Lethal Payload

by Don Pendleton

  Kiraly lay back like a wet rag in the driver’s seat. Her nose was broken and so was her left hand. Her spent Glock lay in her lap with the action racked back on an empty chamber. She gave Bolan a bruised smile and reached up to pat the cracked dashboard.

  “Volvo. Safest car on the road today.”

  5

  Hotel Cayenne, French Guiana

  “What do you think?”

  Kurtzman responded over the videophone link. “Nice piece of work there.”

  Bolan glanced at the sketch he had made of the tread patterns he had seen in the mud by the highway. “So what did you make of them?”

  The computer expert hit a key and an image popped up on Bolan’s screen. It was a pair of combat boots. They were distinctive in that they had a leather flap and two buckles in addition to the laces. “They’re standard French military issue, and, not surprisingly, standard issue to the French Foreign Legion, as well.” Kurtzman grinned. “Like I said, nice piece of detective work there.”

  “What did the Cowboy make of the shell casings?”

  “French manufactured .223 ammunition.” Kurtzman punched another key, and John Kissinger’s report popped up on the screen. “Cowboy says whoever those two boys shooting at you in Suriname might be, they were firing the latest generation FAMAS G-2 rifle, and doing it with French army ammo.”

  Bolan grimaced as he forced himself to stretch. The bouncing around he’d taken in the Volvo during the battle and the subsequent crash left his body feeling like he’d lost a bar fight.

  He considered the battle. “The guys on the motorcycles and the truck were more of the pandekar’s boys. Had to be. I’m betting the rocketeer was our friend Ki. The two guys at the roadblock were our real players.”

  Kurtzman raised an eyebrow. “Legionnaires?”

  “Actually, I’m thinking French Foreign Legion deep reconnaissance commandos.” Bolan shrugged and rolled his neck to work out the kinks. “But I can’t prove that yet.

  “The guys on the motorcycles were fearless, but they were strictly local talent. The other two were highly trained professionals. They engaged with aimed fire and took out the vehicle. Our boys closed in for the kill, and when I opened up and wounded one of them they extracted under fire, right into open jungle. If I had to bet, I’d say those two guys went ‘escape and evade’ and walked home all fifty miles through the rainforest. They were ghosts.”

  Kurtzman was clearly troubled. “Deep reconnaissance commando kind of ghosts.”

  “That’s my current theory.” Bolan shrugged. “Until I can come up with something better. You get me my stuff?”

  Kurtzman nodded. “You have a full war load in position in a storage facility near the edge of town. As for calling on any local assistance or assets, it keeps getting thinner. At least Suriname had an embassy. French Guiana is, literally, still a French owned colony. The U.S. has almost no presence. What little we have are more interested in snooping around the satellite launch facility at Kourou. Their main function probably has more to do with bribing French engineers for rocket technology than engaging in any kind of special operations, but they’ve been told to offer you every professional courtesy should you come knocking.”

  Bolan nodded. Kira Kiraly was doing what she could to drum up support with her contacts. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said.

  “One other thing.” Kurtzman flashed a guilty smile. “Akira did some snooping…strictly against my orders, of course.”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Your friend Ki was on permissionaire in Suriname.”

  “Permissionaire?”

  “Official vacation leave. Normally legionnaires aren’t allowed to leave France when on vacation, or French territory if they’re serving abroad, so those stationed in French Guiana have to stay in-country, but they do make official exceptions according to circumstances. Ki is a hand-to-hand combat instructor at the Jungle Warfare school. He was on leave in Suriname at least partly to officially sharpen up his skills at the pandekar’s school.”

  Bolan frowned. That threw a minor monkey wrench into his theories about a Foreign Legion plot. It made it look much more like Kurtzman had first postulated. That the opponents he’d encountered were simply Javanese renegades, who had met in French service and were acting on their own. Bolan wished he’d had time to check out the crashed pickup, but he and Kiraly had been forced to get away from the battle zone as quickly as possible.

  Kurtzman read his mind. “I wonder if Ki is still alive?”

  “You know, that’s a good question.” Bolan rose. He was still battered and bruised, but rest would have to wait. “Let’s go find out.”

  French Foreign Legion Jungle Warfare School

  THE DUCATI S4 Fogarty motorcycle skidded to a halt in a spray of gravel. The Executioner rocked the bike back on its stand and dismounted in front of the guardhouse. He pulled off his helmet while the legionnaire in the booth gaped in awe at the gleaming Italian motorcycle. Bolan grinned like an idiot as he approached the gate. He noted the legionnaire’s rifle lay propped in a corner. The legionnaire did, however, have a Beretta 92-G service pistol holstered at his hip. He wore his white kepi hat and massive red ceremonial epaulets on his shoulders for guard duty with uniform shorts in deference to the tropical heat. He picked up his clipboard and walked out to meet Bolan.

  “Hi!” Bolan waved in a friendly fashion. “I mean…bonjour!”

  The legionnaire looked Bolan up and down. He rolled his eyes in infinite disgust as he sized him up. Clearly he thought Bolan was an idiot. The legionnaire replied in English, with a thick Irish accent.

  “This is the Jungle Warfare School. If you wish to join the French Foreign Legion, you must go to an official French Foreign Legion recruitment center.” The legionnaire raised a weary eyebrow at Bolan. “They are all located in France. I can give you a list of the recruitment centers if you wish.”

  Bolan’s smile turned up in wattage. “What makes you think I’d want to join this crazy outfit?”

  The legionnaire’s jaw dropped for a split second and then set in a hard line. He drew himself to his full height as he lowered his clipboard and his right hand drifted toward the butt of his pistol. “State your business.”

  “Hey, speaking of crazy, you seen Ki Gunung, around?”

  “He is on leave.” The legionnaire’s cheeks colored. “State your business.”

  Bolan smiled happily. He doubted whether the guardsman was going to ask him again. “Give him a message for me, would you?”

  The guard brought his clipboard back up with robot-like formality. “State your message. I will see that he receives it.”

  “Tell him…” Bolan made a show of searching for the right words. The legionnaire slowly lowered his clipboard.

  Bolan held up his hand. Ki’s dog tags dangled from between his fingers. “Tell him if he wants these back he’s going to have to come and get them. I’m not hard to find.”

  “Hey!” The legionnaire blinked in alarm and his hand went to his pistol. “You—”

  The Executioner closed his hand around the dog tags and pistoned his fist into the point of the guard’s chin. The legionnaire’s head snapped back. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his knees buckled and folded. Bolan was already back on his bike as the guard slumped against his booth and slid unconscious to the ground. The soldier revved the Ducati’s massive twin-cylinder engine and sprayed the fallen guard and the guardhouse with gravel for good measure. He shot out onto the road like an arrow shot from a bow.

  If Ki was still alive, the Executioner suspected his leave had just been cut short.

  Hotel Cayenne

  SOMEONE WAS in the room.

  Bolan could smell cigarette smoke. He put his key in the lock and pushed the door open with the toe of his shoe. Two men were slouching in the chairs by the window smoking.

  Bolan entered the room and threw his bag down on the bed. “Bonjour.”

  The taller, lankier one smiled and blew a smoke ring. “Bonjour
.”

  The man had a Gallic nose and jaw like a shovel. His partner was blond and movie-star handsome. Both men had deep suntans and wore tropical-weight suits of decent cut. To Bolan they looked like agents from a Eurotrash episode of Miami Vice. He swiftly sized them up. These men were not legionnaires. If they were, they would have attacked Bolan as he came through the door and pounded him into oblivion. Nor did they have the aggressive posture of police dealing with a possible suspect. They were lounging around his hotel room like they owned it, and looking at Bolan like cats examining a mouse with nowhere to run.

  They were French Intelligence.

  “Well, mon ami.” The bigger man scratched his stubble and spoke English with a Southern France accent.

  “Tell me, just who are you?”

  “You’ve already checked my visa and my entry records. You know exactly who I am,” the Executioner replied.

  “Well, of course we do.” The big man shrugged in a supremely French manner. “But…who are you, exactly?”

  One look told Bolan these were the kind of men who made people disappear.

  The blonde pulled something from under his coat and set it on the little table by the window. The M-26 Advanced Taser was capable of pumping ten thousand watts into anyone who found themselves on the wrong end of it. The weapon rested inches from the blonde’s hand. The twin probes and laser sight were aimed at Bolan. Blondie’s smile was painted on his face.

  The big man rose from his chair and reached under his coat. Bolan suspected it wasn’t a stun gun that was about to make an appearance.

  Bolan rammed his heel into the man’s solar plexus and stomped him back down into his chair. A revolver fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. The French agent’s arms and legs sucked in like an agonized spider. Bolan booted him under the jaw to put him out of the fight.

  The ruby beam of the Taser’s laser sight drew a brilliant dot on Bolan’s chest as he turned. The Taser’s compressed air cartridge chuffed and the probe flew forth trailing its wire and hit Bolan square over the heart. Blondie snarled in triumph. The Taser’s power pack crackled as he held down the trigger.

  Blondie’s triumph died on his face as Bolan turned on him. The Frenchman took the Taser in both hands and fired a second probe. The range was point-blank. Bolan took the hit in the stomach.

  The concealable soft body armor the Executioner wore under his shirt was Threat Level I and rated to stop a 9 mm round. The air-compressed probe stood no chance, and the woven Kevlar and nylon of Bolan’s armor was a nearly perfect electrical insulator.

  Blondie held the Taser before him still uselessly pumping the power. He tried to rise even as his left hand whipped around behind his back. Bolan shot his hand forward and wrapped it around Blondie’s neck. He clamped down to cut off the carotid arteries and yanked the Frenchman forward.

  Bolan head-butted him directly between the eyes.

  The agent fell unconscious into his chair. Bolan swiftly patted down the two Frenchmen. Their ID cards identified them as Roland Aretos and Alain Reno, respectively. Both men were heavily armed. The French had come to play, and they were prepared to play rough. Bolan shook his head as his suspicions were confirmed.

  He had attracted the attention of Action Direct. How exactly he had done that by beating up the day guard at the gate of the Jungle Warfare School was an interesting question.

  The math was pretty simple. There was only one way Action Direct could have gotten onto him this quickly. They already had an operation in motion, and he had walked into it unannounced. The soldier was grim as he left his hotel.

  The stakes had just gotten higher.

  6

  Bolan sat at a café table. It was early evening, and most of French Guiana had left work.

  The sun was setting behind the hills in the west, and the view of the ocean was gorgeous in the dying rays of the sun. He wondered when French Intelligence would make its next contact. It had been twenty-four hours, and though he had switched hotels, he had deliberately driven the gleaming Ducati at brazen speeds through the capital and parked it openly on the streets where he’d stopped in his travels. The bike was parked a few yards away.

  He checked his watch and decided to order some food. He was exhausted and needed to maintain his energy. Bolan’s hand froze as he raised it toward the waiter. The howl of a turbo-charged engine on the street told him the meal would have to wait.

  A racing-green convertible screeched to a halt beside his bike. Every head in the café turned. The Executioner gazed in open appreciation at the person who stepped out of the car.

  She was one of the most drop-dead gorgeous women he had ever seen.

  The woman’s black hair was cut short and fell around her head like a dark, tousled helmet. She wore a white cotton sundress. The rays of the sun striking her from behind silhouetted her legs through the fabric. She strode directly to Bolan’s table, took a chair and poured herself into it. Bolan glanced at her, smiling.

  Frenchwomen knew something about making an entrance.

  The woman draped herself over the back of the chair and stared at Bolan intently. Her olive complexion was set off magnificently by a startling pair of eyes. One was blue and the other green. She continued to stare at Bolan without blinking.

  She extended her hand. “My name is Jolie Erulin.”

  Bolan took her hand in his and gave it a friendly squeeze. “Matt Cooper, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Bolan motioned the waiter over. “Whatever the lady wishes.

  “Whiskey.” The woman’s dual-colored gaze did not break contact. “You beat the shit out of Roland and Alain,” she said.

  Bolan nodded.

  “You beat the shit out of Legionnaire Doherty at the Jungle Warfare School, and he was only doing his duty.”

  Bolan felt a little bad about that but not enough to lose any sleep. “Well…yeah.”

  The waiter brought the woman her whiskey. She took a hefty swallow and savored it a moment. “You think you can just waltz into the territorial possessions of France and beat the shit out of our legionnaires without fear of reprisal?”

  Bolan considered his response. “What if I told you I was acting in reprisal?”

  Her lips pursed a moment. “I would ask you to clarify that statement.”

  “What if I told you that a French legionnaire tried to kill me in Suriname. I sought him out at the school, and left him a message. Admittedly at Legionnaire Doherty’s expense.”

  “You are speaking of Ki Gunung, a highly decorated soldier of the legion. However, this might explain why the CIA agent Kira Kiraly came across the border with you and required medical attention here in Cayenne.”

  Bolan smiled. “You mean Cultural Attaché Kiraly.”

  “Whatever.” The Frenchwoman rolled her eyes. “Cultural Attaché” was synonymous with “CIA spook” in every nation on earth. “So, tell me, why do you feel the need to engage in feuds with legionnaires on leave in Suriname?”

  Bolan locked his gaze with the French agent’s and held it implacably. “Because I killed his friend on the island of Champaka Putih.”

  The beautiful face froze, and Bolan knew he’d hit pay dirt. Action Direct had an ongoing mission in French Guiana, and they were watching the French Foreign Legion.

  Just like he was.

  Jolie Erulin regained her poker face. “You are a very intriguing man, and I am enjoying our conversation very much.”

  “Thank you. I couldn’t imagine a lovelier companion to enjoy the sunset with.”

  “Yes, thank you. But you must forgive me if I take my leave and speak with my superiors before we exchange any more information.”

  They’d exchanged exactly nothing. Bolan had done all the talking. “Not at all. I am at your convenience.”

  Erulin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I must ask you, out of professional courtesy, not to engage in any more acts of reprisal for the next twenty-four hours, or until we speak further.”

  “I’ll be here
tomorrow at this same time.” Bolan set down his glass. “But I’m not sure if I can promise you anything beyond that.”

  “I thought not.” Erulin finished her whiskey and regarded Bolan carefully. “I am afraid our conversation has been somewhat one sided. Allow me to share with you, then, some information you may find most useful here in French Guiana.”

  “What’s that?”

  The French agent leaned in close and dropped her voice low. “Legionnaires who have applied for and been granted a leave slip by their commanding officer are allowed to be absent from camp between the hours of 1730 to 0530. You are a hunted man.”

  7

  “Who is this man?”

  Cigarette avoided the gaze of the Commander. Babar met it with difficulty.

  The Commander shook his head slowly. “That is information I would dearly like to acquire.”

  “Yes.” Babar let out a long breath. “And since we speak of information, is it true that Action Direct is now involved?”

  “Yes, Babar. It is true,” the Commander confirmed.

  Babar looked profoundly disturbed at the news. Action Direct operators abroad had a reputation for killing people perceived as enemies of France and asking questions later.

  Cigarette voiced Babar’s concern. “So, what do we do? The situation is leaving our control.”

  “The situation is under our complete control,” the Commander countered. “We always knew sooner or later we would have to deal with Action Direct. This stranger’s appearance has worked in our favor, and forced them to show their hand early.” The Commander smiled. “And make no mistake, the plan would not have gone forward from the very beginning without my having a line on Action Direct.”

  Babar and Cigarette smiled in relief. It never paid to underestimate the Commander. If he said he had a card to play with Action Direct, they did not doubt him for a second.

  The Commander revealed more of his teeth. “This American’s brawl at the Jungle Warfare School also serves our purpose. Every legionnaire in French Guiana has applied for leave to be out of camp tonight.” The Commander leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. “The officers are quite upset about the situation at the gate. As I understand it, they are being quite lenient with their leave books. Starting at 1730 hours tonight, the American is a hunted man.”