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  Hearing more noise on the opposite side of the wheelhouse, Bolan backtracked, peering around the edge of the window frame. Three armed men were staring through the far side. When they saw Bolan they pushed the door open and crowded into the wheelhouse. Bolan pulled the pin on one of his grenades and lobbed it. It clattered across the wheelhouse floor and detonated with a hollow blast. Bolan heard brief screams as the blast died away. Shards of glass and metal fragments blew through the front of the wheelhouse and showered the deck below. Men began to shout and scatter.

  He turned and made his way along the walkway that joined the wheelhouse with the crew quarters farther along the deck. He was moving away from the cargo hold where the captives were being contained. As he crossed the narrow walkway, Bolan paused to drop his second grenade to the deck below, where it exploded among some deck cargo, spraying debris in all directions. He pulled a couple more from his backpack and repeated his drop, the deck starting to trail smoke into the air.

  From below autofire was directed at Bolan, but his moving form was concealed by the metal walkway. As he ran he could hear bullets clanging against the underside. He reached the far end of the walkway and ducked inside a covered companionway. There were a number of cabins at this level. Bolan kicked open doors and checked the interiors. Of the six he checked, only one had occupants, a pair of the white-robed figures who had come on board from the beach. They faced the black-clad Executioner, reaching for the weapons they had put aside, only to be met by Bolan’s own autorifle. He left the pair in bloody heaps on the cabin floor before moving on.

  Though Bolan had been expecting it, the beaching of the ship took him by surprise. The sudden halting of the vessel as it became grounded shook the ship from stem to stern. Then it began to sway, tilting to starboard a few degrees in the shallower water. The stern swung a little as the ship settled. The impact, reverberating the length of the vessel, threw Bolan off his feet. He slid along the companionway, briefly helpless before coming to a stop against the bulkhead. He gathered his legs under him and pushed to his feet, feeling the slight cant of the floor underneath him. Reaching a door at the end of the companionway, Bolan kicked it open.

  Autofire sent slugs clanging into the metal bulkhead.

  Bolan dropped to one knee and returned fire. His second burst caught the shooter, spinning the slaver off his feet with his shoulder lacerated and bloody. The crew member dragged himself across the decking to where he had dropped his weapon. Bolan stitched him with a second burst, preventing him from getting his hands back on the rifle.

  Stepping over the body, Bolan saw a metal stairway leading to the main deck. He went down quickly, pausing at the open hatchway to check the area. He was near the stern of the ship, realizing he must be close to the engine room. Bolan sprinted across the deck, feeling steel plates vibrating under his feet. Another hatchway swung open when he hauled on it. The hot, oily air rising from the depths told him he had been right. Peering down, Bolan saw a metal ladder that sank into the depths. The sound of the pumping diesel engines was loud now.

  Bolan took three grenades from his backpack, pulled the pins and dropped the grenades into the depths. He backed off quickly, cutting across the deck before the grenades detonated. When they did, the initial explosions were followed by a deeper, heavier blast that shook the structure of the ship. A burst of flame and smoke issued from the hatchway where Bolan had dropped the grenades. He felt the deck ripple under him, some of the plates popping their rivets. Smoke began to curl from air ducts. Whatever Bolan had done seemed to have caused serious damage.

  Now all he had to do was get the captives off the ship before anything else happened.

  19

  The beached slave ship became Mack Bolan’s killing ground. His black-clad figure could be seen running through the thickening smoke, seen then gone. He used the deck superstructure as cover, working his way down toward the cargo hold that held the captives. His unexpected strike at the crew left them no time to organize. There was a grim purpose in the way Bolan strode the deck, his weapons taking on anyone who stood in his way. He used his supply of grenades to good effect, burning his opposition to tatters. By the time he reached the cover of the forward superstructure the opposition had been reduced to a stunned few who were scattering for the side of the ship and lowering the boats they had earlier been winching back up out of the water.

  Bolan was in a less than forgiving mood. It was fuelled by shadows that refused to go away, specters hovering around him. Christopher Jomo. A true friend who had put his life on the line for a cause he believed in, who had died in a way no one should have to endure.

  And a boy, a child named Chembi. Torn from his home, marched across a trackless landscape, chained like some animal and treated with less consideration. Pushed and beaten until his body simply curled up and refused to go on. His captors’ response to that had been to leave him in the dirt to die alone. There had been no one to hold and comfort Chembi. Whatever terrors filled his child’s mind, he had to endure them alone, knowing that he had died because he was no longer salable merchandise.

  Once again Mack Bolan had been witness to the dark side of humanity, left to pick up the pieces and to grieve for the victims.

  At least Jomo and Chembi had someone who could avenge their suffering. Someone who would make the heartless monsters pay.

  Bolan stepped out from his cover, the rifle in his hands delivering the sentence to the guilty.

  When the SA-80 clicked on empty the Executioner tossed the weapon aside and brought his Uzi into play as he crossed the deck and looked down on the slave traders. He had no need for the 9 mm pistol. Not for these men.

  The sound of voices drew him back into reality and he crossed to the open cargo hold, staring down at a sea of dark, upturned faces. Men, women and children, packed together in the stifling heat of the hold. Bolan realized there were far more than forty people down there. The slavers had been on a run, picking up captives from various points.

  “Anyone speak English?” he asked.

  A number of voices confirmed they did.

  “Get everyone out. Off the ship as quickly as possible.”

  Over the next half hour Bolan witnessed the emergence of almost a hundred people. Many of them had to be assisted, even carried out of the dank, stinking hold. Bolan moved among them, helping with the weak and the injured. The sight of these wretched people, scrambling for freedom, had a profound effect of Bolan. When he looked into their eyes, reading the misery and suffering they had endured, he saw the plight of so much of humanity. Slavery existed in many forms. And too much of the world’s population was caught up in some form of it. Political, religious, moral reasons—all of those things taken to extremes that ensnared people against their will and bound them to a life where they had little choice but to remain in the shackles of their particular hell.

  As long as he was able, Mack Bolan would do what he could to free those slaves. He didn’t give a damn about color or creed. His only concern was to allow them the chance for their own freedom. At least to return to them the dignity that was the right of every man, woman and child. It was a thankless task but one Bolan did because he could.

  The stronger of the captives lowered the boats and helped the others into them. They were taken to the beach and the boats returned for more.

  Bolan prowled the deck, searching for Randolph Karima. He found the boy helping an injured man toward the side of the ship.

  “Randolph.”

  The boy glanced up at the tall, black-clad American. Bolan had recognized him immediately. He was the image of his sister.

  “As soon as we’re finished here I’m going to get you home.”

  “Where’s Katherine?”

  “Safe with a friend.”

  “Will you help me?” Randolph asked.

  Bolan took the injured man’s arm and they moved him to the side of the ship. Picking a couple of men who could speak English, Bolan organized a quick foray into the cabins. They picked up
blankets and a number of first-aid boxes. The galley furnished them with food and water.

  When they emerged on deck Bolan saw that the smoke at the stern was rising. Time was running out.

  “Listen up,” he called. “Anyone who can swim get in the water and head for the beach. It’s time we abandoned ship.”

  One of the Africans said, “Some of us did not survive. There are bodies in the hold.”

  “I can’t force you to leave them,” Bolan said, “but right now we have to make the living our priority.”

  The African translated for his companions. There was a short discussion. “You are right. If we can come back we will.”

  Bolan and Randolph took the last boat out. Those who could not get in hung on to the sides for the short trip to the beach before dragging the boats out of the water.

  “Look,” Randolph said.

  Bolan glanced back and saw flames rising from the engine-room section. Smoke curled out from weakened hull seams. The slave ship was rocked by an internal explosion that burst open the stern. Fire and smoke billowed into the air, rising, spreading.

  As the sound died Bolan heard a ragged chorus of cheers from the assembled captives. They waved their arms. Some even managed a few moments of triumphal dancing.

  “What happens now?” Randolph Karima asked.

  Bolan smiled. “Good question. I’m working on it.”

  A group of the now ex-captives intercepted Bolan. “How can we repay you? If you hadn’t come we would be on our way to the northern slave markets,” one of the men said. “For all of us I thank you. We don’t even know your name.”

  “Belasko. Mike Belasko.”

  The man turned and translated. The beach chorused to the shouts of Belasko. “You will be remembered for a long time, Mr. Belasko.”

  “Pity you won’t be living for a long time, Mr. Belasko!”

  Bolan turned and saw armed soldiers stepping into view from the cover of the treeline. The man who had spoken wore the stripes of a sergeant.

  “All that hard work for nothing,” the sergeant said. “Now put the gun on the ground.”

  20

  “Colonel Chakra wants to kill you himself. No way. You killed my trackers. I claim first rights.”

  Bolan watched the squad moving out of the trees, weapons lifting. The sergeant who had challenged him carried an SA-80 rifle. He was concentrating on Bolan to the extent of ignoring the rest of the people on the beach.

  “Your gun, Belasko. Put it down. I want your attention when I fucking kill you.”

  Bolan turned slightly, his back to the African he had been speaking to only moments before. There was a deliberation in his move.

  The Uzi was still across his chest when Bolan felt the African’s hand grip the butt of the confiscated pistol Bolan was carrying tucked into the back of his belt. Bolan listened for the click as the safety was released, then the African whispered, “Down!”

  No waiting. No hesitation. Bolan took the moment as it was presented and fell to his knees.

  The crack of the pistol was loud.

  Out of the corner of his eye Bolan saw the uniformed sergeant arch back, a puckered hole appearing just above his left eye. Something dark flew out the back of his skull as he toppled over.

  This was only a fragment in Bolan’s mind as he swiveled his upper body and brought up the Uzi the moment his knees struck the sand. He stroked back the trigger and felt the SMG respond. On full-auto it spat out its 9 mm slugs, the weapon moving in controlled arcs in Bolan’s experienced hands. He knew the Uzi intimately, was aware of its potential when used correctly. He took out the lead pair of armed men even while they were still in shock over the death of their sergeant. Death claimed them with just as much speed, bodies punched through and bleeding.

  Bolan wasn’t slow in seeing the other three starting to react. They began to break apart, one attempting to take cover behind one of the palms edging the beach. The Uzi tracked him, the first burst chewing splinters from the tree, then catching the man in the side and arm as he sought to conceal himself. He stumbled around the trunk, blood seeping through his uniform, weapon drooping. Bolan took him down with a final short burst to the chest.

  Return autofire kicked up sand only inches from Bolan. The Executioner remained calm, bringing the Uzi around and capping off a burst that shredded the target’s throat and shattered his jaw, knocking him onto his back where he lay, one booted foot kicking at the ground. Bright jets of blood fountained from the torn artery in his neck.

  The single-shot cracks from the pistol brought Bolan’s attention to his new ally. The African had adopted a shooter’s stance, gripping the pistol two-handed as he fired on the surviving hardman. The rebel soldier brought his weapon on line and jerked the trigger, sending his burst over the African’s head. Then a single pistol shot hit him over the heart, pitching him to the ground and it was over as swiftly as it had begun.

  Bolan pushed to his feet. He turned to the African. “My turn to say thanks.”

  The man smiled sheepishly. He looked at the pistol, holding it as if he wanted it to disappear. “It is a long time since I used one of these,” he said.

  “Where was that?”

  “I was in the army for three years. But I didn’t like the way it was being run. So I left.”

  “What do I call you?”

  “Jonah Okra.”

  “Glad you happened along, Jonah.”

  Okra looked at the dead men, then back at Bolan. “How does all this fit together?”

  “There’s a covert section in the military under Colonel Chakra working with the rebels. Trying to overthrow President Karima. The president’s kids were kidnapped by the rebels. They wanted to force him to step down. But the rebels were hit by the slave traders and the kids were taken by them. I’m working for Karima. My job was to get his kids back. Only it got complicated when I found out Chakra was involved.”

  “So you have Chakra hunting you while you hunted the slavers?”

  “Just about explains it,” Bolan said.

  Okra nodded in Randolph’s direction. “That is Karima’s son?”

  “He’s the one.”

  “How are you going to get him back to the city?”

  “Jonah, you know how to come up with the difficult questions.”

  “Well, I guess they need asking.”

  Bolan had to agree. His next move would be reuniting Randolph with his sister and then getting the pair back to Tempala City to their father.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a muted voice that appeared to be coming from where the dead sergeant lay. Bolan crossed to the body and crouched beside him. He realized the sound was issuing from a transceiver clipped to the man’s belt. Bolan took the transceiver and turned up the volume.

  “…in, Sergeant Masson. I need updating. Answer me, damn you!”

  In the background Bolan could hear the familiar throb of a helicopter’s rotors. Maybe he had found his way out after all.

  Bolan clicked to transmit. “Masson isn’t going to report. Nor are his men. You can come and bury them if you want.”

  “Who is that?” There was a hesitation, then, “Belasko? Is that Mike Belasko?”

  Bolan smiled across at Jonah Okra.

  “You have the advantage. Or do I make a stab in the dark and call you Chakra? Colonel, isn’t it? If I don’t have much respect in my voice it’s because you don’t warrant any.”

  “Is Masson dead?”

  “How do you expect to take over Karima’s position if these are the best men you can send? Chakra, if you want me, do it yourself. If you think you can.”

  Bolan cut the transmission.

  “Was that wise?” Okra asked.

  “Necessary. Chakra wants me and Karima’s children. He won’t be concerned about these people.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” Okra said. “We’ll take care of ourselves.”

  He began to call out instructions and a number of the adult men made their way across to where the
bodies lay and took the weapons and ammunition from them.

  “For now we will stay here. Until we decide what to do. At least we can defend ourselves.”

  Bolan realized it was the best option. He had freed the captives. Now they needed to move on, to establish their freedom.

  “If I can I’ll send help when this is over,” Bolan said.

  Okra shook his head. “You’ve already done so much for us, Belasko. You aren’t responsible for the rest of our lives.”

  Bolan brought Randolph from the fringes of the group. “We have to go,” he said. “Time to find Katherine.”

  The boy turned to look back at the mass of people. “Will they be safe?” he asked.

  Okra patted the boy’s shoulder. “Worry about yourself, Randolph Karima. Go and find your sister.”

  Bolan turned, leading the boy into the trees, away from the beach. He wanted to get them clear away. The boy trotted along beside him, silent. After a few minutes he reached up to take hold of Bolan’s left hand, gripping it tightly.

  THEY HAD BEEN TRAVELING for just over half an hour when Bolan picked up the sound of the helicopter. It was coming from the northeast. The sound rose and fell, finally becoming a steady beat that grew louder. The soldier moved in the general direction the aircraft was flying. The forest had thinned out and Bolan made for a generous clearing where the open ground would expose him.

  He pulled Randolph into the shadow of a wide tree trunk at the edge of the clearing. “Don’t move from here until I call for you. Understand, Randolph?”

  The boy nodded. He stared at Bolan, then asked, “Are these bad men?”