Eternal Triangle Read online

  The Buick was a four-door. He put the Executioner in back, let him stretch out on the seat as best he could. Later he would have to swab the vinyl clean of bloodstains, but for now the soldier would be out of sight of any passing cruiser on the street. When Weatherbee got in behind the wheel, he stared at his hands a moment, amazed that they were steady, firm.

  That proved he was insane. A psycho had the strength of his convictions, and his mama kept him from feeling fear. Al Weatherbee was crazy, by God. And he would not have had it any other way.

  He fired up the Buick and cut a tight 180 in the middle of the street as the sirens grumbled into silence two blocks over. He could hear the reinforcements in the distance, but the early uniforms were on the scene now, closing in on Tarantella's place. With luck, they would be there long enough for him to slip away.

  With luck.

  But he had used up all his luck already, and he was spinning out his life on borrowed time from this point on. No matter how you tried to talk your way around it, his passenger was sheer catastrophe.

  Weatherbee was not worried that Bolan would retrieve his Uzi from the floor and slam a burst between his ears. That was not the soldier's style, and in any case, he was too far gone to fight. The trouble would come later, from police… and possibly from elsewhere. Members of the local family would be out for Bolan's head and would spare no effort, no expense, to track him down. What made the former chief of homicide believe that he could shelter Bolan from the best — and worst — each side could muster.

  Never mind. His immediate problem was to get the soldier safely home and tend his wounds. He would need a story for his wife, to explain why he was risking everything they had together, risking life itself to help a wanted criminal escape from the police.

  She would not understand, of course, any more than Weatherbee himself completely understood. But she would stand beside him.

  She was his strength… and she could be his weakness, too. He was endangering her life by taking Bolan home, and yet…

  He had no choice. It all came back to that.

  His destiny was intertwined with Bolan's now, and there was nothing he could do to free himself. Whatever happened, they were in the shit together, all the way.

  17

  The jungle stretched forever, thick, impenetrable. Overhead, the sun was shining on the treetops, but its light was filtered, muted into twilight in the forest world below. In a few more hours, it would be too dark for human eyes. Already some nocturnal predators were stirring from their daytime slumber, yawning, stretching muscles, making ready for the nightly hunt.

  Mack Bolan knew the jungle by its sights, its sounds, its smells. The steamy forest was familiar to him from a hundred sorties against the Cong and countless penetrations to gather intelligence. The daytime darkness did not frighten him, and he paid no heed to the stirrings of the evening predators. His eyes were accustomed to the jungle darkness, and he would find his way by touch if necessary, pressing on until his mission was fulfilled.

  As he had so many times before, the Executioner was hunting human prey. It troubled Bolan that he could not remember the target; left with only fleeting mental images, he wondered if it would be possible to make the strike on schedule, without endangering the innocent. But something in his gut told him he would know when he found his prey. It troubled him, also, that he could not identify the jungle. It was not Vietnam, he knew that, although the heat and the density of the tangled undergrowth equaled the worst that Asia had to offer. South America, perhaps? Or Africa?

  Strangest of all, he was naked, his pale skin vulnerable to thorns and biting insects. With that realization the soldier knew he must be dreaming. How else would he embark on a mission that was clearly suicidal, seeking unknown prey in unknown territory? It was the stuff of nightmares, but the jungle fighter could not wake himself. He might be hunting for the government — whose government? — or on his own behalf, but either way, his enemy would be the same.

  Mack Bolan recognized the spoor of savage man, his track in primal mud, his unmistakable aroma clinging to the undergrowth. He would track him to the farthest corners of the earth to complete his mission.

  Bolan moved along the trail, heedless of the vines that tangled underfoot and thorny branches reaching out to stroke him, leeches dropping from the foliage overhead to fasten on his naked flesh and gorge themselves with blood. No time to stop and pick them off. His prey was closer now. Any moment and…

  Bolan froze, sensing something on the trail behind him. Turning swiftly, he squinted through the gloom, unable to detect the maker of a sound that had been scarcely audible. The Executioner was sure there had been movement, and the way his skin was crawling told him he was being scrutinized by hostile eyes.

  A dream. It's just a dream.

  No matter, Bolan braced himself for the assault. After several seconds, he wondered why the enemy had not made a move. Bolan was defenseless, save for hands and feet. His adversaries might not find a better time to take him.

  But they waited, biding time, lurking invisible in the shadows of the forest. Taunting Bolan with their presence. Forcing him either to turn his naked, unprotected back, or let his own quarry slip away.

  Bolan let them see his back as he continued following the trail, expecting the hunters to strike with bullet, blade or claw. When he had covered fifty yards, he knew they meant to follow him instead, prolong the game and see if they could cheat him of his quarry.

  Fair enough. The Executioner had played that game before, and he was still alive. Or was he?

  Concentrating on his quarry, Bolan did his best to purge the lurking apprehension from his mind. If he was being stalked, the predators would choose a time and place to show themselves. He would be ready for them when they came, or he would die. It was that simple.

  Sure.

  Unless, of course, he was already dead.

  The jungle cleared a little in front of Bolan, and he heard rushing water just ahead — a river, by the sound of it. He wriggled through the clinging undergrowth, aware of creeping things, rodents or reptiles, scuttling away on either side. The trees gave way to muddy slopes, and Bolan stood on the riverbank.

  No ordinary river, this. The water was a swirl of reddish-brown as if from mud or silt. Bolan had to look twice to realize that it was blood. From where he stood, the Executioner could see bloody footprints on the opposite bank, leading away toward the trees.

  The bloody current was not swift, but too murky to judge its depth. A careless wader might be overwhelmed before he made it halfway to the other shore. He did not know if he could ford the channel of blood… but someone had done so and was not far ahead of him. The crimson footprints were not yet dry.

  He stepped into the sanguine current, clinging to an overhanging branch, unmindful of the thorns that pierced his palm. The blood was thick and warm, like gravy. Letting go the branch, he took a cautious stride, the river bottom slick and treacherous. Beneath the ooze, he felt a layer of rounded stones. Or were they skulls, embedded in the sludge of centuries?

  The blood was rising past his knees now, lapping at his groin. It felt like a thousand sticky fingers tugging his body, urging him to let the current have its way and carry him downstream. It would be easy to relax, accept the warmth and simply float until the last of conscious thought deserted him and he was swept away, insensible, along the jungle's pulsing lifeline. Easy…but the memory of his mission made the Executioner resist.

  He felt the hostile eyes again and turned too quickly, almost lost his footing. Unbalanced for an instant, Bolan missed the chance to see his nemesis. The silent jungle mocked him with its shadows.

  So near, and yet…

  He almost screamed as something brushed his thigh. Turning more cautiously this time, he saw the floating shape — a log? — drift out of reach and out of sight around the nearest bend. A glance upstream revealed other shapes carried lazily on the current toward him. Bolan waited there, midstream, tepid blood around his hips, and
let the floating shadows overtake him.

  The nearest almost passed him when he caught it, tangling his fingers in a growth that felt like Spanish moss, and pulled it close. The shape was hauntingly familiar. Part of Bolan's mind cried out to him to let it go before he learned the secret. Stolidly the soldier forged ahead, both hands immersed in blood as he rolled over the piece of flotsam to reveal a human face. The eyes were open, filmed with blood.

  The thing he had snared was his father's face.

  The soldier cried out and staggered as he lost his balance and went down on one knee. The blood swirled up around his chest, spattering his face and shoulders as he struck about him with his hands, attempting to dispel the image of his father's gaping face, awash in crimson. Closing on him now, propelled by a swifter current, the other human-shaped logs revealed faces from his childhood, from his endless war. The soldier recognized a gathering flotilla of his enemies: Gambella, Frenchi, Marinello and Matilda. Nightmare faces, yawning at him, struggling to speak, their voices strangled, full of blood.

  A rumbling upstream, as if the floodgates had been opened, and he felt the current gathering momentum. Bolan saw the river choked with corpses, packed together like a human logjam, twisted faces pointing skyward. Something in him snapped. He scrambled to his feet, unmindful of the treacherous footing, the blood around him, as he thrashed toward the bank and sanctuary.

  With a dozen strides remaining, Bolan fell headlong, and was immersed in blood. The stuff was in his eyes and ears; he dared not take a breath for fear that he would swallow some of it, and thereby swallow part of them. A skull collided with his hip, another butted against his ribs, and suddenly the lifeless hands were clutching him, struggling to hold him under, drown him in the river of blood.

  Again, for one eternal instant, Mack Bolan wondered if he had the right to turn away from death. It would be easy to find a place among the dead and let them carry him along…

  The soldier's mission called him, and he broke the surface, gasping, beating the hands that tried to pull him down. His fingers found a purchase on the river bottom, digging into empty eye sockets, clinging to the polished skulls, using them to drag himself toward shore. As Bolan reached the muddy bank, he wriggled forward, calling up the desperate reserves of energy that had occasionally served him in the past. A few more yards, a few more moments, and he would be clear.

  Dead hands gripped his ankles, talons digging in and reaching higher, for his calves, his thighs. He twisted over onto his back, tried to dislodge the creature with a kick, but his legs were immobilized. The man-thing's head and shoulders were above the surface, the face leering at him, features too far gone for recognition. It was crawling slowly, painfully ashore, using Bolan's naked body as a ladder, snapping yellow, twisted teeth, the raisin eyes intently focused on his groin.

  Bolan's blindly groping fingers found a tree root, worked it free of earth and brought it crashing down across the skull of his cadaverous assailant. In the microsecond prior to impact, Bolan saw his bludgeon was not wood after all, but bone. It was the femur from a human skeleton.

  Brutally he smashed the long bone down across the head and face of his attacker. Again, and yet again. The bone splintered in his hands, and still he hammered his enemy until the clutching fingers gradually lost their grip, the twisted form retreated, yielding to the bloody current, and was gone.

  Bolan lay for several moments on the bank, a livid scarecrow painted crimson head to toe. Then, exhausted, he struggled to his feet and turned to face the jungle. Suddenly a human figure emerged from the shadow of the trees. Startled, he took a backward step, caught himself before he came too near the bloody river. The shadowy figure spoke to him, and Bolan was surprised to find he understood the language.

  "I've been waiting for you."

  One more step, and he could see the figure's face. It was important to him to see it, for something in the voice had touched a tender chord of recognition. Something…

  One more step, and Bolan recognized the face of April Rose.

  He moved to wrap his arms around her, and she stopped him with an outstretched hand. He recognized the old, familiar hunger in her eyes, but there was something about her attitude, a distance or reserve, with which the Executioner was not familiar.

  "April." It was all he could think of, all he could say.

  "You shouldn't be here yet," she told him almost sadly. "Mack, it isn't time."

  "I'm here," he answered, trusting in the obvious to make her understand.

  The lady shook her head, implacable. "Not yet."

  "I've missed you," Bolan said.

  "People leave. You can't hang on."

  "I can."

  She smiled and shook her head again. "Let go."

  "Goddammit, April…"

  Bolan took a step in her direction, reached for her. Again she raised her hand, palm outward, pressed against his chest. She did not strike him, but the Executioner was staggered by a sudden hammer blow beneath his heart. He toppled backward, sprawling, felt his consciousness fade.

  From somewhere high above him, bending to touch him like a specter from a fever dream, the figure that was and wasn't April traced the outline of his cheek with one soft hand.

  "Goodbye."

  And she was gone.

  The soldier had no sense of passing time to know how long he lay there on the muddy riverbank, but he was conscious, suddenly, of a noisy splashing in the river behind him. Reluctantly he struggled to his knees and faced the bloody torrent, found that it had slowed again, the jam of bodies cleared away.

  A solitary shape had surfaced and was floundering toward shore. A man this time, instead of animated carrion, with dark hair plastered to his skull by blood, his naked chest and shoulders streaming crimson rivulets. The soldier knew his adversary, smelled him from a distance, rose to his feet before the enemy.

  His adversary reached the riverbank and came ashore on hands and knees, remaining on all fours just long enough to shake himself like a dog, before he rose. The words he spoke were April's, but the voice was something else entirely.

  "I've been waiting for you."

  Sure. Bolan recognized the truth of that immediately, even as he recognized the bloody face.

  The face that was his own.

  18

  Bolan sat bolt upright in bed, or tried to, but the pain defeated him. He lay back, eyes and teeth clenched tightly for a moment, waiting for the first debilitating wave to pass. The worst of it was in his side and shoulder, but a separate white-hot brand was pressed against his thigh an inch or two above the knee.

  With pain came clarity of thought, and Bolan pushed away the hazy residue of fever dreams to concentrate on here and now. He knew the source of his discomfort, vividly recalled the hostile gunner's strafing run, the bullets snapping all around him, ripping through his flesh. Somehow, against the odds, he was alive… but countless questions were still unanswered in his mind.

  For openers, where was he? Survival meant that someone must have found him, scooped him up and carried him away. He had a fleeting memory of being helped to stand, of leaning on another, with his arm around broad shoulders, but the images were fragmentary and disjointed. He must have been discovered by police, for the soldiers of his adversary would have killed him on the spot. And yet the room in which he found himself bore no resemblance to the prison ward of a hospital.

  Despite the semidarkness, Bolan could see paintings on the walls, a window opposite his bed with curtains drawn. The bedroom furniture was solid, homey, not institutional. The sheets that covered him to his waist were a cheery floral print, and the bedspread was embroidered, possibly by hand. As Bolan turned his head toward the door to seek the source of filtered light, he noticed carpeting on the floor.

  No hospital featured such accommodations; the soldier knew he must be in a private home. The knowledge did not put his mind at ease, by any means. While Bolan's unknown hosts had plainly saved his life, controlled his bleeding, bound his wounds, he ha
d no way of judging what the future held. If he had not been captured by the Tarantella forces, then there was a wild card in the game, and wild cards could be the deadliest of all.

  His dream came back to him in bits and pieces, gradually making the progression into conscious memory. The soldier thought of April, as she had appeared within his nightmare, and instinctive, painful loss was tempered by an unaccustomed feeling of relief. He felt almost as if an ancient wound was healed at last, familiar pain remembered now instead of reexperienced with each new day.

  It wasn't Bolan's time to die, not yet. Survival was a privilege rather than a curse, and if the Executioner intended to survive, he had to start immediately, with the problems that confronted him. He must meet his hosts and take their measure, read their intentions, and respond accordingly. If there was danger here, he would be forced to stall for time until his strength returned and he had mastered the pain. Aside from being injured, he was naked, in no condition to assert himself. A break, if one was called for, had to wait.

  He began by taking stock of his condition, sorting out the trivial discomforts from the pain of battle wounds, evaluating his ability to fight at need. Reclining in the bed, he tensed each arm and leg in turn, surrendering reluctantly when thigh and shoulder wounds demanded to be left alone. The pain in his side had settled to steady, rhythmic throbbing, keeping time with his accelerated pulse.

  The bandage on his shoulder looked professional. He pried one corner loose to glimpse the damaged flesh beneath. Someone had cleaned the wound and stitched it, swabbing the area with bright merthiolate to halt infection. Bolan recognized the sutures as commercial thread and knew there would be more pain when they were pulled. But he had lived with worse before and would doubtless live through worse again.