Lethal Payload

4

Ki clutched his bruised throat as he spoke hoarsely over the phone. “Pak has been compromised.”

The voice on the other end of the line did not sound overly concerned. “How so?”

“They had his dog tags. They followed the trail here. They know he was a legionnaire.”

“Was a legionnaire,” the voice said. “So what?”

Ki’s face tightened with more than the pain in the hollow of his throat. “The man took my dog tags and escaped with them.”

“Well, now, that is an unfortunate turn of events.” The voice paused. “So, just for my edification, this man came in, claiming to be a legionnaire, and then beat up you, the pandekar, your friends, stole your dog tags and ran off into the night with them?”

“Yes.” Ki’s jaws were clenched. “That is about the size of it.”

“Tell me, where did he go? I assume you mounted some sort of pursuit?”

“We did. We chased him for some distance through the streets, but he was lightning fast. His attack at the pandekar’s was sudden and unorthodox. As was his escape. He is obviously some kind of professional.”

“Do you believe he is a legionnaire?” the voice said, this time more in reflection than sarcasm.

Ki had been devoting a great deal of thought to that question. “I do not know. The way he acted, it was clear he is a very experienced soldier. Things like that cannot be faked. Whether he served with Pak in Polynesia…” Ki’s scowl returned. “Without a name, that will be very hard to verify, with the unwanted attention it could attract.”

“Indeed,” the voice agreed. “Tell me, how was his French?”

Ki considered that. “Not perfect, and he spoke with an American accent, but that does not prove anything. The only legionnaires who speak good French are lying Frenchmen.”

The voice on the phone snorted derisively. “That is true.” The voice lowered. “But in your opinion, is he a legionnaire?”

“He had the dog tags, but I did not get to see them up close. He had the same tattoo as Pak and others who served as security in the atolls.” Ki grunted and shook his head. “But my instincts tell me no. I do not believe he is legion.”

“That is all I need to hear you say.”

Ki rubbed his throat. “So what do we do?”

“Let us assume your instincts are correct, and he is American. To my knowledge, the United States has no military or intelligence assets in Suriname to speak of. The only real place he can take genuine sanctuary or receive any sort of aid is the American Embassy.”

Ki spoke bitterly. His hand went to his chest, to the place were a familiar weight was uncomfortably missing. “He has my dog tags.”

“Yes, and if he has reached the embassy, he will be able to contact his confederates stateside. It will only be a matter of time before they determine who you are.”

“What do you propose we do?”

“Tell the pandekar to gather men he trusts. Cover the embassy now, twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later, he must come out. When he does, you and your men will kill him. I will send Cigarette and Babar to back you up, but you will lead, and you and the pandekar’s men must see to finishing the job. If you fail, then whatever kind of stink rises up, it must be a Javanese stink and one that ends in Suriname.”

Ki looked at the weapons mounted on the walls. They would be of little use in the coming confrontation. It was the weapons in crates beneath the cellar that would tell the tale now. “And if he somehow escapes us?”

Once more the voice on the other end of the line did not sound concerned. “If he somehow escapes and learns your identity, then he will most certainly come here.” The voice paused significantly. “And then I will most certainly kill him.”

Secure Communications Room,

U.S. Embassy, Suriname

KURTZMAN WAS CLEARLY unhappy. “Striker, we can’t keep plundering French military records.”

His brow furrowed on the videophone link. “We’re risking a lot. Busting into Suriname’s military database would be one thing, but France is a very modern country, with some of the most sophisticated technology in the world. In some areas of technology, France is even ahead of us. And right now, in all honesty, I cannot guarantee you that we’re getting in and out undetected. Much less what kind of electronic tracking and countermeasures we may be subjecting ourselves to. If French Military Intelligence catches a whiff of us and goes on a war footing, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that they could find us in spite of our fire walls and back doors.” Kurtzman shook his head. “I feel the risk may soon be too great.”

Bolan considered the problem. “Okay, but what have you got?”

“Well, there are some small hitches with the translation programs. The French foreign legion is kind of archaic in its military terminology. It’s also kind of tribal and has a lot of its own slang. Akira’s working on it, and—”

“And what have you got, Bear?”

“I’ve got French Foreign Legion Caporal Ki Gunung. Caporal in the Foreign Legion is a lot closer to sergeant in the U.S. or British military as far as authority and responsibilities than what we think of as a corporal.”

“What else have you got on him?”

“He’s active legion, and didn’t change his name when he joined up. He joined the 2nd Parachute Regiment and made it into the Deep Reconnaissance Commandos. The legion’s best of the best.”

Bolan consulted his map. “The 2nd Parachute Regiment is stationed in Corsica. What’s our boy doing in South America?”

“He’s a certified hand-to-hand combat and commando instructor.” Kurtzman scanned his notes. “It seems he was transferred as a specialist to the 3rd Infantry Regiment and the Jungle Warfare School in French Guiana.”

“Interesting,” Bolan replied. “But if he’s active with the 3rd Infantry Regiment, what is he doing here in Suriname?”

“Well, his current post is less than a hundred miles from where you are now. What he’s doing on the wrong side of the Maroni River, we don’t know. He could be AWOL, or he could be there with permission. Of course, Suriname and French Guiana do have a disputed border area. He could actually be there on some kind of mission.” Kurtzman stared at Bolan fixedly. “That would take a great deal more probing of heavily secured French military files.”

“Just do what needs to be done. Hit and git when you feel someone tracking you.”

Kurtzman sighed. “Striker, do you have anything to directly tie the French military to terrorist actions taken by al Qaeda?”

Bolan shook his head. “No. All I’ve got are my instincts, and they’re going off like fireworks on the Fourth of July on this one.”

“Well that’s good enough for me, Striker. You know that.”

“Bear, something really nasty is coming down the pipe.”

Kurtzman nodded slowly. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go to French Guiana to poke around.”

“YOU’RE NUTS.” CIA Station Chief Kira Kiraly gazed at Bolan steadily.

Bolan shrugged. “Yeah, well…”

The station chief blew a lock of hair off her brow. It was just before dawn, and the heat was already rising. “So what are you expecting, again?”

“I’m expecting to get hit, by anywhere from ten to thirty accomplished martial artists and terrorists, armed with anything from machetes and AK-47s up to and exceeding rocket-propelled grenade launchers.”

Kiraly nodded once. “Right.”

It was clear she believed that Bolan was insane. The station chief was short, blond, sarcastic and very well put together. She didn’t look at all like a senior spook.

Bolan knew those were always the best kind.

“Listen.” Kiraly shook her head. “I know I’ve been told to extend you every courtesy, but—”

“What can you do for me?” Bolan smiled winningly. “I’m sorry about it being such short notice.”

She held up some keys. “I have a Volvo station wagon.”

Bolan shrugged. “Safest car on the road.”

“I love that car,” the station chief warned. She seemed deadly serious. “The air-conditioning works. You have no idea what kind of premium that is around here.”

Kiraly led as they crept around the embassy in the predawn gloom toward the parking area. A pair of Marine embassy guard jeeps and a VW Bug were parked in a line.

Bolan suppressed a grin. Slightly off to one side, parked in the place of honor, gleamed a brown Volvo station wagon with diplomatic plates.

“It’s beautiful,” Bolan acknowledged.

“Thank you.” She searched Bolan for sarcasm. “Maybe it would be best if I drove.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I think it would be best if someone drove and someone shot.” She looked Bolan up and down with genuine appreciation. “I’m going to trust you on the shooting part.”

Bolan shrugged. “I’m thinking the airport is a death trap.”

“I agree.”

Bolan glanced eastward toward French Guiana. “It’s just under two hundred miles to Cayenne.”

“Have I shown you the embassy armory?” the station chief inquired. “It’s lovely.”

THE VOLVO FLEW through the rainforest. After passing Nieuw Amsterdam, the coastal highway had swung inland. They were about thirty miles from the Maroni River and the border with French Guiana. Lush jungle encroached on either side. It was high noon, and the heat was scorching. Sane people in South America spared themselves and their vehicles during this time of day. They passed few cars and saw even fewer people. It was a perfect place for an ambush, and if the enemy was going to do it, they would have to do it soon.

The outside temperature was more than one hundred degrees. It had rained buckets ten minutes earlier, but there was no sign of it save occasional steam rising out of the shelter of the jungle. The Volvo slid down the highway like a blissfully air-conditioned dream at a comfortable sixty-five miles per hour. Comfortable was the word. If Kiraly suddenly floored it, Bolan doubted much more would happen.

The car hit a pothole and the package tied to the luggage rack thumped on the roof, a metallic reminder.

Bolan watched the heat images shimmer on the road ahead. “I know the air-conditioning is on, but why don’t you open the windows?”

Kiraly hit the power windows and superheated air swept inside the car interior. The speed of the car did little to mitigate the heat. The sunroof slid open, and the sun blasted down like light through a magnifying glass.

“I see why you love this car,” Bolan said.

She shook her head decisively. “You’d better not get this car killed, or…” Her voice trailed off as she caught Bolan’s expression. “What?”

The soldier reached for his rucksack on the floor. “Here they come.”

In the side mirror Bolan could see a pickup truck pulling out of the heat mirages behind them. It was coming up very fast.

Four motorcycles fanned out around it like outriders of the Apocalypse.

“Drive,” Bolan commanded.

Kiraly put the pedal to the floor of her ten-year-old, four-cylinder station wagon. They weren’t going to drive their way out of this one.

The pickup was gaining steadily. The motorcycles flew forward like hornets. Each bike carried two men. One man drove; the man behind carried a gun.

They would be in range in seconds.

Bolan clicked down the folding metal foregrip on the Beretta 93-R. The detachable skeleton stock was already affixed. He flicked the machine pistol’s selector switch to 3-round-burst mode, grimacing as he turned in his seat. The gunners on the motorcycles were carrying FN-FAL rifles. The big battle rifles were easily capable of chewing a Volvo to pieces. Accuracy would be problematic, but the assassins probably weren’t worried about that.

They intended to drive right up and dump their weapons into the car on full-auto at point-blank range.

Bolan stood up through the sunroof, shouldered his weapon and braced himself in the frame. The wind ripped at him as Kiraly pushed the car for all it was worth. Bolan roared over the searing wind, “Keep it straight!”

One of the motorcycles suddenly shot forward like an arrow. The driver’s face was lost behind the mirrored visor of his helmet. The gunner’s leer of blood lust was openly visible. He struggled to aim his weapon at the rear tires of the Volvo. Bullets ripped divots out of the road surface as his weapon hammered on automatic. The range was too long and the rifle too powerful to control, and his burst climbed away from his target.

The driver gunned his engine and shot forward to close the distance.

Bolan grimaced. Trying to shoot out the tires meant the enemy was going for a capture.

The gunner steadied himself for another burst. Bolan ignored him. He peered along the barrel, then squeezed his trigger.

The driver jerked backward as the burst walked up his chest and neck and punched in the visor of his helmet. The scream of the gunner was lost as the motorcycle went up on its rear wheel and drove out from under the riders. Gunner and driver hit the road in a seventy-five-mile-per-hour pinwheel of breaking bones. The other three motorcycles swerved wildly to avoid the rolling carnage.

Behind them the pickup continued to close in.

Bolan steadied himself and aimed his weapon. The three rifles facing him ripped into life.

The only defense was offense. Bolan stood and shot.

A second motorcycle spun out of control as the soldier printed three 9 mm hollowpoints into the driver’s chest. Men and motorcycle rolled in an orgy of twisting metal and rending flesh. The other two gunmen continued to fire.

Bolan’s jaw slammed against the roof of the Volvo, and he nearly lost his weapon as one of the rear tires exploded with a lucky hit. He was nearly flung from the sunroof as Kiraly violently overcorrected to keep the car on the road. Bolan held on to the luggage rack for dear life, but the aluminum strut ripped free in his hand. Only his legs scissored around the headrest kept Bolan connected to the car as the vehicle fishtailed.

The Executioner squeezed his knees together with all of his strength as he took the Beretta in both hands. Kiraly could barely keep the car on the road. Bolan fired burst after burst trying to compensate for the slewing vehicle. The motorcycles came on with both rifles blazing. Bullets chewed into the rear bumper. The remains of the rear tire shredded away, and the Volvo dipped sickeningly to one side. Metal screamed as the wheel bit into the roadway. The roof of the car tore in a line beside Bolan’s elbow, and a whip cracked by Bolan’s ear as a bullet missed his head by inches.

The Beretta recoiled in Bolan’s hand and locked back on empty as he fired off his last burst. The driver of the closest motorcycle jerked as a bullet took him in the shoulder, and the gunner behind him rubbernecked as the second bullet of the burst took him in the face. The gunner fell off the back motorcycle with his rifle still firing.

The burst from his dead hand climbed up the back of his driver.

The motorcycle veered sharply as the driver collapsed and fell into the path of his wingman. Breaking humans and breaking motorcycles bounced and rolled in their death throes across the pavement.

The pickup came on, hitting a body and rolling right over it. Armed men stood in the truck bed clinging to the roll bar. Bolan recognized the shape of an RPG-7 rocket launcher. The truck was closing to within range.

Bolan dropped the Beretta and shoved himself backward to secure his footing in the car. He reached for the flopping remains of the luggage rack and pulled off the bungee cords that held his package.

The Executioner ripped the canvas cover off the M-60 general-purpose machine gun.

He racked the action of the M-60 and pulled open the legs of the bipod. He crouched in the sunroof and leaned into the machine gun’s shoulder stock. The lurching of the stricken Volvo made aimed fire almost impossible. Bolan squeezed the trigger and began walking the smoking lines of tracers into the pickup.

The front of the truck sparked with bullet strikes. The Volvo bounced as it hit a bump in the road, and the rest of Bolan’s burst went high. There was almost no way to keep the weapon steady. The soldier paused to align his weapon again and fired another burst. The passenger side of the windshield went opaque with bullet strikes before Bolan’s burst climbed off aim again.

Flame blossomed around the roof of the truck as the antitank rocket roared out of its launch tube in answer.

Bolan’s voice thundered at parade ground decibels. “Right! Right! Right!”

Kiraly yanked the wheel. The football-size warhead of the rocket-propelled grenade flew past the car on a column of black smoke and detonated in the rainforest beyond.

“Brakes!”

Kiraly stood on the brakes, and the car spun screaming into the guardrail. Bolan bounced inside the frame of the sunroof with bone-cracking force. The Volvo careened into a smoking stop. Bolan slammed the M-60 back down across the roof and lined up his sights as the pickup approached.

Bolan squeezed the machine gun’s trigger. Tracers walked up the pavement in a line for the front of the truck. The smoking Volvo was finally motionless, and the Executioner had a stable platform from which to use his sights. He leaned into his weapon and held down the trigger. Sparks flew off the grille as he got hits. Sparks flew and bits of metal pinged away from the front. The missile man in the back was desperately ramming a fresh rocket into his launch tube. The hood of the truck flew up as its catch smashed apart. Smoke and flames were whipped by the wind. Bolan paused as the truck closed to one hundred yards, and raised his aim.

The Executioner put his front sight on the driver’s side of the windshield and burned the rest of his belt. The popped hood ripped away, and the rest of the windshield collapsed inward. The nose of the dying truck swerved one way and then the other as if someone were wrestling with the wheel, and then spun as if someone had violently won the fight.

The truck veered across the road, hit the guardrail and somersaulted off the highway. The men in the back went flying.

Bolan’s spare belt of ammo for the M-60 had miraculously stayed attached to the canvas tied to the roof. He laid the belt into the feed ramp and clacked it shut. “Go, get us away from the scene and then pull off the road, we’ll—”

“We’ve got problems,” Kiraly said.

Bolan glanced around. It was only a two-lane highway. A few hundred yards ahead a pair of military-style jeeps blocked the road in a V formation. There was nowhere to run, and the Volvo was in no shape for a chase, anyway. Bolan racked the M-60’s action. “Floor it.”

Metal screamed as the remaining rear tire clawed for traction and the side panels sparked themselves free of the guardrail. A man stood beside each jeep carefully aiming a rifle across the hood. Bolan slid back down into the car.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Kiraly flinched at the deafening blast as Bolan shot out the windshield. He pulled up his knee and kicked out the sagging glass panel and then shoved the M-60 forward onto the hood.

The Volvo limped up to forty miles per hour. Kiraly shook her head in horror at the apocalyptic game of chicken. The riflemen ahead began firing.

“Don’t stop,” Bolan said as he began triggering bursts from first at one jeep and then the other. The bipod slid on the hood, and Bolan’s shots were all over the map. Aimed fire began hitting the front of the Volvo. Bullets tore into the grille. Bolan’s side mirror was shot away, and Kiraly flinched and screamed as a bit of the headrest by her ear disappeared. Steam spewed from bullet holes in the hood. Kiraly kept her foot on the gas, and the dying Volvo lurched on like a Swedish kamikaze.

Bolan fired burst after burst and suddenly the two jeeps were right in front of them. The two riflemen hurled themselves away from the impending carnage. Bolan yanked the red-hot machine gun back into the car and clasped it across his chest.

The Volvo hit the roadblock at forty-seven miles per hour.

The jeeps spun away in opposite directions as the front of the Volvo folded like an accordion. Front and side air bags blew forth from the safety panels and violently expanded to obscure Bolan’s world as the Volvo sailed on. The car burst through the guardrail and came to a halt against a forty-foot ironwood tree.

Bolan ignored the stars in his vision and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He ripped free the knife on his belt and gutted the air bags pressing against him. He yanked the door handle but nothing happened as the air bags deflated around him. The soldier threw his shoulder once, twice and the third time his door burst open. He fell to the mud and gravel, clutching the M-60. He lurched up and slammed the weapon across the roof of the vehicle.

A gunshot rang out instantly, and something plucked at the collar of Bolan’s shirt.

He clamped down his trigger and sprayed an arc of bullets before him. He caught sight of the two riflemen crouched beside one of the mangled jeeps. The Executioner kept his trigger down and forced them under cover with sheer firepower.

Kiraly’s .45-caliber Glock pistol began barking on rapid semiauto from the driver’s-side window. Bolan maintained fire and riddled the jeep into smoking ruin. He let off the trigger and glared down his sights. Brass shell casings rolled across the pavement. There were no other sounds except the ticking, hissing, dripping and steaming sounds of dead and dying automobiles.

The soldier kept his hand on the trigger as he slid the M-60’s sling over his shoulder. He crouched and came around the Volvo with the machine gun in the hip-assault position. He looked both ways, but nothing moved. Save for the jungle itself, there was no cover to be had except for the destroyed automobiles. Bolan crossed the road covering the jeep. He stepped around and found what he had been expecting.

Broken glass, spent shell casings and blood.