Investigation.
Riposte.
Slaughter.
"Keep ahead of me," Bolan told Khan. "I'm trusting you — up to a point."
"Fair enough."
* * *
Silently Alchupa moved up on the Nabuco. The brown murk of the Amazon River looked particularly foreboding to the colonel in the gloomy dawn light. A thin mist hung over the world's mightiest river, drifting with a warm breeze. The jungle all around was strangely silent, and Alchupa realized how very alone he was. There was nothing left of Anaconda, and he knew he could well be dead within the next few moments unless he boarded the gunboat safely. To do that he had to catch Fernando by complete surprise. He didn't want to have to kill the boatrunner, because he needed him to pilot the gunboat.
At first glance the boat appeared deserted, then Alchupa saw the hated Viper stand to stretch his legs. A second later Fernando stood, too. There was a Kalashnikov in the boatrunner's hands. Extreme caution, Alchupa realized, would be required. But those two had to be tired. Alchupa also figured that, having sat out the battle, Fernando would be edgy, anxious for the return of Bolan and the assassins.
The gunboat was docked right up against the bank, and for this Alchupa was grateful. By not having anchored the boat offshore, Fernando had made his boarding easier. The colonel didn't want to wade too far out into the river, for he had been warned that piranha infested these waters.
Alchupa slid through the murk toward the gunboat. Even though he was running for his life, he felt strong once more. There was no telling how Bolan and the others had fared against Pinadante and his men. But Alchupa didn't really care about Bolan any longer. His main concern now was to get as far downriver as possible. The Anaconda dream was dead, at least for the time being. Later, when he was safe somewhere in Bolivia or Peru, he could contact his sponsors in Colombia. It was possible he would even be able to return to Colombia and hide out until he could rebuild Anaconda and finance some revolution in some troubled country of the lower Americas. After all, every single one of the DEA agents who had been sent to Brazil to track him down was dead and nobody would know if he himself was alive or dead. Indeed, the last agent captured had been fed to the piranha. Alchupa believed he could just disappear again, and resurface where things weren't so hot. As for his connections in Washington... well, they were now dead, too, or at the least their organization wouldn't outlive him. The Viper had been sent by the people in Washington to whom Alchupa was supposed to have been feeding money, drugs and intelligence. This DEA SOD was a joke, he thought. Or was the joke on him? He had been set up by those infiltrators in Washington, of that he was certain. He would never trust anyone again.
Gracefully, hope sending renewed strength through him, Alchupa vaulted over the railing. Swinging his FMK-3 toward Fernando, Alchupa snarled, "Drop it."
Fernando hesitated.
Alchupa kept one eye on the boatrunner and the other eye on the Viper. "I said drop it!"
Fernando let the AK-47 fall to the deck.
Alchupa's sweat was salty on his lips, the moisture burned into his eyes. "Sit down," he ordered Fernando.
Fernando sat on the bench opposite the Viper.
Alchupa turned his full attention on Weiss and pointed the FMK-3 at the assassin's face. "Well, amigo. Your time has come."
"Don't be stupid, Colonel." The Viper looked at the colonel with defiant hatred.
"What?" Alchupa chuckled. "Are you not going to beg me for your life?"
"Hell, no. Just listen for a moment."
Alchupa peered at the Viper. He was about to ask Weiss what he meant. Then he heard it. The faint rumble of engines, in the distance, downriver.
Another gunboat appeared, a dark gray specter behind the curtain of mist.
The Viper chuckled. "In all this running around," he said to Fernando, "you and Bolan forgot that maybe this Pinadante had some backup. I'm sure they heard the autofire, because we've heard it. Maybe somebody even alerted those boys on the gunboat by radio. It doesn't matter. That boat will have guns, maybe bigger guns than this boat. Now, it's pretty simple. We've one of two choices here: fight or flight. You want to fight, well, you just might have to cut me loose so I can man one of those .50 calibers. Or give me a weapon."
"No chance!" Alchupa muttered.
"Si. I agree with the Viper." Fernando stood, and when Alchupa swung the FMK-3 subgun toward him, the boatrunner held his hands up. "What will you do? Kill me also? There are two .50 calibers. Two of us."
The gunboat parted the mist.
All three men looked toward it. Somebody on the port side of the enemy boat was pointing and hollering at the others on its deck. The boat was close enough now for its name — Xingu— to be visible on the bow.
Alchupa motioned with his subgun for Fernando to man a .50-caliber machine gun. "And, you, move!" he rasped at the Viper. "Get down on the deck and keep your face pressed to the metal. If I see you raise your head just once, I will blow it off." Snatching Weiss by his shirt front, Alchupa flung him to the deck.
Then machine gun fire cut loose from the Xingu. Slugs barged off the Nabuco's hull around Fernando and Alchupa as they bolted for the .50-caliber machine guns. A bullet ripped into Fernando's leg. Crying out in pain, he hit the deck.
Alchupa ignored Fernando, manned a .50 caliber and opened up on the enemy gunboat with the big machine gun.
Fernando struggled to his feet. Teeth gritted, the boatrunner grabbed a .50-cab'ber machine gun and joined the colonel in returning fire.
20
Bolan and Khan reached the river seconds after the gunboat battle began, when the .50-caliber machine gun slugfest was raging in full fury. The Nabuco was being stormed by a lead typhoon. Bolan counted four .50-caliber machine guns on the enemy boat, and he knew Fernando could not survive such an onslaught — unless added firepower came to Fernando's rescue.
As for Alchupa, Bolan didn't care whether the Colombian druglord lived or died. Alchupa was scum as far as Bolan was concerned and should have had his ticket punched a long time ago. If Pinadante's gunners didn't get the colonel, then Bolan decided he sure as hell would.
Instantly, his MM-1 fully loaded, Bolan began raking the Xingu with HE rounds. As explosions hammered the hull of the enemy and HE rounds swept fire and smoke across the deck, Khan was loosing arrows downriver. Incendiary arrows. And they found their mark in two victims, torching those soldiers and sending them diving into the river, screaming.
Bolan's opening MM-1 barrage wasn't enough to stop the enemy in their tracks. Bitterly they kept firing at Fernando's position, sliding closer to the port side of the Nabuco, tightening the lethal ring of fire around the Spanish hustler.
Bolan hit the starboard stern of the Xingu with another HE round. The explosion blew three soldiers off the deck. Still, one of Pinadante's backup soldiers held on to his .50-caliber machine gun for all he was worth, even as two more 38 mm rounds streaked across the river and explosions pounded the hull of the boat, rocking it.
Three rounds from the holdout on the Xingu took Fernando Ortega in the stomach. Kicked away from the .50-caliber maneater by the enemy fire, he slammed off the rail. Blood gushed from the gaping hole in Fernando's abdomen. The light quickly faded from his eyes.
With another incendiary arrow, the Mongol took out the last machine gunner on the Xingu. Silence fell over the smoking enemy boat as flames swept across its deck. Before any of the survivors realized what was happening, Hector Alchupa swung his .50-caliber machine gun toward the jungle. In one lightning burst, he pinned the Mongol to a tree. Liao Khan's chest and stomach burst open before Bolan's eyes. The Executioner dived for cover behind a log, slugs gouging out chunks of bark near his face.
Relentlessly, empty shell casings spinning around his face, Alchupa raked the jungle with the maneater. The machine gun fire roaring in his ears, Bolan unleathered Big Thunder. He had one chance to nail Alchupa, or the colonel's maneating .50-caliber lead would find flesh.
Bolan scrambled
several feet away from Alchupa's tracking line of fire. Then he charged up over the log, firing. One blasting round from Big Thunder punched dead center into Alchupa's face. The colonel's head exploded in a cloudburst of gore, and he was launched over the railing. Anaconda was finished, at least the part of it located in the Amazon jungle basin.
As for Weiss, he had long since become fed up with waiting for a chance to escape. Momentarily out of Bolan's sight, he crawled across the deck, his eyes locked on the commando knife stuck inside Fernando's belt. If he could get his hands on that knife, he could cut himself free, if not now, then later. He wanted Bolan's ass. He knew the Executioner wanted to keep him alive long enough so he could lead the way to Clarence. Long enough would be good enough for the Viper. Bolan's day of judgment was coming, real soon.
A hollow ring echoed in the Viper's ears, the sound of an explosion behind him. The Xingu was belching delayed blasts from its fuel tanks. The Viper had to give Bolan credit. The guy was always there, kicking ass and taking no prisoners. Bolan knew how to win. The Viper knew that he could win, too. It was just a question of seizing an opportunity.
Rolling onto his back, Weiss draped himself over the corpse of Fernando. Feverishly, sweat stinging his eyes, he grasped the handle of Fernando's knife. He slid the knife free from the dead man's belt, then dropped it deep into the back pant pocket of his camous for concealment. He only hoped Bolan didn't spot the bulge. But, damn, he was getting tired of living on a fucking hope and a prayer. It was time for reaction to all of Bolan's harassment and bullshit.
The Viper rose up on his knees, breathing a sigh of relief.
The boot seemed to come out of nowhere.
Taking the kick in the small of his back, Weiss reeled to the deck. Rolling onto his back, he stared up at Bolan's battered face.
"What are you doing?" the Executioner barked.
"Trying to stay alive!" the Viper growled back at him. "What do you think I'm doing?"
Bolan looked at the Viper suspiciously, and Weiss made a conscious effort to hide his nervousness. But Bolan just stood there, peering down at him, searching his face, those damn ice-blue eyes piercing, as if they could look right into a man's heart. When all else failed, the Viper had always believed he could still lie. So in the face of Bolan's silence, he added, "I didn't think you'd be coming back. I was going to jump ship."
"Well, I'm back. And we're leaving."
"Yeah. Where?"
"First Belém."
"That's maybe a thousand miles downriver. We don't have the fuel."
"We'll find it. Fernando had some back at his stash. I'm sure Pinadante kept more somewhere along here. There are checkpoints, outposts, villages. We'll steal a banana boat, if we have to."
"You're still taking me back to the States?" the Viper sneered.
"That's right," Bolan returned.
He looked down at Fernando for a second and felt a stab of regret and sorrow for the boatrunner. Fernando had tried to make good, and he had lived up to his word. That was more than Bolan could say for the sons of bitches he had killed there in the Amazon. Then he remembered the Mongol. Khan, too, had lived up to his word. The Mongol had fought by his side until the last bitter breath.
When he looked back at the Viper, Mack Bolan felt nothing but contempt and loathing. Weiss was indeed one viper who needed his head crushed. But his termination of the guy would have to wait. Bolan was anxious to get back in touch with Hal Brognola.
The Executioner was going in. For the mop-up.
"Well, then let's go, tough guy," the Viper urged. "I'll tell you this much."
Bolan's voice was all steel. "Tell me."
"Old James Clarence will be ready for you."
"You're pretty sure of that, aren't you?"
"Damn right I am. There's something I neglected to tell you in all this excitement."
The Viper paused, and Bolan growled, "Spit it out."
"If Clarence hasn't heard from me within ten days of my point of departure, which was almost a week ago, he'll call in his own people. He'll wait another week to hear from me, then he'll send his supertroops down here. The way I figure it ten days will be up by the time we get to Belém. The extra week will give you plenty of time to get back to the States." The Viper chuckled. "For your big assault."
"I appreciate the information. Viper."
"No sweat. It's on the house. I'm trying to make your death as quick and easy as possible."
"I appreciate that," Bolan growled, hauling Weiss off the deck and dumping him on the beach.
* * *
James Clarence checked his watch. He was waiting in the conference room for his team of specialists to arrive. As the hours, hell, the days dragged on eternally, he was certain some fiasco had arisen down in the Amazon. And Martin and Atworth, seated at the huge mahogany knight's table, were chomping at the bit. They, too, were tired of hanging around, waiting for some word from the Viper.
Just to make sure those two didn't get any ideas about leaving the grounds, Clarence had strapped on a holster that held a Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 Combat Magnum — heavy firepower he would need for a battle he was sure was coming. Heavy firepower would determine how events took shape — who would win, who would lose. James Clarence didn't intend to be a loser in this operation. He wanted out. And he would leave with nothing but broken, bloodied corpses around him. Just walk away as clean as the day he was born. Everything had gone to hell, and he could sense that from some abyss of carnage he was being called to join the dead. If Alchupa was dead or had been captured by the Viper, then nobody was going to make a dime from the Colombian colonel's cocaine kingdom. That was the sad part, Clarence reflected. Everything that had been set up so carefully, every bribe, every killing would have been for nothing.
"Why? Why is this happening?"
Clarence looked at Atworth and sneered. "Because people are unpredictable. And people don't always do what they're supposed to do. That's why. Now shut up."
"You were so damn sure of yourself, Clarence," Martin growled.
"I'm still sure of myself."
Atworth scowled. "Then why the piece?"
"That's why I'm so sure of myself."
Clarence liked that answer, because neither Atworth nor Martin knew how to respond to it. And, yeah, Clarence was sick and tired of their constant whining, their complete lack of faith in him. Still, what had he done anyway, he thought, to prove himself to them, to prove that this operation was working and would continue to work? Very little. But he had been around long enough to know when the storm was coming. He could feel the heat building on the horizon all around him. Thunderheads of blood, death and destruction were ready to burst. The fool, Alchupa, had brought the wildest card of all into this whole operation. Mack Bolan. Headhunting for the damn Executioner had been a monumental error. All because the Colombian colonel's ego had blinded his vision, distracted him from the purpose of the operation, which was to make money, lots and lots of money.
Anger hardened Atworth's eyes. "If you're so sure of yourself, get rid of that piece."
"You never know."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Martin growled.
"It means, simply, that you never know. You never know who has the bullet with your name on it."
Again fear flickered through the eyes of Atworth and Martin. Okay, they got the message, Clarence thought. The Magnum wasn't just meant to pump a round into some invader.
"I feel like we're being held hostage," Atworth complained. "We have people to answer to, you know. People will start becoming suspicious. When they do, they'll start asking questions, and when they start asking questions..."
"They'll come to me," Clarence cut in. "Let 'em. I'm just a shadow player in this."
"You're official, Clarence," Martin corrected.
"Unofficially, that is," Clarence reminded him.
"So where's this big hit team of yours that's supposed to straighten everything out?" Atworth wanted to know.
There were two
large ashtrays in front of Atworth and Martin, heaped with crushed butts. As if on cue, both Atworth and Martin fired up cigarettes.
Again Clarence looked at his watch. He was dying for a cigarette and a shot of vodka, but he needed a clear head. He didn't want to be caught with a buzz on, lungs full of smoke and his pants down when the shit finally hit the fan. Even if Weiss did return in triumph, he would have to terminate the man. The Viper knew too much. The Viper was unpredictable. The Viper was expendable. Hell, there were plenty of men who could fill the Viper's shoes.
Then there was a rap on the conference room door. Clarence noticed that Atworth and Martin were jolted by the sound. He showed the two men a twisted smile. He was enjoying their anxiety. They were expendable, too. And they were soon to find out just how much they had been used. He was going to terminate them.
Clarence opened the door. "Littel," he said.
He waved the tall granite-faced man with the crew cut into the room and closed the door, breathing a silent sigh of relief. The supertroops had answered the call.
"About time."
"There were problems."
"What problems?" Clarence asked Littel.
Littel took his time firing up a cigarette. He glanced at Atworth and Martin with a look that Clarence read as disdain. "What's this?"
Clarence liked Litters style. The guy had sized up Atworth and Martin already for what they were — walking pukes.
"They're in charge of our so-called DEA SOD."
Littel grunted and drew on his cigarette.
"Now, what problems?"
"Grogin and Teller were killed in Nicaragua last week. Half of their people were wiped out by the Sandinistas."
"Shit," Clarence muttered, and knew where the conversation was headed. "So, how many men have you got coming?"
"Only twenty. They chartered a private plane to Dulles. They'll pick up the hardware on the way in. Now, you tell me— what have you got?"
Blood of the Lion Page 17