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  When he was gone, Abner told Mercy, “Please forgive me.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “None of this would be happening, except for me. I brought us here and all for what?”

  “To serve—”

  “My ego,” he said bitterly. “What have I done for anyone besides myself?”

  “The mission, Abner. We—”

  “Not we,” he interrupted. “I trapped you into this. The only woman I’ve ever loved, and now you’re here, about to die. Because of me.”

  “We can’t give up,” she answered. “Trust the Lord.”

  Abner swallowed the first retort that came to mind and forced a smile. “You’re right, of course,” he said, but he only half believed it. He could feel his own faith slipping, sloughing off like old dead skin.

  And now the leader of their enemies was doubling back toward them. “Get up,” he ordered in his rough, indifferent voice. “We’re going now.”

  * * *

  THE SIGHT OF prisoners surprised Mack Bolan. He’d been ready to take the small patrol by surprise until he saw the man and woman with their hands bound, being marched along at gunpoint. Spotting them, he scrubbed plan A and started looking for a way to liberate the captives with a minimum of danger. He’d counted twelve men dressed in camouflage besides the guy in charge.

  A baker’s dozen, ready for the oven.

  Bolan saw his chance when they fell out to rest along the trail. A couple of the shooters wandered off to one side of the track, out of sight from their cronies, and Bolan went after them, drawing the silenced SIG Sauer P226. He moved as quietly as possible, counting on the jungle’s constant background noise to cover what he had in mind.

  Thinning the pack.

  As he’d expected, the two men were answering the call of nature, situated several yards apart for something that approximated privacy. Bolan stood back and let them finish, listening as one man hassled the other, probably for taking too much time. Both were on their feet when Bolan hit them with a quick one-two, head shots from half a dozen paces that dropped them where they stood. A trace of crimson mist hung in the humid air, then settled on the corpses sprawled below.

  Bolan rolled both bodies onto their backs and placed their autorifles lengthwise on their torsos, muzzles pointed toward their feet. Grabbing the first one’s wrists, he dragged the shooter thirty feet or so, until Bolan reached a shallow gully in the woods and rolled the body into it. The second followed moments later, then Bolan circled back to spy on what remained of the patrol.

  The soldiers hadn’t noticed they were two men down, as yet. Bolan wasn’t entirely sure if anyone had watched the two depart, but Bolan assumed their people would be missed before the column started off again. Bolan had shaved the odds by 15 percent and now looked forward to the rest discovering their loss.

  One of the remaining riflemen—Bolan had pegged him as the leader of the team—was talking to the prisoners. While Bolan wasn’t close enough to eavesdrop, he could track the tenor of their conversation from the gunman’s face and body language, and the attitude of his two kneeling captives. After they had rejected something from the gunner’s pocket that resembled old shoe leather, the conversation petered out, with the raiding party’s leader going back to join his men.

  Bolan moved closer to the prisoners, letting the jungle and its shadows cover him until he reached the backside of the giant tree where they were kneeling, whispering together. Reaching them from where he crouched was perilous, for them as much as for himself. There was an outside chance that he could reach around the tree and slit their bonds without the shooters spotting him, but coming at the captives unaware was bound to set off some reaction from the hostages themselves, and that would kick the party off before Bolan was prepared. Better to leave the two prisoners where they were, for now.

  The shooting, when it started, would be all around them. It was down to Bolan—his efficiency, his speed and skill—to make sure the hostages survived.

  And then what?

  He ignored that question for the moment, focused on the leader of the raiding party as he came back to his prisoners and said, in English, “Get up. We’re going now.”

  * * *

  LUIZ ARANHA WATCHED the missionaries struggle to their feet, not helping them. They’d been warned to leave the area and had ignored his words of caution. Now, within a few more hours, they would fully understand the price of their self-righteous arrogance.

  He turned back to his men, milling about and clearly in no hurry to resume the march.

  “Get in formation! This is not the time for slacking off!”

  They grumbled but obeyed him, knowing that he spoke for o chefe. Their master’s reputation might mean nothing to Bible-thumping meddlers from dos Estados Unidos, but the people of the Mato Grosso knew and feared the power of Joaquim Braga. That fear would have his soldiers marching through the jungle till their feet were bloody, if need be. None would dare defy o chefe and expect to live another day.

  “Where are Carlos and Abílio?” asked someone from the ranks.

  Aranha scanned the line of men in camouflage, the prisoners now in their place, with guns before them and behind. He counted heads, came up with ten and mouthed a curse.

  “Filho da puta! Who saw where they went?”

  No one replied. Some of his soldiers shrugged and shook their heads.

  “Someone must have seen them! Anybody?”

  More shrugs. His men were getting nervous as Aranha moved along the line, glaring at each in turn.

  “Carlos said he had to piss,” one of them finally admitted.

  “What of Abílio?” Aranha challenged. “Did he go along to hold his piru for him?”

  Farther down the line, another of Aranha’s soldiers said, “He also had to go, I think.”

  “Well, how long does it take, por amor de Cristo?”

  No one answered that. Aranha turned to face the forest, shouting out, “Carlos! Abílio! Onde você está?”

  The jungle’s only answer was a monkey screeching somewhere overhead.

  “All right,” Aranha told the others. “Find them. Teams of two. Hurry!”

  Grudgingly his men fanned out, pairs moving off into the woods on both sides of the narrow trail. Aranha watched them disappear into the shadows, calling to their comrades and getting no response. Aranha shifted closer to the prisoners, keeping them covered with his rifle as if they might suddenly decide to make a run for freedom.

  Where had the fools gone? How could they possibly get lost, mere paces from the trail they had been following? One man, perhaps—but two? It was ridiculous and, yet, no joking matter. Aranha was losing valuable time, falling behind his schedule, which would not amuse o chefe. The responsibility fell on Aranha’s shoulders, and if he faced punishment for tardiness, he meant to have Abílio and Carlos on the block beside him.

  The prisoners were silent, standing with their backs against the tree where they’d been kneeling moments earlier. They watched Aranha apprehensively, perhaps reading his mood and understanding that the slightest thing could make Aranha snap. His fingers ached from clutching his rifle too tightly, and Aranha loosened them deliberately, willing himself to relax.

  But still... What could have happened to his men?

  Assume the worst. If they had stumbled on a nest of bushmasters and suffered fatal bites, they still could have returned before the venom took effect. If they had panicked, fleeing in the wrong direction, then Aranha should have heard their cries for help. A jaguar might have taken one, but not the pair of them—and not without a noisy fight.

  It was the silent disappearance that unnerved Aranha. There was something almost supernatural about it, though he mocked subordinates for clinging to such superstitions. Witches, ghosts and demons in the forest were the stuff of children’s storie
s. Many things were lethal in the Amazon, but all of them were made of flesh and blood.

  “Come on. Hurry,” Aranha muttered to himself.

  And then the shooting started.

  * * *

  THE PLAN WAS simple in conception, not so much in execution. Bolan had the raiders eyeballed as their leader gave the order to disperse and find their missing comrades. Two-man teams moved out, ten soldiers altogether. Two teams scouted on the west side of the trail, three on the east. Their honcho stayed behind, of course, to guard the prisoners.

  So far, so good.

  Bolan had started with a full twenty-round magazine in his SIG Sauer P226, plus one round in the chamber. He was two down now, which left nineteen silent rounds to go before he had to switch out magazines. Eleven targets meant he had shots to spare, if everything went smoothly.

  The first search team on Bolan’s side of the game trail was easy. They were put out by the extra duty, muttering about it between their calls for Carlos and Abílio. Bolan came up behind them, gave them each a Parabellum shocker to the head and put them down. No muss, no fuss. The earth soaked up their blood, and hungry flies were circling over them before he’d cleared the killing site.

  Nine left.

  The other team on Bolan’s side had gone to the northwest, whooping for their friends who couldn’t answer. Bolan trailed them, picking up his pace to overtake the pair, knowing their voices must be audible back on the trail. If he could take them down, then cross the path and circle back to find the other searchers, he would have a decent chance of pulling off a sweep.

  If nothing went awry.

  And, of course, it did.

  A hundred yards or so from where they’d started, Bolan’s latest targets stopped to catch their breath. Bolan closed the gap then, dropping one while they were lighting cigarettes, the other still gaping as his friend went down, blood pouring from his shattered skull. Before the second guy could turn and raise his weapon, Bolan drilled a bullet through his temple. It was quick and clean—but the man’s index finger clenched on the trigger of his automatic rifle.

  Half a dozen rounds went off before the dead man fell and dropped his weapon. None of them were aimed at Bolan, ripping harmlessly through shrubs and ferns, but the staccato would be audible to anyone nearby.

  So much for stealth.

  He turned and ran in the direction of the trail, reached it as voices started shouting back and forth through forest shadows, calling for a sitrep. Bolan wasn’t sure how well they could triangulate on the brief burst of gunfire, but he knew his best hope of rolling up the kidnap team meant intercepting them in pairs, before they reassembled.

  Seven survivors, six of them paired off, and all on full alert. All armed with quality assault rifles, presumably well versed in using them. The last thing he could do was take an easy blitz for granted, but he couldn’t let the odds intimidate him, either. Not if he intended to come out of this on top and keep the hostages alive.

  Crossing the trail, Bolan holstered his SIG and slipped the Steyr AUG off its shoulder sling, thumbing the fire-selector switch to semiautomatic mode. He’d noted that the hostiles’ rifles were the same caliber as his, permitting Bolan to take advantage of a marginal confusion factor in the jungle murk. If they had been armed with Kalashnikovs, for instance, anyone could tell the difference between his weapon firing and the home team’s.

  As it was, however...

  Bolan overtook the third pair as they backtracked toward the game trail. He shot them and ducked away before the rest could move in on the latest sound of gunfire. When he heard the others thrashing toward him, two additional pairs rapidly converging, he squeezed off a single shot in each direction, then ducked and let the fireworks fly.

  Full-auto madness ripped through the jungle. Screams of pain and shouts of anger followed as the shots struck home. Another moment’s wait before the Executioner moved in and started mopping up.

  * * *

  MERCY CRONIN COULDN’T fathom what was happening. Their rest stop had become a waking nightmare, worse—if such a thing was even possible—than the abduction that had preceded it. She had been praying and preparing to meet death with what she’d hoped would be dignity and courage when the leader of their kidnappers discovered that a couple of his men were missing. Moments later there was shooting in the forest, first from one side of the trail and then the other.

  What on earth was happening? Was this some kind of ambush? And if so, who was responsible?

  Of greater interest to her—what did it mean for Abner and herself?

  She knew there had been revolutionary groups throughout Brazil during the country’s period of military rule, from 1964 to 1985. Most had disbanded with the restoration of civilian government, but isolated factions still remained at large, existing now as bandits rather than political commandos. There were also right-wing death squads, but they operated chiefly in the urban jungles of Brazil, São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, and were—or so she’d heard—composed of rogue policemen. Neither seemed likely to attack a column of narco-trafficker gunmen in the midst of the Amazon Basin.

  Who then?

  She also ruled out guardian angels, who could have struck down her abductors with their blinding light of righteousness without resorting to earthly weapons. No, human beings were involved—but who? And why?

  The leader of their kidnappers had crouched behind them when the shooting started, jabbing his rifle’s muzzle into Mercy’s ribs. After some filthy oaths in Portuguese, he had said, “You better hope my men come out on top. Somebody comes for me, you both are dead meat, eh?”

  Tears brimmed in Mercy’s eyes, but she refused to let him see her trembling. Abner leaned a little to his right, pressing his arm against her own, and Mercy found the contact comforting. He couldn’t save her, obviously, but at least they were together and would face their fate as one.

  Off to her right, along the east side of the trail, the gunfire sputtered out at last. A sobbing cry of pain warbled through ringing silence, then the normal forest sounds began returning gradually, filling in the quiet. Mercy waited, her gaze sweeping the tree line, trying to imagine what would happen next.

  Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of a lone man stepping from the shadows, dressed in camouflage and battle clad, his face painted with stripes of black and green. She guessed he was six feet tall or thereabouts. The rifle in his hands was smaller than her captor’s weapon, and it looked peculiar to her, but it seemed no less deadly.

  “The hell are you?” her kidnapper demanded, speaking English.

  “Last man standing,” the stranger said.

  “You kill all my soldiers, eh?”

  “Some of them killed each other.”

  “Idiotas. They deserve it then.”

  No answer came from the new arrival.

  “So, whatchoo want?” asked the last of Mercy’s kidnappers.

  The stranger nodded toward her and Abner and said, “I’ll take them off your hands.”

  “You think so, eh?”

  “They’re more than you can handle.”

  “Not so hard to kill, though.”

  “Maybe not. But then, who covers you?”

  “You like the cowboy movies, eh? High Noon?”

  The stranger casually checked his watch and said, “Not quite.”

  “I like you, man. Too bad I have to kill you soon.”

  “Why wait?” the tall man asked—and then his rifle cracked, a single shot, and Mercy gasped as something wet and warm spattered her cheek. The leader tumbled over backward, kicked her with a dying spasm of his leg and then lay still.

  “You two all right?” the painted gunman asked as he approached them.

  “I...I think so,” Abner answered. “Who are you?”

  “A friend.”

 
The tall man drew a vicious-looking knife, brass knuckles on its handle, as he stepped around behind them. Mercy braced herself for lancing pain, eyes closed, then felt the blade slice through the plastic binding that had secured her wrists. A moment later, Abner’s hands were freed, as well. The wicked knife was sheathed before the stranger stepped in front of them again.

  “Now, if you’re fit to walk,” he said, “we need to get away from here, ASAP.”

  Chapter 3

  Condor Acampamento, Mato Grosso

  Joaquim Braga lounged behind his desk in air-conditioned comfort while the jungle sweltered only feet away. His combination living quarters and command post was a four-room prefab bungalow that had been airlifted to his compound. Each room was chilled by its own window unit, powered by one of the camp’s six generators. With his eyes closed, it was sometimes possible for Braga to forget that he was living in the middle of the wilderness.

  But not today.

  Across his desk, reclining in a leather-padded captain’s chair, his guest from Bogotá looked tense, verging on irritated. Not a good thing, considering the power he represented and his importance to the Braga syndicate.

  “Is something troubling you, meu amigo?” Braga asked.

  Hugo Cardona exhaled, not quite disguising his sigh. “I had supposed your people would be back by now, to start the entertainment.”

  “Such delays are not uncommon in the Mato Grosso, as I’m sure you understand,” Braga replied. “I’ve sent a pair of scouts to locate the patrol and hurry it along.”

  “Of course. Perhaps I overestimated the efficiency of operations in such a primitive environment.”

  “How is your vodka, by the way?” Braga asked. “Cold enough?”

  “It’s adequate,” Cardona said. “My brand, in fact. Diva.”

  “Is it?”

  Of course it was. Braga had done his homework for this meeting, as he did for every significant event.

  “How did you come to name this place...what is it?”