Jungle Hunt Read online

  Hostile takeover

  Genocide is spreading through the jungles of South America. The swift and silent massacre in villages on the Ecuadorian border seems to be part of a larger plan fueled by blatant greed. Mack Bolan heads into the rain forest to expose the truth behind the slaughter and put an end to this new wave of atrocities.

  Bolan comes face-to-face with pure evil when he gets caught in the cross fire between a rogue army general hungry for power and a ruthless multinational corporation plotting to reap billions from the blood of the innocent. But the Executioner is ready to lay his trap as he heads deep into the bush to stalk the deadliest predator of all—man.

  The masked man came in low

  Mack Bolan staggered backward, lining up his sights on his opponent. Before he could draw a bead, the man was on him, grabbing the pistol. Bolan hit the earth with a breath-stealing thump, his gun flying from his hands. His opponent jumped on top of him and settled on his chest, crushing the air out of his lungs.

  Just as Bolan’s vision began contracting to a fuzzy gray tunnel, his hand scrabbled over the other man’s mask and found his unprotected throat. Curling his fingers, Bolan threw a short punch directly at his enemy’s Adam’s apple. Taken by surprise, the man choked. His grip slackened for a moment, and that was all Bolan needed.

  Twisting his upper body, he wrenched the merc’s hands from his throat and shoved him off.

  Bolan rose first.

  Tackling his opponent, he slammed his interlaced fingers into the back of the man’s neck.

  The merc collapsed to the ground, with the Executioner on top of him, and lay there, unmoving, as one last breath wheezed out of him.

  Mack Bolan

  The Executioner

  #325 Edge of Hell

  #326 Blood Tide

  #327 Serpent’s Lair

  #328 Triangle of Terror

  #329 Hostile Crossing

  #330 Dual Action

  #331 Assault Force

  #332 Slaughter House

  #333 Aftershock

  #334 Jungle Justice

  #335 Blood Vector

  #336 Homeland Terror

  #337 Tropic Blast

  #338 Nuclear Reaction

  #339 Deadly Contact

  #340 Splinter Cell

  #341 Rebel Force

  #342 Double Play

  #343 Border War

  #344 Primal Law

  #345 Orange Alert

  #346 Vigilante Run

  #347 Dragon’s Den

  #348 Carnage Code

  #349 Firestorm

  #350 Volatile Agent

  #351 Hell Night

  #352 Killing Trade

  #353 Black Death Reprise

  #354 Ambush Force

  #355 Outback Assault

  #356 Defense Breach

  #357 Extreme Justice

  #358 Blood Toll

  #359 Desperate Passage

  #360 Mission to Burma

  #361 Final Resort

  #362 Patriot Acts

  #363 Face of Terror

  #364 Hostile Odds

  #365 Collision Course

  #366 Pele’s Fire

  #367 Loose Cannon

  #368 Crisis Nation

  #369 Dangerous Tides

  #370 Dark Alliance

  #371 Fire Zone

  #372 Lethal Compound

  #373 Code of Honor

  #374 System Corruption

  #375 Salvador Strike

  #376 Frontier Fury

  #377 Desperate Cargo

  #378 Death Run

  #379 Deep Recon

  #380 Silent Threat

  #381 Killing Ground

  #382 Threat Factor

  #383 Raw Fury

  #384 Cartel Clash

  #385 Recovery Force

  #386 Crucial Intercept

  #387 Powder Burn

  #388 Final Coup

  #389 Deadly Command

  #390 Toxic Terrain

  #391 Enemy Agents

  #392 Shadow Hunt

  #393 Stand Down

  #394 Trial by Fire

  #395 Hazard Zone

  #396 Fatal Combat

  #397 Damage Radius

  #398 Battle Cry

  #399 Nuclear Storm

  #401 Jungle Hunt

  Don Pendleton

  Jungle Hunt

  Do not call the forest that shelters you a jungle.

  —African proverb

  I often find that those who rape and pillage villages within Third World nations think no one will notice or care. And I am happy to show the perpetrators the error of their ways.

  —Mack Bolan

  The

  Mack Bolan

  Legend

  Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

  But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

  Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

  He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

  So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

  But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

  Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Travis Morgan for his contribution to this work.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Quito, Ecuador

  The air in the large office, l
ocated in a nondescript building on a side street of the capital city, was humid and still, barely stirred by a slow-moving ceiling fan. The daily rain had already come, leaving a damp scent of water ignored by the two men in the room.

  Jaime Cordero sat in the guest seat, a leather-upholstered wingback chair that squeaked with his every movement. A thin, stooped man, his shoulders were hunched from decades of civil service, service that had worn on him over the years, lined his face, eroded his stature, receded his hairline. His brown, off-the-rack suit hung on him like a scarecrow’s costume, a stained tie loosely knotted around his neck. His watery brown eyes, magnified behind thick-lensed glasses, roamed nervously around the room, but always came back to rest on the alligator briefcase resting on top of the large mahogany desk.

  The man sitting behind the desk was the exact opposite of Cordero in every way. Alfredo Roldos was the picture of health, his slightly protruding stomach hardly showing under the vest of his tailored navy three-piece Savile Row suit. His thick black hair, accented with just a touch of silver at his temples, was brushed back from a handsome widow’s peak. His manicured hands were swift and sure as they clipped the end off a Don Conti Robusto. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”

  “N-no, Mr. Roldos—I simply wish to take care of our business.”

  “Of course, but I hope you do not mind if I indulge.” Roldos applied an even blue flame from his butane lighter to the end of the cigar, drawing smoke slowly and letting it leak out the side of his mouth.

  “No, sir.”

  Roldos savored his Robusto for another minute, exhaling the smoke in lazy plumes that were barely stirred by the overhead fan. Across the desk, leather squeaked as the other man shifted uneasily.

  At length, Roldos set his cigar down in a mirror-bright silver ashtray. “Well, I suppose we should get down to business.”

  * * *

  GALO MOVED SILENTLY through the sweltering tropical jungle, his bare feet making no noise on the thick carpet of rotting vegetation and wood. His breechclout covered his private parts, but the rest of his body was naked, decorated with bright red paint and a handwoven braided necklace. His curious brown eyes looked out at the world from a round face topped by straight black hair cut bowl-style. His unblinking gaze was currently fixed on the prize he sought a few yards away. Although the forest around him teemed with noisy insects and small animals, Galo tried his hardest not to make a sound as he crept forward.

  The bird he was stalking, a toucan with primarily black feathers, save for an orange-and-red chest, with a red circle around its eye, shuffled along a branch, eyeing a cluster of guarana berries. Galo was only three yards away, then only two… .

  The rumble of a large engine in the distance silenced all of the nearby fauna and made Galo’s head whip around. The red-breasted toucan he’d been stalking spread its wings and launched into the air.

  A frown crossing his normally happy features, Galo took off through the jungle, leaping fallen tree trunks and avoiding dangling vines as he ran toward the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming closer to him, and he thought the vehicle must have been taking the single-lane road to his village.

  Galo’s heart quickened at the thought of visitors, who often brought strange and magical devices from the world outside their small jungle home. Small boxes that showed amazing pictures, devices that fit into a hand that allowed the holder to talk to someone they could not see, who might be a dozen, or even a hundred miles away. Perhaps he could even trade some of his wood carvings for a pair of the dark glasses that fit over his eyes and blocked the sun, or even, if he was lucky, a knife with a blade that folded into the handle like the one his father owned.

  The tenor of the engine changed and Galo sensed the truck had stopped somewhere nearby. He crept through the thick foliage, mindful of the brightly colored tree frogs whose skin exuded a deadly poison, until he could see the olive-drab truck. When he did, his brows knitted in a frown—these were not the usual missionaries or traders that came to their isolated village. This truck looked menacing, a large interloper in the verdant, peaceful jungle.

  And the men it carried—with their pale white skin and hair on their faces—were dressed in black clothes. But as he watched, they changed into long-sleeved shirts and pants that mimicked the greenery and shadows of his home. They didn’t carry the usual equipment of those coming to trade with his village, either—each man had either in his hands or slung over his shoulder a big, long, black piece of metal that resembled the rifle his father used for hunting, but much uglier and more dangerous-looking. The men talked in a strange language and smoked cigarettes, the acrid smell making Galo’s nose twitch and his mouth dry.

  Another man dressed in tan clothes and a safari hat got out of the front of the truck and talked to the men in back in their peculiar language. The smoking men all laughed as they checked their large black rifles, then the leader walked back to the front of the vehicle and got in, as the others climbed into the back. The truck started moving again, heading toward Galo’s village. He followed, paralleling the truck through the jungle.

  * * *

  ROLDOS EXAMINED THE sheaf of papers the other man had placed on his desk. He already knew what they contained, but skimmed the odd paragraph here and there to ensure nothing had been inserted at the last minute. “Everything seems to be in order…mineral and logging rights for an area in Ecuador’s interior rainforest…” He named the longitude and latitude coordinates. “And you’re sure this is on the edge of Yasuní?”

  Cordero nodded, his head bobbing on his neck like a stork. “I checked the numbers myself—the territory abuts the park, but does not encroach on it.”

  “Excellent. The ten-year term is listed here…” Although I’m sure we won’t need the space for nearly that long, Roldos thought. “There is nothing left to do but sign.” Taking a gold Mont Blanc pen from his shirt pocket, Roldos signed the copies where necessary with a bold flourish, then pushed the assignation of rights contract back to Cordero, who hesitated only slightly as he picked up the pen, his expression twisting on his strained face, as if suffering a late attack of conscience.

  Without saying a word, Roldos reached down for the handle of the aluminum briefcase sitting on the floor behind his desk, lifted it and set it on the table. Cordero’s eyes widened when they fell upon the case.

  “You—you promise that the indigenous peoples of the area will not be harmed, sim?” he asked, his gaze lingering on the case’s smooth surface.

  Roldos smiled, a warm, relaxed smile that lit up his face—and stopped a mile short of reaching his eyes. “Jaime—please. The natives are a huge part of our operation. We’ll need experienced guides who can show us the area and expedite access to the more remote regions. Making contact with them is crucial. We’ll be compensating them well for the trouble,” he lied.

  The other man’s head nodded almost unconsciously at Roldos’s smooth voice. He bent over the contracts and scribbled his name on the line, sealing the deal.

  When the last copy had been executed, three copies safely tucked away in Cordero’s battered briefcase, with another set residing in the top drawer of Roldos’s desk, he slid the metal case across the desktop toward the other man. With slightly trembling fingers, Cordero reached for the case, almost clutching it to his chest before restraining himself and setting it on his lap. His head came up as he looked at his benefactor, the naked question all over his face.

  Roldos permitted himself a slight chuckle and waved his hand. “It’s all right, my friend. You will not insult me—if I were in your shoes, I would want to look inside, too. Go ahead, you’ve earned it.”

  Cordero flipped the catches on the case and slowly opened it, inhaling audibly when he saw what was inside—two hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars, enough for him and his family to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.

  “
Thank you, Alfredo, thank you.” Cordero closed the case again, stood and shook Roldos’s hand.

  “No, my friend, thank you.” Roldos escorted the Assistant Secretary of the Interior to the door, said goodbye and made sure his secretary showed him the way out.

  Once he was alone, he closed the door and locked it. Striding back to his desk, he sat and took a satellite phone from another desk drawer. Activating it, he dialed a number from memory. It rang three times, then a connection was made.

  “Ja?”

  “The contract is signed. Begin the operation.”

  “Ja.”

  Roldos broke the connection, put the phone away and reached for his Robusto again, intending to smoke it down to the butt. And in a few days, we’ll be on our way to making more money than anyone’s ever seen.

  * * *

  STILL TRAILING THE TRUCK, Galo scrambled across a large tree trunk that had fallen the day before and presently spanned a plant-choked ravine. The voracious denizens of the rainforest were already going to work on it, however, and soon it would be eaten away and fall into the divide, to rot and return to the earth. But for the moment, it made an excellent natural bridge.

  On the other side, Galo scurried through the underbrush, with less than fifty yards to go until he reached the village clearing. He was about to emerge from the jungle and greet the visitors when he heard screams, followed by a sound he knew all too well—the sharp crack of gunfire.

  Dropping to his stomach, Galo crawled forward until he was able to peek under a large cluster of purple orchids and watch what was happening to his friends and family.

  The men from the truck, their heads covered by cloth masks, were all out of the vehicle and splitting up throughout the village, which consisted of about a dozen thin-walled huts on stilts with thatched roofs. The inhabitants, including Galo’s mother and father, had been coming out to greet the newcomers, but presently ran in terror, only managing a few steps before being gunned down and dropping in their tracks. The men were focused, efficient and deadly. Two-man teams moved from hut to hut, checking inside and shooting anyone they found. Screams of terror were cut off instantly by bursts of automatic-rifle fire.

 
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