Rogue Force Read online

  A rear door of the car was opening. Briones scrambled inside. The dome light showed two more faces. The driver was a blonde, perhaps American. The second man had dark hair, Anastasio could see that much, but then his features were obscured by Briones's silhouette.

  Ruiz exploded from the doorway, sprinting after them, bent low to make himself a smaller target if they saw him coming. He wouldn't attempt to stop them, but the dark sedan was moving now, and he had no means of identifying them for future reference. If he could just get close enough, before they pulled away…

  At thirty yards, he knew it was a rental, branded with a sticker in the window. Twenty yards, and he was close enough to read the license plate, already dropping to a crouch against the curb, committing it to memory as they accelerated and disappeared around the corner.

  Strange, indeed. The meeting might not be incriminating in itself — a number of the Contras ran illicit operations on the side, returning portions of their income to the movement — but the rental plate would be worth checking out. He wouldn't do the job himself, but there were ways. Too late for any action now, but in the morning…

  In the morning, yes, Ruiz would have a word with Travers and put the wheels in motion. If Rosario Briones had a secret, it would soon be placed beneath a microscope for all the world to see.

  16

  They had been stalking Bolan since an hour after sunup. Of the four who had started out on the hunt, he had eliminated only one. Four hours. At this rate it would take all day to clear his backtrack, if they didn't tag him first. He checked his weapon, counted four rounds left, together with the extra load. It ought to be enough if he conserved his ammunition and chose his targets carefully.

  The forest was alive with rustling sounds and dancing shadows, tempting him to fire on anything that moved. It would be easy to expend his small supply of ammunition, but experience in jungle fighting had prepared him for the wait. If they were looking for him, they would find him; he had left a subtle trail designed to lure his pursuers into range. It had already worked with one of them, and it would work again unless they saw through Bolan's strategy. Unless they took him by surprise somehow.

  The jungles of Honduras brought back vivid memories of Vietnam. The latitude and climate were enough like Southeast Asia that the countries could have passed as twins, until you met the natives. Even then, there were dramatic similarities: the prevailing agricultural economy; uneven distribution of wealth; pervasive poverty afflicting the majority of citizens; a history of military occupation. Dialects and racial strains might differ, fauna might not coincide, but the Honduran peasant would be quick to understand his Asian counterpart if they were ever face-to-face.

  Just now, the forests brought back other memories, of being hunted by a killer force intent upon the Executioner's destruction. Bolan had been through it time and time again. He had survived thus far by virtue of the fact that he had never taken survival for granted. If the Executioner knew anything, he knew you had to work at living in the hellgrounds, every day and every minute. If you let your guard down, you were finished, and the jackals would be gnawing on your bones.

  Perched above the game trail, lying prone along a massive limb, concealed by leaves and vines, he heard the hunters coming. One of them, at least, had found his trail. The man was moving stealthily, employing every trick he knew, and he was almost good enough.

  Almost.

  At twenty yards the soldier knew for certain that his adversary was alone. He couldn't see the hunter yet, and Bolan spent another moment making sure that the others weren't flanking him. Clearly they had separated, opting for a sector search that let them cover ground in shorter time. It also left them vulnerable, as the new arrival was about to learn.

  Ten yards, and now he knew that it was Steiner on his trail, a thatch of Nordic wheat protruding from beneath his green beret, the cold blue eyes intently scanning Bolan's track. The guy was good. He hadn't missed a trick so far, remaining on the scent like a determined bloodhound. There was no way Steiner could have known he had already blown it, that the Executioner had traveled arrow-straight for fifty yards beyond his present vantage point, then doubled back along a different course to take up his position in the trees. There were no clues for Steiner to interpret, nothing to alert him as he did the only thing he could do.

  Bolan let the hunter pass directly under him, content to watch and reassure himself that there would be no reinforcements closing in to box him when he made his move. The trail behind his adversary was deserted, and he couldn't hear any sounds of parallel pursuit on either side.

  He rolled out and dropped ten feet to make a perfect touchdown on the forest floor. Already in a crouch and sighting into target acquisition, he was squeezing off as Steiner spun to meet his doom. A single round exploded in the hunter's face, erupting in a crimson shower, speckling the jacket of his camouflaged fatigues.

  "You're dead," the Executioner informed him, rising from his crouch. "Go home."

  "Goddamn it, I was sure I had you." Steiner grinned through lips and teeth made hideous by Bolan's killing shot. The air gun's pellet, filled with paint, was soft enough to burst on impact, but it must have stung in any case. The soldier rubbed his cheek with one hand, smearing phony blood on face and fingers, then withdrew a mourner's armband, hoisting it around his sleeve to indicate a walking corpse. "I'm out of here," he said, good-naturedly. "We'll catch you at the rendezvous."

  "So long."

  The game had been proposed by Jason Rafferty at breakfast, following their confrontation with the street toughs in Tegucigalpa's red-light district. Bolan and a couple of the others had been tied down with assignments for the afternoon, but they had wriggled out next morning on the pretext that their game was a survival training exercise. Aware that he was being tested, Bolan had gone along with Rafferty's suggestion that he play the fox against four hounds.

  "We used to have a couple of other guys who liked to play," the sergeant had informed him, "but they had an accident. The fatal kind."

  "Tough break."

  And standing in the forest clearing, Bolan could recall the sergeant's total absence of emotion as he had shrugged it off. "They come and go," he'd said, and that had been the end of it.

  There had been suspicions that the others might have found him out somehow. If they knew of Bolan's mission, if Brognola's allies back in Wonderland were playing both sides of the fence, he was as good as dead. The game would offer Rafferty and friends a perfect opportunity to silence him, with only minor questions if an accident should suddenly befall the new boy. He thought of going armed with more than just a pellet gun, but finally discarded the idea and settled for the Ka-Bar on his belt. If one of them was packing, he would have to deal with it as best he could. Thus far his fears hadn't been realized.

  And it was time for the Lambretta fox to teach the hounds precisely what it felt like to be hunted. They would be expecting him to run, or stand and fight if he could find a suitable redoubt, but they wouldn't be braced for a reversal of the roles that Rafferty had chosen. Bolan would be "it," but with a difference; he would be pursuing his pursuers, doubling back to hunt them down like animals.

  Bolan started working back along a path that paralleled his former trail. He took his time, preferring silence to the extra speed he could gain by throwing caution to the wind. Whatever else they might be, Bolan's adversaries were professionals, and they would seize upon his smallest error. If he was to win their trust and admiration, it was necessary that he win this game with no holds barred. Annihilation was the ticket, even if it was a simulated slaughter this time out. Next time, he knew, the circumstances might be decidedly more deadly.

  Half an hour later, Bolan spotted Broderick. The trooper had declared a unilateral time-out, relaxing with his back against a tree trunk, smoking. Bolan did a silent recon, making certain that he wasn't being suckered, with Rafferty waiting somewhere to effect the kill. In fact, it seemed that Broderick was simply taking five, relying on the fox to
be away and running while he broke formation. It was careless, and it said a lot about the man. It was about to get him killed.

  Bolan noted the pistol in his adversary's lap before he made his move. He knew that Broderick would respond efficiently to any sign of danger, and he also knew that lag time would prevent the guy from making it in time. Without a miracle to tip the scales, it would be virtually impossible for Broderick to defend himself against an ambush. Bolan had the firm advantage of surprise… until he showed himself.

  Before he cleared the wall of ferns and creepers, Bolan's adversary was already scrambling to his feet, the cigarette forgotten, both hands digging for the weapon in his lap. Before he had a chance to line it up, a crimson pellet spattered on his forehead, staining his beret and blinding him with dye. He stumbled on a root and sat down hard, rough knuckles grinding at his eyes until they cleared.

  "What kinda shit-ass trick is that?" he growled.

  "The kind that wins. You're dead," the Executioner reminded him.

  "Some kinda smartass," Broderick muttered, but he pulled the mourning armband on, retrieved his weapon and moved toward the game trail in a sulk. "Raff's gonna drop you, guy."

  "We'll see."

  Three down, and one remaining in the bush. DiSalvo and his sidekick, Steiner, had been trackers, homing in on Bolan's trail while Broderick had opted to relax and sit it out. If Bolan read the sergeant right, he would be working on another angle of attack. If he had double-timed, for instance, he could be ahead of Bolan now, expecting company along the trail. It would be an audacious move, and risky: if he stayed in place, "Lambretta" might not pass his way, and if he put himself on roving stakeout, they could miss each other just as easily.

  It would be Bolan's task to guarantee they didn't miss each other. He would have to find the sergeant's trap and spring it, with enough room left to turn the setup around and make it work against his adversary. It would be simple. Just like falling off a cliff.

  Reloading, Bolan mulled over the countless possible locations for an ambush. The whole damned forest was a hiding place, but Rafferty wouldn't be trying to conceal himself so much as he would be intent on flushing out his prey. His choice would have to be a relatively obvious position… obvious to Bolan as a "safe" retreat, that is. The sergeant would be courting disappointment if he hid himself too well, because no one was looking for him.

  Bolan finally opted for the trail he had been following throughout the day. There had been ample time for Rafferty to cover ground and find himself a hiding spot, waiting for the fox to make himself available. He might have counted on "Lambretta" setting up an ambush of his own, eliminating one or more of the pursuers prior to moving on. If true, it meant the sergeant was prepared to sacrifice his men if it would help him draw the winning hand. It wasn't the strategy they taught at Benning, but his quarry wouldn't pass for average or normal in the Special Forces. Thousands of the Green Berets were dedicated to their country, prepared to die in her defense. Of those thousands, half a dozen had apparently gone sour at the urgings of an overwrought commander whose dreams were nibbling away at hard reality.

  The fault wasn't with Special Forces, Bolan knew. It lay with General McNerney and his handful of superiors, men who should have been removed from office years ago. Somewhere along the line those men had lost the meaning of America, her Constitution and the Bill of Rights. They had presumed to think and act for every man and woman in the nation, and along the way they had seduced accomplices who shared their hopes and fears, their paranoia.

  It was Bolan's job to stop them, but he had to start with Rafferty. Right now.

  The trail ran serpentine for fifty yards, then straightened on the downslope toward a river. When he heard the water, Bolan knew instinctively that he had found his man. Not literally, of course… but Rafferty was there. He felt the sergeant's presence, just as the predatory cat sometimes feels its prey.

  But this rat wouldn't budge until Bolan showed himself and offered his quarry a target. He could search the trees and riverbank for hours, days, without discovering the sergeant's hiding place, but if he seemed to let his guard down, then Rafferty would come to him.

  There was a possibility that Bolan's prey would simply cut him down from ambush and emerge from cover only once the kill had been confirmed. It was the cautious way to go… but Bolan didn't read his adversary as a cautious man. The sergeant would be eager for a taste of blood by now, albeit artificial blood. He would surmise from Bolan's presence that the others had been circumvented or eliminated, and he would be anxious to redeem the honor of his team. But most of all, he wouldn't like to lose.

  It would require split-second timing, and Bolan would be hampered by the fact that Rafferty could strike from any of a hundred hiding places, firing before the Executioner could take evasive action. Somehow he would have to see it coming, give himself the edge required to take his adversary down without himself becoming a statistic of the game.

  He broke from cover, edging down the riverbank, pretending relaxation that he didn't feel. He held the air gun casually, its muzzle pointed toward the ground as if an ambush was the last thing on his mind. The warrior's combat senses were alert to any hint of sound or movement in the undergrowth, prepared to strike.

  He knelt beside the stream and pretended to examine muddy soil for traces of his quarry, knowing Rafferty wouldn't be fool enough to leave his prints behind. The soldier drew a breath and held it, straining to hear anything beyond the pulse drumming in his ears.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker accompanied by the whisper of a weapon rising and brushing through the overhanging ferns. He kicked back, rolling clear as Rafferty squeezed off, imagining that he could feel the pellet brush his cheek before it plopped into the stream, imparting murky color to the water. As he pivoted to bring his adversary under fire, he slid the air gun out to full extension and squeezed off at speed until the magazine was empty. Ferns and tree trunks speckled crimson, like the figure rising out of cover, smiling through a mask of camou war paint.

  "You got lucky, man." The recent corpse was checking out his "wounds," a smear of paint across one shoulder and another on his thigh. "Rules say a solid hit is fatal, period. If this was all for real, I'd still be after you."

  If this was all for real.

  "Sometimes the rules are helpful," Bolan told him.

  "Sometimes," Rafferty agreed. "But most times they're just in the way."

  They walked back to the rendezvous in silence and found the others waiting with their camou paint and stage blood cleaned away. When they were all assembled, Broderick produced a six-pack and the cans were passed around.

  "You did all right," DiSalvo said.

  "All right? He took us all," the sergeant interjected.

  "Some kinda fucking Jap or something, sneaking up that way," Tim Broderick growled.

  "Will you grow up?" Kurt Steiner's voice and glare were withering. "You think he's gonna send a telegram ahead?"

  "He cheated!"

  "Shit."

  "Will you guys can it?" Rafferty had moved to stand between them like a referee. "We're not out here to argue with each other, okay? Let's stick to business. And for future reference, Tim, I felt like taggin' you myself, the way you had yourself laid out. This wasn't supposed to be a fuckin' bivouac."

  He turned toward Bolan, leaving Broderick to fume alone. "I'll tell you right up front. I've had a look inside your file."

  "That's confidential," Bolan answered, hoping that he looked surprised.

  "I didn't say I took an ad out, man. Let's say I was interested in your background, okay?"

  "How come?"

  "We're into something here that's gonna make a difference for the future, for America. We had a coupla other guys, but they got tagged while they were in the field. We're looking at a deadline now, and we could use another hand."

  "You don't give much away."

  "We can't afford to, man."

  "What kind of operation are we looking a
t?"

  "The details aren't important now. Let's say we're setting up Ortega and his Sandinistas, fixing things so Uncle Sam will have a prime excuse to kick some ass."

  "What makes you think that I'd be interested?"

  "I told you, man, I've seen your file. Remember Thailand? Hell, you shoulda had a freakin' medal for the way you tracked those zipperheads to Laos, but they hit you with a reprimand instead. Don't tell me that it doesn't frost you, either, 'cause I've been there. And I know about the rest of it — at Benning, in your classes, all of that reeducation work you've done in bars and honky-tonks. I've been there, man."

  "I'll need more details on the operation."

  "When you're on the inside, man. Right now, it's need-to-know."

  "Hey, Raff, forget this guy."

  "Shut up, Tim!"

  Bolan glanced at Broderick and read the animosity behind his eyes. The soldier was a rotten loser, and he obviously held a grudge. He might be perfect as a human wedge between the other members of McNerney's fire team. Once the shooters were taken out of action, he would have the time to deal with their superiors.

  "Suppose I pass?" he asked the sergeant.

  Rafferty was deadpan. "We forget the whole damned thing," he said. "You've got no evidence against us. We're home free. Let's say I trust you not to squeal."

  Like hell. If Bolan passed the offer now, he could expect to play the game of fox and hounds again, this time for stakes of life and death. He wondered whether Charbonneau had been approached, if he had turned the plotters down, but it was futile speculation and he gave it up at once.

  The Executioner didn't intend to turn the offer down. He had been looking for precisely such a handle on his mission. Whatever happened afterward, he would be going in with both eyes open, braced for anything.

  "Okay," he said. "I'm in."