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  As Bolan pulled the blacksuit back in place he found his thoughts returning to Jomo. The policeman had still been firing on the attackers the last Bolan had seen of him. The firing had ceased since then. The soldier asked himself again—was Jomo dead? Was he in the hands of the enemy? Neither option gave Bolan any comfort. He felt responsible for Jomo. Despite his commitment to the mission he refused to push Jomo from his mind. The man had willingly joined up with Bolan once he had been made aware of the situation, and he had been a good partner in the short time they had been together. Whatever else Bolan had on his agenda, finding out what had happened to Jomo was now added.

  Bolan remembered his cell phone. He reached to unzip the pocket where he had placed the phone. The moment his fingers brushed the material of the pocket he knew the worst. The cell phone had taken a heavy blow sometime during the last couple of hours. Maybe when Bolan had been thrown from the overturning Land Rover. He took it out. The phone was badly damaged. The screen had been shattered and the body of the phone was cracked. Bolan pressed the power button. Nothing happened. When he slipped the power pack from the phone he saw that it, too, had been damaged. He replaced the power pack and tried once again, unsuccessfully, to switch on the phone. It remained dark and lifeless. Bolan made certain he had removed the SIM chip from the phone before he abandoned it. He broke the small memory card into small pieces and scattered them.

  Bolan examined his other weapons, making sure they were both fully loaded. He glanced at his watch. At least another two, maybe three hours before dark. No point moving before then. If the squad was still around, emerging in broad daylight would make Bolan an easy target. The night would cloak his movements, offer him a better chance to locate the enemy.

  He considered that point. The men who had attacked him and Jomo had done so without provocation. They had identified their quarry and had gone in for the kill without hesitation. No challenge. No attempt at mediation. They had gone for the throat like ravaging dogs.

  Bolan leaned against the rock at his back, staring at the wall of stone opposite. The rules had been laid down. So be it. The Executioner would respond in kind. He had no choice. He’d fight back or allow himself to become a victim. That was something Bolan had never done in the past, never even considered. He would never be a victim. It wasn’t in his nature to stand meekly by and let that happen.

  He settled against the rock and relaxed. Waiting was his only option so he might as well try to rest.

  7

  The penetrating rays of the sun had disappeared when Mack Bolan opened his eyes again. There was little light showing in his den. Bolan reached for the Uzi and slung it across his back. He moved to the chimney of rock and started to climb. The interlocked chinks of rock made the ascent easy. There were ample hand and foot holds. Bolan climbed steadily, keeping the sound level as low as possible in case any of the opposition were still within earshot. As he neared the top of the chimney he felt a coolness in the air. When he emerged into the open there was a soft, cool breeze drifting in from the west. Bolan pulled himself clear and crouched in the shadows while he checked out the lay of the land. He was at a point higher than where he had first crawled into the rocks, able to look down on the spot where he and Jomo had taken cover. The sun had almost set but there was still enough light for Bolan to see.

  There was no sign of the African. Until he knew otherwise Bolan took it as a good sign. Maybe Jomo had managed to give the enemy the slip after all.

  Bolan worked his way down the rocks until he was back where he had started. He could see marks in the dust where he and Jomo had stood. There were empty shell casings littering the ground. The soldier picked one up and examined it. It was 5.56 mm, the kind Jomo’s SA-80 carbine used.

  He heard little to alert him apart from the regular wildlife. No smells that might suggest a cookfire or someone smoking. Despite the lack of those things Bolan remained wary. Complacency could be a man’s undoing. Just because things seemed right didn’t make them right.

  His caution was rewarded when he picked up the merest whisper of a footstep on loose earth, the disturbance of gritty dust as someone moved. Bolan sourced the sound, easing in that direction. He stayed well back in the cover of the rocks while he checked out the immediate area. He was looking for shadows, for something, anything, that would show him where the creator of the noise had come from.

  His patience was rewarded when a uniformed figure stepped into view. The man was armed with a standard SA-80 rifle and carried a sheathed panga knife. The man held a compact transceiver to his mouth and was talking softly as he moved. He halted directly in front of Bolan’s place of concealment as he continued to speak into his transceiver. The man wasn’t speaking English so Bolan had no idea what he was saying.

  The content didn’t matter all that much to the Executioner right then. He was more interested in moving in on the trigger-happy group that had attacked him and Jomo. Bolan wasn’t about to forget—or forgive them. He hadn’t expected his mission in Tempala to be any kind of picnic, but the savage dedication the assault group had put into their attack had only succeeded in bringing out Bolan’s obstinate character. He didn’t take to being pushed to the edge and not be expected to push back.

  Right now he was in extreme push mode. And that meant trouble for the ones who had set the agenda for this particular confrontation.

  Bolan waited until the man moved on, clipping the transceiver back on his belt. Once the dark figure had rounded a jutting mound of rocks, Bolan eased into the open and followed. Staying well in the deep shadows, he had lost sight of the soldier, but could still hear the soft footsteps as the man crossed over loose gravel and gritty sand. Rounding the rock outcrop Bolan picked up a soft glow of light ahead. He held back, scanning the area and saw a campsite. Out in the open a fire burned in a shallow pit. The Executioner could see three seated figures. The man he had followed was making his way across the open ground. He joined his three companions as they sat talking, drinking coffee from a steaming metal can suspended over the fire on a metal tripod. Just beyond them was the dark outline of the ACMAT. Behind the truck was a wide, shallow stream and a short distance farther the ground rose in an uneven slope.

  Bolan studied the layout of the camp. The four men had done little to create any kind of perimeter defense. From the way they acted he figured there couldn’t be many more of them, if any. He stayed where he was for almost fifteen minutes, watching and also checking out the rocks and the dark terrain beyond the truck. Nothing else showed or moved.

  Four to deal with.

  Bolan decided to work his way around to the rear of the truck and check that in case there were any off-duty members of the group asleep in the vehicle. It could have been an easy matter to overlook the truck. An easy mistake that could have fatal results.

  He slipped back into the deep shadow, starting out in a wide circle that took him beyond the vision of anyone in the camp. Bolan moved steadily, the Uzi ready in his hands. He kept the camp and the four men in his sight the whole time. It took him almost thirty minutes to reach the rear of the truck. He dropped to his knees, easing the Desert Eagle from its holster.

  Moving along beside the truck, Bolan’s eye was attracted by something fluttering. He turned his head—and saw Christopher Jomo’s SA-80 carbine leaning against the rear of the cab. The bright feathers fastened to the stock were moving in the night breeze.

  Bolan also saw the dark patches of dried blood marking the weapon. There was no way Jomo would have given up his weapon unless he had been captured—or worse.

  He fixed the image in his mind as he continued to the front corner of the truck, from where he could see the four men clustered around the cook fire.

  Bolan raised the Desert Eagle and selected his first target, firing the moment he had acquisition.

  The .44 Magnum round cored the back of the target’s skull, mushrooming out between his eyes, shoving him forward. He toppled over the fire pit, his body smothering the flames. The steaming co
ffee spilled from its pot and was turned to hissing steam by the red hot embers of the fire.

  The remaining three dropped their mugs and reached for the weapons they had beside them, pushing to their feet and turning to seek the sniper.

  Bolan’s Desert Eagle snapped a second and a third time.

  One man went down howling, a bullet deep in his chest. Number three was caught on the turn, the round gouging out his throat. He tumbled, coordination all gone. He hit the ground, squealing in hurt and fear, hands tight over the ragged wound pumping gouts of blood.

  The last man standing snatched up his weapon and took a long, lunging stride away from the area, hoping to lose himself in the twilight. Bolan hit him on the run, his bullet clipping the man’s hip and knocking him off his feet.

  Moving quickly, Bolan took weapons and additional ammunition from the bodies. He also took possession of all the transceivers the men had been carrying. He carried them all to the truck and dropped them inside. He crossed to the shot man, taking hold of his SA-80 rifle. He frisked the man and relieved him of a knife. The rifle and knife, plus the man’s transceiver also went into the truck.

  Bending over the moaning figure Bolan took a firm grip on the man’s tunic and hauled him across to the truck where he slammed the rebel against one of the wheels. The man stared up at the Executioner, eyes blazing with defiance. The moment he slid to the ground he kicked out at Bolan and rolled, scrambling to his feet. He was agile, fit, and he regained his footing in seconds despite the hip wound. As Bolan went after him the man spun, driving a hard snap kick that was aimed for the Executioner’s face. Bolan, swinging his right arm up to knock his opponent’s leg aside, followed up with a kick of his own. The sole of his boot cracked against the African’s left knee, hard enough to draw a grunt of pain from the man. Before the man could regain his balance, Bolan moved in close, driving a solid left fist against the gunman’s jaw. Something cracked and the man grunted, spitting blood. The rebel recovered fast, ducking low and aiming for Bolan’s mid-section. He slammed into the Executioner, spinning them both off balance. They hit the ground, Bolan underneath his adversary.

  They both struggled to gain the upper hand, the only sound coming from them was the exhaling of breath. Bolan wriggled a hand between their bodies and caught hold of the man’s collar. He made a powerful lunge, rolling the African off him, bringing his own body over and on top. Still gripping the collar, Bolan pulled hard, tightening his grip, and the edge of his hand pressed into the man’s throat, closing off his air supply. The man began to struggle, choking. The Executioner gripped even tighter and the rebel began to thrash about. He was gasping for breath, his hands clawing at Bolan. Getting his feet under him, Bolan hauled the man off the ground, turning him so they were face to face.

  The man made a final, weak attempt at resistance. His effort made little difference to the outcome as Bolan yanked him in close, then used the palm of his hand to strike under the jaw. The man flew backward, arms flailing, control lost. He stumbled and fell, landing hard. He lay in a dazed stupor, the world spinning before his eyes, and when the dizziness faded and he could see again he was looking down the barrel of Bolan’s Desert Eagle.

  “Your choice, pal. We can play this game all day if you want or you can answer my questions and stay alive. Your choice.”

  The man touched his hand to his bleeding mouth, staring at the blood staining his fingers. He rolled something around in his mouth before spitting out pieces of a broken tooth. “Man, you broke my fucking tooth.”

  Bolan ignored the man’s complaint. He simply pushed the Desert Eagle closer, the muzzle almost touching the man’s cheek.

  “You’re wasting the time you have left. I suggest you think about what you say next. The way things have been going the last couple of days have left me a bit touchy. Understand what I mean?”

  The man looked into the big American’s eyes and what he saw must have scared him. Bolan’s eyes were ice blue, startling in their intensity. There was a warning in the steady, unflinching stare that told the rebel he was as close to death as he ever could be and remain alive.

  “What the hell do you want to know?”

  “Where are Karima’s children? And don’t insult me by saying you don’t know what I’m talking about. Your team took them from their car, murdered the driver and set off for the bush with the children. I want to know where you’ve got them.”

  The rebel dabbed at his bloody mouth again. Blood was running down his chin and dripping onto his khaki shirt. He pressed a hand to the hip wound, staring at the blood oozing between his fingers.

  “Man, I could bleed to death here.”

  “You could also catch a bullet in the head. You choose.”

  “You’re too late. We don’t have them any longer.”

  “What did you do? Send them home? Kill them?”

  The rebel shook his head, blood spraying from his face.

  “You don’t understand, man. We don’t have them because they were taken from us.”

  “Make it clear, pal, I can’t keep my finger off this trigger for much longer.”

  “The team with the children was hit by slave traders. They came out of nowhere and took them by surprise. They killed most of the team, then they took all their food and water. And their weapons. The report said the slavers took Karima’s kids as well. Put them in chains and added them to their collection. They had about forty, maybe fifty already. Women and kids as well as men.”

  Bolan stared at the rebel. The man was telling him the truth. Had to be. His story was too clever to have been made up. Something else clicked in Bolan’s brain. Something that made sense now.

  “That’s why you set off the bomb in Tempala City. Losing the children means you’ve lost your bargaining chips. No kids, no deal. Sooner or later you would have to show the president you still had his kids alive and well. Once they were taken from you everything changed, so you decided to bring the deadline forward by adding pressure.”

  The rebel refused to look him in the eye this time. Bolan had hit the jackpot. The rebels had lost the kidnapped children to a bunch of wandering slave traders. It was almost enough to make him laugh. The trouble was this new twist only made his mission potentially more difficult. Tracking the rebels had been hard enough. Now he was going to have to start over and set out to locate the slave traders who had snatched Karima’s kids from the rebels.

  “Which way did they go? The traders. Don’t think about it, man. Tell me.”

  The rebel waved a bloody hand beyond Bolan. “I guess to the west. For the coast. Meeting their ship.”

  The rebel slumped back against the ground, hands clutched to his battered face. He was not going to offer any kind of resistance to Bolan.

  “One more question. The man who was with me? Where is he?”

  The rebel didn’t answer until Bolan nudged him with his boot.

  “They took him back to our base.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “He was when he left here.”

  Bolan crossed to the ACMAT and located a folded map. He returned and pushed it under the rebel’s nose. “Where?”

  The rebel stared at the map. He unfolded it and spread it so the moonlight illuminated the contours of the area printed on the sheet. He pressed a finger to a pencilled square. “That’s it.”

  “Where are we right now?” Bolan snapped.

  The finger moved to indicate a spot.

  “That uniform you’re wearing? It has the insignia of the Tempala military on it. Has the army gone over to the rebel side as well?”

  “What if we have? Karima’s going to get a surprise soon.”

  “I just like to know exactly who I’m dealing with,” Bolan said, standing up and walking back from the man.

  “Why? You figure you can do something about it?”

  Bolan let the Desert Eagle answer for him. “Something like that,” he said to the dead rebel.

  The Executioner took the map and made his way to the ACMAT.
The key was in the ignition. Bolan climbed in. He started the engine and eased the ACMAT into gear, turning it west. He drove across the stream and up the slope that lay on the far side. At the top Bolan braked and sat staring out the windshield. He checked the compass mounted on the dashboard. He was heading west. He took another look at the map, checking his position. From that he was able to mark his route to the coast. The map showed any number of likely places the traders might be aiming for. The river Jomo had mentioned showed on the map. It meandered across the plain until it ran into the ocean. The coastline would offer numerous quiet bays and inlets where a ship could come in close to shore, take on passengers and be gone before anyone noticed. Bolan doubted the country had a sophisticated coast guard service, so any illegal entry into the offshore waters would most likely go unchallenged. Which meant Bolan was going to have to run his own interference on this one.

  He set off again, driving at a steady pace while he tried to figure out where the slave traders were heading. Some input from Stony Man Farm and Kurtzman’s satellite imaging would have been useful, but Bolan’s cell phone was long gone. Unless he could find some way of contacting the Farm he was going to have to depend on his own skills, and maybe a strong helping of good luck.

  He hadn’t asked the rebel if there was any communication equipment at the base. He was banking on the answer being yes to that question. If there was it might enable him to contact Stony Man and have Kurtzman make a satellite sweep. If they hit lucky the computer expert might be able to pick up the slavers and their captives. It was a long shot but it was worth considering. It had to be better than nothing, which was the sum total of Bolan’s information right now. Sure, he knew the slavers were heading west. That left him with a hell of a chunk of land to check out, and the longer he spent doing that the more time the slavers had to reach their rendezvous.

  There was no way the soldier could calculate how many of the enemy he might find at the rebel base, either. A few, or maybe a hundred. In his current frame of mind Bolan didn’t give a damn. However many were there he would find some way of dealing with them. He also needed to locate Christopher Jomo. And if there was some form of communication setup, he was going to use it come hell or high water.