“I think I’ll stay with my canteen,” the man said.
The sergeant shook his head in disappointment. “No strength of character these days.”
Masson started the Land Rover and moved off, his eyes fixed on the distant figures of his pair of trackers.
13
Mack Bolan had been watching the clouds gather ahead of him. Even while they were a distance away he felt the cooling wind that preceded them. The breeze brought a degree of moisture with it. Bolan sensed the storm coming—and he was heading directly for it. He had no choice but to carry on.
The terrain had changed around him. There was more vegetation now, stands of trees and thicker bush. He negotiated a range of low hills, then dropped onto an undulating plain that stretched away to the west until it merged with the horizon.
There was more wildlife in this area. Bolan saw a pride of lions in the bush. Antelope skipped in and out of cover, staring at him as he passed before darting away with obvious alarm in their eyes. Nature carried on in its quiet, ordered way, Bolan thought, oblivious to man and his self-destructive obsessions.
It was less than an hour later when the first drops of rain fell, striking the dusty hood of the Hummer, then the windshield. Bolan was thankful the Hummer had a closed-in body. He flicked on the wipers and the blades worked busily to remove the wet sludge caused by the rain soaking the dust that layered the screen. He reduced his speed to give the wipers time to remove all the dust and allow him to see clearly again. As the rain increased, dust spumes misted the air as the droplets struck the layer of surface dust. Within the first few minutes the ground had absorbed the rain and the dust began to turn into mud. Bolan felt the Hummer’s wheels lose a little traction and he worked his way through the gears until he found the ratio that gave him back control. Despite the urgency of his trip he accepted that he was going to have to ease off. If he ran into problems and had to abandon the Hummer, continuing on foot was not an option he considered lightly.
Reaching a stretch of stony ground Bolan brought the Hummer to a stop. He unfolded his map and spent some time working out his current position. The river he was aiming for lay some way ahead. It snaked across the landscape, twisting and turning in a series of bends that had it almost doubling back on itself at times. It ran south, then curved around to the west and then again almost north. Bolan’s line of travel would bring him to it at a point where it widened out as it flowed south. A narrow tributary angled off to the southeast. Beyond that the river began to curve in an arc that would eventually have it back on its westerly course before emptying into the Atlantic. Somewhere along the isolated stretch of coast lay the bay and the village that were Bolan’s destination.
He was aware that the location might not be the correct one, that the slavers and their captives might be making for an entirely different rendezvous point. Bolan didn’t allow himself to dwell on that possibility. If he did he would end up all over the landscape, moving wildly from one place to another in the hope he might come across his quarry by accident. Bolan preferred to stay with Kurtzman’s suggestion. Stony Man’s resident computer genius had a knack for coming up with solid decisions, based on cumulative assessments, technical solutions and logical evaluations. Kurtzman knew when his decisions were going to place the Stony Man operatives in possible danger, putting their lives in his hands. The combat teams had full confidence in his abilities, and that confidence showed in their complete acceptance of any information he passed to them.
Bolan put away the map and prepared to move on. He could feel the impact of the rain against the Hummer’s bodywork. In the short time he had been studying the map, the rainfall had increased. It was nothing short of a torrential downpour. The Hummer’s wipers were having a hard time keeping the windshield clear. Bolan brought the vehicle down the rocky incline and back to level ground. He felt the tires sink into the muddy earth. He kept his speed at a steady crawl. He wasn’t on a defined trail, simply crossing open ground that was awash with water. The dry earth had quickly absorbed what it was capable of and the falling rain was gathering in pools. Dry streams were already starting to fill, the water quickly reaching the edges of the shallow banks and overflowing.
If Bolan hadn’t been concentrating on the way ahead, his gaze picking out the safest route, he might have missed the body.
As it was he saw it only at the last moment as the overspill from a fast-flowing stream disturbed the shape and moved it. Bolan eased the Hummer to a stop. He sat for a moment checking out the area. There was nothing in sight. He eased the Beretta from its holster and climbed out of the Hummer, feeling the hard impact of the downpour. He was soaked by the time he reached the body.
It was a child. No more than ten, twelve years old. Facedown in the mud.
Bolan holstered the Beretta. There was no danger from this child. Gentle hands turned over the body, and Bolan watched the rain wash the mask of mud from the thin face of a young boy. He saw immediately that it wasn’t one of Karima’s children. That fact didn’t lessen the impact. Bolan looked on the face of innocence and pity for the victim rose and forced him to catch his breath. He had already seen the marks on the thin wrists where shackles had rubbed the skin raw. The boy’s clothing, little more than a thin robe, was soaked and peeled away from his upper body, exposing his lean torso. His ribs were visible beneath the flesh, as were the livid marks left by a thin lash. The wounds were still fresh. The face was pitifully thin, cheeks hollow, and eyes open. They seemed to be staring into Bolan’s.
The forced march had likely been the cause of the child’s death. He had been removed by force from his family and surroundings, destined for a life of captivity, where he would have been nothing more than cheap labor working in some sweatshop, or endless hard labor, or worse if he had been placed in the hands of some sexual pervert. Torn from familiar things, he would have endured a life of relentless deprivation, his rights cast aside as easily as his lifeless body. Bolan couldn’t rid himself of the thought that death was the lesser evil for this child. At peace maybe, but so much had been lost in this unnecessary death.
Bolan picked up the frail corpse and carried it to the cover of some brush. He made a grave of sorts, using heavy stones to cover the boy’s body, working tirelessly until he had achieved what he could for the lad’s resting place. On his feet Bolan held his hands out so the rain could wash away the mud.
“You bastards,” he said. He glanced down at the grave before he moved away. “God keep, son. He might forgive. I won’t.”
Bolan drove on, finding it hard to erase the image of the dead child from his mind. He thought about the other captives being force-marched by the slavers. He gripped the wheel, his knuckles turning white.
14
The farther west Bolan drove, the heavier the rain became. The downpour was incredibly powerful. The sheer weight of falling rain rocked the Hummer and, despite keeping his speed down, Bolan felt he might soon be in trouble. The Hummer was one hell of a vehicle, designed with military use in mind, and had every advantage over other all-terrain trucks. Even so it was struggling to breach some of the mud formations and the increasing threat from the unrelenting rain.
The extreme weather conditions slowed his progress. He didn’t sight the river until well into the afternoon. The heavy cloud formations laid a twilight shadow over the landscape. Bolan had noticed the increase in the dense growth of bush. There were more trees as well. He emerged from a wide spread of bush and saw the river ahead and to his right. Bolan pulled the Hummer into a grove of trees that were bending under the force from the downpour and cut the motor.
He studied the river from his position, watching the torrents of brown, muddy water foaming past. The volume of water was higher than it would have been normally. He saw debris being dragged along by the fierce current. An entire tree, twisting and rolling, was swept by. The soldier was thankful that he didn’t have to reach the opposite bank. All he had to do was follow the river’s course until it reached the sea.
&
nbsp; Bolan took a brief rest period. He drank some water and ate some dry biscuits he had found in the knapsack. Leaning back in the seat, he stared through the windshield, rainwater streaming down the screen and distorting the images in front of him. Ahead he could see the swirling brown of the river, the dark trunks of trees and the green of foliage. He saw the merging of colors, rippling as he viewed them through the falling rain.
Bolan sat upright, his gaze fixed on the spot where he had seen a white flash.
It came again. A fleeting blur of white moving through the greenery ahead. Bolan took his Uzi and unlatched the Hummer’s door. He stepped out, ignoring the downpour as he slipped into the deep cover of the trees and edged forward, keeping the spot in his field of vision. He kept moving for the next couple of minutes, reaching the edge of the trees. Crouching at the base of one thick trunk Bolan fixed his gaze on the distant spot and waited. His patience was rewarded minutes later when he saw the white shape again.
This time he identified it as a human figure, clad in white robes that covered it from head to foot. There was also some kind of white headdress, and beneath the turban he could see a dark face. He was looking at a man dressed in Arabic robes, with a leather belt around his waist and an automatic rifle in his hands. The man was moving in such a way as to suggest he was on patrol. Sentry duty.
Guarding what?
Had Bolan fallen lucky and found his slave traders? The thought crossed his mind that they were sheltering from the storm, waiting out the rain before they continued their journey to the coast. He kept watch on the man, waiting until he turned away and moved back into the tangle of trees and bush. Bolan was able to follow the hazy white outline of the man’s robes.
Once the sentry had almost faded from view, Bolan broke cover and sprinted across the open patch of ground until he was able to slip into the bush near where he had first seen the robed figure. The noise of the falling rain was intensified under the cover of the foliage and intertwining branches. The soft earth underfoot, comprising thick layers of leaf mold, had been turned spongy by the accumulating water. Bolan found himself ankle-deep in pools as he worked his way in the direction the white-robed figure had taken.
The roar of the flooded river was on Bolan’s right. He occasionally glimpsed the brown rush of water through the trees.
Bolan spotted the white robe again. No more than twenty feet ahead. He drew back into shadow and kept the figure in sight. The man was still moving, but now he seemed to be out of his watcher’s mode. Bolan crept forward, low to the ground, and closed the gap until he had only thick brush between him and his quarry.
The figure was standing still now. His rifle was slung by its strap from his left shoulder. His hands were gesticulating as he conversed with someone. It was only because of the downpour that Bolan couldn’t hear him. Peering around the edge of the bush, Bolan saw that his initial guess had been correct to a degree.
There were four white-robed figures, all armed, standing over a huddled group of chained captives who squatted in the open, their eyes cowed, downcast. Bolan checked the captives over and saw they were all female. They appeared to range from as young as nine, ten years old to the late teens. He counted at least ten of them. The information he had gleaned from the rebel had the count as high as forty plus. He realized that this was only part of the slave traders’ contingent, selected for a separate destination. He looked the captives over again.
And spotted Katherine Karima.
She stood out because of her modern, Western clothing. The others were all clad in robes or well-worn garments. Katherine’s clothing was torn and stained, but identified her clearly. The Nike trainers she was wearing would have pointed her out if nothing else did.
Bolan didn’t have to think too hard to come up with a sound reason why these young women had been singled out. The thought chilled him when he considered their likely destinations. The robed watchers of these females were trading in human lives, selling these unwilling young women for nothing more than cold, hard cash. The group was treated simply as merchandise. They had no choice in the matter. They were a commodity, taken at will and then sold off as living meat.
There was a moment when Bolan recalled the staring eyes of the dead boy he had buried. His fate had been sealed the second the slavers had snatched him from his home. His death would have meant nothing more than a loss of income to these dealers in human misery. With his selling value gone they had simply discarded him in the bush.
It was time to correct that action.
Bolan checked the Uzi. He was going to have to move fast. And there was only one way to do this. The way he saw it the slavers were waiting there to meet someone. This group was bound for a different destination from the rest of the captives. They must have stayed behind to join up with their buyer, Bolan thought, letting the main party carry on to the coast. The bad weather could have delayed the buyer, which might benefit Bolan if he initiated his move now.
But they might show up at any moment.
He couldn’t wait any longer.
The Executioner placed his targets, stepped into view and shot the closest of the armed guards where he stood, the Uzi crackling with destructive power. As the white-robed figure twisted and fell, blood staining the front of his clothing, Bolan turned, bringing the Uzi on-line with his next target.
The sound of the submachine gun’s stuttering burst galvanized the other guards into motion. For brief seconds they struggled to pinpoint the attacker, and Bolan used those seconds to his advantage. He swept the 9 mm SMG back and forth between the pair of guards standing within a couple of feet of each other. They stumbled back, kicked off balance by the tearing impact of the Uzi’s slugs. Bolan fired a second time, raising the muzzle so his burst struck the targets in the head. They were driven to the ground in final moments of pain and confusion, their dying bodies shuddering from the deep wounds caused by the bullets from the Executioner’s weapon.
The sound of a shot demanded Bolan’s attention. He heard the shot splinter the trunk of a tree a few feet from his left side. The Executioner dropped to one knee, swinging the Uzi in a tight, controlled arc that came to a stop the moment he had the surviving slaver in his sights. Both men fired in the same fragment of time.
Bolan felt the slaver’s bullet clip his sleeve, then his Uzi burst chewed into the man’s face, turning it into a twisted, bloody mask. Two of the 9 mm rounds cored through to explode out the back of the slaver’s skull. He uttered a single, startled cry as he toppled over and hit the wet ground heavily, body jerking in ugly spasms.
Turning, Bolan faced the huddled group. They had remained where they were, eyes lifted to stare at him in silence. Someone asked in perfect English, “Have you come to take us home?”
“Yes, Katherine Karima,” Bolan said.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Mike Belasko. I’m helping your father.”
Karima’s daughter stood, regarding him with the look that only a ten-year-old could muster. “You look a mess.”
“It’s been a hard few days,” Bolan told her.
He crossed to the dead slavers and went through their clothing until he located the keys that would unlock the shackles. He took a couple of the compact transceivers the slavers carried, pushing them into his blacksuit pockets. Returning to the captives he moved from one to another, unlocking the shackles they wore. He felt for each of the girls as the shackles fell away, exposing the raw, bloody marks the coarse iron had inflicted. Not one of them made any sound, bearing their pain with a dignity that surprised Bolan.
“Katherine, can you talk to them?” Bolan asked.
The girl nodded.
“Tell them they are free. Tell them the slave traders will not touch them again.”
Katherine translated his words as she spoke to the others. One of them waited until she had finished then asked a question in return.
“She asks what should they do? They are a long way from home. They have no food. What will happen to them?
”
It was a fair question. Bolan wasn’t too sure what answer he was expected to give. He was going to have to play this one as it traveled.
“Katherine, I have to find these slavers. To get your brother back. Is he with the other group?”
The girl nodded. “They went that way,” she said. “Following the river.”
“Tell the others to follow me. I have transport back there.”
The freed girls, almost as if on a silent command, clustered around Bolan, reaching out to touch his clothing. He looked into their faces, seeing at least a glimmer of hope returning to their previously hollow eyes. Now they began to speak, clamoring for attention. Some cried, releasing the feelings they had been forced to bottle up while they had been with the slavers.
“They are thanking you for giving them back their lives,” Katherine explained, smiling as she translated the excited chatter. “They say you must be someone very special. Are you special, Mr. Belasko?”
“No. I’m just here to help.”
Bolan led the way back to where he had left the Hummer. The girls followed him.
“Tell them to climb inside. It’s going to be a tight fit but we don’t have any choice.”
One by one the girls climbed inside the Hummer, cramming themselves into the small space at the rear. Even though they were struggling for room, not one of them raised any protest. Bolan started the machine and moved off. As he drove he was attempting to come up with a solution regarding his charges. There was no way he could risk taking them too close with his upcoming contact with the rest of the slavers. Somewhere along this route he was going to have to find a place to hide them. Which was not the same as doing it in New York or Chicago. Here there were no safehouses. No local police. Bolan was on his own, not sure who was a friend and who was an enemy.
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