Jungle Hunt Read online

  “Clear left.”

  “Clear right, as well.” A moment later they exited the thatched-roof building, their faces ashen.

  “I’m going in.” Kelleson strode toward the door, but was stopped by Cooper’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Nancy, I don’t think you should go in there—”

  “The hell I’m not.” She held up the camera. “This has to be documented.”

  Morgan looked up from where he leaned against the hut wall, hands on his knees. “It’s her stomach, let her go if she wants to see it that badly.”

  “And as you saw, I already emptied it at the first hut. I’ll be all right.” Brushing by the tall man, Kelleson stepped inside the dim building.

  The stench alone made her stomach clench and her bowels tighten as if someone had just kicked her between the legs. The walls of the hut were so dark that at first she thought the family that had lived here had painted them, but upon closer inspection, she realized that the thick liquid smeared and spattered on the walls was clotting, drying blood.

  Kelleson fought to control her gorge while her eyes adjusted to the dimness. The interior was a shambles, with shattered handmade wooden furniture everywhere, including the remnants of a table sticking out of the back wall. Looking down before she stepped in any farther, she froze as she realized that she had almost stepped on the small, motionless arm of a child, a girl, maybe nine or ten years old, cut almost into two pieces while she tried to run away from whoever had burst in to slaughter her family. She was only a step away from the doorway, from the outside, sun and life. Her arms were twisted in the dirt, her legs bent as if she had tried to keep moving even after she had been chopped to the floor. Blood had coagulated on her shoulders, arms and back, coating her in a thick, red-black layer of sticky wetness as it had spurted out to stain her skin and the hard-packed ground.

  Kelleson tore her gaze away from the small body, but wherever she looked, her eyes took in more death. The body of a woman lay half in a hammock, her dangling arms and legs, still dripping blood, already attracting army ants, which swarmed around her limbs, climbing onto her in rows. She’d been shot at close range, the bullets pulping her head so severely that the pale yellow remains of her splintered skull could be seen amid her ruined scalp and face, one ear dangling by a strip of skin.

  But the worst was yet to come. In a corner of the hut was another hammock with a pile of blankets on it, the middle of them dark and sopping wet. Kelleson took a step closer, then another. With a trembling hand, she reached for a corner of the blanket and pulled it back, letting out a long, shuddering breath as she saw what was underneath.

  In the middle of the slung canvas was an even smaller child, maybe four years old, still clutching a handmade woven doll to her breast. Her killer had shot her through the heart, leaving a small pool of blood to drip onto the floor underneath the hammock. There seemed to be no sign of the father, giving Kelleson a good picture of what had happened.

  He was killed outside in the initial burst of fire, then these killers burst inside to slaughter his family, she thought.

  Breathing through her mouth and trying to keep her hands steady, she took a dozen shots of the interior and the bodies. The camera’s bright flash threw the carnage into stark relief, illustrating every cut, every wound and the doomed bodies, frozen in their last, terrified moments. Kelleson’s stomach churned every time she pressed the button.

  At last, knowing there was nothing more she could do, Kelleson made for the doorway on unsteady legs. The hot sunlight had never seemed more welcoming. Away from the charnel-house smell, she took several deep breaths to clear her nose and lungs, although a part of her knew she would never forget that thick, sickly sweet odor.

  “You gonna be all right?” Bolan walked over to her, but she waved him off.

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever be all right again.” She hawked up saliva and spit in the dust. Without a word, Bolan handed her a bottle of water, which she used to rinse her mouth and spit again. Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, Kelleson handed the bottle back and headed for the next hut. “Come on. Let’s finish this.”

  The two men fell in behind her, and they went through the curved row of huts surrounding the main square. Inside every building, they found more atrocities, men and women killed in horrific ways, from elderly people with their heads smashed apart by bullets to one young man who had been shot, then impaled on a spear that had stuck him to the wall of the hut, where he had died trying to pull the slick shaft from his body.

  Kelleson took pictures of everything, stopping only once, when she came across a brother and sister, each no more than five, who had died in each other’s arms. She had taken a moment to step outside and throw up again, then calmly returned and kept taking pictures.

  “Jesus Christ, who’d do such a thing?” Morgan asked. “This is worse than some of the places I’ve been where they knew how to torture, believe me.”

  Bolan shook his head. “I don’t know—and where are the survivors? Other than Galo, we haven’t seen any evidence of anyone else alive. But its unlikely the team, no matter how well trained, could have killed each and everyone here—that’s just too neat.”

  “We can bat around theories about who’s behind this all night long later. Right now, I just want to finish the job. We’ve got two more to go, then we can get the hell out of here and radio for some kind of help.” Steeling herself, Kelleson was about to sweep the blanket aside when she heard a noise from inside. She froze, straining her ears to try to catch it again.

  “Nancy, what’s the hold—” Morgan began before she cut him off with a raised hand.

  “Shh! I heard something inside,” she whispered. “Go to the other side.”

  Morgan crept to the right side of the door, his right hand tucked behind his back again. Kelleson felt Bolan’s presence behind her, solid and formidable.

  “Sure you don’t want me to take point?” he whispered.

  She shook her head, wiping away the sweat that had suddenly appeared from her forehead with the back of her hand. “No, I’m fine. Cooper, on three, you right, me left.”

  He nodded, and she reached for the blanket, ripping it away and lunging into the hut, ready to punch or tackle whoever might come at her.

  The interior of this hut was cleaner than most, with light coming in from a window on the east wall. Kelleson saw a crumpled body in the corner, but her attention was immediately drawn to the young boy in the center of the room, holding a bloodstained machete, his wide eyes white against his tan skin. Unlike the others, he was unmarked by the slaughter that had swept through his village.

  For a moment, the two stared at each other, the child holding the dripping blade in front of him, Kelleson with her arms out, palms held up, not daring to move. She was sure he wouldn’t be able to hurt her before she could disarm him, but was more concerned that one of the men might do something rash when they saw the weapon.

  “Nancy?” Bolan’s voice broke the stillness. The boy started and shifted the machete toward him.

  Kelleson watched him out of the corner of her eye, the muscular man already tensed to pounce. “Don’t move, Cooper. Don’t make another sound.” She returned her concentration on the boy, smiling in what she hoped was a calming gesture. “Hello,” she said in his native tongue. “Where are your parents?”

  “Dead…all dead…I hide in here…away from the screaming…everyone was screaming.” The boy’s arms trembled as the words tumbled out. While he talked, Kelleson edged closer, trying to gauge the distance between her and the machete. The boy shook himself out of his stupor and clenched the hilt of the large knife tighter, raising it to ward her off.

  “I can get him from the side—just keep his attention—”

  “No, don’t do a goddamn thing!” Kelleson ordered out of the side of her mouth.
“I need to establish rapport, otherwise he’ll never talk to us. Just give me a minute.”

  She stared at the boy, trying to catch his gaze with her own. “What’s your name?”

  “Nampa.”

  “My name is Nancy, Nampa, and it’s very nice to meet you. Can you do me a favor and put that machete down?”

  “No!” The bloody blade danced in the air. “No, you’ll kill me like you did everyone else!”

  “No, Nampa, I won’t, I promise. Look, I don’t even have a machete. I don’t have any kind of weapon, see?” Kelleson slowly turned around, risking the boy attacking her while her back was turned, but knowing that Bolan would intercept him before he could get that far. “See? I’m not carrying anything that could hurt you.”

  His face twisted in confusion, and the blade wavered a bit. Kelleson pressed her advantage. “I want to take you away from all of this, to keep you safe from the people that killed the rest of your family and friends.”

  “So much screaming…but they just kept shooting everyone!” The boy looked at the machete as if he’d never seen it before, the gore-slicked weapon dropping from his hands as he started to cry.

  Kelleson walked over to him and enfolded the sobbing boy in her arms. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right. You’re safe now.” Even as she mouthed the platitudes, she knew his life would never be the same again. She picked him up, the boy’s skinny arms wrapping around her neck and clinging to her. Turning to Bolan, she nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  Outside, Morgan’s eyes widened in surprise at Kelleson’s load. “Found one alive, huh?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve seen enough death for today—not to mention the rest of my life.”

  14

  Bolan was very quiet during the rocking, jouncing ride back to their village.

  He’d seen a lot of horrors during his endless war on terror, both witnessing and dealing out his share of death, and thought he’d gotten used to the savagery man could inflict on his fellows. But the destruction he’d just seen—men and women killed just because of where they lived—made most everything else pale in comparison. Even wanton killing generally served some kind of purpose—terrorism, looting, conquering of a people or territory. But the bodies he’d seen strewed around like so much human cordwood didn’t resemble victims of any of that—just, according to their killers, vermin that had to be exterminated.

  That familiar fire was burning in the pit of his stomach—the desire to track down those responsible for this callous slaughter and exterminate them. The biggest problem was that he was at least two hours away from being able to report in to Stony Man Farm unseen. And every minute lost meant the trail of whoever had wiped out that village grew colder.

  Kelleson had herded everyone out of the village immediately after their sweep, over Morgan’s public protests and Bolan’s private ones. Morgan had still pushed to stay, but she’d overruled him, saying that they needed to get back to the village and report this to the proper authorities.

  And that was exactly what she was trying to do. In the front passenger seat, Kelleson kept trying to raise Major Medina, but only heard static every time she released the mike’s transmit button. “Damn it!” She slammed the mike down on the dashboard. Huddled on her lap, Nampa whimpered and shied away from her. “Sorry, sorry, it’s all right, I didn’t mean to get upset.” Etienne slumped in the driver’s seat, completely silent, driving back with exaggerated care.

  Watching Morgan out of the corner of his eye, Bolan was somewhat gratified to see that the scene at the village had apparently affected him, as well. He stared out the window, also apparently not in the mood for conversation. Works for me, he thought.

  The thigh pocket of his cargo pants shook slightly, and he looked down to see the cloth shake again. His sat phone was receiving a call or text message. Glancing up to make sure everyone else was distracted with their own thoughts, Bolan slid his hand inside and pulled the small phone out. The small screen had turned red, indicating a high-level text message had been received. Keeping the phone hidden between his leg and the door, Bolan read it.

  TS/eyes only

  Elliot Morgan is security operative with Sulexco surveying. Could be useful source of info. Approach him and pool all available information.

  Files attached for Nancy Kelleson and Major Andrés Medina.

  Good luck.

  SMF.

  There was a sat phone number for Morgan included. Bolan’s eyes flicked over the other passengers. No one had taken any interest in his actions. He saved the attached files for later review, then typed a quick shorthand reply with his thumb.

  Striker to SMF

  Nearby village wiped out by unknown hostiles—see attached pics. Found 2 survivors—will try to find cause. Scan for any unknown camps within a 100-klick radius of both villages. Will report in again as soon as I have more info.

  He attached the pictures and short video he had taken while clearing the village, then sent the whole package to headquarters. Bolan was determined to find out who was responsible for this travesty, and Stony Man Farm’s resources would be invaluable in doing this.

  Closing the phone, he returned it to his pocket and turned his attention to Kelleson in the front seat. Leaning forward, he made sure she noticed him before speaking, so he wouldn’t startle her. “How’s the little guy doing?”

  “He fell asleep once he calmed down, but he’s still skittish.”

  “Worried about him slipping into shock?”

  “I’m keeping an eye on his vitals, which seem strong, and he’s not feverish or disoriented, so I think he’ll be all right.” She twisted her neck to look at him. “How are you?”

  “I think I’ll be all right. It’s been a while since I’ve seen anything that bad.” Which was very close to the truth—Bolan had seen isolated attacks on people by guerillas or bandits before, but it had been a long time since he’d seen such wholesale butchery as they’d witnessed in the village.

  Kelleson’s gaze turned distant for a moment. “Yeah, me, neither. You got any idea who might be behind this?”

  “Not yet. How about you, Elliot?”

  The security operative didn’t turn, but stared out the window as he replied, his voice low, “I’m at a loss right now, but believe me, if I ever caught up with them, I might just give them the same treatment they gave those villagers.”

  For once, Bolan completely agreed with the other man. Even Kelleson nodded. “Okay, someone, for whatever reason, wanted to wipe that village off the map. Who the hell would do that and why?”

  Bolan exchanged a covert glance with Morgan, pretty sure his seatmate had come up the same conclusions he had, but again he kept them to himself—there’d be time soon to have that discussion.

  Morgan shrugged. “The question remains, who had the most to gain by doing this? The Colombian military? Unlikely—they have no reason to slaughter their own people, there’s no gain for them I can see—”

  “Unless they want us to stumble upon this and sound the alarm. But who would they blame it on?”

  Kelleson turned to look at the two men. “Rebels in the jungle, because if everyone died, they could make up any story they wanted. Except—”

  “We have two living witnesses to dispute their story.” Bolan pulled out his sat phone and sent a quick message. “I can check with my paper and see if the local media’s making any noises about the military saying rebels are slaughtering natives, as far-fetched as that seems. While we wait for confirmation or denial, let’s keep our options open.”

  “How so?” Morgan asked.

  “Let’s posit that we’re dealing with a third party—who might that be?”

  No one had anything remotely resembling an answer. The rest of the trip passed in
relative silence, broken only by the fitful cries of the sleeping boy.

  When they got close to the village, the late afternoon was darkening into night. Etienne had recovered some of his normal mood, but was still a far cry from the cheery man he had been that morning. Scooping the boy into her arms, Kelleson turned to the three men.

  “Let’s keep our stories brief and matching. We came to the village to find it wiped out, with only these two surviving. We’re trying to contact the authorities in the region to get someone here to investigate. Etienne, pull off the road here, and bring the others up so we can explain the story to them.”

  Etienne pulled over, and waited for the other SUV to pull up alongside. Kelleson explained the plan over the protests of the other students, but she was immovable. “This is the way it has to be. You can all help by keeping the villagers calm and focused on their day-to-day tasks. Above all, don’t spread or confirm any rumors. If anyone asks you about what happened at the village, tell them the truth—other than what we’ve said about it, you don’t know. Any questions?” she asked, looking hard at each of the students’ faces. “Okay, let’s get going.”

  With dismayed looks and much grumbling, the two SUVs accelerated toward the village. When they arrived, Kelleson got out, with Nampa still cradled in her arms.

  “I’m gonna set him up in my hut for now, and see if I can get ahold of Medina. You guys go with Etienne and make sure the villagers are informed and calm. We’ll catch up later, okay?”

  Bolan frowned as she walked toward her hut. He’d hoped to pool his knowledge with Morgan as soon as possible, but that would have to wait. He fell into step beside Morgan, who stared at him with a speculative expression.

  “You get any messages on your cell phone lately?” he asked Bolan.

  “Yesterday I got a message from my family, asking how I was doing? Why?”