Jungle Hunt Read online

  Bolan shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. They’re spread thin as it is out here, and they simply don’t have the capacity to engineer something like this. They’d just charge in and kill the villagers themselves if that had been their goal.”

  Etienne digested this for a moment. “So you think the second group was behind the slaughter at the village?”

  “Right now, it’s the only theory that makes any sense, although I still don’t know why yet. The guerilla activity in the area has quieted down, although I’m aware of any number of factions that could erupt at any moment. But, the assault was done with a very specific goal in mind—eradicate anything moving.”

  Etienne gazed out the window at the dark jungle flashing by. “I had relatives there—cousins, but family regardless. The idea of someone just coming in and slaughtering them outright makes me want to…” His voice trailed off, and for a moment Bolan thought he might be crying. “It makes me want to kill whoever did this.”

  Bolan marked their position on his phone’s GPS program, then gunned the Rover’s engine, powering the SUV out of the ruts and over the side of the road. “Well, you just might get your chance. Looks like they’ve stopped about a mile up the road. We go in on foot from here.”

  Checking for jaguars or snakes both in the trees or on the ground, Bolan got out of the Rover and retrieved his M-4 from the back, checking the magazine and ensuring that the weapon was ready to fire. He also stuffed the two extra mags into his cargo pockets.

  Etienne armed himself with the Colt Commando carbine and a spare magazine. Bolan handed him a full canteen and took one himself. He also handed Etienne a stubby machete, keeping another, and one of the two smoke grenades he had taken from the dead mercenary. He grabbed his night-vision goggles, ensuring its small battery pack was fully charged.

  Etienne pulled back the cocking lever on the Colt, jacking a shell into the chamber. “I assume you’ve come up with a plan during the drive.”

  “Naturally, although it has a lot of risk. Basically, we’ll split up and approach through the jungle from separate directions. I’ll see if I can get Nancy and Elliot free, while you try to reach the 12.7 mm machine gun, then you can cover me until we get to the Urutu and drive right out of here.”

  Etienne nodded. “What happens if we’re discovered?”

  “If they open up on us, pop smoke and head back to the Rover. If you beat me there, set up a position that lets you see down the road, both ways if possible. I’ll disengage and follow behind. If I’m not back in ten minutes, I’m either dead or captured, and you’re on your own. If you get Nancy free, your primary mission is to get her and you out of here ASAP.”

  Etienne smiled again. “Which one of us gets the keys to the Rover?”

  Bolan tossed them to the short man, who caught the ring in one hand. “Better you take them, you’ll probably be able to withdraw more easily. Also, take this.” He tossed the other man his cell phone and earpiece. “It’s set to vibrate, just tap the earpiece to pick up the call. If you need to call me, just say Striker, go, and I’ll get buzzed.” Bolan pulled his night-vision goggles down over his eyes. “Ready?”

  Etienne inserted the earpiece and shoved the phone into his pocket. “Absolutely.”

  “All right. I’ve plotted the best course to the site, so I’ll take point—”

  “Actually, I think it’d be better if I took the lead. If we come across the team, I might be able to convince them to only capture me, but you—” he waved at Bolan in his mottled clothes and NVGs, making him look like an invader from some ill-defined but violent future “—you’d probably get shot on sight. Besides, I can clear a trail better than you.”

  Bolan had been about to protest that the thermal vision sensor in his headgear would alert him to any ambush, but closed his mouth and motioned at Etienne to go ahead. “Lay on, MacDuff.”

  “And damned be he that first cries, ‘hold, enough!’” the short man replied as he melted into the undergrowth.

  Bolan followed, assault rifle at the ready.

  23

  In his element again, Bolan followed the short man through the thick jungle with ease. Etienne moved like a brown wraith through the night-black forest, his machete flicking out to cut a vine or clear a branch with minimum effort, creating a well-defined but natural trail through the underbrush.

  Within ten minutes, they’d covered the ground between them and the enemy camp and crouched at the edge of a large clearing, Bolan turning off his goggles, as there was plenty of light to see by. He reached into a thigh pocket and took out the Semtex charge that he’d retrieved from the volunteer tent. They watched the activity in the clearing—camouflage-dressed men with slung rifles smoking and laughing as they relaxed. The guards looked professional, but Bolan spotted gaps in their circuits that he could exploit if necessary. He counted ten visible men and allowed for a possible half dozen more inside the rest of the tents.

  Switching his goggles to thermal vision, Bolan scanned the campsite again. “Nancy and Elliot are being held in that large tent at the back, on the far side opposite the generators,” Bolan whispered. “I’m going to circle around and plant this charge on the generators, then move to free those two. Save your night vision—the signal to move on the APC will be when I blow the charge.”

  “All right.” Etienne hunkered down to wait.

  “You want this?” Bolan offered his silenced pistol, butt first.

  Etienne shook his head and held up his razor-sharp machete. “I have my own silent weapon.”

  “All right. Remember, wait for the explosion.”

  “I will.”

  Bolan melted into the underbrush, machete in one hand, silenced pistol in the other. He didn’t hurry—it was obvious that the men weren’t going anywhere, and he needed to make sure that he wasn’t discovered until he could free Kelleson and Morgan.

  The clearing was large, and going around it took time, but eventually Bolan reached the generator hut. He used his Leatherman to unscrew a corrugated panel at the back, then slipped inside and set his charge on the main generator, making sure to disable the backup before leaving. He crawled out and replaced the panel, then headed for the large tent where Kelleson and Morgan were being held prisoner.

  Within minutes, he was behind the tent. Switching his night-vision goggles to thermal vision again, he saw two seated figures between two standing ones holding long black rifles. Two other people were in the tent, as well—a tall man who paced back and forth and a short man who was standing much too close to one of the seated figures. Bolan could hear voices from inside.

  “Look, mates, this can go down hard, or it can go down easy. You pick easy, you just tell us everything you know about what you saw. You pick hard, and we’re gonna find out everything you know anyway, it’s just gonna hurt a hell of a lot more. Now which will it be?”

  Bolan took a step back and raised his pistol, holding it steady in one hand, aiming at the standing guard on the left. With his other hand, he hit his sat phone, triggering the Semtex.

  There was a loud crack, and the entire camp was plunged into darkness. At the same time, Bolan squeezed the trigger on his pistol and saw the first guard go down. He quickly adjusted his aim to the second man and fired, taking him down, as well. Bolan dropped flat as a burst of automatic weapons fire stitched a row of holes in the back wall of the tent while confused shouting reigned inside as different voices struggled to restore order.

  Suddenly the figures inside were all moving chaotically, and Bolan was unable to make out friend from foe anymore. They all seemed to be leaving the tent, however—something he didn’t want to happen.

  Cutting around to the side, he saw a tall man in clean outdoor wear dragging Kelleson toward the APC, with a shorter man pushing Morgan ahead of him, as well. Gunfire erupted by the APC, m
aking the tall man panic and run. Suddenly free, Kelleson tried making a break for it, but was captured by one of the other mercenaries and brought back to the APC. Bolan lined up his pistol sights on the shorter man, but he disappeared around the side of the APC, with Morgan as his hostage.

  A figure appeared on the 12.7 mm machine gun and began blasting lead into anything that moved in the clearing, the heavy machine gun’s throaty roar drowning out other shouts and gunfire. Bolan hit the dirt as a stream of bullets blasted apart the tent he was hiding behind.

  Bolan unslung his M-4 and began taking out other enemies, putting them down with efficient bursts. In the back of his mind he was hoping Etienne was catching some of these shooters.

  The machine gun suddenly fell silent and Bolan glanced up to see that Etienne had disappeared from the open turret. The Urutu’s engine fired up, and the vehicle lurched forward, planning to use the clearing to turn around in.

  Slinging his rifle, Bolan waited until the APC was close to him, then launched himself at it, trying to stay out of the line of sight of the windows until he reached the back of the personnel carrier. He leaped up and grabbed the back edge just as the large vehicle took off, accelerating toward the narrow trail it had made in the rainforest. Bolan pulled himself onto the roof, flattening his body against it as the APC picked up speed. The driver hit the gas again, making Bolan lurch toward the back edge of the roof, bracing himself just before he would have fallen off.

  Checking his grenades, he found two smoke and one tear gas. His plan was simple: get to the top hatch, chuck all three inside and wait for the APC to stop. Once everyone inside spilled out, he would take all of them prisoner and sort out who was who later.

  The Urutu slewed back and forth on the narrow jungle road, impeding Bolan’s crawl toward the forward hatch. He was only a yard away when it flipped open, nearly crushing his fingers as it slammed into the roof. The muzzle of a Galil assault rifle poked out, inches away from his face. Bolan grabbed the barrel and wrenched it up and away from his head.

  “Feckin’ doos!” The small, wiry man Bolan had seen earlier popped through the opening, straining to line up the rifle with his enemy’s head and pull the trigger. The two men struggled for control of the rifle for several seconds, neither able to get an advantage. The man squeezed the trigger, his weapon erupted in flame and spitting lead.

  The merc suddenly leaned back, going with Bolan’s energy instead of resisting. Caught off guard, Bolan fell forward, but pushed off the roof and slammed into the man, with the rifle trapped between them. He tried to move it up under the man’s chin to choke him, but his opponent turned his head, letting the stock of the weapon scrape by his cheek. Still holding the gun by the grip, the shorter man’s left hand shot to his chest, drew a wicked-looking dagger and thrust it at Bolan’s stomach.

  Bolan threw himself to one side, the blade slicing his fatigue shirt as it passed. He grabbed the man’s knife wrist and twisted, trying to get him to drop the blade. Again they strained at both weapons, each attempting to get any edge he could. Bolan broke the stalemate by rearing his head back and slamming his forehead into the other man’s face, feeling his nose break under the blow.

  The mercenary shouted in pain and surprise, and Bolan used the distraction to haul himself back, releasing the knife hand but pulling on the rifle with all his strength. It popped free, but he staggered backward and fell on the roof as the Urutu slewed around a turn. Bolan’s hand smacked against the roof and the rifle popped out of his grasp, sliding over the side.

  “I’m gonna cut your ballas off and hang them on my wall, trilkop!” The man sprang out of the hatch and rushed at Bolan, whose hand shot down for the pistol on his hip, bringing it up to fire. Before he could line up his shot, the man lashed out with his booted foot, which connected with the pistol and sent it flying from Bolan’s tingling fingers.

  The man shook his head. “Not nice to bring a gun to a knife fight.” He flipped the knife in the air and caught it, the blade pointing down to slash or stab. “Come on, get up!”

  Bolan took his time getting to his feet, trying to come up with a plan that didn’t end with him getting impaled on the end of the other man’s knife. His rifle was still over his shoulder, but he knew he’d be dead before he could unsling it.

  His opponent stepped forward, the dagger dancing through the air in a prelude to an attack.

  Bolan stepped forward, as well, snapping his leg out in a hard, fast front kick to the man’s chest. With a strangled grunt, he dropped his knife and stumbled backward—right into the open hatch. Instead of falling straight through, however, one leg went in, and he tumbled back down the sloped windshield of the Urutu to fall in the dirt right in front of it. Bolan didn’t hear if he even got out a scream before the tires bumped over his body. He glanced back to see the mercenary’s rolling body skid to a stop in the middle of the dusty road.

  Turning back, he saw another guard inside the APC aiming a pistol at him through the hatch. Bolan hit the deck just as the guy fired, the bullets splitting the air where he had been a second earlier. Grabbing the tear-gas grenade, he yanked the pin and tossed it into the hatch, then followed it with both smoke grenades and slammed the top hatch shut just as the merc inside had put his hand on the edge to pull himself up. The high-pitched scream from inside was gratifying.

  “Don’t move!” The shouted command came from behind Bolan. Raising his hands, he turned to see another merc kneeling on the roof, his rifle pointing at Bolan’s midsection. “Put your hands on your head right now!”

  The gas should hit the driver right…about…now… Bolan braced himself and dropped to the roof as the Urutu suddenly braked hard. The merc was thrown forward, his rifle hitting the deck as he skidded toward Bolan. Grabbing the rifle barrel with both hands, Bolan jerked it out of the surprised guard’s hands, then jabbed the butt into his face, stunning him. Another smack knocked him off the top of the APC, completely unconscious.

  Bolan rose and stepped to the end of the Urutu, where coughing, choking figures staggered out of the vehicle. The camouflaged men waved their weapons around uselessly, unable to aim, or even see. Drawing his pistol, Bolan jumped down and went to work. Ten seconds later, all the remaining mercenaries were dead.

  Kelleson and Morgan also came out, coughing and hacking. Bolan grabbed a canteen from each of the guards and handed one to each of them, standing back as they poured the water over their faces.

  Morgan gargled a mouthful of water and spit it off to the side. “Kidnapped, beat up and teargassed, goddamn it! When I open my eyes, Cooper, you better be standing in front of me, and not some fucking local militia or rebels or something.”

  He cracked his swollen, red-rimmed eyes open, and Bolan returned the grateful smile. “What took you so goddamn long?”

  Bolan was about to reply when Kelleson interrupted him. “Hey, where’s the other guy—I think his name was Hachtman?”

  24

  Hachtman stumbled through the thick jungle, fending off low-hanging tree limbs and entangling plants with his arms. He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to put as much distance between himself and the people attacking the camp as possible. Once he was sure he’d lost them, he would figure out his next step.

  The instant he’d seen the machine gun open fire on the mercs, Hachtman had released Kelleson and run for the cover of the forest, practically falling into the foliage. The moment he hit the ground he was up and running, tearing off into the undergrowth before that bastard who’d killed Kapleron could spot him.

  As he slowed to a trot, Hachtman allowed a small smile to spread across his face as he remembered the surprised look on the mercenary’s face as the heavy machine gun had torn the camp apart. He would savor that runty bastard’s final expression for the rest of his life. Hachtman supposed that he owed whoever that man was his gratitude for removing that
annoying thorn in his side. It was just as well, he supposed, this way he wouldn’t have had to dress him down for accidentally capturing that oil company agent. However, he supposed, that also served its purpose. Perhaps he would be able to thank that man later—assuming, that is, that he got out of here in one piece.

  Stopping to catch his breath. Hachtman wiped his face with his sleeve and looked around, seeing nothing but thick, dark jungle in all directions. The situation was serious, but not critical, and Hachtman was not without resources. Pulling out his own sat phone, he accessed the web and pulled up his location, along with that of the nearest road, the one they’d been using for the past several days. It was roughly a half mile to the north-northwest and, using the electronic compass program in his phone, he determined the correct direction to go that would take him back to the road while minimizing his chances of running into his former prisoners.

  Hachtman’s tongue felt thick in his mouth, and he took out a small flashlight from a pocket of his vest and scanned for a water-bearing vine. When he saw one, he nodded in grudging acknowledgment at Kapleron’s insistence that all personnel at the complex undergo a one-day basic jungle survival course. Taking a penknife out of his pocket, he slashed the hanging plant open and drank the clear liquid that dripped out. Somewhat refreshed, he rechecked his direction and began walking, wanting to cover as much distance as he could.

  He trudged through the endless forest, his boots growing sodden and lumpy as they absorbed more water from the forest floor. He had been feeling his way along from tree to tree when he remembered the warnings they had all been given about snakes that lived in trees waiting for prey to walk by underneath. Suppressing a shudder, he decided to find a reptile-free tree to climb and wait until morning.

  He was looking around for a suitable tree when he felt a sudden, crushing weight land on his shoulders, bearing him to the ground. Sharp, agonizing needles of pain stabbed through his shoulders and buttocks, and Hachtman felt hot breath, redolent of rotting meat, on the back of his head.