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  Xiblinti’s eyes narrowed as his attention turned to Bolan. “I ordered you not to speak. But it doesn’t matter.” Xiblinti moved fast, the machete flickering away from Douglas to become lodged under Bolan’s chin. Several of the soldiers sniggered, expecting to see an execution. Bolan braced himself, ready to grab the machete and turn it against its wielder, make a play for the Skorpion, then use it against the soldiers. Extremely risky but better than dying without doing anything.

  “I am sure that you were in the Army,” Xiblinti said, sneering. “I think you still are. The general is most interested in meeting with you before you die. And you will die. You will join the pig Samar in having his stomach exposed to the air.” Xiblinti removed the machete from Bolan’s throat and slapped the flat of the blade against his cheek. Xiblinti turned away and motioned to one of the soldiers, who shouldered his rifle and stepped forward, removing two pairs of metal handcuffs from his pockets. Bolan’s and Douglas’s hands were secured behind their backs.

  Xiblinti grinned or sneered at them, Bolan was unable to tell which, and pointed to the APC. The soldier who had just handcuffed them pushed them both forward with the barrel of his rifle. The meaning couldn’t have been clearer. They were frog-marched to the rear of the APC and shoved inside. Bolan maintained his balance as he was forced in, but Douglas fell face-first on the metal floor. He gasped from the pain of landing on his nose. One of the soldiers clambered in and began kicking Douglas in the ribs, all the while screaming at him.

  Bolan turned, ready to kick back, but was prevented from doing so by Xiblinti, who climbed in through the side door, squeezing past the legs of the gunner in the turret and pointing the Skorpion at Bolan. He indicated with the barrel that Bolan should sit in the rear on one of two wooden benches. Hissing something at the soldier beating Douglas, Xiblinti turned and entered the driving cabin, pushing past a large red leather chair.

  The soldier kicking Douglas stopped. Bending forward he lifted Douglas by his handcuffs, forcing the CIA man’s arms high up behind his back. Douglas screeched in pain, but it was lost as the APC engines thundered and shook to life. The soldier pushed him hard, over toward Bolan. Douglas straightened, banging his head on the metal roof. The soldier laughed, grabbed the man by the shoulders, twisted him around and forced him to sit on the wooden bench next to Bolan. Douglas gasped as he slammed down onto the bench, the back of his head impacting with the armored side of the APC.

  Douglas cursed as he bent forward, his face almost touching his knees. The soldier who had kicked him sat opposite, a large grin plastered across his face, clearly enjoying Douglas’s discomfort. A second soldier climbed in, pulling the crew hatch closed behind him. There was a moment of darkness before the interior cabin lights came on.

  The Ratel lurched forward as the soldier sat down, facing Bolan, their knees touching. The soldier stared at him, unblinking, safe in the belief that the two Westerners were subdued. Bolan ignored the soldier, turning to take in Douglas’s condition. The CIA agent raised himself so that his head was resting against the metal wall. Blood streamed down his face and onto his clothes. His nose was clearly out of alignment. The man’s eyes were closed tight. He winced every time the APC lurched, which was every few seconds.

  “Bet you wished you’d stayed behind now,” Bolan said. The two soldiers didn’t react to Bolan’s statement. They either didn’t understand English, or they just didn’t care what was said; the prisoners couldn’t do anything anyway.

  “What, and be disemboweled along with Samar and his son? No, thanks. But I am going to kill that scar-faced bastard.” Douglas spoke through red-stained gritted teeth. “I take it you have a plan for escape?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. He turned back to face the soldier and closed his eyes. He didn’t plan on escaping, not yet. He was too curious about where they were going. Another piece of the puzzle had landed at Bolan’s feet when Xiblinti mentioned “the General.” The same general as the one the oil surveyors had reported to? He figured that it had to be. There couldn’t be that many generals in so tiny a country. And they couldn’t be so far from their destination, either. The Ratel was covering the ground far faster than their van could have done. But where did the army fit in? Did the thugs they had encountered back in Djibouti City belong to the same group that had ambushed them earlier in the day? Were they in the employ of the general or were they another group altogether? Bolan knew that he was failing to connect the dots, that he was missing a large part of the puzzle. He could only hope that when they arrived at their destination he would find more answers.

  And not a firing squad.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Ratel jerked to a halt half an hour later. Xiblinti began issuing orders even as he shut down the engine. One soldier opened the hatch, the second soldier kept an eye on Bolan and Douglas. The soldier manning the turret gun lowered himself. Up until now, Bolan had seen only the man’s legs. In reality he was a carbon copy of the other two. Xiblinti ordered something, and the two soldiers began herding and pushing Bolan and Douglas outside into the fading daylight.

  Bolan allowed Douglas to lean on him; the CIA man was in a bad way. Bolan had no idea how hard Douglas had hit his head, but it had sounded awful at the time. Outside, the first soldier was joined by several more, all of whom kept their FAMAS rifles pointed at Bolan’s and Douglas’s faces. The Executioner glanced quickly around, taking in the surroundings.

  The Ratel was parked in the middle of a military camp; desert-camouflaged tents surrounded them. The site was based at the foot of a hill. Other Djiboutian soldiers milled around, all eyes on the two captives. Another APC was parked nearby, this one a four-wheeler. Bolan didn’t get chance to identify the make as he was pushed forward by a rifle butt in his back. Xiblinti appeared, leading the way to a large army tent where a guard was standing outside. Bolan and Douglas followed, prodded along by the soldiers. Xiblinti whispered something to the guard, who opened the tent flap slightly, coughed discreetly and muttered something to the occupant. A second later the guard turned and nodded at Xiblinti. The flap was held aside, and the two men were driven forward.

  The interior was opulent. Tapestries hung from the canvas walls. To Bolan’s left was a full-size bed, complete with duvets and cushions. Opposite was a broad oak desk, which would have cost several thousand dollars in America. A detailed map of Djibouti hung on the tent wall behind the desk. The only chair in the room was occupied by the largest man Bolan had seen in Africa in quite some time. The guy was huge in all directions; most of the bulk seemed to be made up of rolls of fat. The gargantuan man wore a parade military uniform, tailored to his girth, covered with medal ribbons. Adorning the man’s bulbous head was a red beret the size of a dinner plate; a gold badge peaked above the man’s left eye. Bolan knew he was looking at the general who had been mentioned so often in the past several days. Whoever he was, the man wasn’t going hungry like the rest of his countrymen. The general didn’t deign to look up from his desk, where he was pretending to study some paperwork.

  “Bouh,” Douglas muttered under his breath but not quietly enough. The general slowly looked up from the papers, staring at the two men brought before him. His lip curled back in disgust as he took in the CIA man’s bloody condition. Douglas swayed slightly. The general looked down at the captive’s feet, no doubt, Bolan thought, to make sure that no blood was dripping inside the tent. Douglas’s nose had stopped bleeding a short while before.

  Bouh snorted in contempt and turned his gaze to Bolan. The Executioner had no problem in returning the man’s stare. Bouh refused to back down, safe in the knowledge that he had several dozen men waiting nearby. Bolan decided to look away, allowing the general to think that he had won this little pissing contest. The general smiled thinly. Finally he spoke, a deep voice matching his size, with an underlying English accent that likely meant Bouh had received officer training in Britain.

  “So, Mr. Douglas of America’s CIA, I see you remember me from that silly function at y
our embassy a few months ago. I am honored.”

  Xiblinti hissed gleefully at the general’s mirth. Bouh raised a hand, a silent order to stop.

  “Tell me, Mr. Douglas, what happened to your face? You do not look so well.”

  A bead of sweat dribbled down Douglas’s face, leaving a stain through the accumulated dirt and grime. “I fell onto the gun Captain Xiblinti was holding. Then I fell onto my nose, then onto the boots of one of your soldiers. Then I banged my head and banged it again,” Douglas said.

  “Hmm, that was clumsy of you. Americans are clumsy people. But I see you have found a friend, a new friend after that unfortunate incident at the hotel. Terrible, terrible. Allow me to express my condolences at the death of your French compatriot. I am sure that the criminals responsible will be brought to justice soon.”

  “Are we your prisoners?” Douglas rasped. The dry blood and equally dry mouth prevented Douglas from speaking naturally.

  “Are you my prisoners? Mr. Douglas, you are amusing. You come here, dressed like soldiers, you carry all sorts of weaponry, you do deals with known smugglers and you shoot FRUD insurgents like it was—what is that irritating phrase?—oh, a walk in the park. I can only assume that you are spies. And I must say the uniform does not become you. You look uncomfortable in it. Whereas your very silent friend here does look very comfortable. Tell me, Mr. Blanski—yes, I know your name—tell me, what rank were you in your Army?”

  Bolan thought for a moment. The best covers always closely skirted the truth.

  “Sergeant,” he answered truthfully.

  “Really? So low? You possess extraordinary skills, I am told. Yet my friends in Camp Lemonnier can find out nothing about you. It is as if you do not exist, which leads me to conclude that you are some sort of Special Forces working for the CIA. You shoot up criminals in Djibouti City, you make amazing jumps onto speeding trains, you take out an ambush of nasty FRUD rebels, and you arrive in my country just after a piracy incident in our national waters. Really quite amazing, Sergeant.”

  “You didn’t answer Peter’s question, General,” Bolan said. “Are we prisoners?”

  “You are in no position to ask questions. However, we are going to keep you here. For your own protection. Safe, while we take care of those awful rebels that plague my country.”

  “And the American oilmen? Are they under your protection, as well?”

  A dark cloud crossed Bouh’s face for an instant, before the false jolliness returned. “Of course they are. Unfortunately Djibouti is a very dangerous country. The gentlemen from Mr. Trenchard are very safe. In fact, I was just working on a lease here to grant Trenchard exclusive oil rights in Djibouti. A deal that will be good for everybody.”

  “Including yourself.”

  “Mr. Blanski, you pain me. My only wish is to see Djibouti prosper, not to see its honest citizens die from thirst. And now you begin to bore me.” Once more the fake humor left Bouh’s face, only this time it stayed away. “So instead, let me tell you about your future. Do not worry. It will not be a long story. It seems that you were kidnapped by rebels, who then executed you as punishment for shooting their friends. Your bodies will be discovered by my men tomorrow. Of course, the rebels made you suffer first. You corpses will be found in the most appalling condition. Very hard to identify. Captain, take them to join the men they have spent so much time looking for. They can swap tales of woe that will make the Trenchard men even more compliant.”

  Xiblinti snapped to attention. “Outside!” he ordered Bolan and Douglas, while saluting the general. Bouh was inspecting the papers again, no longer interested in the two Americans.

  They were ushered from the tent by Xiblinti. It was already dark; the air felt slightly cooler. Douglas stood, wavering. When the Djiboutian captain pushed him forward, Douglas staggered, gasping, but managed to keep his balance. Bolan turned to face Xiblinti.

  “Do that again, and I’ll kill you here in front of your men, with my hands behind my back,” he said in a graveyard voice. Xiblinti sneered but took a step backward. Instead of following up on the challenge, he waved four soldiers over, issuing them orders. Once finished, he stepped in close to Bolan, staring him in the eye, completely unafraid of the iced look Bolan was giving him.

  “It is you who will do the dying, American. Very shortly. Very slowly.”

  One of the soldiers grabbed Bolan by his arm, leading him away. A second soldier stood back, rifle ready to fire. Douglas was given a similar treatment. They were led upward along a stony path, out of the camp, toward a dark hole in the side of the hill. A cave, Bolan realized. Two more soldiers stood by the opening, bookends for the darkness behind them.

  Bolan began to feel more than a little concerned. In a cave they would be trapped with only one way out. If Xiblinti was competent, then more guards would be placed at the mouth. Then there was Douglas. The Agency man was groaning and wheezing a lot, which probably meant broken ribs and possible concussion from the beating that he had taken. There was no way Bolan could effect an escape with an injured man in tow. But he couldn’t be left behind, either. And where would he escape to and how effective would he be? He had no idea how many Djiboutian soldiers were in the camp below, plus there were the two APCs that he had seen. Not to forget there was a helicopter gunship that could be called upon. And he currently had no idea what state the two oil prospectors would be in, though he was about to find out. The situation did not have a positive outlook to it.

  Bolan was forced to bend at the cave mouth as his head scrapped the hard rough rock. Douglas was shorter than Bolan, and so managed to stagger in, helped by a shove from an unsmiling soldier. They were pushed several yards into the darkness before they both suddenly fell forward, almost in unison, kicked in the back of the knees by their armed escorts. The cave floor was sand, lessening the impact. Bolan quickly rolled over, struggling to sit upright, with his hands behind his back. Douglas just lay there, moaning. Bolan could just make out the shapes of the soldiers as they exited. Otherwise it was pitch-black. Douglas groaned again.

  “Quiet,” Bolan said. “Get your wits together. We need to get out of this mess.”

  “Who’s there?” A voice spoke up from farther inside the cave, thin, weary. Bolan turned his head in that direction, even though there was nothing to see.

  “My name’s Mike. My friend on the floor is Peter. We’re journalists. Are you the guys from Trenchard?”

  There was a pair of yeses as another voice joined in. The second voice sounded. “Are they looking for us? Are we about to be rescued?”

  Bolan paused, then decided to tell the men the truth. It would serve no purpose, lying to them, and he needed answers. General Bouh was involved in something, and he needed to know what.

  “No, apart from us, nobody knows you are here. Sorry.”

  A disappointed silence fell, broken by Douglas’s agonized coughing.

  “Do you have any water?” Bolan asked. “I suspect that they broke his ribs.”

  “Yes,” the first man replied. “I have it here. A little. It’s all we’ve got. They don’t allow us very much.”

  “They’ve got our families,” the second man added.

  “Twohig, we’ll tell him in a minute.” There was scrabbling in the darkness, then, “I can feel the back of this man’s head. He needs to sit up.”

  “Peter,” Bolan ordered, “sit up.”

  “I…I can’t. My hands are cuffed” was the muted reply.

  “Then stay there and die. It’s your choice.”

  There was a long groan, followed by “I really am beginning to hate you,” followed by more groaning.

  Eventually Douglas had his back to the rugged wall. Fingers poked him in the face, found his mouth, pulled down on his chin. The rim of a cup was thrust clumsily into his mouth, and warm water was poured in. Douglas choked and coughed, and the cup was hastily pulled away. Once the spasm had stopped, the cup found his mouth again, and Douglas drank deeply. The cup was quickly emptied. Douglas put h
is head back against the stone, wincing when one of the many bruised lumps touched the cold side. He muttered a thank-you to the darkness.

  The cup was somehow refilled, and Bolan found it at his lips. He, too, drank, knowing that it would revitalize him for the action that he had in mind. But first some answers were needed.

  “What are your names?” he asked.

  “I’m John Sanner,” answered the man who had given him the water. “My colleague is Matt Twohig. He’s in bad shape.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He tried to run, but that scar-faced asshole caught him and beat him to within an inch of his life. He needs medical attention.”

  “Yeah, I’ve experienced Scarface’s friendliness,” Douglas said.

  “How long have you been here?” Bolan asked.

  “Well, I don’t know. We’ve been kept in here for what seems like years. I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep us alive. Not long, I think. There has been lots of activity outside the last couple of days. Tell me what you know, then I may be able to fill you in.”

  Bolan leaned back against the cave wall and thought about what he knew for a fact and what he suspected. “I suspect that Bouh is trying to pull some sort of coup, but I’m not sure where you fit in. A Frenchman your company hired was assassinated.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “And one of the two guides who brought you up here was also murdered.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “The other guide was still alive when we left him. We know you left the country, then came back. We know from the surviving guide that you communicated with General Bouh to inform him that there was no oil. Since the car bombing of the Waverley Hotel…”

  “There was a car bomb?”

  “Yeah, it was how they killed the Frenchman. Since the bombings, there have been several attempts to kill Peter and myself. Every time it seems like rebels are behind it, but I now think that Bouh has been prodding them into action. There have been unconfirmed reports that there is a group of mercenaries in the area, but we haven’t seen anyone yet.”