middleman in a smuggling ring that stretched across South America, from the Atlantic to the Pacific and all the way up to Mexico. When the local police were less than forthcoming about providing intelligence and assistance on his operation, Bolan had decided to handle things his way: get into the country, find Bernier and bring him out—one way or another. The resistance had been just enough for Bolan to consider whether officers inside the department had been bribed by the ever-present tide of drug money washing over the city, but that investigation would have to wait for another time.

Typically, Anglos stood out anywhere they went in the sprawling metropolis. Besides his clothes, Bolan had disguised himself with a spray-on tan. With his black hair, he figured he’d blend in well enough, even if he was several inches taller than the majority of the dancing, singing, drinking crowd around him.

Fortunately, even his loud shirt was positively subdued compared to the riot of color and sound surrounding him. Remixed bossa nova music blared from speakers on every block, the pulsating beat driving men and women, all dressed in bright costumes, to dance wildly all around him. Bolan could even understand the frenetic activity—celebrate life this day, because any one of the partygoers around him could be dead tomorrow. It wasn’t a philosophy he subscribed to—whenever possible, he preferred to be the one holding the gun.

Although he tried to stick close to the sides of buildings, occasionally knots of partiers would sweep him into the maelstrom that was the nonstop street party. So far, besides spotting several hired guns positioned throughout the revelers, Bolan hadn’t seen a concentrated force yet—he figured that was coming soon, and he was right.

A vacant lot had been taken over to install Bernier as the king of festivities. Swarthy, black-haired and handsome, he presided over the party with a casual bored air of the slumming kingpin. One thing Bolan had to give him credit for was the number of pigs roasting in pits around the lot. The rich smell of the roasting pork overlaid the strong smell of cheap cologne, sweat and filth that permeated the street. At least the attendees’ll eat well this night, Bolan thought. Assuming they survive the next few minutes.

A flash of movement across the street attracted his predator senses and Bolan glanced over to see a brief altercation already being broken up by several people. It was enough, however, for him to spot a familiar-looking face, topped by a shock of black hair with a distinctive streak of white.

Davi Giachetto—the police are here? Although annoyed, Bolan wasn’t surprised that his own source had made sure the local brass had shown up. He got paid twice, and there was a better-than-even chance that one or both of the parties using the information would be killed in the ensuing firefight, leaving him in the clear. It was actually pretty clever. Bolan made a mental note to himself that if he ever saw that snitch again, he’d be sure to remind him how much he didn’t like being sold out.

But that was then—now, he had to prevent a potential bloodbath. Bolan had nothing against the short, tireless Brazilian cop. Sergeant Giachetto had cojones the size of soccer balls to even come down here in the first place. He had to know that if he was made, he’d be dead before he got to the end of the block.

But just because Bolan liked the man didn’t mean he trusted him. After all, what better way to eliminate a competitor in crime than to bribe a cop to arrest the man, then have him shot while “resisting arrest” or “attempting to escape.” Although he was usually on the side of the badges, Bolan had run into his share of bent police officers in the past and always approached every one he met with the same amount of caution and skepticism until he was sure of their loyalty.

Raising his smartphone, he took a picture of the street’s festivities, making sure to catch the officer in the shot. As he did, Bolan ran another casual sweep of the narrow avenue, revising his assessment of the posted security. Even as he watched, three of them had already been neutralized and replaced with Giachetto’s men. Slick, he thought, pushing his way to the front of the empty lot, which was guarded by three men several inches taller than him and twice as wide.

“Eu tenho que ver o Senhor Bernier,” Bolan said in passable Portuguese. His smartphone’s translator program was just hitting beta test in the U.S. Army. Bolan was part of the field testing, right here, right now.

“Ninguém vê o Senhor Bernier,” one of the big men grunted, shaking his head. “No one sees Mr. Bernier.”

“É urgente. Eu trabalho para o Alarico Nascimento.” Bolan cautiously pulled up his shirt to reveal his smartphone in a holster at his waist, noting the man’s large hand creeping behind his back. The bodyguard on Bolan’s left was backing up his partner while the third man kept watch over the boisterous crowd. These guys were definitely not local muscle for hire—they were professionals.

When the bodyguard saw the phone, he nodded his massive head once. Bolan speed-dialed a number and handed the phone to the hulk. “Leve isso para o Senhor Bernier.”

The big man stared at Bolan for a moment, looked suspiciously at the phone, dwarfed in his huge paw, then turned and lumbered into the lot, the two other guards closing ranks behind him. He reached Bernier, who was watching a pair of scantily clad women dance in front of him while texting on his own smartphone.

The kingpin looked up at his henchman over his round glasses, then followed the other man’s finger as it pointed out Bolan. Frowning, he took the phone and put it to his ear. Bolan watched Bernier stiffen as he heard his lieutenant, Alarico Nascimento, tell him that the bearer of this phone should be trusted implicitly, as he had been sent by Nascimento himself to Bernier. The drug dealer stared at Bolan again, then spoke to his guard and pointed at Bolan, who casually rested his hand on his hip—the better to draw his compact SIG Sauer pistol hidden at the small of his back if needed.

The big man whispered in his cohort’s ear, then waved Bolan forward. He slipped past the two men, taking the opportunity to look behind him for any sign of the polícia. He thought he caught a glimpse of Giachetto’s face in the crowd, but an exuberant dancer crossed in front of him, cutting off his view. Then Bolan was behind the bodyguard wall, walking to Bernier’s cheap wooden throne.

“You work for Alarico?” the dealer asked in Portuguese.

“Yes,” Bolan answered.

“Why are you here?” Bernier asked.

“He sent me to warn you—the police are coming, tonight, for you, right now.” All of that was true—Nascimento had been captured by Stony Man operatives while on vacation in Canada and had provided Bolan’s bona fides as part of a witness protection deal.

Bernier slouched back in his chair and laughed. “The fucking police wouldn’t dare show their faces in the favelas!”

Bolan held his hand out for his smartphone, which Bernier tossed at him with a sneer. Flicking through the screens, Bolan brought up the photograph he’d taken of the street a few minutes ago and zoomed in on Giachetto’s face. Holding the phone out, he asked, “You recognize this cop?”

Bernier stiffened when he saw the sergeant’s face. “Shit! That son of a bitch!” He whistled, a sharp blast that brought his bodyguard back. Bernier hissed commands that made the man get on his cell, most likely trying to raise the other security guards in the area. Bolan looked at the front of the lot to see the other men not even bothering to hide their weapons, each one carrying a compact Steyr Tactical Machine Pistol with extended magazine. Bolan kept his expression carefully neutral at the sight, although he realized that the possibility of a slaughter had just increased by a factor of ten. The Steyrs were compact “room brooms,” spitting out 9 mm bullets at 850 rounds per minute. If the police mishandled the arrest, the resulting riot could leave dozens injured or dead.

Bernier sprang from his chair. “Javiero! Let’s get the fuck outta here! You—” he pointed at Bolan “—you’re coming with us, as well. If this is a double cross, you’ll be the first to die! Get moving!”

Keeping his hands in plain sight, Bolan walked ahead of Javiero the bodyguard. They were heading toward the back of the lot and a sleek Range Rover with tinted windows when a flurry of gunshots cracked from the crowd.

“Shit!” Bolan spun to hear the staccato bursts of the Steyrs as they spat death into the crowd. Screams and shouts ensued as the panicked men and woman tried to scatter for cover, running into each other and trampling several in their haste to escape the kill zone.

“Javiero! Cover me!” Bernier had drawn his own pistol, a chrome-plated Desert Eagle, and was covering Bolan with it. “You’re my insurance.”

“Whatever you say—but I wouldn’t go out the back—” was all Bolan got to say before Bernier shoved the pistol under his chin.

“Why? You trying to lead me into a trap so os porcos can arrest me?”

“No, but the police’ll have that covered, as well.”

Just then another fusillade of shots sounded from ahead of them, and Bernier’s driver exchanged fire with unseen assailants before driving off in a squeal of tires.

“Bastard! Aquele cachorro!” Bernier swore as Javiero let loose with his machine pistol, the roar of the compact weapon drowning out the rest of the man’s swearing. He kept the cops under cover while moving to fire from behind the only protection he could find—one of the roasting pigs. Bullets punched through the carcass, spraying juices through the air.

Several cartridges also tunneled through the meat and into the huge bodyguard, making him sit with a surprised look on his face, his machine pistol slipping from his hand as he died.

2

“Merda! Now what?” Bernier stared at his dead guard in shock.

“This way!” Bolan shoved the Desert Eagle out of the way and yanked the kingpin toward the light green building on their left, which had every window and door boarded up. “Gimme that!” Snatching the large-caliber pistol out of the other man’s hand, he aimed it at a covered window and fired four rounds, blowing one of the wooden slats in two. Yanking the broken pieces away, Bolan was about to enlarge the hole when a machete blade chunked down on the windowsill from inside. Bolan aimed high and fired two more rounds through the wood, making the blade vanish along with pounding feet as the people inside fled from the gunfire.

Bullets cracked into the mortar wall around them. Bolan pointed the Eagle backward, still angling the barrel up, and emptied the magazine, making everyone in the vicinity duck for cover. “Get inside!” he shouted at Bernier as he smashed out more planks with the butt of the pistol.

Bernier scrambled through the narrow gap, with Bolan right behind him. The room they found themselves in was dark and small, yet still contained a cube refrigerator, table and shelves against one wall. A doorway opened into more blackness. The room stank of thousands of old meals, sweat and despair.

Grabbing his charge by the sleeve, Bolan shoved him against the wall next to the door. “Got any spare mags for this?”

Bernier nodded, handing over two 9-round magazines. Bolan reloaded the large pistol, then drew his own SIG Sauer, readying both as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Outside, the gunfire continued, with the police apparently pinned down. Bolan grimaced at the thought—they might need the military to come get them, but if that was the case, they’d probably be dead before help arrived.

“Shouldn’t I get my gun back?” Bernier pouted.

“Not if you wanna get out of here alive,” Bolan said. “Now be quiet.” He listened to the noises inside the building—scurrying feet, hushed whispers. “If these people recognize your voice, tell them you’ll reward them in exchange for assistance out of here.”

Bernier stepped forward and called into the hallway, rattling off several sentences in rapid Portuguese. There was another conference, then a slight form emerged out of the darkness—a girl about fourteen years old.

“Come here, child.” Bernier waved her forward. “You take myself and my friend out of here safely, and I will reward you and your family handsomely.”

Shaking her head, she held out a grimy hand.

Bernier chuckled. “They learn young,” he said as he pulled out an alligator-skin wallet.

“Yeah, well, she’s gonna learn what a bullet in the face feels like if we don’t get out of here quick.”

Bernier held out a hundred dollar bill, but when the girl moved to grab it, neatly tore it in two. “This half and two more when we are safely away.”

The girl stared at him, then nodded as she turned and began walking down the corridor. Bernier exchanged a glance with Bolan, who nodded. “She’s our ticket out.”

The kingpin started walking down the dark hallway, with Bolan bringing up the rear, one pistol pointed ahead, the other behind him. Doorways—empty frames and also holes cut into the walls, some covered with hanging blankets, others empty and gaping—lined the hallway on both sides.

Bolan wasn’t claustrophobic, but the narrow passage plus the lack of light and multiple attack vectors were sending his senses into overdrive. He was crazily alert to every noise in the place, and there were many—too many. The only good news was that they seemed to be leaving any pursuit behind.

The girl led them up a cramped staircase, the steps concave, worn from years of feet tramping up and down. Bolan caught the aroma of wood smoke and vegetables sizzling—someone was cooking nearby. The stairs opened into another hallway, identical to the first one, with rooms on either side. Bolan tried to watch every direction as they went down it, but he had to trust that the girl was really taking them out—a dangerous proposition here, where both Bernier and he could disappear, their bodies never to be found again.

Shouts and crashes echoed up the stairwell, making Bolan quicken his pace. The girl ducked under a tattered blanket into a room at the end of the hall, waving them forward. Bernier hurried to follow.

“Wait—!” Bolan’s whispered warning came too late. He tucked the SIG away and, leading with the Desert Eagle, pushed into the room—only to feel a circle of cold steel press into his neck. Bolan froze, the Desert Eagle held with its muzzle pointing in the air as he took in the room. A frown on her face, the girl stood by a crude rope ladder leading to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Two other men besides the punk holding the gun on Bolan stood in the room. One had a pistol trained on Bernier, the other held an iron pipe, ready to reinforce either of his criminal partners.

“Drop the pist—” was all the gunman had time to say before Bolan snaked his arm around the shooter’s wrist, levering the gun out of line on him and trapping it between his elbow and side. The moment the pistol was neutralized, he leveled the Desert Eagle and put a round into the second gunman’s chest, the boom of the .357 deafening in the small room.

Steadying the guy with his left hand, Bolan pulled him close as he brought his forehead down, smashing it into the thug’s nose. Cartilage crunched and blood squirted as the guy screamed in agony. Releasing him, Bolan stripped the pistol from his hand as he fell to the floor, keeping it locked between his arm and his side.

In the three seconds it had taken to do that, the pipe-wielding man charged at Bolan, wildly swinging his pipe. Trying to aim the Desert Eagle at his attacker, the end of the pipe connected with the large gun’s frame hard enough to jar it out of Bolan’s hand. The shiny pistol skittered across the floor, but Bolan couldn’t track it, as all his attention was on the man in front of him, who was already cocking the pipe for another swing. There was no time to draw the SIG again, so Bolan went for the pistol under his arm. Pulling it out, he cocked the hammer back on the revolver and snap-fired as soon as he had it out far enough to line up the stubby barrel on the guy’s face. As he squeezed the trigger, Bolan felt tape on the handle and hoped the Saturday Night Special didn’t blow up in his hand.

It did something far worse—the hammer fell on a chamber, but no bullet fired. It was a dud.

“Hell!” Bolan ducked underneath the man’s wild swing, the pipe coming close enough to him to ruffle his hair. He was about to step forward and hammer the pistol butt into the man’s face when the left side of his head simply exploded, demolishing his facial features, as well. At the same time, another thunderous boom reverberated in the room, painfully hammering Bolan’s eardrums. The man’s body followed his brains, toppling over on his side to the floor.

He glanced over to see Bernier aiming the smoking Desert Eagle at the girl, who just stood and stared back at him. He nodded at the three dead men, the question obvious. Shaking her head, she spit on the nearest one, then pointed up at the trapdoor again.

Bolan watched this all with his eardrums feeling as though they were stuffed full of cotton. Dimly he heard noise from outside, in the hallway. Bernier heard it, as well, for he walked to the doorway, stuck the pistol out and fired three rounds. Pointing it at the girl, he waved her up the ladder. She scrambled up like a monkey, pushing the trapdoor—just a piece of plywood, no doubt scavenged from a construction site—out of the way and climbing out onto the roof.

“Go!” SIG Sauer in hand, Bolan covered the doorway, first kicking the guy with the broken nose in the head to ensure he couldn’t tell anyone where they had gone. Bernier hoisted himself up the rope ladder. Only when he was outside did Bolan holster his gun and shimmy up. The moment he was on the roof, he grabbed the rope and pulled it up after him, then shoved the plywood back into place.

The rooftop they were on was indistinguishable from a thousand others around them. Gunshots still sounded from the street below, but they’d become more sporadic. Bernier and Bolan looked around for the best way out.

“You have a car somewhere, right?” the kingpin asked.

Bolan pointed. “Yeah, six blocks that way—if it hasn’t been stolen or stripped yet. We should try to find other wheels anyway. The police will be looking for newer vehicles coming out of here.”

Bernier turned to the girl and asked her a question. In response, she held out her hand. “Damn it!” He counted off four more hundred-dollar bills, plus the torn half of the first one. “Let’s go!”

The girl scurried off, leading the two men to the back wall, where a plank she placed between two buildings served as an improvised bridge. Although it creaked under Bolan’s two hundred pounds, it held him as he crossed.

They went across three more rooftops, ascending the stacked buildings of the favela until coming to a single-lane road. The girl trotted past three houses until she came to what looked like a crude garage with a door made of jury-rigged corrugated tin sheets, secured with a brand-new, shiny padlock. The girl pointed to it, then held out her hand a third time.

“Gonna be broke by the time we leave,” Bernier grumbled, but counted another five hundred dollars into her hand. “Go, get out of here, you extortionist.” The girl made the last payment disappear as quickly as she had the first one, then whirled and dashed off down an alley, gone from sight in seconds.

“How are we getting in?” Bernier asked, pointing the pistol at the lock.

“No! Shooting’s too loud—it’ll draw everyone to us. Just keep watch.” Bolan bent down and got to work with his picks. Two minutes later, the lock was picked. Pulling the door open revealed a battered Subaru Brat, minus the hood and with dented and rusty doors and side panels. “Haven’t seen one of these in forever. Let’s go.”

“Can you get it started?” Bernier asked as he got in on the passenger side.

“Of course.” Bolan exposed the steering column of the almost thirty-year-old vehicle, stripped the right wires and touched them together. The light truck’s engine sputtered and coughed. Bolan pumped the gas once and touched the wires together again. This time the Subaru turned over with an earsplitting racket—apparently the muffler was long gone, too.

“Let’s go!” Bernier shouted. “I got a feeling this wasn’t hers to sell!”

“You and me both!” Bolan pressed the brake, then engaged the clutch and gave it gas. The little two-seater shook its way out of the garage just as two men came around the corner, one carrying an ax handle, the other clutching an old, double-barreled shotgun. When they saw their vehicle being stolen, the shotgunner aimed his weapon.

“Down!” Bernier shouted as the back window disintegrated in a shower of glass pellets behind them. Bolan cranked the wheel hard right and hit the gas, making the Subaru leap ahead as it lurched into gear. Bernier stuck his Desert Eagle out the passenger window and cranked off the rest of his magazine, making the two men duck for cover.

Downshifting into second, Bolan made the Subaru fly down the single lane, praying no one stepped out into the road, as he wouldn’t be able to stop and there was nowhere to swerve. The alley remained empty, fortunately, and he took the first road they came to, cranking left to get back onto one of the main roads and out of the slum.

“Incredible! You are something else!” Bernier had put away his pistol and stared at Bolan in admiration. “A man of your talents shouldn’t be wasted on Alarico. How about you come work for me? At triple your previous pay, of course!”

“That is a very generous offer, Senhor Bernier. Let’s get out of the city first, and then we can discuss my new arrangements—and my payment.”

“Of course, of course.” Bernier took out his smartphone. “I can have my jet ready to go in an hour. Head to Galeão.”

Bolan kept his smile to himself—the international airport twenty minutes away from the city was where they were headed anyway.

They negotiated the afternoon traffic to get on the highway and were soon cruising along underneath the bright sun, the carnage of a half hour ago rapidly receding. Bernier smoked a cheroot and talked expansively, promising Bolan a top position in his cartel. “Maybe even to replace that weasel Alarico—his payments have been a little light recently. I think you could handle his operations very nicely.”

For his part, Bolan kept his eyes on the road and nodded where appropriate.

“The Gulfstream is in hangar 11E, just head right down, they’re expecting us.”

Bolan took the turnoff to the private hangars, but as 11E came up, he didn’t turn toward it.

Bernier looked at his jet as they drove past his hangar. “What are you doing? It’s back there, you missed it…” He trailed off when he saw the SIG Sauer in Bolan’s hand pointed at him.

“I’m afraid I came to you under false pretenses, Senhor Bernier. I’m not going with you—you’re coming with me. What condition you’re in during the flight, however, is completely up to you.”

Bernier’s gaze rose to his face, and Bolan knew exactly what he was thinking. Could he draw and shoot before he fired? Bolan shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t.” Bernier slumped back in his seat.

They turned into another hangar, where a larger Gulfstream jet was idling on the tarmac. A tall man with light brown hair and dressed in a summer-weight tropical sport coat, open-collared shirt and sunglasses stood by the open stairway. Bolan pulled to a stop in front of him.

“Afternoon, Mack.” The man’s voice had a thick layer of cockney in it.

“David.”

“Any problems?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

The head of Phoenix Force shook his head. “Still say it would have been more prudent to have me with you.”

Bolan smiled. “I wanted to get one man out, David, not bring down the entire slum around me.”

“Fair enough.” David McCarter moved to the passenger door. “This our third passenger?”

“Yup.”

McCarter grinned, a sharklike baring of teeth that was completely devoid of warmth or humor. “You aren’t gonna be any trouble now, are you, mate?”

Staring at the fox-faced Brit, Bernier shook his head. David reached in and relieved him of his sidearm and smartphone. “All right, then, time to go.”

It was on the way to the plane that Bernier got some of his courage back. “Wait a minute. You cannot just take me out of the country—there are rules to this sort of thing. I cannot be extradited like this. I demand to speak to your State Depart…” He trailed off at seeing the wolfish looks on Bolan’s and David’s faces.

“When are these guys gonna learn?” David asked rhetorically.

“I never claimed to be affiliated with the government, U.S. or otherwise.”

Bernier’s face clouded in confusion. “What—are you bounty hunters? Private security? Whatever you’re being paid, I can give you ten times the amount.”

David dropped a firm, unyielding hand on the Brazilian drug lord’s shoulder. “You can just call us troubleshooters, mate. And if you’re not nice and polite on the flight up, you’ll be the trouble we’ll shoot next.”

Thiago Bernier, once a top drug kingpin and mastermind behind a large pipeline that stretched from Rio to Peru and three other continents, allowed himself to be meekly led into the Gulfstream’s interior, searched in more detail and secured to a captain’s chair.

Meanwhile, Bolan contacted their pilot, Jack Grimaldi, and had him get into the takeoff schedule. Thirty minutes later, they were wheels up and off the ground, arrowing into the brilliant blue Brazilian sky.

3

Once Bernier had been settled—with the aid of a mild sedative to relax him—Bolan had planned to take a well-deserved break himself, having been up for the past thirty hours tracking down his leads to the drug lord. McCarter, however, had other plans for him.

“Sorry, mate, but Hal said to call in the moment you got here.” He dropped his rangy form into the cushy leather seat across from Bolan. “You’re lucky I let you have a drink first.”

“Well, I already noticed we’re not heading north.” Bolan gestured with his bottle of water at the sun setting ahead of them. “What’s he got now?”

David shrugged as he held out a sat phone. “No idea—your ears only, apparently. All I know is that I get to babysit Mr. Silk Pants there back to D.C. while you get to jaunt off into the shite again.”

Bolan grinned as he took the receiver. “Too bad there couldn’t be another mission in Rio—preferably on the beach?”

“Oi, mate, wild horses wouldn’t have kept me from that one.” McCarter rose. “I’m gonna go check on our passenger.”

“Thanks.” Bolan waited until David had headed out before connecting to Stony Man Farm, his stateside base of operations. Bounced off several satellites, the tight-beam communication went through multiple encryption layers, rendering it virtually unbreakable. To the rest of the world, Bolan and his contact outside of Washington, D.C., were speaking static-filled gibberish.

“Striker?” Bolan heard a quiet chewing sound and knew Brognola was munching on one of his ever-present antacid tablets.

“I’m here, Hal.”

“How was your fishing trip?”

Bolan grinned. “Not as much time on the beach as I’d wanted, but I landed the big one. David cleaned him up and we’re bringing him home so you can cook him for as long as you want.”

“Excellent. Look, normally I don’t like sending you back out in the field right after the completion of one mission, however, Wonderland’s breathing down my neck on this one, and since you’re already in the area, so to speak…”

“Yeah, it seems I can’t get enough of South America lately. Where’s Jack dropping me off this time?”

“Quito, Ecuador, and from there you’ll be taking a charter plane to Neuva Loja, in the province of Sucumbíos. Ultimately you’ll be heading into the Amazon rainforest, so let me know whatever gear you’ll need that isn’t on the plane and we’ll drop it to you.”

“Okay—what’s going on over there?”

“Part of this—okay, most of this—is the D.C. policy wonks and bureaucrats covering their collective asses. As I’m sure you’re aware, the energy crisis is ramping up again, with oil futures climbing to record levels again and showing no signs of receding anytime soon. With truly effective alternate power sources still slow to come online, efficient use of current fields and discovery of new ones is of paramount importance, not only to our current government, but also to nations around the world.”

No surprise there, Bolan thought. China’s appetite for energy grew larger by the week, with India nipping at its neighbor’s heels, both burgeoning nations contributing to the pall of pollution growing worse in the Far East every day. And that didn’t even count America’s near-insatiable consumption of gasoline—all of which required new sources, preferably not from the Middle East.

“Of course, this has pushed any and all forms of oil exploration to the forefront, with companies able to find and claim the biggest undiscovered fields reaping potential years, maybe even decades of bonanza. Recent explorations indicate sizable oil fields are present in several areas of the Amazonian rainforest, particularly on the border between Ecuador and Colombia. The oil exploration company Sulexco has recently entered into an agreement to measure exactly how much oil may be in the area.”

“I trust that you’re not asking our operatives to babysit oil company executives?” Bolan kept his tone even, but his disdain was evident at the thought of such an assignment.

Brognola snorted. “Hell, no. They’ve hired a private security company to provide corporate protection for its assets. However, despite the U.S. and Ecuador’s warm camaraderie in public, they’ve been making some moves lately that the current administration is not very happy with, including getting very cozy with Iran over the past couple of years.”

Bolan sifted through recent CIA analysis on his smartphone. “Yeah, they’ve been buying weapons from the Middle East, taking billions in deposits, everything but a government sleepover. But why send me to the middle of nowhere? If there’s something to be found, shouldn’t I be starting in the capital?”

“Normally, yes, but the Ecuador-Colombian border is important for a couple other reasons. Although the two countries have recently put an end to their hostilities, things tensed up again in ’08 after a Colombian military action against FARC rebels left twenty dead, and relations between the two countries strained to the breaking point. And I haven’t even mentioned how chummy Ecuador’s president is with Venezuela yet—and we know what Chavez thinks of America. The U.S. wants the oil folks to get their work done smoothly and to ensure that no rogue elements on any side—FARC, the Colombian military, anybody—inflame any tensions that could spark a full-scale war. The idea is to send you down there to keep the peace and head off anything before it makes headlines.”

“And I’m guessing that any intervention by American forces would be seen as the U.S. sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong,” Bolan said.

“Got it in one, Striker. With the Ecuadorian president still clinging to power after an attempted police coup in 2010, State doesn’t want to do any on-the-record poking around down there unless we’re sure folks’re being naughty. That, of course, is where you come in.”

“Of course. Do I have a cover, or am I just supposed to run around the jungle and see who shoots at me first?”

“We’re inserting you using the Cooper alias—you’ve decided to head down and report on the state of the rainforest, find out the real story about oil drilling there, that sort of Pulitzer prize–grabbing material. Your modified jacket’s already on the way and will be in place before you’re on the ground. Once there, I’m sure you’ll root out anything that’s happening soon enough.”

“Fair enough. Give me any updates on the locals from the Agency, and I’ll review them on the way over. South America’s been fun so far—I’m sure Ecuador will be, too.”

“That’s the spirit. With luck you’ll just tour the countryside, and everything will be nice and peaceful.”

“Hal, they wouldn’t be sending me down there if that was the case—you know that.”

“Hey, I can dream, can’t I?” Brognola grumbled. “Just keep your powder and your feet dry, Striker. Call in when you touch down in Neuva Loja. We’ll work out the rest from there.”

“Will do. Striker out.” He’d no sooner disconnected when McCarter stuck his head over the seat.

“Back into it, eh?”

“Yup, apparently there may be some unrest brewing west of here—White House wants it checked out.”

“Lucky bastard—trade you details?” The Brit’s tone was hopeful.

“No chance, David. The rainforest still needs to be standing once I’m done there.”

“Hey, I’d leave most of it intact.” McCarter actually sounded wounded by Bolan’s gibe.

“Still, they asked for me and that’s what they’re gonna get. I’m sure something’ll come up that needs your unique talents soon enough.” Bolan reclined his seat and closed the window shade. “I’m gonna catch a couple hours’ sleep before running prep. Make sure our guest is comfortable and quiet.”

“Can do.” McCarter went back to check on Bernier again, while Bolan immediately dropped off.

* * *

SIXTEEN HOURS LATER, Bolan sat on a rickety bus as it brought him and a handful of other passengers from the only airport in Neuva Loja to the center of town. He’d been reading up on the capital of the province while on the flight over, learning that it was the central nexus for the various oil companies that had come in to prospect and drill.

Although the town had grown over the past several decades, the blight the oil companies had brought with them was plain to see. Acres and acres of fields were denuded and barren, deforested to make room for more buildings or the leavings of 20,000 people that were thrown away each day. The air carried with it that unique odor that came with oil drilling—a blend of burning fuel, hot metal and sweat that lingered in the back of the throat and on clothes and skin.

As they drove farther into town, Bolan was hard-pressed to find any difference between many of the city blocks they passed and the Rocinha slum. The buildings here were all packed tightly together, as well. The only difference being that they looked a little newer.

The bus dropped him off at the Hotel Araza, a neat, modern-looking three-story hotel with its own garage and security gate. Bolan walked in after a group of what looked like ecotourists. They ranged in age from college students to middle-aged men and women, wearing a variety of natural fibers, handwoven sandals and, at least for the men, a few scraggly beards.

He checked in under his Matt Cooper alias and went up to his room, which was spacious, with a tiled floor and free internet. Bolan swept it for bugs—more out of force of habit than anything else—then checked in with Stony Man Farm. With nothing new to report, he headed down for dinner.

As expected, he found several of the group on the bus sitting down to dinner, as well, all of them discussing the menu, which, of course, was printed in Portuguese. The three he pegged as college students were all snickering about the caldo de manguera soup, which they were trying to get the others to try. Bolan decided to play along and ordered it as his first course, following it with llapingachos, cheesy potato cakes served with grilled steak.

When his soup arrived, full of rice, celery and small chunks of meat swimming in a brown broth, Bolan didn’t hesitate, but dug in, knowing full well that the other group was watching him to gauge his reaction.

Finally, one of them, a red-haired student in a woven native long-sleeved shirt and cargo shorts, pushed back his chair. “Dude, you do know what you’re eating, right?”

Bolan nodded as he chewed, then swallowed one of the rubbery chunks of meat. “If my Portuguese is right, it’s bull penis.”

The other table erupted in various reactions, from laughter to disgust. “So, what’s it taste like?” a shorter girl with her blond hair braided into two thick pigtails asked.

“Not like chicken, if that’s what you’re wondering. In fact, it doesn’t really have much taste at all. Not like some of the other foods I’ve tasted. In fact, one of the worst was a delicacy called balut, that they serve in the Philippines.” In between spoonfuls of soup, Bolan described the snack—basically a fertilized duck egg boiled whole and eaten straight out of the shell—with enough detail to make more than one of the group push their main course away with queasy looks on their faces.

After that, he was in. Bolan introduced himself as Matt Cooper and said he was a freelance reporter on assignment to do an in-depth report on the state of the Amazon rainforest. He barely got that out when one of the other students piped up.

“Dude, if you want a real story, you should totally come with us—we’re heading into the deep jungle to volunteer at a Huaorani village.” He introduced himself as Mike Saderson and said he and the others were part of the South American Relief Effort, or SARE. The next morning they were all heading to a remote village deep in the rainforest. “The indigenous tribesmen are being encroached upon by oil companies, not to mention illegal loggers, hunters and smugglers. SARE tries to improve their way of life and help protect them and the rainforest from depredation.”

“Sounds like I might have just stumbled onto my story right here.” Bolan’s main course of llapingachos arrived, and as he dug in, he cast his gaze around at the rest of the group. “So, you’re all here on the same mission?”

Each member at the table took a turn to introduce themselves, as Bolan sized them up. The group’s makeup was about what he’d figured. The three college students—Saderson, Thomas Bonell and the shorter girl, Calley Carter—were looking for adventure while doing their part to save the world. The dark-haired man, Paul Wilberson, looked like a die-hard eco-nut or conservationist and turned out to be a little of each, along with possessing a degree in animal husbandry. The second woman was Susanna Tatrow, a British anthropologist graduate student who was going to be both studying and teaching at the tiny school in the village.

The last guy intrigued Bolan the most, primarily because he didn’t fit into any easily classifiable niche. He was the last one to speak, and all he said was, “My name’s Elliot Morgan, and I’m here because I wanted to see the ends of the earth.” He glanced around. “Looks like I’ve come to the right place.”

“You can say that again. Any of you ever been out in the deep rainforest before?” Shaking heads greeted Bolan’s question. “It’s quite an experience—I’d tell you more, but I don’t want to color your first impressions. As long as you have all your shots up-to-date, you’ll be fine.

“In fact,” he said as he rose from the table, “I’d suggest you all get a good night’s sleep—it’s gonna be a long trip tomorrow.”

“Are you going to join us out there, Matt?” Thomas Bonell asked.

“That’s the plan, if SARE doesn’t mind me tagging along. But right now, I’ve gotta check in with my bureau chief, make sure he doesn’t have a problem with it. See you all in the morning.”

He left the restaurant to a chorus of goodbyes, but waited until he’d reached his room before calling Stony Man Farm.

“Stony Man Farm, you kill ’em, we chill ’em,” a young, familiar voice said on the other end.

“Akira, didn’t Hal warn you about answering the sat line that way?” Bolan asked.

“Yeah, but what can I say—it just didn’t take.” Akira Tokaido was Stony Man’s current computer expert, working with long-time stalwart Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman. Among the youngest of the Stony Man team, his youth gave him a different way of looking at things—which sometimes worked against him. “What you need, Striker?”

“Dig up whatever you can find on a NGO called South American Relief Effort and send me any information on them. I’ve just been invited to join a group of volunteers heading out into the jungle and want to know what I’m getting into there.”

“Gotcha, I’m on it.” Bolan heard the clack of computer keys as the whiz kid’s fingers blurred over his keyboard. “Anything else you need?”

“Yeah, better include some higher grade firepower in the care package Hal’s sending down—I don’t want to be outgunned in the bush. Give me something carbine size with a collapsible stock, a CAR-15 would do.”

“Duly noted. I’ll make sure they know to include it and plenty of ammo. You good on everything else?”

“So far, so good. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else. Striker out.”

Disconnecting the call, Bolan prepped for bed, turning out the light and enjoying the last comfortable bed he expected he’d see for a while. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out.

4

Alec Hachtman frowned at the water drop that had splashed on his keyboard just as a sharp pain bloomed in his neck. Slapping a hand down, he brought away a crushed mosquito in his fingers and groaned. Looking up, he saw another drop poised to fall, and snatched his laptop out of the way a moment before it plopped onto his lap desk.

Starting to hate the place, he activated the VOIP program on his machine. “Kapleron, my tent is leaking again. Please have one of the locals take a look at it as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, but it probably won’t do you much good—it’s called a rainforest for a reason, you know? I’ll get someone on it when I can.”

“Well, get them on it sooner rather than later, all right? I woke up this morning half-drenched.” Hachtman closed his computer and slid it into the protective padded ballistic nylon case that was always nearby. Given their situation, he carried the computer with him at all times, in the event that a hurried evacuation was necessary. Slinging the case strap over his shoulder, he rose from his cot and left the claustrophobic tent, emerging into the muggy, humid Amazon jungle.

Wondering again why he’d agreed to oversee this mission, he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Sure, it’ll be exciting—come down to South America! This will be great for your record with the company! What a load—all that’s down here is heat, bugs, more heat and these insufferable goddamn mercenaries whose answer to everything is to point a gun and start blasting. They’d be lucky if the whole goddamn forest wasn’t blown up before they’d finished here.

Hachtman was the ostensible leader of the operation for his company, Paracor Security Solutions International, a private military company eking out a living on the fringes of the Second and Third World. With most of the plum operations going to larger, multinational PMCs, Paracor battled for scraps at the bottom, taking boring, out-of-the-way assignments in the ass end of the world. Their board was looking to move the company up the ranks into the leagues of the big boys and were willing to reward those who could help them accomplish this task.

That was why Hachtman was here. He’d volunteered to oversee the mission to “pacify” the area so that it could be parceled out to oil companies, loggers, whomever wanted to turn a buck exploiting the riches of the rainforest. The board had made it known that they wanted a perfect operations record that they could use to burnish their reputation—and Hachtman was going to give it to them. All he needed was a few more days, and he would deliver a successful foiling of renegade Colombian soldiers terrorizing the defenseless natives—and perhaps a nearby prospecting oil company, as well.

That was, if he could survive this infernal jungle that long. The eternal heat, the constant biting insects and the wet that permeated everything had wreaked havoc on his wardrobe, not to mention his computer and other personal effects. After this, he figured he was due a long vacation—maybe somewhere sunny and bright instead of humid and damp all the time.

As he walked toward the trucks, Hachtman spotted his head of security, Piet Kapleron, coming the other way. The short, pale-skinned, bandy-legged, freckled South African stood out among the rest of the hired guns in looks as well as temperament. His disdain for the operation was obvious—he made no bones about what he thought of Hachtman and any other “suit.” But he was effective, and that was all that mattered.

“Good afternoon, Piet.”

“How goes it, baas?” The shorter man fell into step beside him. Kapleron’s Afrikanner accent irritated Hachtman, but he was careful not to show it. For all the man’s lack of manners, he was good at his job, keeping at bay the potential cauldron of trouble—from nosy relief workers to natives in the wrong place at the wrong time, to local soldiers or militia stumbling upon them and then demanding bribes to keep their mouths shut. Kapleron handled them all, letting Hachtman and his team do their job in relative peace.

“Fine, except my tent’s leaking again. How’s the perimeter? Any trouble recently?”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about. Those bastards at that village nearby are trekkin’ closer to us all the time. Pretty soon they’ll be stomping all over the place.” Kapleron’s lip curled at the thought.

“What would you suggest we do about that, keeping in mind that our employers want this operation to keep a low profile?”

“Ja, I remember, otherwise the problem woulda been solved already—a few of my maats and I woulda paid them a daylight visit. However, since that ain’t an option, perhaps a different approach is in order.”

“Oh?” Hachtman lengthened his stride, making the shorter man hasten to catch up. It was a faint jab at the other man, but he took his pleasure where he could.

“Yeah, look, apparently these Huaorani are attacking each other all the time—they stab their enemies with spears. We go in at night and take out the village, then it looks like one of the neighbors did it, not us. Just another hazard of living in the jungle, right? The locals all suspect each other, and we get off scot-free. Heh, if you wanted to live on something more than coconuts and guava, we could even hire ourselves out for ‘protection.’”

Pondering the rough plan for a moment, Hachtman was surprised to find he liked it. “That’s not a bad idea—it certainly covers all of our bases.”

“So, when do you want us to move on them?”

“Let me get back to you on that, okay?” Leaving the small man behind, he headed for a cab on one of the deuce-and-a-half trucks and climbed inside. Unzipping the case again, he connected his laptop to the battery of the truck and extended a small satellite transmitting dish. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, waiting for the interminable lag as the satellite connection uplinked to his superior at the company.

“Good afternoon, Alec.” His boss, known only as Mr. Ravidos, never appeared on screen—the only thing Hachtman saw was the logo of Paracor, two crossed swords on a crimson field.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“I assume you’re calling with an update.”

“Yes, sir. The first phase of the operation has been carried out, however, there is another village nearby that may need pacifying, as well. We’re checking into it right now.”

“Of course, you know that PSSI cannot be connected to any sort of wet activity in the area.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll have this section of jungle cleared and ready for companies to move into in the next five to seven days.”

“Good. Now that we have the rights to resell, our sales force is already lining up leasers for that swath. We’re making history here, Alec. Not only are we supplying the security for an area, but we’re also controlling the rights to exploit it—two income streams off one assignment.”

“Well, sir, you’ve always said that good business is where you find it, right?”

“Excellent memory, Alec. You pull this off smoothly, and there’ll be a big promotion for you when you come back to headquarters. You just make sure that there’s no one there to raise a stink about it, okay?”

“No problem, sir. By the time Piet and his boys are finished, there won’t even be a parrot to squawk about what’s going on down here.”

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