Conflict Zone

It was coming, she supposed. And so was death.

The leader of her kidnappers had made that crystal-clear. If K-Tech Petroleum didn’t meet their demands, she would be killed. Not merely shot or stabbed, mind you, but hacked up into pieces while alive, the odd bits mailed off to her father and to K-Tech’s various directors as an object lesson in obedience.

The problem, simply stated, was that while her father was a wealthy man, he didn’t have a hundred million dollars or the prospects for obtaining it by any means before the deadline imposed by her captors ran out. And even though he was in charge of K-Tech’s operations in Nigeria, he obviously couldn’t grant the kidnappers’ alter-native demand, for a company pull-out. Even if he lost his mind and tried to order an evacuation of all K-Tech workers from the country, he’d be countermanded by his bosses in a heartbeat, either fired or placed on leave until he had regained his senses.

Nope.

The way it looked to Mandy Ross, she was as good as dead.

The thing, now, was to face her death as bravely as she could—or maybe hasten it along herself, before the goons who’d snatched her took it in their pointy little heads to stage an orgy with her as the guest of dishonor.

They hadn’t left her much in terms of weapons, but she’d thought about the problem long and hard over the past few days, as it became more and more obvious that she would never leave the rebel camp alive.

She had no blades or cutting tools of any kind, no rope or any other kind of ligature with which to hang herself, no toxic substances that she could swallow in a pinch. Childhood experience had taught her that you couldn’t suffocate yourself by force of will alone, holding your breath. At some point, you passed out and started breathing automatically, as nature reasserted its control.

But she had teeth, and with some effort she supposed that she could reach the same veins in her wrists that other suicides accessed with knives and razors. It would hurt like hell, but only for a little while. When her only other option was to wait around until she was gang-raped, then fileted alive, well, anyone who thought that was a choice needed to have his or her head examined.

The only question, now, was how long she should wait.

How much time did she have?

To hell with it, she thought. There’s no time like the present. Get it done.

NIGHT FELL HARD in a tropical country. There was no dusk to speak of, no romantic twilight. Having screened most of the sun from ground level, casting massive shadows all day long, the great trees played their final trick at sundown, producing the illusion of a switch thrown by a giant to put out the lights.

Bolan had witnessed the effect on four continents and knew what to expect. He’d almost reached the campground clearing when he lost daylight, and only needed moments for his night eyes to adjust.

Three guards lay dead behind him, in the forest, which cleared roughly one-quarter of the camp’s perimeter. He hoped it would be all he needed, but he didn’t have an exit strategy so far, and wouldn’t until he had found out where the MEND terrorists were confining Mandy Ross. From there, once she was extricated from whichever hut or tent they kept her in, he could decide on how to flee.

A narrow unpaved road allowed the rebels access to the world beyond their forest hideout, passable for Jeeps, dirt bikes and—if it didn’t rain too hard—the ancient army cargo truck that stood out in the compound’s motor pool. Bolan had no idea where following that track might lead him, and he filed it as a last resort, without trying to guess.

He had considered that he might find Mandy Ross already dead or hurt so badly that she couldn’t travel. Even with real soldiers, passions sometimes flared out of control, resulting in atrocities. If that turned out to be the case, Bolan could switch from rescue to revenge mode in a heartbeat. And whatever he might see inside the camp, he’d keep to himself, most definitely never sharing with the victim’s family.

How much could one endure and still go on?

It all depended on the person, both their outward strength and inner fortitude. Some persevered while others crumbled and surrendered, let themselves be swept away. He had no take on Mandy Ross, as yet—except that nothing in her affluent and privileged life would have prepared her for her present circumstance.

Scanning the camp with practiced eyes, he noted points of interest: the command post, the motor pool, a commo tent with a pole-mounted satellite dish for some kind of battery-powered commo setup. The men slept in puptents or out in the open, but one other hut caught his eye.

The only one with a sentry outside it.

If that wasn’t the camp’s one-room jail, then what was it?

Bolan was determined to find out.

He had begun to move in that direction, following the tree line still, using the shadows, when he saw one of the MEND gunners heading for the guarded hut. He was five-nine or -ten, wiry and muscular, bearing a metal plate of food, wearing a pistol on his right hip and a sheathed machete on the left. Bolan watched him dismiss the guard after some muffled talk that almost sounded like an argument.

The guard left, and the plate-bearer entered the hut. Before he closed the door, Bolan had time to glimpse the startled face of Mandy Ross.

“WHAT DO YOU want?” Mandy Ross asked.

“I’ve brought your supper,” the grinning gunman said.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied, and almost giggled, thinking, I’ll just nibble on my wrists tonight, if you don’t mind.

“You must keep up your strength,” the intruder said, still smiling.

She recognized him as an officer, second or third in charge of things around the camp. His name was James Something-or-other, which would have surprised her if she hadn’t spent the two weeks prior to her abduction meeting Africans with Anglo given names who were her father’s business colleagues. As it was, she focused on her captor’s face and words without distractions.

“Strength for what?” she asked him. “Are we marching somewhere?”

“Marching? No.” He laughed at that. “But after being kept so long in this place, you must need some exercise.”

She saw where he was headed, his dark eyes sliding up and down her body like a physical caress, and tried to head him off.

“I’m fine.”

“Indeed, you are,” James Something instantly agreed.

“Thanks for the food,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll eat my monkey meat alone.”

“Tonight is lizard, I believe,” he said. “Perhaps you need something to stimulate your appetite.”

“No, thanks, all the same.”

“But I insist.”

Still keeping up the smile, James looked around her tiny cell, as if expecting that it would have sprouted decorations other than the folding cot that was its only furniture. She guessed that he was looking for someplace to set the plate. At last, he turned back toward the door and placed it on the hut’s dirt floor.

“Perhaps you’ll want it afterward,” he said.

“You’re making a mistake,” Mandy reminded him. “Your boss laid down the hands-off rule.”

James shrugged. “What he does not know, will not hurt him. It will be our little secret.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“I can guarantee it,” James replied, resting his left hand on the hilt of his machete. “Even if I must remove your tongue.”

“He’d never notice that, I guess.” She fairly sneered at him.

“Accidents happen. Possibly, you tried to run away and I was forced to shoot you.”

“So, you like them dead? Sounds just about your speed.”

James shrugged. “I strive for flexibility.”

“You’ll have it, when Azuka pulls your spine out through your ass.”

James blinked at mention of his master’s name, but never lost his mocking smile.

“I do not fear him,” he replied.

“So it’s true, then,” Mandy said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not just another ugly face. You’re stupid, too.”

That wiped his smile off, finally. James sprang at her, swinging an open hand, but Mandy ducked and back-pedaled to the farthest corner of her tiny hut.

“Where will you run?” he asked her. “I can chase you all night long.”

“I’m betting that’s the only thing you’d manage all night long.” She spat at him.

“I’ll teach you some respect!” James snarled, advancing toward her in a half crouch, primed to spring.

“Or I’ll teach you to sing soprano,” Mandy threatened.

“I enjoy a challenge.”

“Start with something simple, like that body odor,” she replied.

His smile had turned into a snarl, teeth bared and clenched. She could almost hear James growling like an animal as he crept forward.

“You will beg for death before I’m finished with you, American!”

“So, skip the foreplay,” she replied, “and shoot me. It’s the only way you’re getting what you want.”

“We’ll see.” He almost giggled with excitement.

James was so intently focused on his target that he had to have missed the sound of the hut door opening and closing. Mandy felt despair wash over her, until she saw a soldier standing on the threshold, watching her.

His voice was pure America as he told James, “Okay, let’s see it now.”

AZUKA BANKOLE WAS tired. It seemed that he was always tired these days. Patrols and skirmishes, the oilfield raids and guarding hostages—they all took time and energy. Though he had just turned thirty-one last month, Bankole felt as if he was already getting old.

The ganja helped, of course.

Prime smoke, imported from Edo State, Delta’s next-door neighbor to the north, where everyone agreed the best plants in Nigeria—perhaps in all of Africa—were grown. The government agencies tried to eradicate cannabis farming, but nothing thus far had succeeded.

Based on what he knew of history and human nature, Bankole believed nothing ever would.

And that was fine with him.

He had a fat joint rolled and ready, already between his lips—a match in hand—when he heard someone just outside the open door of his command post. First, it was a nervous shuffling of feet, then clearing of the throat. At last, the interloper worked up nerve enough to knock.

“What is it now?” Bankole asked.

A shadow fell across the threshold. Looking up, Bankole recognized Omo Kehinde. He took modest pride in knowing all his men by name, although in truth, there were a number of them he’d be happy to forget.

“Captain?” Kehinde made a question of it, as if trying to confirm Bankole’s identity.

“Yes, it’s me,” Bankole answered, feeling irritated now. “What do you want?”

“I am supposed to guard the prisoner,” Kehinde said.

“So?”

“My time to guard the prisoner is now.”

“Then go and do it. Why tell me?”

“Captain, Lieutenant Okereke ordered me to leave my post,” Kehinde said, standing with eyes downcast. “I had no choice but to—”

“Obey. I understand.”

Bankole understood too well, in fact. He’d given strict orders that no one was to touch the hostage without his express permission, which hadn’t been granted. Knowing that James Okereke had a certain way with women, Bankole had taken him aside, in private, to repeat the order personally. The lieutenant had smiled, nodded and said he understood.

Of course he understood, Bankole thought. But now, the first time that my back is turned…

“I’ll deal with this,” Bankole told his nervous soldier. “You have done your duty and should fear no punishment.”

“Yes, Captain. Thank you, Captain.”

With regret, Bankole dropped the ganja joint into a pocket of his sweat-stained shirt, stood and took a second to confirm that he hadn’t removed his gun belt. There was no need to inspect the holstered pistol on his hip, since it was always loaded, with a live round in the chamber.

It was time to teach his men an object lesson.

Okereke, never the best lieutenant in the world, would make a fine example for the rest.

And what would happen if he had damaged the hostage, against Bankole’s orders? What would Ekon Afolabi say—or do—when he found out? Punishing Okereke first might help Bankole’s case. If it didn’t, well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Spurred by a sudden sense of urgency, he brushed past Kehinde and out of the CP not quite double-timing, but leaving no doubt that he was a man in a hurry, with places to go and people to see.

Or to kill.

No one tried to intercept or to pester him with questions as he crossed the compound, striding toward the hut that held his one and only prisoner. Bankole felt his anger building with each step he took, its heat evaporating the fatigue that plagued him.

He should thank James Okereke for the swift shot of adrenaline, before his own swift shot ended the skulking bastard’s worthless life.

BOLAN’S BERETTA COUGHED once through its sound suppressor, and dropped the rapist in his tracks. The dead man shivered and then lay still, blood drooling from the keyhole in his forehead.

Bolan recognized the stunned young woman from her photos, but he still went for the confirmation. “Mandy Ross?”

“Uh-huh. And you are?”

“Taking you away from here, if that’s all right.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“It’s getting dark outside,” he said, “but anyone who’s looking won’t have any problem seeing us. Say nothing. Follow where I lead, no questions and no deviations. If we make it to the tree line unobserved, we’ve got a fighting chance.”

“And if we don’t?”

He shrugged. “We still fight, but it may not go so well.”

“Okay,” she said. “It beats waiting for them to come dismember me. Let’s do it.”

Bolan stooped and drew the dead man’s pistol from its holster. It was a Polish MAG-95 in 9 mm Parabellum, with a full magazine and a round already in the chamber. He handed the weapon to Mandy and asked, “Have you ever fired a pistol?”

“A couple of times, at the country club range.”

“This is easy,” he told her. “The trigger’s double-action. All you have to do is aim and squeeze—but not unless I say so or you see someone I’ve missed sneaking around behind us. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“You should have sixteen shots,” Bolan went on, rolling the dead man onto his back and plucking two more magazines from pouches on his belt. “With these, it’s forty-six. Reload by—”

“I know this part,” Mandy interrupted him. “You push a button—this one?—and the clip falls out.”

“That’s it. Ready to leave now?”

“Yes, please.”

Bolan cracked the door and scanned the slice of compound he could see without emerging, then stepped clear with Mandy on his heels. No one was watching that he noticed, and the shadowed tree line beckoned to him, forty yards or less from where he stood.

Without another word, he moved in that direction, walking with a purpose, trusting Mandy to keep up with him. She had the world’s best motivation to avoid falling behind: survival.

They were halfway to the outskirts of the camp before a harsh voice bellowed an alarm behind them. Bolan half turned, saw a soldier sprinting toward them with his pistol drawn, rousing the camp with shouted warnings. Almost instantly sentries appeared on Bolan’s left, racing to cut off his retreat into the forest.

“Change of plans,” he snapped at Mandy. “Follow me!”

She did as instructed, running after Bolan as he turned and raced toward the line of vehicles that formed the compound’s motor pool. A shot rang out behind them, followed instantly by half a dozen more.

Before Bolan could turn and counter that incoming fire, the same harsh voice commanded, “Not the woman! She must not be harmed!”

Which gave Bolan an edge, of sorts. He might be fair game for the rebels, but that didn’t mean he had to take it lying down.

Turning, he raked the compound with a long burst from his Steyr AUG. Mandy was firing at the same time, yelping as the first shot stung her palm and ears, then getting used to it.

Bolan saw one of their opponents drop, and then another. When a third fell and the rest scattered for cover, he called to Mandy, “Hurry up! We’re going for a ride.”

Most military vehicles had simple starter mechanisms, since ignition keys were quickly lost or broken in adverse conditions. Bolan chose a Jeep at random, slid behind the wheel and gunned its engine into snarling life while Mandy scrambled for the shotgun seat.

“Hang on!” he said, and floored the gas pedal, aiming the Jeep’s nose at the nearest gunmen, barreling through the middle of the camp to reach the only access road beyond.

CHAPTER FOUR

In a rush of panic, Azuka Bankole forgot his own orders and those he’d received from his commander. He tracked the speeding Jeep with his pistol, rapid-firing round after round toward its tires, then the driver, praying for a lucky shot to stop the fleeing vehicle.

Around him, every soldier with a weapon followed his example, laying down a storm of fire that somehow failed to halt the Jeep. How was it possible?

His parents might have said that forest demons were responsible. Bankole had abandoned superstition as a child—or thought he had, at least—and reckoned careless shooting was responsible. He had been taught to squeeze a trigger, not to jerk it, but the lessons learned while practicing on lifeless stationary targets were too easily forgotten in the heat of combat.

Bankole’s pistol slide locked open on a smoking chamber, and he dropped the empty magazine, groping for a replacement from his gun belt. By the time he found it, the Jeep was out of sight, vanished into the dark maw of the forest road that granted access to the camp for vehicles.

Behind it lay chaos.

The Jeep had flattened several of Bankole’s soldiers, and at least two of their tents. From one, a man’s pained voice called out for help. Others, still fit and frantic, had begun to chase the Jeep on foot, firing into the night.

Bankole strained his throat calling them back, knowing that every second wasted gave his enemy a greater lead. As his guerrillas rallied to him, Bankole was on the move, leading them to the motor pool.

“Go after them!” he shouted. “The woman must not get away!”

Whatever happened in the next half hour could decide Bankole’s fate. If he allowed the hostage to escape, he had no doubt that Ekon Afolabi would demand his life in payment for that failure. If his soldiers killed the woman, trying to recapture her, his fate might be the same—but he could offer the defense of having told his men she had to be caught alive.

Bankole’s only other option was to send his men in pursuit, then flee alone in some other direction and try to escape Afolabi’s long reach. The prospect was attractive, for perhaps two seconds, then his mind snapped back to harsh reality.

What did he know of life outside of Delta State, much less outside Nigeria? He would be lost beyond the relatively small and violent world where he had grown into a savage semblance of manhood.

Bankole could run, but he couldn’t hide.

The only realistic choice, then, was to stay and fight; take apparent defeat and turn it into something that would pass for triumph.

Two Jeeps and three dirt bikes were already in hot pursuit of the escaping hostage and her rescuer, whoever he might be. Bankole leaped into the final Jeep, hammered the dashboard starter button with his fist and revved the engine, hesitating only for a moment while three soldiers filled the empty seats.

“Remember that we need the girl alive,” he said before he gunned the Jeep and followed those who’d gone before.

But did they, really?

Granted, he had orders to protect her, but he hadn’t counted on a bold escape. Bankole knew there was a good chance that his men would wound or kill the hostage, either accidentally or for the hell of it. And what would happen to Bankole then?

A sudden inspiration made him smile.

If anything went wrong, it was the white man’s fault for meddling where he didn’t belong. Who was to say that he didn’t kill the woman himself? If he was dead, then he couldn’t dispute Bankole’s version of events.

Perfect, Bankole thought, plunging down the tunnel of the forest road, his headlights burning through the night.

THE JEEP BOLAN HAD chosen was a rattletrap, but it could move. He drove with the accelerator nearly floored, knowing that he was finished if an antelope or some other creature charged out in front of him. He couldn’t stop short at his present speed, and anything he struck would likely wind up in his lap or Mandy’s.

She was swiveled in her seat, up on one knee and watching their trail for any sign of a pursuit. It wasn’t long in coming.

“Dirt bikes,” she informed him half a heartbeat after Bolan saw the first headlight reflected in his trembling, sagging mirror. Two more joined the chase almost immediately, followed farther back by the first Jeep to join the chase.

“Is this as fast as we can go?” she asked, then squealed as their Jeep hit a pothole, nearly pitching her out of her seat.

“Sit down and hang on!” Bolan snapped. “We’re lucky to have wheels at all, but it isn’t a racer.”

“So sorry,” she said. “But I don’t feel like going back into my cage.”

“That won’t happen,” he told her with more confidence than he felt.

Three bikes could mean six shooters, but he doubted they were riding double. Three or four men to a Jeep, however many were behind him on the narrow road. Wherever he was forced to stop and fight, Bolan knew he’d be outnumbered.

Situation normal.

“You’ve got me at a disadvantage,” Mandy said a moment later. “What’s your name?”

“Matt Cooper,” he replied, using the name on his passport.

“I guess my father sent you?”

“Not exactly,” Bolan said, checking the mirror.

Three Jeeps were back there now. The growling dirt bikes had already cut his lead by half.

“What’s that mean?” Mandy asked.

Bolan shot her a sidelong glance and said, “We’ll talk about it later, if there’s time.”

“You mean, if we’re alive?”

“Well, if we’re not, there won’t be much to say.”

She laughed at that, a brittle sound, cut off almost before it left her lips.

“Want me to shoot the bikers?” she inquired.

“Can you?”

She half turned in her seat again, raising the pistol taken from her would-be rapist.

“Let’s find out,” she said.

She spaced her shots, took time to aim, their vehicle leaving the sharp reports behind. After her fourth shot, Mandy yelped, “I got one!”

Bolan’s rearview mirror proved it, as the second dirt bike back in line veered to the right and plunged into the forest. Bolan couldn’t tell if she had hit the driver, his machine, or simply cracked his nerve with a near-miss, but she had taken out one of their enemies, in any case.

“Good work,” he told her.

“I’m not finished yet. I owe these pricks for—”

Bolan saw the muzzle-flashes in his mirror, ducked instinctively and heard one of the bullets from the lead Jeep strike the rear of his.

“Get down!” he warned.

Mandy obeyed, but only to a point. She peered around the backrest of her seat and raised her weapon for another shot. When she’d fired two without apparent hits, she answered, “What the hell. I’d rather die out here than go back in a box and wait to see what happens next.”

He couldn’t fault her logic or her nerve, but Bolan didn’t want to see her killed by stubborn anger. Mandy squeezed off three more rounds, then gave a little squawk and dropped back in her seat.

“Damn it! I’m shot!” she said.

“Show me,” Bolan demanded.

Mandy held her right arm out to him, showed him where blood spotted the sleeve.

“Call it a graze,” said Bolan. “Next time, it could be between your eyes.”

“They aren’t that good,” she said.