Lethal Payload

by Don Pendleton

  “So that still leaves Gunung as your main concern.”

  Bolan nodded. “If he’s still alive.”

  “Yeah, and if he is, he won’t stop at sending you home in traction. He’s more likely to use some messed up Indonesian cutlery and send you home in a bag, in chunks, and I doubt he’ll be alone.”

  “Speaking of his buddies, I also got a line on two legionnaires in the camp. A Turk named Sahin and an Algerian named Atrache.”

  “I’ll try to track them down.” Kurtzman punched a few keys. “And that dovetails in nicely with your two shooters wearing French combat boots at the roadblock.”

  “It would, except that one of the shooters was wounded, and by his tracks it was bad enough that he had to lean on his friend. A legionnaire limping with a bullet wound wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret very long. It’s a small camp, and those guys run ten miles every morning before they get their coffee and croissants. That is, if they’re not humping their rucksacks through the rain forest on training missions. They also assemble at parade about seventeen times a day. Neither Marmion or Ilyanov acted like either one was missing or mysteriously wounded. I got the impression that Sahin and Atrache were in camp. I also got the impression that no one else was AWOL other than Gunung.”

  Kurtzman spoke again. “You think we have two more legionnaires in this little cabal, and they are out on leave.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Kurtzman scowled. “So you have two, possibly three commandos gunning for you, along with as many machete wielding martial artists as they can rustle up.”

  “Yeah, but first they have to find me.” Bolan considered the map of French Guiana he’d pinned to the wall.

  Kurtzman scanned his notes. “What about this French agent, Erulin?”

  “She’s a real wild card. I’ll have to play that one by ear. It may well backfire, and I already missed today’s dinner date at the café.”

  “So she’s probably pissed off at you, as well.” Kurtzman shook his head ruefully. “Have you made any friends down south?”

  “Actually, Marmion and Ilyanov are probably my best bets as allies. They don’t like me, but they know they have a problem.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Gunung and the two shooters are our best lead. I’m afraid I’m going to have to give him another shot at me. The contacts he has at the Jungle Warfare School will have told them I made an appearance and spoke with the commandant and Ilyanov. If I stick my head out, they have no choice but to take a shot at it.”

  “Great.” Kurtzman clearly didn’t like the plan. “Another suicide run. You know—”

  “Bear,” Bolan interrupted. “Hold on a minute.”

  A red light blinked into life on a small black box plugged into Bolan’s computer. His security suite at the bungalow was rudimentary at best. He had spiked four small motion sensors in the shrubbery at each corner of the house.

  The one facing the river was blinking in alarm.

  Bolan flicked the Beretta 93-R’s selector switch to 3-round burst. The sound suppressor was already in place and the magazine loaded. “Bear, I’m going to have to get back to you.”

  “Striker—!”

  Bolan closed the computer. He left the light of the bedroom and eased himself into the gloom of the kitchen. The Executioner paused, listening, while his eyes adjusted. He could hear the wind blowing the curtains in the little living room that opened onto the patio facing the water.

  Bolan had closed and locked the glass doors.

  There was a minute click, and the sound of the wind ceased as someone closed the doors.

  The soldier moved silently back into the bedroom and made his way to the bathroom. He eased open the narrow window over the sink and quickly slid himself outside. His feet made no noise as he landed catlike in the dirt. Only one sensor had gone off, but that did not mean there weren’t more enemies in the darkness. Bolan hugged the shadows as he doubled back toward the patio. Moonlight shone down through the trees, and there were wet spots on the patio bricks.

  His enemy had come up out of the river. Bolan scanned the glistening trail and determined one person had made it.

  Bolan eased open the glass doors as he ghosted his opponent.

  Through the kitchen and down the hallway the light in the bedroom flicked off.

  Bolan suspected Kurtzman had just been kidnapped. He moved slowly into the kitchen and eased himself toward the door to the hallway.

  He threw himself to one side as the ruby red dot of a laser sight swept along the doorjamb toward his head. He heard the sound of a silenced pistol cycling, and a piece of the door violently broke away. The Beretta chuffed three times in response as Bolan rolled into the breakfast nook and took himself out of the line of fire.

  The Executioner’s nostrils flared as he smelled the sharp stink of burned high explosive.

  He spun the suppressor off the Beretta’s threaded barrel. Waking up the neighbors was no longer his biggest consideration. It was time to give the enemy something to worry about. He considered the angle of the shot that had hit the doorway. The enemy was very likely wearing night-vision goggles.

  Bolan snaked his arm around the door frame and squeezed the Beretta’s trigger. The hallway strobed with muzzle-flash as the machine pistol ripped off three rounds. The Beretta hammered in Bolan’s hand as he pumped bursts down the hall. A single tiny flare of high explosive smashed paint and wood above Bolan’s arm in response. He fired two more bursts and ejected his empty magazine. He slid in a fresh one as he heard movement in the bedroom.

  Bolan came around the corner firing. He ran down the hallway and rolled as he came through the bedroom door. He came up and the corner of the bed near his head popped like a firecracker. Bolan could dimly see his opponent by the bathroom door. He shoved the Beretta out with both hands and pumped a 3-round burst into the center body mass. The assassin jerked, but the ruby beam of his laser tracked and the weapon clicked twice.

  Bolan’s opponent was wearing armor.

  Something punched into Bolan’s soft body armor below his collarbone. Orange light flared, and bits of unburned high-explosive grit blasted into his jaw and cheek. He jerked his head aside as the ruby beam played for his face. Bolan raised his aim, and both he and his opponent went for the head shot. The Beretta snarled off a burst, and his opponent fell through the bathroom door.

  Bolan rose as the door slammed and the lock clicked.

  The Executioner vaulted the bed and fired a diamond pattern of bursts to fill the small cube of space with lead. He put his foot into the flimsy door, which smashed back on its hinges.

  The bathroom was empty and the window was open.

  Bolan charged back through the house. He passed the bed and found his computer had indeed been hijacked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his key chain. Bolan flung open the glass doors of the living room and ran out onto the patio. He could barely see his opponent moving at a dead run for the river.

  Bolan raised his key chain.

  It looked like the small, black plastic case for an auto alarm. Bolan pushed the three buttons in sequence. A flare of high explosive popped out in the dark. It was a small charge, designed to permanently destroy the laptop’s hard drive and all data it contained. The runner stumbled as the computer exploded in his hands. Bolan sprinted after the staggering figure. The Beretta cycled in his hands as he pumped burst after burst into the fleeing assassin’s back.

  The killer belly flopped into the river.

  Bolan skidded to the bank and pumped the rest of his magazine into the moonlit ripples of the assassin’s wake. The Executioner reloaded and watched the surface of the water. The ripples slowly faded, and the river resumed its sluggish, starlit calm.

  The assassin was either dead at the bottom or had an air bottle.

  Bolan wasn’t betting on death. He waited long minutes, but nothing disturbed the water and there was no sound save the whine of the mosquitoes rising to the s
mell of his sweat and the blood on his face.

  The soldier turned and walked back toward the house. He stopped and picked for a moment through the shattered remnants of his computer. His head turned at a gleam a few feet away in the grass.

  He picked up a pistol.

  The grip had the contoured ergonomic shape of a target pistol. A laser sight was fitted beneath the barrel. A sound suppressor was threaded onto the muzzle. Bolan thrust the gun under his belt and went back to the house.

  It seemed his cover was blown just about everywhere.

  9

  The Executioner was fairly sure Jolie Erulin was wearing soft body armor at the moment. He’d had no choice but to return to Cayenne after the night attack. Bolan was not surprised to see Erulin sitting at the café when he arrived.

  “I believe one of your boys is a traitor,” Bolan said in greeting.

  Erulin’s smile went dead on her face. “Fuck you.”

  Bolan reached into his jacket and pulled out the laser-sighted, Unique D.E.S 32U pistol his unsuccessful assassin had dropped. He put it on the table between them. “Mean anything to you?”

  She stared very long and hard at the weapon. “Where did you get this?”

  “Someone was shooting that very pistol at me last night, in the city of Roura.” Bolan shrugged. “Not exactly foreign legion issue.”

  “No. It is not.”

  “So, someone gave a legionnaire the weapon or someone took the liberty of doing the job themselves.”

  Erulin glared. “What are you implying?”

  “I’m just wondering about your little pals Roland and Alain.”

  “Well, you beat the shit out them.” The French agent tossed her head. “They would love to break your legs, but kill you? No. Plus, they have specific orders to leave you alone until I tell them otherwise.”

  “That’s very reassuring,” Bolan said. “But what if they have higher motivations than personal vengeance?”

  “You mean being Muslim terrorists?” Erulin regarded Bolan dryly. “Alain and Roland are both good Catholic boys and enjoy their jobs. I cannot imagine them being mixed up with Muslim terrorists, much less my not knowing about it. For that matter, I know for a fact that before they were assigned to the South American sector they had killed such people without remorse. Indeed, you might say with pleasure.”

  Bolan turned his icy glare on the woman. “And you?”

  Her laugh surprised Bolan. “Yours is an amusing accusation.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because I am Jewish.” She rolled her eyes in bemusement. “You know, usually, I am suspected of aiding and abetting Israeli Intelligence, not their enemies. That is one reason why I am usually assigned to the South American or South Pacific sectors. Here my actions and motivations are not suspect as they might be in Paris or the Middle East.”

  “That still leaves me with an unidentified shooter with one of your guns.”

  “Yes.” Her face fell again. “You are not a bringer of glad tidings.”

  “I’m sorry, but the problem was here long before I was.”

  “Yes.” She stared at Bolan steadily. “It was.”

  “So what have your superiors said about speaking with me?”

  The woman took a long sip of her coffee. “I am to use my best judgment, without compromising the national interests of France.”

  “That’s reasonable enough. So what do you know about the terrorist menace in French Guiana?”

  “Very little. We did not believe we had one until very recently. We had rumors, coming from our Middle East sector, that something was happening here. We were fairly certain it had something to do with the Javanese in Suriname, but the trail led to Indonesia and then the legion. Other than Caporal-Chef Gunung, we are at a loss for leads.”

  “And he’s currently AWOL.”

  “Or dead.” She raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Bolan. “Word has filtered to us from our agents in Suriname about a gun battle on the Amazonian Highway.”

  “Ki had a bunch of Javanese assisting him. However, he had two accomplices forming a roadblock. I didn’t get a good look at them, but both men were wearing legion pattern Ranger boots and carrying FAMAS rifles. Counting Ki, there are three known Muslims in the Jungle Warfare School at the moment.”

  “Yes.” The French agent frowned. “But Atrache and Sahin were accounted for at the time of the battle in Suriname.”

  “So it was someone else.” Bolan looked at Erulin pointedly. “Are you sure there are no other Muslims at the jungle warfare camp?”

  “It is a small establishment. If someone else in the foreign legion were stopping what they were doing five times a day and kneeling toward Mecca, we would know about it.”

  “There are special dispensations for the five times prayer.” Bolan motioned the waitress for some coffee. “One of them is war. Particularly jihad.”

  Erulin looked at Bolan incredulously. “You are saying that there are terrorist moles in the legion Jungle Warfare School?”

  “You’re saying Atrache and Sahin were accounted for during the fight in Suriname,” Bolan countered. “So who were the shooters at the roadblock?”

  Erulin’s teeth bit into the fullness of her lower lip. Nothing Bolan had to say was making her happy. “All right, let’s work with that hypothesis. What do they intend? Besides having talented goons at their disposal, why go to the trouble of infiltrating the legion? If they need them, they can call on foot soldiers from across the globe. The foreign legion, on the other hand, is one of the most exclusive military organizations in the world. The discipline is savage, and as for subverting soldiers or infiltrating them, it would be an almost useless exercise. Legionnaires are not allowed to leave France or French territories except when they are on training missions or extremely special leave. It would be just about the worst military group in the world to attempt to infiltrate and form cadres of terrorists. They have no opportunity to act.”

  “Ki managed to go walkabout,” Bolan said.

  “Yes. He did, but to what point? What possible target could terrorists have in French Guiana?”

  Bolan smiled and drank coffee. He was beginning to form his own ideas. “You tell me. What possible target could Muslim terrorists have in French Guiana?”

  Erulin’s knuckles whitened around her coffee cup. “The satellite launch facility at Kourou.”

  “I gather you’ve stepped up security?”

  “We have not. It is not in Action Direct’s purview. However, we have made our recommendations, and security at Kourou has been doubled, and that may be part of the problem.”

  Bolan raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “The French foreign legion is in charge of security at the launch center.”

  Bolan began to feel a distinct sinking feeling in his stomach. “Perhaps I should speak with your superiors.”

  “Yes, perhaps that would be best.” Erulin scooped up her cigarettes as Bolan rose and dropped some money on the table. It had been a sunny morning, but a tropical rain began as they walked outside. “Listen, you must tell me more about you before I can—”

  Erulin jerked as if she had taken a blow and fell backward into Bolan’s arms. He went with the fall and rolled as the windowpane behind him shattered.

  There were snipers on the roof across the street.

  Bolan rolled through the rain-abandoned tables and chairs as he drew the 93-R. A wrought-iron table jerked and twisted near his skull. The Beretta tore into life as Bolan returned fire. Two men were on the opposite roof with telescopic rifles. The barrels of their weapons were fat with the black tubes of sound suppressors. The table jerked and skidded with a second rifle shot. Bolan ignored it and put his front sight on the silhouette of the shooter. His 3-round burst struck man and rifle, and the assassin fell back out of view.

  Thunder exploded on the street.

  Erulin was up, and she held a Colt Delta Elite firmly with both hands. A stream of the vilest obscenities in the French language sizz
led off her lips as the massive stainless-steel pistol hammered in her hands.

  The Beretta ripped chips out of the roof across the street as Bolan fired burst after burst.

  The second sniper dropped out of sight as he faded back across the rooftop.

  People on the streets and inside the restaurant were screaming.

  Erulin glared at the opposite roof and ejected her spent magazine. “Fuckers…”

  She swayed as raindrops sizzled on her smoking, empty pistol. Her knees buckled as she fumbled for a fresh clip, and the French agent sat down hard on the wet tiles. Bolan grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her behind cover inside. There was a ragged hole torn in the front of her jacket. Buttons popped as Bolan ripped open her blouse. The copper base of a rifle bullet protruded out of her soft body armor directly over her heart. She was very lucky the enemy had been using suppressed, subsonic ammunition. She had taken one hell of a bodyshot.

  Bolan finished reloading Erulin’s pistol for her and pressed it into her hands. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” She let out a moan as he pulled her to her feet. “Where should we go?”

  “Not back to your headquarters,” Bolan said.

  “Pick a place.” She sagged against him. “Random.”

  “Random it is.” Bolan took most of her weight as they moved through the gawking restaurant patrons and went out the back. He put her on the back of his bike and jumped into the saddle. “Hold on tight.”

  “Where are we going to go?”

  Bolan checked his mental map. “West.”

  “What is west?”

  The Executioner gunned the Ducati’s engine. He was going to have to lose the bike. He would miss it, but he had attracted all the necessary attention for the moment. It was time to go stealth.

  “What is west?” Erulin asked again.

  Bolan spoke over his shoulder as he whipped the bike out of the alley and onto the street. “The satellite launch facility at Kourou.”

  10

  Bolan opened his eyes.

  The light of dawn coming through the drapes had painted the room a soft pink. Jolie Erulin was snoring, but so softly it was charming. Her left breast had a remarkable purple bruise over her heart.