Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River

by Pendleton, Don

  The leopard froze in midstride and sniffed again—man smell!

  Bolan's every sense was alert ... and some survival instinct far below his consciousness compelled him to turn. Alarms were screaming in his brain as he whirled.

  One hundred twenty pounds of hunger-maddened savagery, taut muscle and slashing fangs smashed into him. Bolan's weapon was knocked from his hand.

  With a lightning-fast maneuver, The Executioner straddled the great cat. It writhed and twisted, snarling, desperate to shake off Bolan's weight, but his gip tightened. Each agonizing second lasted an eternity.

  Then the creature found new reserves of strength and began to squirm out from under him....

  Also available from Gold Eagle Books, publishers of the Executioner series:

  Mack Bolan's

  ABLE TEAM

  #1 Tower of Terror

  #2 The Hostaged Island

  #3 Texas Showdown

  #4 Amazon Slaughter

  #5 Cairo Countdown

  #6 Warlord of Azatlan

  Mack Bolan's

  PHOENIX FORCE

  #1 Argentine Deadline

  #2 Guerilla Games

  #3 Atlantic Scramble

  #4 Tigers of Justice

  #5 The Fury Bombs

  #6 White Hell

  First edition October 1983

  First published in Australia January 1985

  ISBN 0-373-61058-0

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to

  Alan Bomack for his contributions to this work.

  Copyright © 1983 by Worldwide Library.

  Philippine copyright 1983, Australian copyright 1983,

  New Zealand copyright 1983.

  Scanned By CrazyAl 2013

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 118 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, NSW. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Gold Eagle trademark, consisting of the words GOLD EAGLE and the portrayal of an eagle, and the Worldwide trademark, consisting of a globe and the word WORLDWIDE in which the letter "o" is represented by a depiction of a globe, are trademarks of Worldwide Library.

  Printed in Australia by

  The Dominion Press—Hedges & Bell

  North Blackburn, Victoria 3130.

  1

  Mack Bolan shifted the gun to his left hand. It did not matter. He was just as accurate with either.

  It was a much lighter piece than he was used to; but that, too, made no difference.

  Bending slightly forward, the big man gently pushed aside the thin foliage with his right hand. His suggestion of a smile showed white even teeth, and this expression of almost boyish concentration was the only thing that softened the hard glint of satisfaction in his fierce blue eyes.

  They were to his right, and slightly below him. Three soldiers.

  Two of them, both wearing camouflage jackets bought in the same army-surplus store in downtown Toronto, were lying behind a fallen log. The crisp, bold designs of sandy brown, black and olive stood out against the thin powdery trace of last night's brief snowfall. The third guy, only his face peering out of his parka hood, was crouching behind a moss-speckled rock.

  A yellow flag, the pennant they were guarding, hung from the lowest branch of a nearby maple. The three were the last remaining survivors of Yellow Team.

  There had been seven of them at the start. And they had grumbled when Jeff Clayton, who ran the Survivalcraft Game, introduced them to the Blue Team: John Phoenix, who had just flown up from the States, and Gary Manning, who had come down from Montreal.

  Only two men against seven!

  Keith Duffin, a bald accountant from Downsview, a Toronto suburb, had muttered under his breath that he'd ask for his money back if Clayton was going to make it this easy. And Glen Grant, who had been "killed" on both his previous visits, sniggered at the prospect of scoring for himself at last. He especially wanted to get the tall American; standing in the car park, the man's cool assurance had irritated him.

  Blue Team's flag was right where they had left it, dangling from the bare twigs of a birch tree half a mile behind them. Four of the Yellow Team had "died" trying to reach it. Duffin and Grant were right. The game was much too one-sided, but in Blue Team's favor.

  Gary Manning referred to Bolan only by his new identity as Colonel John Phoenix, the founding force of Phoenix Force, his crack squad of international warriors; and Manning had been advised not to use Bolan's rank.

  The Canadian had waited for Phoenix to signal left or right.

  "Gary, take the right flank," Bolan had suggested.

  The two men separated, crept swiftly through the bush, and took up their respective positions to cover any approach to the Blue Team's flag.

  Manning made the first hit. He wiped the sneer off Duffin's flabby face when his shot smeared the accountant's bald top with a streak of blue paint.

  A few minutes later Bolan let Grant squirm right past him. He waited till the supermarket manager was feeling secure behind a small fir tree before hissing, "Grant!"

  The other man turned and found himself staring down the business end of a Nel-Spot CO, marker gun. Bolan squeezed the trigger.

  The .68-caliber gelatin ball struck the front of Grant's jacket right over the heart and splattered him with a bright blue stain.

  Bolan hit two more of the Yellow Team players as they moved forward warily toward the rival flag. "Just a goddamned game," he muttered impatiently to himself. The object of it was to seize the other team's pennant and deliver it to the shack at the top of the ridge without being marked by a splash from a Nel-Spot.

  Now Bolan and Manning were poised within two hundred yards of their goal. Bolan slowly set the skinny branches back into place. He glanced over to his right. His companion blended perfectly with the frost-rimmed foliage.

  Manning's bush jacket had started out plain drab, but it had acquired its own camouflage over the years—grass burns, mud, blood and stains from half a dozen actions. All Bolan could see was his blue armband; even Manning's face had disappeared behind a mask of tricolor combat cosmetics.

  Bolan jabbed his finger downslope toward the opposition, then held up three fingers to Manning. Manning nodded. He understood.

  Bolan silently indicated he would work his way farther along the side of the slope. Neither man had to consult the topographic maps they'd been given: both had quickly memorized the salient features of the terrain. Manning knew that Phoenix was going to try for the solitary tree at the end of the bare spur directly overlooking Yellow Team's base. Manning also knew the part he would have to play in achieving that objective.

  He adjusted his protective goggles and waited for Phoenix to get into position.

  Bolan squatted behind the last low bush. There were only fifteen yards of snow-dusted grass tussocks between him and the tree.

  Bolan picked up a length of rotted wood and tossed it back the way he had come. It drew a round of fire from the enemy.

  Manning made his move. He fired once to divert attention, then rolled across the bare patch of ground toward a large pink-veined boulder. This time the two guys behind the log stood up to aim at their slithering, elusive target. />
  They missed.

  And Bolan gained the tree.

  "Up there!" The fellow behind the rock pointed toward Bolan's superior position. He only showed his hand for a moment. But it was enough for Gary Manning to hit it with a speeding blue paint ball. Two to go.

  Both of the enemy fired at the tree above them, marking it with bright splotches of yellow.

  Manning jumped out from behind his cover with a blood-curdling war cry. The two amateurs whirled to face this unexpected threat. Which was when Bolan stepped into the open and "killed" them both instantly.

  Blue Team had played no tricky or fancy games. Phoenix and Manning were not the sort to show off what they were really capable of—it had just been the systematic elimination of seven opponents in a war game.

  Manning strolled forward, swung himself over the tree trunk and collected the yellow flag.

  He clambered up the gravel-faced slope to where Colonel Phoenix was waiting for him.

  Bolan glanced at the shack behind them. A flash of light caught his attention. Clayton must have had a clear view of the finish through his binoculars. "Think we passed the test?"

  "I'd say so, Colonel." The others were out of earshot as Manning handed him the pennant. "Yes, I think we've passed with flying colors."

  "How LONG have you known this guy?" Bolan asked, as they drove back into town.

  "Jeff Clayton? About seven or eight years," replied Manning. "Ever since he opened the CP. I usually stop by there when. I'm in Toronto."

  "The CP?"

  "It's the name of the bar he opened," explained the Canadian, shifting gears smoothly as the Ferrari powered up the hill.

  The Ferrari 308GTS was the one indulgence Gary Manning allowed himself; apart from this magnificent machine, he lived a very Spartan life-style. It was the way he preferred it, everything else stripped down to bare essentials.

  Suddenly an insistent flashing from a red LED warning light appeared on the Ferrari's dashboard. "Uh-oh, radar trap ahead."

  Manning geared down and eased into the driving lane, cruising just below the limit. It gave him time to fill in Colonel Phoenix with more details.

  "Jeff Clayton was a Green Beret. One of the best. But he returned to a country that didn't seem to give a damn for men like him or, worse, for the sacrifice made by the buddies he'd left behind. He drifted around the world as a merc for a while, then met and married a Canadian woman. Settled down in Toronto and opened the CP. It's a bar, well, more like a private club, that attracts a clientele of ex-servicemen, mercenaries, wildcatters, hunters and would-be adventurers. This Survivalcraft Game is his latest scheme."

  "Of course the bar is an ideal place to recruit weekend soldiers?"

  "Right. It's also a place they can come back to and shoot the breeze about their heroics."

  "And this is where you heard about the African deal?"

  Manning drove almost primly past the unmarked police cruiser. Bolan lit a cigarette and waited for the cool Canadian to continue.

  "Yeah. I'd come down to Toronto to pick up some electronic parts for a new version of the briefcase scrambler. Figured a way to make it even more effective. It's now fully compatible with the Stony Man net. It means we can place a call from a phone anywhere in the world and maintain full security."

  "It sounds useful. I'd like to see it."

  "Anyway, I stopped by the CP for a quick beer and Clayton mentioned this job to me. No details ... but enough to get me interested."

  "Like the money, for instance."

  "That's what made me suspicious, yes," confirmed Manning. "It also made me think you might be interested in hearing about it."

  "Fifty thousand dollars apiece?"

  "It's what Clayton said: fifty thou each. Five men. For five or six days' work." Manning shook his head and glanced across at Bolan. "It's way above the market rates. Something big's going down."

  The Canadian checked the side mirror as he swung off the cloverleaf and slipped into the steady stream of traffic on the divided highway.

  Bolan pondered the implications of such a sizable fee. "If the pay's so good, how come Clayton doesn't put together a team himself?"

  "Why should he? He's making quite enough money from the bar and the survivalist games to keep himself comfortable without risking life or limb."

  Bolan was silent for a moment. He did not wage his own war for profit but for far more personal reasons. Still, it seemed to make sense. "And he hasn't mentioned this operation to anyone else?"

  "Not as far as I know. When I walked into the CP, Clayton said he was about to give me a call. Claimed I was the only one he knew who might be up to it. I hinted that I had some friends who might like a slice of the action."

  "So he suggested you invite them out to his weekend war games?" Bolan finished simply.

  "Yeah, because he wanted to look us over before giving out any more info. I couldn't get hold of Katz, he was on his way to Paris."

  "Israel's other front," grunted the big American. He knew Yakov Katzenelenbogen was in Paris to investigate another round of bomb threats against French Jews. Katz had a personal interest in that particular battleground—his wife had been killed in a car "accident" there.

  "I think we acquitted ourselves well this afternoon," said Manning. "By the time we get to the CP, Clayton should be back there."

  "Well, we'll have to put him in the mood to talk."

  2

  It was dark and the temperature was dropping fast by the time Bolan and Manning drove across town to visit Jeff Clayton's bar.

  Manning circled the block looking for an empty parking space, gave up the search and double-parked in the reserved area outside a minor government office.

  "It's less than a minute's walk," he said, adding nonchalantly, "I could do with a few days in the sun."

  Bolan took a deep breath. It was cold enough to cause a prickling in the nostrils. He nodded in agreement.

  South of the border it was coming up to Thanksgiving; here in Canada the post-harvesting Thanksgiving Day had already been celebrated six weeks earlier. They walked briskly, collars turned up against the biting cold.

  There was nothing flashy on the outside to attract attention to the CP. In fact, Bolan would probably have walked right past it if Manning hadn't indicated the narrow doorway.

  Inside, the long dark counter was scarred but well-polished.

  Bolan glanced about him. Yes, the CP was cleverly designed and probably highly profitable. It was authentic enough to generate some real atmosphere.

  It was unmistakably a man's bar. There were no videogames. And no pianist tinkling aimlessly in the corner. There were a dozen or so other guys already there. They all seemed right at home.

  Manning strolled up to the bar to order two bottles of beer. Bolan inspected the green notice board: skydiving equipment for sale, and a brochure from Clayton to pull in more recruits for his weekend war games.

  George, the bartender, slid the beer across to Gary. He carried them over to the table in the corner where Bolan was seated.

  "Jeff's taking a call in the office," Manning explained. "He should be out in a minute. George has told him we're here."

  A bellow of derisive laughter from a booth in the far corner made Bolan look across. "Isn't that the guy I hit between the shoulder blades today?"

  "Yeah," said Manning, glancing over at the noisy group. "Jack Bruce, isn't it? Seems to be a real blowhard."

  Bruce swung around just at the moment the newcomers were casually staring in .his direction. He recognized them instantly. In fact, they were two men he would not forget in a hurry. He had taken an instant dislike to them the minute he'd seen them in that sleek Ferrari. And the American bastard was the one who had shot him in the back!

  Bruce slid his legs out from under the booth table and swaggered over to the visitors.

  Feet spread apart, Bruce stood next to Manning's shoulder. "You two think you got any right to be here?"

  Before either man could reply, a pair
of beefy arms gripped Bruce's torso from behind.

  "They claimed their right this afternoon," said Jeff Clayton. His hold was light enough but clearly it could turn into a crushing bear hug at any second. Clayton obviously disliked sore losers. Bruce shrugged but it did nothing to loosen Clayton's grip on him.

  Clayton turned Bruce about and steered him back toward his booth.

  Clayton watched him for a few seconds before returning to the men who had come to see him. "Sorry about that. You always get a few rotten apples."

  "It was just the drink talking." Bolan charitably dismissed the incident. "It's an interesting place you've got here."

  "Thanks," Clayton acknowledged, pulling up another chair for himself. "You two did all right today. Yellow Team thought it was going to be a walkover. But you were the ones who made it look easy."

  "It's a useful game," remarked Manning. "Keeps a guy's combat mind in gear."

  "Gary tells me something else is happening around here. Another operation," probed Bolan. "And this time for real?"

  Clayton raised both hands, palms outward. "It's not my operation. Let's get that straight up front. No, I was contacted to find out if I know any interested parties."

  "We're an interested party."

  "Ever been to Africa?" Clayton put the question to the American. Even when they had first been introduced in the car park at lunchtime, Clayton recognized John Phoenix as the man in command.

  "North Africa," Bolan replied. "Never south of the Sahara."

  Their host nodded. "It's a different world down there. Different rules. Hell, most of the time there aren't any rules."

  Bolan understood that. His strategy was simple: an unending, unrelenting war against the forces of chaos, of senseless violence and intimidation, against terrorism in any form. But his tactics remained flexible. Providing the ethics were right and the call to duty clear and unavoidable, he could adapt his skills to any situation.

  "What's the job?"

  "I'm not completely sure," confessed Clayton. "And it's not up to me to tell you what little I do know. But I can give you a number. It's here in Ontario. You'll have to talk to Mr. Malakesi yourselves."