Jungle Hunt Read online

  Kelleson leaned back into the hut, clenching her fists at the casual way the two men discussed the event that had destroyed her former life. Trying to shake off her anger and shame, she wiped tears from her eyes and focused on the conversation again.

  Morgan’s reply was cut off by shouts and screams coming from the far end of the village, making both men turn and look in that direction. A revving diesel engine could be heard, and then a short, popping burst from an automatic rifle cracked through the night.

  “Galils.” Drawing a pistol from behind his back, Morgan jumped to his feet, nodding toward Kelleson’s hut. “Wake them?”

  Cooper also drew a pistol from his back. “No point. We need to fall back and recon right now to find out who’s messing with the village. Follow me.”

  The two men disappeared into the jungle, leaving a very perplexed Kelleson behind. She didn’t know what to make of two undercover agents in her village. Had they brought whatever’s going on in the area down on her people? Whatever the case, one thing was certain, she was also going to find out what was happening with her villagers. Sparing a quick glance at Nampa, still sleeping soundly in her bed, she snuck out of the hut. She silently promised she would not let him get taken by them—whoever they were.

  Slipping into the dark forest, Kelleson weaved between the trees and plants, careful not to make a sound. Morgan and Cooper were both good, for although she proceeded cautiously, listening for noise every few yards, she didn’t hear anyone ahead. But she had been here long enough to know how to move quietly. Besides, it would’ve been hard to make enough noise to be heard over the racket in the village.

  The noises from the village—shouts and cries, mostly—suddenly quieted, and as Kelleson kept circling around the village’s perimeter, she heard a familiar voice that made her heart sink. Oh, no. Tell me he’s not involved in this.

  “Villagers, it saddens me to inform you that the ‘volunteers’ you have been living with, who claimed to be here under the pretense of helping you, are working against our peaceful nation. They have come here using the cover of peaceful volunteers to attack you and your fellow citizens.”

  Kelleson crept forward until she could duck under a large fern, using it as cover to peek into the town square. What she saw made her gasp.

  Everyone had been herded into the middle of the village, men, women and children packed together in a tight cluster. In the center of the clearing was the APC, squat and menacing, its harsh spotlights casting a white glare over everything. Four of the volunteers knelt on the ground, hands clasped on their heads. Soldiers of the Colombian Army guarded both groups, Galil rifles leveled and ready. One of the boys—Tom, Nancy thought—must have tried to resist the soldiers, gaining a swollen, bruised cheekbone and a glazed look in his eyes. Calley Carter’s shoulders trembled as tears streamed down her face, with Susanna Tatrow next to her, white-faced but defiantly staring at her captors.

  Major Medina, dressed in his usual immaculate uniform, strode in front of them, then turned on the heel of his polished boot and walked toward the villagers, who were huddled together a few yards away.

  The preening military officer stopped in front of them. “I cannot fault any of you for not knowing who and what you have harbored here. Indeed, I owe you an apology for coming into your village and frightening your women and children. However, I see that there are only five of the so-called volunteers here. Three are missing—and I want them. If you give them to me now, no harm will come to your village. But, if I find out you are hiding them from me, I will be very displeased.”

  Kelleson was just about to step out and announce herself when a hand clamped around her mouth. A strong arm encircled her waist, hauling her backward into the jungle. Writhing and squirming, she lashed out with her foot, connecting solidly with her attacker’s shin and making him grunt in pain.

  “Nancy. Nancy, it’s us, Matt and Elliot! Stop fighting!” The whispered voice made her relax, and the arm around her loosened enough that she could turn to confirm who had snatched her. Sure enough, Morgan was there, rubbing his shin, and Cooper, too.

  “Jesus Christ, are you trying to get us all killed?” she stormed.

  Morgan glared right back at her. “No, we’re trying to make sure you didn’t run out there to get shot. I knew I heard someone else out here.” He turned to Cooper, frowning in disgust. “Nice job with the tranquilizer, by the way.”

  Kelleson held up her hand. “Not this again—I was on to you, too, slick. Do either of you have a plan for freeing the kids and the village?”

  The two men exchanged glances, then Cooper spoke. “Yes, but I need to get some gear from my tent first. With darkness on our side, we should be able to take them out fairly easily.”

  Kelleson shrugged Morgan’s arm off. “All right, get whatever crap you need, and let me provide the distraction. And don’t worry about me—I can take care of myself.”

  Before either of them could stop her, Kelleson stood and walked through the jungle, hands raised above her head. “Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!”

  Two of the nearest soldiers spun and aimed their rifles at her. Kelleson walked into the halogen lights, hands up, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to provoke a fatal reaction from any of the soldiers.

  Medina whirled at the sound of her voice, and a predatory smile curved his mouth when he saw her. “Nancy, I’m so pleased we didn’t have to come after you. Where are the other two men?”

  Her hands still raised, Kelleson shrugged. “I’m not sure. When they heard you at the village, they took off into the jungle.”

  The major shook his head, much like a parent catching a child in a lie. “Please, lower your arms. You’re sure you have no idea where they are?”

  Kelleson waved at the verdant foliage surrounding them. “They’re somewhere out there. Anything more, and your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I see.” Medina swept the clearing with his piercing gaze. “Does anyone else know where the other two volunteers are? This is your last chance.”

  Kelleson kept her eye on the volunteers, all of whom were staring either at her or the army officer. Tatrow caught her eye and nodded slightly in the direction of the hunting camp, a quizzical look on her face. Kelleson shook her head ever so slightly in return. The last thing she wanted was for Medina to find the camp with the two survivors of the massacre, or Etienne, for that matter. If he was still out there, as well, they might have a chance.

  Tatrow caught her nod, and her face darkened even further, but she said nothing. Beside her, Carter looked as if she might speak up, but Kelleson saw Tatrow nudge her and she clamped her mouth shut.

  Medina sighed, then turned to address the jungle, raising his voice as he did so. “Americans! If you can hear me, I advise you to surrender peacefully, and I give you my word that no harm will come to you. If you do not surrender, I will be forced to take measures to draw you out, measures that will result in the injury or death of your compatriots. I do not want to do this, but I will if necessary. You have five minutes to come out of the jungle, otherwise I will be forced to injure one of your fellow volunteers.” He stalked back to Kelleson. “If you have any influence over your friends, I suggest you exert it now.”

  She stared down at him. “Like I said, I don’t know where they are.”

  His eyes narrowed as he glared at her, then he nodded to two of his men. “Escort Nancy to her hut and keep her there.” His gaze traveled down her body. “We will have that conversation I mentioned earlier, and perhaps you will be more inclined to help me afterward.”

  The two men grabbed Kelleson’s arms and pulled her toward her hut. As she was forced along, she glanced back at the jungle where she had last seen Morgan and Cooper, but caught no sign of them in the unbroken wall of trees.

  17

  M-4 in hand, Bolan had almo
st reached his launch point when he froze in his tracks, then hit the ground.

  A few yards ahead, Bolan spotted a man dressed in tiger-stripe camouflage from head to foot sneaking around the corner of the tent. The man’s back was to him, so Bolan couldn’t see who it was. The other thing that caught his attention was the long barrel of the assault rifle the man held.

  Bolan wondered where he’d come from. Was he part of the second unit of soldiers?

  Their original plan had been simple—Morgan would circle to the southwest of the village while Bolan headed northwest to retrieve his gear. After five minutes, each one would be in position to move on the soldiers. Bolan would create a distraction with his better firepower, drawing off as many of the Colombian soldiers as possible while Morgan made for the 12.7 mm gun on the APC. However, that plan was presently in the crapper with the arrival of this new group of hostiles.

  Slipping his night-vision goggles down over his eyes, Bolan turned them on and activated the thermal vision option. The world turned to bright colors, the nearby foliage a uniform orange and yellow, with the shape of the large tent next to him a darker red tone. On the other side, the form of the man he had just seen was clearly outlined against the wall of the tent in bright orange. Bolan hit the wireless connection on his smartphone and speed-dialed Morgan’s number.

  “Yeah?” the other man whispered.

  “I’m at the tent, but we’ve got new players in town.”

  “I just spotted a tango on my side, up a tree,” Morgan told him. “Tiger-stripe cammies and mask, long-barreled rifle, the works. Who the fuck are these guys?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think they both might be connected to the hunters I ran into the day before yesterday. Can you take your man out?”

  “What? Hey, it’s one thing to back you up, it’s another to directly engage a superior enemy. Remember, this village isn’t my mission—finding out who’s wiping out the other villages is.”

  “Yeah, well don’t forget,” Bolan reminded him, “Medina is fingering us for that very thing right now. We’ve got two choices, Elliot—either surrender and risk getting ourselves jailed or killed, neither one being the outcome I want, or try to save the volunteers and prevent an international incident.”

  “Wrong, there’s also the third option—you and I hightailing it out of here to restart our investigation elsewhere. These people were in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. Odds are Medina will simply toss them in jail, and the U.S. or their own NGO’ll bail them out in a month or two.”

  “That ‘wrong place’ you’re referring to is the home of a lot of people who didn’t ask for this shit storm to rain down on their heads. Look, I don’t have time to debate—either you’re in or out, right now.”

  “My guy’s too far away—he’s already in the trees. I don’t have the range, and I’m damn sure not going to take him on from here.”

  “Okay, new plan. If they’re covering the village from the north, they have a clear field of fire over everyone. See if you can circle around them and come up from behind. I just need you to provide a distraction, no need for any Rambo-style heroics. I’ll try to get to the machine gun on the APC instead, then maybe we can dictate terms to these assholes. Wait for my mike, you won’t miss it. Keep your head down and watch your six.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Morgan out.”

  Bolan checked the action on his M-4, making sure a round was ready to fire, then slung the carbine over his shoulder. Screwing the silencer onto the extended barrel of his pistol, he crawled to the rear of the tent. Unfolding his Leatherman, he slit the back seam of the tough canvas high enough to crawl through, finding himself amid the college boys’ mess. The first thing he did was place the prepared Semtex explosive under one of the army cots, making sure he could activate the remote detonator with his phone.

  Next he crept through the dirty clothes, coming across a small, almost empty bag of weed and smiling in spite of the circumstances, and kept moving toward the man on the other side of the tent wall. Just as he got there, there was a shout from the middle of the village.

  “Two minutes left, Americans! Time is running out, both for you and your friends!” Major Medina shouted.

  Bolan was about to reach out underneath the tent flap to grab the man’s feet and send him crashing to the ground when the soldier turned and pushed open the tent flap to enter. Springing to his feet, Bolan leveled his pistol at the man’s face.

  “Don’t move or you’re dead.”

  The man’s eyes widened in surprise, then he threw his assault rifle at Bolan, the stock slamming into his hand and knocking his aim off. Instinctively squeezing the trigger, Bolan’s SIG Sauer spat out a round that punched a neat hole in the tent wall.

  The masked man came in low as Bolan staggered backward, still trying to line up his sights on his opponent. Before he could draw a bead, the man was on him, grabbing the pistol and levering him backward until his legs hit one of the hammocks. Bolan went over on his back, hitting the earth with a breath-stealing thump, his pistol flying from his hands. His opponent jumped on top of him, hands searching for his throat as he settled on Bolan’s chest to crush the air out of his lungs.

  Already winded from his fall, Bolan struggled to suck in enough air to remain conscious. His vision blurred at the edges as the other man’s grip tightened on his throat. One of his arms was pinned between the guy’s leg and his torso, and he reached up to claw at the guy’s face with his left hand, but his fingers slid off the hard face mask.

  Just as Bolan’s sight began contracting to a fuzzy gray tunnel, his hand scrabbled over the other man’s mask and found his unprotected throat. Curling his fingers into the “ram’s head” position Bolan threw a short punch directly at his enemy’s Adam’s apple. Taken by surprise, he choked as his throat seized up. The man’s hold slackened for a moment, and that was all Bolan needed.

  Twisting his upper body, he wrenched the merc’s hands off his throat and shoved him off. The man tried to keep his grip, but Bolan squirmed out from under him, lashing out with his boot to slam him in the back of the head. The man pitched forward, but pushed up to his hands and knees, shaking his head and gagging. Coughing, himself, Bolan rose first to tackle his enemy, slamming his interlaced fingers into the back of the man’s neck. He collapsed to the ground, with Bolan on top of him, and lay there, unmoving, one last breath wheezing out of him.

  Checking for a pulse, Bolan found nothing. He quickly stripped the dead man of his fatigues and pulled them on, along with the guy’s web belt, which contained two smoke grenades and three full magazines. Casting about for his SIG, he found it under a hammock, then located the man’s rifle, another short-barreled Colt Commando 5.56 mm carbine, which he checked then held on to, stripping the body of three full magazines, as well. He opted to stick with his own NVG gear instead of the other man’s headgear. In the heat of what he expected to be a distracting battle, he doubted anyone would notice the difference.

  Bolan crept to the tent flap and listened for a moment before heading out. Major Medina announced the one-minute warning, and Bolan used his shouting as cover to slip out of the tent and around the back, melting into the jungle to approach the APC from the soldiers’ blind side.

  Well, not totally blind, Bolan thought as he snuck through the thick foliage, stepping carefully to prevent vines from entangling his feet. The major was smarter than he’d figured, as there was not one, but two soldiers guarding the back side of the Urutu. One beret-wearing soldier was at the front corner of the vehicle, his Galil held at port arms as he divided his attention between his superior officer and the surrounding jungle. The other man posed the larger problem; he was standing with his head and upper body sticking out of a hatch on the APC’s roof, rifle at the ready, snugged into the crook of his shoulder. Bolan didn’t envy his exposed position one bit, especially with s
nipers in the area. He was only surprised that the man was still alive. He wondered what the other crew was waiting for.

  The undercarriage of the APC was high enough off the ground that Bolan saw two of the huddled volunteers near the vehicle’s solid bulk. That gave him an idea, and no sooner had he thought of it than he quietly slung his rifle and drew his silenced pistol. The distance from him to the soldier on the ground was about fifteen yards, an average-range shot for his pistol and surroundings. Under the cover of a large, broad-leaved fern, Bolan settled in on one knee, his SIG held steady in a two-handed Weaver grip, settling the three-dot sights on his target’s chest. All he needed was the right opportunity.

  Sure enough, like clockwork, he heard a shout from Medina. “Thirty seconds—”

  The moment the army officer spoke, Bolan exhaled and squeezed the double-action trigger twice. His pistol coughed out two 180-grain subsonic bullets that smashed into the soldier’s chest, crushing his breastbone and mushrooming through his heart and lungs, patching his fatigues with crimson as the man pitched forward, dead before he hit the ground.

  As if that was the signal everyone had been waiting for, all hell broke loose around the village. Bolan had just started to move his pistol up to aim at the merc on the top of the APC when the crack of a high-powered rifle echoed across the clearing, and the man’s body slumped over, blood and bone fragments spraying into the air from the bullet impacting his skull. The high pops of several Galils drowned out the booming single shots of the sniper rifles. Bolan also caught the sustained chatter of other assault rifles, probably the Colts from the second team, interspersed with the other weapons. Under it all he heard shouts and screams coming from the village square and saw running shapes flit in front of the Urutu. The important thing was that none of the firing seemed to be coming from this side of the APC.