Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  Lyons took brief cover against the Huey’s fuselage, his fingers pushing fresh shells into the SPAS. He picked up on booted feet pounding the dirt, dropped and rolled beneath the Huey, coming up on the far side. The hatch was rolled back so he could see through the body of the chopper, and as Lyons took up position he saw one of M’Tusi’s men framed on the far side. Lyons didn’t hesitate. He brought up the shotgun and triggered a single round that practically took off the target’s head. Swinging around, Lyons heard a burst of autofire and felt something burn across his upper left arm. He sighted the shooter and returned fire, the blast of the shotgun kicking the African off his feet and dumping him on the ground, writhing in pain from the ragged, bloody crater in his chest.

  Lyons checked out the battleground. He saw Bolan’s running figure, his M-16 firing repeatedly. His decision made, the big ex-cop turned to join Bolan, plucking a grenade from his harness and tossing it inside the Huey almost as an afterthought.

  JACK REGAN, WITH BELMONT and Kesawayo close on his heels, angled away from the heat of the firefight. The arms dealer had pulled his pistol from the shoulder rig he wore under his white jacket. He gripped the SIG-Sauer P-226 tightly in his right hand as he ushered his companions in a semicircular direction, herding them toward the closest of the derelict village’s huts. He could have wasted time cursing and ranting at what had happened, voicing how he felt at the unexpected turn of events. He did not. Regan had survived for a long time in his risky business by staying ahead of the game. If a deal went sour, the first thing he did was extract himself. Getting into the clear was the most important consideration in times of crisis. The yelling and screaming would come later. If he came out of it with his life intact, that was sufficient. The world he lived in was treacherous, violent, and prone to deceit and double-cross. The people he courted were no angels. If they had been, Regan would not have been doing business with them. He had set his rules down early on. Saving his own life was paramount. Collecting his money came a close second. If it meant losing the financial incentive, then he would accept that. A dead man had no use for money. It didn’t matter how large the amount. The day the lid was nailed on his coffin it didn’t mean squat if he had a billion dollars salted away. It meant a lot while he was alive and able to enjoy it. So keeping his ass attached to the rest of his body was Jack Regan’s prime concern.

  Kesawayo started to grumble as soon as the firing commenced. He was, as far as Regan figured, a miserable excuse for a man. From the moment he had met M’Tusi’s business agent Regan had taken a dislike to the preening, arrogant man. He maintained an amiable attitude, keeping his feelings suppressed. It didn’t do to get on the wrong side of the man who had a big say in how any deal went. M’Tusi, who had little idea where money was concerned, apart from spending it, left negotiations to Kesawayo. The man might have been screwing M’Tusi out of millions, but that was not Regan’s concern. He didn’t care as long as the deal went through and he received his percentage. So he played the game, feeding Kesawayo’s vanity, and listened attentively to the man’s constant and opinionated views on the world.

  As he led his companions away from the gunfire, Regan was hoping, with genuine feeling, that a stray bullet might shut Kesawayo up for good. He was coming close to the point where he might do the job himself if the guy didn’t shut up. He wondered why the man couldn’t act like Belmont. The Brethren representative, obviously terrified, hadn’t said a word since the firing began. He winced at every shot, ducking almost to the ground when grenades went off, but stayed silent and followed whatever Regan told him to do.

  The trio reached its objective. Regan ignored Kesawayo, reaching out to haul Belmont into cover behind the low clay-brick wall, pushing him roughly to the ground. Belmont hugged the dusty earth with all the fervor of a man in love with a piece of dirt.

  “…to know what is happening,” Kesawayo was demanding.

  “Looks pretty clear to me, bubba. We walked right into a fuckin’ setup.”

  “Regan, how did you let this happen?” The tone was accusing.

  Regan rounded on the man. “Me? Bubba, this isn’t my screwup. It was your fuckin’ high-and-mighty pretend General who arranged it. So quit talkin’ down to me.”

  “You dare talk of General M’Tusi in such a way?”

  “Bubba, he got us into this. If he doesn’t get his ass shot off, we can discuss the finer points later. For now, just shut your fuckin’ mouth, because I’ve had a bellyful of your yappin’.”

  Regan turned aside, edging to the corner of the hut and checked out the action. What he saw did little to ease his concerns.

  THE BURNING JEEP PROVIDED a degree of cover as Bolan exchanged magazines on his M-16. Over the clatter of autofire he heard the blast of a grenade and caught the burst of flame and smoke that geysered up from the Huey. He heard the crackle as rounds for the M-60 exploded in the intense heat.

  Score one for Carl.

  Bolan peered through the drifting smoke, raised his M-16 and took down the closest of M’Tusi’s men. He pulled the muzzle around and repeated the move on a figure angling around the front of the wrecked and burning Jeep. The African went down hard, blood staining the back of his shirt where the slugs had exited. The familiar boom of Lyons’s shotgun added to the general din, and the firing from M’Tusi’s squad faltered as they found themselves caught between two lines of fire.

  Using the lull, Bolan freed two grenades, pulled the pins and hurled the lethal eggs one after another in opposite directions. He waited seconds after the twin detonations, then broke cover and advanced on the decimated squad, his M-16 dealing out summary death to the living and the wounded. There was little space in Bolan’s mood for compassion this day. His tall figure prowled the killing field and it would have been a foolish man to have gotten in his way.

  The conflict ended as quickly as it had begun. The bodies of M’Tusi’s kill squad lay strewed around the area. Death had visited that African village with a vengeance and Joseph M’Tusi’s fearsome reputation had been reduced to so many dead bodies sprawled in the dust.

  M’Tusi himself lay in a bloody heap close by the second Jeep, his bulky torso torn and exposed from the blast of one of Bolan’s grenades, internal organs seeping from the bleeding, gaping wound. The man was close to death, coughing blood, when Bolan paused to look down at him.

  “Different when you’re on the receiving end,” the big American said.

  M’Tusi stared at him. “Who are you? Why did you come here?”

  Bolan reached into the rear of the Jeep and dragged out the bulky satchel he had seen on the floor of the vehicle. He knew from the sound that it contained the diamonds to be used in the exchange. Bolan dumped the satchel on the ground.

  “Same reason you came, M’Tusi. Diamonds.”

  “To steal them? So, you are nothing but a thief.”

  “No. To stop you making your deal with Belmont and his associate.”

  M’Tusi shook his head in disbelief. “I do not believe you, American.”

  “It will still be the truth after you’re dead. Either way, I don’t give a damn what you believe.”

  “Kill him, kill him,” Tomas Shambi cried as he emerged from where he had been waiting for the fighting to end. As he crossed to where Bolan stood, he picked up a discarded weapon and raised it in M’Tusi’s direction. “He does not deserve to live.”

  Bolan glanced at the young man. The bitterness Shambi carried showed in his face, tears streaking his cheeks. “The man is already dying, Tomas.”

  “No. That is not enough. If I had a panga I would show him how it feels to be butchered.”

  “Then you would be a monster like he is.”

  “You would allow him to die peacefully? Even after you have learned what he has done?”

  “You call that dying peacefully?” Bolan asked, glancing at the torn and mutilated M’Tusi.

  Bolan allowed his M-16 to hang muzzle down. He turned away and walked across to where Lyons was herding Regan and his t
wo associates out from behind the hut where they had been hiding. Regan’s handgun was tucked behind Lyons’s belt. Neither of the other two men had been carrying.

  “I sure as hell don’t know who you guys are,” Regan said, “but you damn well make shit happen.”

  “Want me to shut him up?” Lyons asked.

  “You realize what you cost me here today?” Regan went on. Despite the death and carnage all around him, Regan was now concerned about his financial losses. “Hell, bubba, I’m out a wad of cash.”

  Bolan hit him. Hard. The single punch seemingly came out of nowhere, catching the dealer on the jaw and putting him on the ground. Regan, dazed and hurt, wisely decided not to offer any resistance and stayed where he was.

  “Perhaps you would like to do the same to me?” Kesawayo asked. He spoke in the same derisory tone he had used on Regan earlier.

  The abrupt crackle of autofire burned over Kesawayo’s words. He turned and saw Shambi standing over M’Tusi’s body. The young man had expressed his rage by putting a long burst into the warlord’s head, finally terminating his life.

  “I’d suggest keeping your mouth shut, pal,” Lyons said, prodding Kesawayo with the muzzle of the shotgun.

  Bolan reached out and took the bulky attaché case Belmont was carrying. It was heavy. Belmont’s cold stare had no effect on Bolan. He opened the case and stared at the thick bundles of dollar bills inside the case.

  “Belmont, you’re a long way from home,” Bolan said.

  “And you don’t realize who you’re dealing with.”

  “No? A minor recruit to the Brethren’s cause? That about cover it? An errand boy lost in West Africa.” Bolan had pulled out the documents held in one of the case’s slip pockets. Belmont’s U.S. passport and visas. He held the documents up, then turned and crossed to the burning Jeep, dropping them into the flames. “No papers. No money. No diamonds. What do you do now, Max? What do you do?”

  Belmont’s face paled as he realized what Bolan meant. He looked around, at the dead, the burning Jeep and the wrecked Huey.

  “Take the money. Just don’t leave me out here.”

  “I already have the money,” Bolan reminded him. “And the diamonds. We’ll make good use of them.”

  “You can’t leave us here. It’s not…”

  “You think he was going to say ‘not fair’?” Lyons suggested.

  “On a par with what?” Bolan asked. “Planting bombs in American cities that killed innocent members of the public as well as federal employees? Something the Brethren must be proud of. Was that what you were about to say, Belmont?”

  Belmont didn’t say a word. His justification for the Brethren’s violent acts would not appease this man. Whoever he was, he had the backing of the U.S. administration, no doubt. Which meant he would oppose anything the Brethren stood for. Ignoring that, Belmont found himself desperately searching for some way out of his predicament—which he would not be in if Seeger had not insisted he take the cash payment for M’Tusi’s diamonds personally. Seeger had seen it as a symbolic gesture, showing the African that the Brethren both appreciated and welcomed his assistance in their struggle against the monolithic strength of the American government. It had all seemed very cozy and bound to gain M’Tusi’s trust. The stark truth had turned out to be a world away from that. Belmont was going to be abandoned in the African badlands, an unfriendly place at the best of times. Any of M’Tusi’s faithful who still lived were not going to be pleased that their commander was dead, the diamonds stolen and the cash to be used in trade missing. Max Belmont began to count his life expectancy in hours.

  “Shambi, collect all the weapons and dump them in the Land Rover,” Bolan said.

  KESAWAYO HAD REMAINED silent during the conversation between Bolan and Belmont. He was weighing his chances of breaking free and getting away from his captors. Beneath the expensive suit was a warrior of his tribe, the same tribe M’Tusi had emerged from to become general. Kesawayo looked across to where M’Tusi lay. No more glory, or vengeful attacks on their tribal enemies. Lost, too, was the wealth that came from the illicit diamond trading Kesawayo had turned into a fine art on M’Tusi’s behalf. Unless Kesawayo could make his escape and start over. He was not such a fool. He had salted away money from the various deals M’Tusi and he had made. Kesawayo had always looked to the future. His own future. Loyal as he was to M’Tusi, Kesawayo had nevertheless laid aside ample funds for when the day came.

  As the conversation with Belmont came to an end, Kesawayo realized that his captors, despite their fierce fighting capabilities, were not the cold-blooded killers he had first imagined. They would not kill him now. Victory was theirs, and so was the ability to show mercy. The tall American with the chilled blue eyes might have been a deadly opponent in battle. With his command of the situation complete, he would be satisfied with the result he had gained. There would be no wanton slaughter. No killing for killing’s sake. There was no gain to be had by antagonizing these men Kesawayo saw. If he wanted to walk away from this place with his life intact, it would be wise to remain as he was. Silent and subservient. Let the others make fools of themselves. Kesawayo lowered his gaze and simply waited.

  SHAMBI HAD BROUGHT the Land Rover after loading up with the collected weapons. At Bolan’s command he placed the satchel of diamonds and the attaché case full of money in the rear.

  Bolan and Lyons threw grenades into the second Jeep. The blast destroyed the vehicle. Bolan stood and watched it burn, then turned to the three prisoners.

  “Time to start walking,” he said.

  Jack Regan, back on his feet and favoring his bruised jaw, took a long look around. “Where to, bubba?”

  Bolan smiled. “Ask your buddy, Kesawayo. It’s his territory.”

  “In this heat? How far do you think we’ll get?”

  “Not my problem, Regan. You play a dirty game. Now it’s time to see how really smart you are.”

  “Hell, bubba, you might as well shoot me here and now.”

  “That would be a waste of a bullet, Regan. They’re expensive—but then, you’d know all about the price of bullets, bubba, that’s your business.”

  Bolan climbed into the Land Rover alongside Shambi, Lyons taking the rear seat. “Let’s go,” he said.

  As the Land Rover rolled out of the village, Bolan glanced back and saw Kesawayo leading Regan and Belmont in the opposite direction. Just before he turned away Bolan caught the sun glinting on something in Kesawayo’s right hand. It was the blade of a panga, one missed during the search for weapons. Kesawayo had found it on one of the dead Africans. Bolan wondered how much comfort it would give to Regan and Belmont. There was a long walk ahead. Regan and Belmont were strangers in a harsh and violent environment. Kesawayo was on home ground and might think twice about shepherding a couple of white men to safety.

  In the rear of the Land Rover Carl Lyons checked the bullet crease on his arm and decided he could wait until Father Agostini’s mission to get it seen to. He stretched his legs out and cradled his SPAS in his arms. “Been a short visit but a busy one, boss man. Where to next?”

  “Father Agostini’s mission first. Then back home.”

  THE PRIEST STOOD AND STARED at the attaché case of money. He kept shaking his head in disbelief. “This is for me?”

  “Courtesy of the Brethren,” Bolan explained. “Money they sent to buy M’Tusi’s diamonds. They changed their minds and asked if I could find a worthy cause for it.”

  “And I have M’Tusi’s diamonds,” Shambi said. “Perhaps enough to fund the return of our leader. Do you think so, Father?”

  Agostini put his hands together in a moment of silence. “The right thing to do would be to dispose of both money and diamonds. But at a moment like this I can only see the good it will do. I will make sure this money is used to help my people. To buy food and clothing and medicines.” He looked across at Bolan. “Is this what I should do, my son?”

  “Sounds right to me.”

  “Of course
I will have to ask God if I am doing His work in the way He wants.”

  Lyons couldn’t hold back a grin. “Look at it this way, Father. I’m damned well sure even God needs a little help sometimes.”

  “I believe you could be right, my son. Perhaps this once God will look the other way.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Colorado

  Liam Seeger had taken the news about the African incident more than badly. He was close to losing control as he paced back and forth in his office, taking his frustration out on anything that stood in his way. The knuckles of his right hand were scraped and bleeding following a hard punch against the solid top of his desk.

  “Are we a bunch of fucking novices? Because that’s how it looks. How many more hits are we going to have to take? Jesus, we’re being sliced and diced and no one can even get a glimpse of this bastard. He just appears, makes his strike, then vanishes.”

  Zac Lorens and Deacon Ribak were the only ones in the office with him. While Lorens had lost some of his composure and seemed edgy, Ribak stood watching in indifferent silence. During his years in the service he had been bawled out by men a sight harder than Seeger would ever be, so listening to the man’s rant did nothing to faze him.

  “I built this group from nothing. Made the Brethren what it is and now we are the ones being given the runaround by some loose cannon.”

  He rounded on Ribak. “Deke, you promised me you would stop these attacks. So why are they still taking place?”

  “I don’t have an easy answer, Mr. Seeger. Our problem is we have no lead to who he is, or who he’s operating for. I’ve had all my contacts checking out agencies, looking at databases. Nothing. It’s like this guy is a ghost. He comes out of nowhere and vanishes just as fast. Doesn’t leave a trace. Hard to lock on to that kind of individual.”