Jungle Hunt Read online

  Morgan did so, knowing he couldn’t possibly get to cover or out of range of the mystery gunman. “Who are you?”

  “Just keep moving.” The man had a slight European accent, but Morgan couldn’t place his nationality. He kept listening, however, as the man radioed to someone else. “This is three—I have one of them. Affirmative, will rendezvous at site two. Cleanup is commencing? Good, make sure you collect everyone if possible. Three out.”

  Morgan kept backing up until he felt the gun muzzle again. “Now what?”

  “We’re going to take a walk. Place your hands behind your back. Do not try anything.”

  Morgan instinctively tensed as the man came up behind him, ready to try and swing at him once he had grabbed his hand to secure it. But as soon as the guy touched him, he kicked Morgan’s legs out, sending him crashing to the ground. Before he could recover, the man knelt on top of him and lashed his wrists together with a plastic zip-tie. He then grabbed him by the arm and hoisted him back to his feet.

  “Had to make sure you wouldn’t try anything.” The man brushed dirt and leaf mold off Morgan’s face. “Now, let’s take that walk, shall we?”

  Prodded with the other man’s pistol, Morgan was marched deeper into the jungle, with only one thought going through his head as he stumbled along—I sure hope Cooper made out better than I did.

  19

  Lying on the bare metal floor of the APC as it bounced through the jungle, Kelleson’s head rang from the blows she had taken. Not only had Medina slapped her hard enough to draw blood, but she’d also banged her head twice coming in. The first time on the frame of the pressurized hatch she had been shoved through, the second when one of the soldiers had pushed her to the floor, making her head bounce off the steel and sending stars shooting across her vision.

  The interior of the personnel carrier was dark and humid, smelling of stale sweat, unwashed bodies and the distinct odor of feces. Kelleson breathed through her mouth to avoid the horrible odor. She had landed next to what she thought was a wounded soldier, but as she looked closer she saw he was dead, a quarter of his skull blown away. Kelleson scooted into a corner of the APC, covering her mouth with her hand and trying to not throw up.

  The major had entered the passenger space last and had knelt beside her, his mouth close to her ear. “When I’m through with you, you’ll wish you had taken me up on my previous offer.”

  Kelleson gritted her teeth to still the ringing in her head as she stared back at him. “Not fucking likely, you bastard.”

  He didn’t bother hitting her again, but stood and headed for the driver’s compartment. “Watch her,” he ordered two of the soldiers sitting in fold-down seats before disappearing into the front section, pausing only to wave at the corpse. “And cover him up, for God’s sake.”

  Kelleson pushed against the wall to lever herself into a sitting position, trying to ignore her aching head. The two soldiers assigned to keep an eye on her were doing their duty perhaps a bit too well, their gazes roving up and down her body. Hugging her knees to her chest, she glared at them, not saying a word. The two men didn’t say anything, either, but simply exchanged knowing glances.

  The APC slowed and Kelleson and the soldiers in back all glanced up at the front of the vehicle, where a pitched argument was breaking out.

  “I said just drive over it, Corporal!”

  “I would, sir, but there is a strong chance that it will foul the PTO driveshaft, and then we’ll be stuck out here until relief arrives. It would be safer to have the men clear the road.”

  “Damn it! What good is a mine-proof vehicle if it can’t handle this godforsaken jungle?” Medina’s head popped into the rear area. “A tree has fallen and is blocking the road. Private Romero, Private Vega, get out there and clear the road. Use the winch if you have to.”

  The two men saluted and scrambled to the side door. Medina nodded to another private. “Man the top hatch, make sure no one is trying to ambush us.”

  “Mind the blood,” Kelleson called as the soldier opened the topside door and poked his head out, rifle at the ready.

  A shout came from outside, and the man on the top called down. “Major, Private Romero says there are blast marks on the tree. He thinks it—”

  “Private, what the hell is wrong with you?” Medina stormed into the passenger compartment just as the topside soldier’s body fell to the floor, blood spreading over his fatigues and dripping onto the floor. His head lolled to one side, bright crimson leaking from his limp form.

  Medina scrabbled for his holstered pistol as a small, olive-green canister fell into the room, spewing noxious smoke that made Kelleson’s eyes water and her throat burn.

  “Tear gas! We have to get out!” She scrambled past the other two soldiers to the back door, pushing on the release, but the panel refused to budge. “Medina!” She shouted between coughs. “Help me!”

  Tears streaming from his closed eyes, the major pushed her aside and threw his weight against the door, shoving it open. He stumbled out to the road, then turned back and grabbed Kelleson, who was hacking so hard she could barely breathe. She fell to the ground, spitting in a vain effort to clear her throat, which felt like a tube of pure fire. She wanted to rub her eyes, but knew that would only make it worse. She felt other people push past her as the last two soldiers spilled out of the APC, one stepping on her hand during his clumsy effort to get free. Pistol shots exploded all around her, making Kelleson flinch and shy away from the loud noises. But there was nowhere to go.

  Something hard was pressed into her hand, and she heard the slosh of liquid as her fingers closed around it. “Pour this over your face and eyes,” a voice said. Almost crazy with pain, Kelleson did as ordered, feeling lukewarm water sluice over her itching, burning eyes, nose and mouth. The torturous effects of the gas faded, although her face still tingled and burned.

  Kneeling on the ground, Kelleson sat back on her heels and rubbed more water into her face, washing as much of the chemical off as possible. The canteen was empty when she tossed it aside. Forcing her teary eyes open, she saw a short, bandy-legged man with a leathery face and crow’s-feet at the corners of his watery blue eyes. He was dressed in tiger-stripe camouflage fatigues with a battered bush hat on his head. A knife hung on his olive web gear, handle down, and he held a smoking pistol in his other hand.

  Kelleson looked around to see the remaining members of Medina’s platoon sprawled on the ground, all shot through the head. Next to her was the major’s body, his sightless eyes swollen shut, never to open again. She looked up to see other, similarly clad men standing in a loose semicircle around her, along with a familiar face—Morgan. His hands were behind his back, and he looked crestfallen.

  “Who are you people, and what do you want?”

  The short man addressed the others, never taking his eyes off her. “Clear the vehicle, wash it down and open the windows. We’re riding back in style this time.” He tossed her a gas mask. “You’ll want to wear this on the trip back. Try to escape, and I’ll shoot you in both kneecaps and tie you to the roof.”

  “I want to know who you are—or who you’re working for—and where you’re planning to take us.”

  The small man moved with deceptive speed, stepping forward and slamming the butt of his pistol into Kelleson’s mouth. The shock to her already lacerated and burning lips made her fall back and moan, holding her fingers to her mouth in a futile attempt to soothe it.

  “Hou jou bek,” he grunted. “Shut your mouth. You’re the British bitch who poked her nose where it didn’t belong, aren’t you? Well, now you’ll get the chance to see as much as you want.” He nodded toward the Urutu. “Get ’em both inside and let’s get moving.”

  Dazed, Kelleson didn’t resist when she was hauled to her feet and pushed into the APC’s hold again. Morgan followed right behind
her. The stench of blood and lingering odor of tear gas almost made her vomit, and Kelleson fought to keep her rising gorge back. The gas mask forgotten, she collapsed into a folding seat and turned toward the wall, numbed to the terrible possibilities of what might lay in store for Morgan and herself.

  20

  Hachtman met the returning security squad as they drove in, his eyes widening at the obviously military vehicle they’d brought with them. While anxious to know how their mission went, he was careful not to show it to Kapleron.

  The rumble of a large diesel engine was the first indication that the plan might not have survived first contact with the enemy intact. When the hulking, camouflaged, six-wheeled vehicle burst from the jungle foliage and skidded to a stop in the clearing, Hachtman was only moments away from hitting the evac code on his cell phone that would send everyone else into the bush. Only after Kapleron’s head poked up out of the top hatch, boonie hat firmly jammed on his head, did Hachtman relax.

  “Well, what d’ya think?”

  “What do I—what the hell is this?” Hachtman’s initial fear had been burned away by his growing anger. “Where did this come from?” He stalked closer, noticing the complex spray-painted insignia on the side: a plumed knight’s helmet over a shield, its quadrants divided into red, yellow, purple and blue, with four red plumes surrounding it, two on either side. The motto underneath read Paso de Vencedores.

  The businessman stared at the huge vehicle with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Don’t tell me you stole a Colombian Army military vehicle?”

  Kapleron had been busy with something on the top of the APC and only then looked at Hachtman. “Look out below!” he cried as he shoved a large human form, dressed in camouflage fatigues stained black, off the top. Hachtman jumped back as the dead body flopped to the ground, feeling the control he’d previously had over this operation slipping away.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I didn’t like the Range Rovers, so I traded up.” Contrary to Hachtman’s confusion, the little South African seemed overjoyed, almost ebullient as he cut the bodies of dead soldiers off the top of the vehicle and kicked them to the ground. “Relax, baas, we had to commandeer this vehicle when the Colombian Army took over the village. Besides, they’d already picked up someone you’ll be very interested in.”

  When he’d removed the last of the vehicle’s grisly cargo, Kapleron jumped to the ground and hammered on the side door with the butt of his knife. The steel panel opened, and a woman and man stumbled out. Off balance, the man fell to the ground, his hands secured behind his back. The woman moved to help him up, but was stopped by the other mercenaries spilling out of the APC.

  “Damn it, leave me alone, you bastards!”

  Hachtman’s heart leaped when he recognized the woman’s voice—she had been with the party investigating the village.

  “Kapleron, get over here right now!” Hachtman’s voice was on the ragged edge of hysteria. He was aware of the other mercenaries watching him with expressions ranging from disinterest to disgust, but didn’t care.

  Their leader took his time, inspecting parts of the APC before leaving it to walk slowly over to the scientist. “What do you want, baas?”

  “I want your men to get these prisoners inside one of the tents and keep them under guard. Dispose of these bodies—preferably somewhere where they’re never found—and get this vehicle under cover immediately. From you I want a complete report of what happened at the village—right now.”

  “Aweh, man, just relax and let us finish our job out here.”

  “Finish—finish your job? From what I can see, you haven’t finished the first task I set to you. Where are the rest of the volunteers—everyone who was at the target village? The only thing I see you do is run around and kill anyone in your way! You couldn’t even go to a defenseless village and pick up a half dozen fucking college kids!” Saliva flecked the other man’s face, but Hachtman didn’t care.

  Kapleron removed a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and mopped his face off. Any traces of his former joy were gone, erased as if he had also wiped them off his features with the cloth. “You best be careful in this heat, baas. It can make you say crazy things.”

  The smaller man rocked back and forth on his heels. “I think it time you and I had a conversation to remind each other how things work here. My job—my only job—is t’make sure you are safe here and to carry out the company’s directives in the best way that I deem appropriate, nothing more. Any other extracurricular activities were t’be done only if I deemed it safe and appropriate. So all the huntin’ we did, all the sneakin’ around the villages, all that was done only ’cause I wanted to. And the killin’—that happened ’cause I wanted it t’happen, as well. If you’d like to see if you ken stroll through the jungle to the evac point on yer own, then hop to it. All you have t’do is say the word, and me and my mates are gone, no worries. We’ll see you on the dock—assuming you actually make it out alive.”

  The smaller man leaned forward, one stubby finger extended to poke Hachtman in the chest with each word, as if punctuating them. “As fer the dustup in tha’ village, don’t you ever try to tell me how t’do my job again! You have no idea what you’re talkin’ about, takin’ on a platoon of Colombian soldiers, who, while sloppy and undisciplined, still managed t’kill three of my squad and almost got away with two of the folks you’re all fired up to find! Just feckin’ remember this—only me and my men stand between you and these trigger-happy Americans, and me and my men are the only people keeping you alive out here. Best you keep that in your head, otherwise, I ken stop doin’ my job just as easily, ja?”

  The mercenary’s words had been delivered no louder than a regular conversation, but the sheer rage in them, particularly in the last sentence, took Hachtman aback. Too late, he realized just how right Kapleron was—if the security detail pulled out, he might be able to make it through the jungle to the pickup point, but GPS navigation was no match for a roadblock staffed with drug-addled rebels or hostile natives. All it would take is one bad encounter in the fifty-plus miles to the evac point to have his people taken hostage or killed. The squinty-eyed little bastard had Hachtman over a barrel, and the security man knew it.

  Rubbing his breastbone where the merc had poked him, the tall businessman straightened and took a deep breath before replying. “I apologize if I cast any aspersions on your competence, or on that of your men. It wasn’t my intent.”

  Kapleron eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “All right, then.”

  “The second man—what happened to him?”

  “That other guy, he’s pretty good—he got away from us. One of the volunteers was killed in the firefight, the rest either ran into the jungle, or were hidin’ in the village somewhere. When we saw the girl get taken by the Colombians, we knew we had to get her back. I already had the man we brought in, see, so two out of the three ain’t too bad. Besides, I got a feelin’ we’ll be seeing that second bru again, and soon.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Me and him got some unfinished business. I think he was the one that killed Hans during our night hunt, and then the goddamn doos up and kills MacKenzie during the village op. Now, he might have gotten lucky once, but twice? No, he’s not just some volunteer come to the jungle for kicks, he’s some kind of agent or military, maybe an American, but he’s obviously after something out here, and we need to make sure he doesn’t find it.”

  “And how are you expecting to do that? I’m sure you most likely left a trail even a blind ape could follow. If he is so dangerous, what are you going to do once he gets here?”

  Kapleron’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Hachtman, who actually leaned back upon seeing the look in the South African’s eyes. “Now, when we have the advantage of surprise, I’m going to let him come in and see all he wants before I
put a bullet right between his eyes.”

  21

  Bolan led the students through the jungle—not deeper in, but back to the village instead.

  Their destination had been the subject of a fierce but brief argument once the shooting had died down. He’d pushed for making a separate camp, then going back to find villagers for reinforcements, but had been overruled by the students, who’d said that people could be dying in the village right as they speak. In the end, the three volunteers had started heading off in the direction they thought the village was, leaving Bolan behind until he’d thrown his hands into the air and gone after them. After pointing them in the right direction, he led them back.

  As they approached, he heard noises ahead—excited voices talking over one another, crying children and crooning women trying to calm them down.

  Finding a large tree they could all hide behind, Bolan held up his right fist, gratified to see the other three stop immediately. “It might be best if you guys stay here—I’m not sure what kind of welcome I’ll get when I step out there.”

  Mike Saderson frowned. “What do you mean? If it wasn’t for you, we’d all probably be dead.”

  “Yeah, which was good for you, but another case could be made that Elliot and I started that bloodbath by not surrendering to the major, even though that would’ve probably meant we would all be dead right now and the entire village razed to the ground. Still, I should probably go out first, just to see how they react.”

  Calley Carter shook her head. “No way, we either stand together or fall separately.”

  Bolan glanced at Susanna Tatrow and Saderson, both of whom also had determined looks on their faces. “What about you two?”