“For what?”
“Please, let me explain. First about Mike Belasko. He has nothing to do with Ambassador Leland Cartwright. Belasko was sent by the President of the U.S.A. to look into the kidnapping of Katherine and Randolph. This was after I had called on the President for help.”
Nkoya nodded gently. “Because you had no one to turn to in your own administration,” he said, “you couldn’t know who was a friend or who was the enemy. Any of us could be in league with the rebels. I understand. Go on.”
Karima stared at his vice-president. He was lost for words.
“Joseph, I understand,” Nkoya repeated.
“But I put you among those I was unsure of. To my shame, Raymond, I couldn’t even tell you why Belasko was here.”
“In your position I would have done exactly the same. Your children had been taken.”
“How long have we been friends? Years, Raymond, yet I shut you out. I realize now it was a terrible thing to do. I can only offer you my sincere regret.”
Nkoya smiled. “Joseph, what are friends for? Now why have you sent for me at this ungodly hour?”
“Belasko has found Katherine. He has her back. Now he is going after the men who have Randolph.”
“Where do the rebels have him?”
“Not rebels, Raymond. It appears that the men who took the children were attacked by slave traders. The slavers took the children. Belasko found this out during a clash with part of a covert military group in league with the rebels.”
It was Nkoya’s turn to look surprised. “Military?”
“Belasko has proof that Simon Chakra is our traitor. He has his own agenda. He’s in with the rebels.”
Nkoya settled into a moment of deep thought.
“Then we will have to step carefully, Joseph. If Chakra has his own people involved we’ll need to assemble a force to combat him.” He paused, looking at Karima and smiling suddenly. “Now I can understand how you felt.”
“Belasko managed to get a message to his people in America via a link with the U.S. Navy. He has a location where the slave traders are to meet a ship on the coast. I have the coordinates. But Belasko has people hunting for him. I just wish we were in a position to help him.”
MACK BOLAN HAD CHANGED location after his radio transmission. He took the Hummer farther west, finding travel a little easier now the storm showed signs of abating. He maintained his travel until he found himself on a high bluff overlooking the confluence of river and ocean. There the river widened dramatically. The hard flow caused by the storm was slowed by the expansion of the estuary, though the water was still fast moving, flowing strongly. Beyond the tip of the land the Atlantic clashed with the river and Bolan could see the foaming mass of water even in the gloom of the early dawn.
He had decided to leave the vehicle. If his transmission had been intercepted and a location plotted, the Hummer would be the initial target of those following him. Bolan suited up and put the knapsack on his back, into which he had placed as much spare ammunition for his weapons as possible, as well as a good supply of the grenades he’d located. The Uzi went across his chest, loaded and ready for use, hanging by its sling. He took one of the SA-80 carbines, fully loaded with a double magazine. That would be his primary weapon until he exhausted the ammo supply, then he would turn to the Uzi. He carried an extra magazine for the carbine in the pockets of his blacksuit.
As he exited the Hummer Bolan felt the beat of the falling rain. There was a wind blowing in from the ocean, pushing the rain into his face. He raised the hood of the Hummer and used his knife to sever a number of connections, disabling the vehicle. He was denying himself use of the vehicle, but it was worth it if it also meant the opposition couldn’t use it either.
Bolan lowered his head, chin almost on his chest as he set the pace for his slog across the waterlogged ground. His boots sank deep into the spongy surface and he was forced to adopt a steady, deliberate rhythm to keep from becoming bogged down.
YUSEF AND HANNI found the abandoned Hummer a short time after Bolan had moved off. It was light by this time. The trackers examined the damage Bolan had inflicted on the vehicle before Yusef clicked on his transceiver and spoke to Masson.
“I believe he is not far ahead,” Yusef said. “We will carry on and catch him soon.”
Hanni had moved forward, checking the ground. He began to wave his arm. Cutting the transmission, Yusef rejoined his partner.
“Here,” Hanni said. He was down on one knee, indicating faint marks in the soft earth. “See. Boot prints.”
Yusef saw the faint outlines. The rain water had already submerged them but the depressed grass and earth had still not faded. The print was there to be seen by such a trained eye as Hanni. He stood and ran forward a number of yards before pausing again.
“Still west,” Hanni said. “That way. Toward the coast. Four, maybe fives miles. Can you smell the sea?”
Yusef stood beside his partner. He could detect the salty tang in the air himself.
“We’ve got him,” he said. “Time for Belasko to die.”
16
By nine-thirty the rain had stopped completely. The sea breeze pushed the clouds inland and the sun broke through shortly after. Within an hour it was starting to get hot again, pale wreaths of steam rising from the wet earth. Africa’s weather cycle remained as it had for centuries. The thirsty earth swallowed the rain and the vegetation took on a new, vibrant appearance. The greenery gleamed with life and flowering plants blossomed in abundance.
As far as Bolan was concerned the weather change made little difference. Conflict, death and the treachery of man remained constant. He had already chosen his path, committed himself to whatever confronted him at its end, and rain or shine, it would come.
He crouched in a dense forested area, scanning the curving strip of white sand that spread out before him. The beach was deserted. According to the map he was still carrying, and studying even as he checked out his surroundings, the location of the village Kurtzman had given him lay a few miles in a southerly direction. Bolan folded the map and stuffed it back in his pocket. He picked up his autorifle and prepared to move off.
Bolan froze, making no great show of having heard sound behind him.
He slipped his finger through the SA-80’s trigger guard. His senses, tuned to pick up any extraneous sound while Bolan had been concentrating on something else, hadn’t let him down. Bolan listened again and located the source. Behind and to his left. He recalled a deep growth of foliage back there. Dense enough to conceal a man, but grown so close that it would be difficult to negotiate without disturbing the vegetation.
He allowed himself a fleeting question on the identity of the intruder.
One of the slavers? A tail-ender keeping an eye on the back trail?
Or one of the people following him? Rebel, terrorist, covert military? As far as Bolan was concerned they were all from the same mold.
He didn’t care who. They had marked themselves by their own actions, laying themselves open to the Executioner’s brand of settlement.
The soft click of a safety being freed made Bolan smile. Leaving that a little too late did nothing more than advertise the intruder’s presence. More soft rustling of the foliage finally gave Bolan the target acquisition he needed, and he came up on one knee, the SA-80 rising with him, turning at the waist.
Bolan saw a lean figure half-risen from his place of concealment, leaning forward for a clear shot. The man had a weapon similar to the one the Executioner was tracking him with. Bolan’s finger stroked the SA-80’s trigger. He felt the recoil nudge his shoulder. Then he fired twice and saw his shots strike, impacting with the intruder chest high. The 5.56 mm slugs punched deep holes in the lean torso, knocking the target back, arms flying wide apart. Red blossomed across the man’s clothing. The stricken man stumbled awkwardly, already losing his coordination, pain swiftly replacing the initial numbness. He staggered forward, going almost to his knees, his weapon falling from his han
ds. He threw out one arm, trying to brace himself, and caught Bolan’s follow-up burst in the upper chest and throat. Gagging against the blood rising in his throat he began to cough, bloody strings of fluid erupting from his lips as he fell facedown on the ground.
YUSEF SAW HANNI GO DOWN, his disbelief turning swiftly to anger. Until this moment he had never allowed sentiment to cloud his judgement. But this was different. He and Hanni had been a team for too many years. They had lived and fought together to the point where they seldom had to ask what the other was thinking or going to do. Through lean times, hard times, and many good times, Yusef and Hanni had been the best trackers in Tempala.
Now all that was gone, brushed aside in an instant because just for once Hanni had allowed his overeager nature to make him careless. Instead of waiting a little longer, Hanni had decided to act first, believing he had the man named Belasko in his sights, ready for the kill. Yusef had been moments away from settling into his own position, from where he and Hanni would have had Belasko in a crossfire.
But Hanni had jumped in too quickly, moved without due care and had alerted Belasko. The result of that error lay facedown on the forest floor, his blood spread around him.
The moment passed by, bringing Yusef to the present, and the man called Belasko only a few feet in front of him. Yusef slipped the keen-edged panga from its waist sheath and drew his right arm across his chest, ready to strike the blow that would end it all.
BOLAN WAS PULLING BACK from his encounter with the African, having seen him hit the ground, and from his rear he heard the muted rustle of clothing against foliage. He stayed low, turning, bringing the SA-80 up in a defensive gesture.
He saw the blur of the African’s shape as the man made his play. The blade of the panga was already on the downswing. With nothing else to protect him Bolan pushed his autorifle forward.
The blade of the panga struck with a solid whack, the impact jarring against Bolan’s hands. The Executioner recovered and swung the SA-80, clubbing the man across the lower jaw. The soldier dropped the rifle and reached out to grasp handfuls of the rebel’s loose clothing. Using the man’s forward motion, Bolan half rose, turning so that he could throw the African over his hip. At the same time Bolan used both hands to haul him forward, the man’s own bulk and momentum doing the rest. The rebel was thrown over Bolan’s hip, his feet leaving the ground. His overturned body slammed into the trunk of a tree. The man gagged as the breath was hammered from his lungs. He hit the sodden earth with a hard thump. The panga slipped from fingers on impact. The rebel gathered himself and rolled, turning over, and scrambled to get his feet under him. He searched for the panga.
Bolan rammed into the African chest high, slamming his shoulder into the rebel’s torso. Locked together, the two men went down with a hard crash, Bolan on top, already reaching for the man’s throat, twisting and dragging the rebel closer to him. The rebel reached up to clutch at the powerful forearm that had snapped tight against his throat. He struggled frantically, kicking out in vain, his breath already shutting off. Bolan placed his free hand against the back of the rebel’s head and shoved down hard, pushing the man’s face into the waterlogged earth. The African’s desperate attempt to draw air in only brought him a mouthful of water as Bolan pressed his face harder into the spongy forest carpet. He choked, coughing and trying to spit out the water, but the pressure on the back of his head was unrelenting. The man panicked, thrashing wildly, doing little except speed his demise. He might have tried to scream but he was incapable of making any sound now. His struggles began to subside as more fluid was sucked into his starved lungs.
And then he relaxed, all resistance gone.
Bolan released the dead man’s body and pushed himself to his knees. He reached for the SA-80 carbine. The rebel’s panga had scored the metal barrel. The rifle had saved Bolan’s life. Standing upright, Bolan checked the area, the carbine’s muzzle probing the shadows. He saw nothing, heard nothing. By the look of the clothing the two men had worn, he decided they must be part of the group following him. Possibly scouts for the main party. That meant the others wouldn’t be far behind.
Bolan moved off, picking up his pace as he pushed through the trees and foliage, his destination, as before, the deserted village on the beach.
17
Simon Chakra turned away from examining the bodies, shaking his head in quiet disgust at the inadequacy of the people under his command. He walked by Sergeant Masson without a word, glancing to where Hector Campos stood apart from the rest of the group. Campos caught his eye, giving a slight shrug.
“One he shoots, the other he drowns in rainwater,” Chakra said wearily. “Who is this man?”
“The kind you could do with on your side?” Campos said lightly, unable to resist the temptation.
Chakra chose to ignore the jibe. He raised himself to his full height, staring up through the trees at the wide blue sky. He pulled off his fatigue hat and ran a hand through his hair. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Planning and preparation were flying out the window. The American was making a mockery of everything. He appeared to have some kind of good-luck charm accompanying him that allowed him to walk through fire and over water. If not, he had some kind of death wish that blanked out all thought of personal risk. If Chakra had believed in magic, as some of the tribal elders did, he might have seen Belasko as a spirit warrior, one who couldn’t be harmed by mortal enemies.
Sergeant Masson approached cautiously, eager to carry on but not wanting to find himself on the receiving end of Chakra’s anger.
“Colonel? The men are ready to move out.”
“Then do it, Sergeant, and for God’s sake catch him this time.”
“Sir,” Masson said, saluting.
Chakra waved him aside. “Just remember to keep me informed.” He crossed over to Campos. “Time we were in the air as well. I won’t let this mercenary of Karima’s play with us. I’ll kill the bastard myself and hang his head on a hook outside Government House.”
He made his way toward the Puma, which sat out in the open, beyond the forest area. As soon as he was in sight of the aircraft, Chakra raised his arm to the pilot, circling his finger. The rotors began to turn, the pilot powering up the twin turbines in readiness for takeoff.
AS FAR AS SERGEANT MASSON was concerned, the old adage that professionals never took anything personally was just a load of bullshit. Yusef and Hanni had been his trackers for a long time. He wasn’t about to forget that in a hurry, and the hell with Chakra’s devotion to duty. Masson was going to catch Belasko. He was going to see to it that the man died. And unless Masson was in chains, or dead, nothing was going to deter him from that.
He dispersed his squad. They were going in on foot from here. No point in clanking around in the Land Rover, which wasn’t the most silent of vehicles. They had the slave traders to consider as well as Belasko, and it wouldn’t be wise to advertise their approach by doing so in a chugging Land Rover.
The American was somewhere ahead of them, making his way along the edge of the beach. He had the knowledge about the slavers’ whereabouts. Masson wanted to use that knowledge to guide him and his squad in. Once contact was made, the slave traders and Belasko would be Masson’s objective.
Since the storm had blown over, the temperature had risen with a vengeance. Moving through the forested area was akin to being inside a steam bath. The trapped heat and moisture created a close, humid atmosphere, and before long Masson and his squad were all sweating, their uniforms soaked and clinging to their flesh. The scarf Masson wore around his neck, loose and long so he could use it to wipe his face, was soaked within the first half hour.
Underfoot the forest floor was soft and oozed water with every step. Insects flitted back and forth, some of them seeming to have a fetish for human flesh. They alighted on a regular basis and no amount of swatting them away proved very successful.
“Sergeant,” one of the soldiers called.
He was the squad radio operator and
carried a com unit on his back. As Masson joined him the soldier held out a handset. Masson put it to his ear.
“Chakra here, Masson. Anything to report?”
“No contact yet, Colonel. Belasko has almost two hours on us. I have the men spread so we can cover a wider area. Once we make contact I’ll call.”
“Very well, Sergeant. We will stay well to the rear until we hear from you. Can’t afford to warn Belasko, or the slave traders, we’re around.”
Masson passed the handset to the radio operator. “Try and keep him out of my hair, Jando. At least until we find that American.”
CHAKRA HAD ONLY JUST SETTLED back after his call to Masson when he was informed of an incoming call by his radio operator. He had the call switched through to his headset.
“Chakra speaking.”
“Colonel, this is Zimbala.”
“Go ahead.”
“We have been making assessments in the city. Checking our people. Testing the mood.”
“And?”
“We can’t be sure but the atmosphere is very odd. It’s as if everyone is waiting for something to happen.”
“Not surprising with what’s going on in the country.”
“No. The city is unusually quiet,” Zimbala insisted.
“Not been setting any more bombs off then?”
“That is not funny, Colonel.”
“Neither was blowing up half a city block to make a point we had already established.”
“Karima needed reminding how serious we are.”
“That point had been made by taking his children. The idea was to achieve our aim without resorting to methods liable to put even our own people against us.”
“We’ve already reviewed that. We had lost his pups to the slave traders.”
“But he didn’t fucking well know that. Damn it, Rudolph, we could have played out the kidnapping ploy and still got what we wanted. But you and that lunatic Harruri couldn’t wait. You had to go and make a grand gesture. Just as a matter of interest, have you conducted a survey of the families of the dead from the bomb blast? We must be at the top of their popularity poll at this moment in time.”
Shadow Search Page 13