Survival Reflex
Don Pendleton
GREEN HELLA desperate call for help on behalf of an old friend put Mack Bolan in an awkward position. Dr. Nathan Weiss is plying his life-saving skills among the Brazilian tribes embroiled in civil war in the heart of the blood-drenched Amazon. Bolan is not sure Weiss wants help, yet the Executioner's combat senses tell him Weiss is part of something bigger. And finds it on a collision course with government death squads holding hands with CIA black ops who view Weiss as a liability to the U.S.The odds against the mission's success greatly increase and Bolan becomes a moving target when he's temporarily blinded in a firefight. But the Stony warrior goes into every battle knowing trouble– even death–will eventually find him. He's prepared for both.
“Hell on Earth and Eden, all rolled into one.”
So far, it wasn’t Mack Bolan’s notion of a holiday.
It felt like coming home.
Bolan had grown up in a jungle, spilled blood there and earned the nickname that would follow him through his life, even beyond his early grave. That jungle was located on the far side of the world, but all of them were more or less the same. The predators and prey varied by continent, but it was still survival of the fittest in a world where no quarter was asked or granted.
The one rule carved in stone was kill or be killed. The Executioner knew that rule by heart. Forest primeval. He knew that it would eat him alive, given half a chance.
And somewhere in the midst of it was Nathan Weiss.
Other titles available in this series:
Hellground
Inferno
Ambush
Blood Strike
Killpoint
Vendetta
Stalk Line
Omega Game
Shock Tactic
Showdown
Precision Kill
Jungle Law
Dead Center
Tooth and Claw
Thermal Strike
Day of the Vulture
Flames of Wrath
High Aggression
Code of Bushido
Terror Spin
Judgment in Stone
Rage for Justice
Rebels and Hostiles
Ultimate Game
Blood Feud
Renegade Force
Retribution
Initiation
Cloud of Death
Termination Point
Hellfire Strike
Code of Conflict
Vengeance
Executive Action
Killsport
Conflagration
Storm Front
War Season
Evil Alliance
Scorched Earth
Deception
Destiny’s Hour
Power of the Lance
A Dying Evil
Deep Treachery
War Load
Sworn Enemies
Dark Truth
Breakaway
Blood and Sand
Caged
Sleepers
Strike and Retrieve
Age of War
Line of Control
Breached
Retaliation
Pressure Point
Silent Running
Stolen Arrows
Zero Option
Predator Paradise
Circle of Deception
Devil’s Bargain
False Front
Lethal Tribute
Season of Slaughter
Point of Betrayal
Ballistic Force
Renegade
Survival Reflex
Mack Bolan®
Don Pendleton
That man travels the longest journey who undertakes it in search of a sincere friend.
—Ali ibn-abi-Talib
(Seventh century)
Between friends there is no need for justice
—Aristotle
We all need justice sometimes, and the best test of friendship is a trial by fire.
—Mack Bolan
To all suffering victims in Iraq
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#uef25224f-6342-5d17-bee2-6c4454c4bfe5)
CHAPTER TWO (#u25243f3e-98c1-5519-8b4f-dfb202eafad0)
CHAPTER THREE (#u5be29ad6-886c-5832-81ba-c57c99ce75a6)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ueebc6624-55b5-5100-b1d1-f34dd5096ed8)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u7e73e077-9822-563c-a4af-4b95b8c1af58)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
Mato Grosso State, Brazil
The battle never really ends. It’s true that guns stop firing, smoke clears from the field and politicians mutter through negotiations in the name of statesmanship—but what about those who fight and bleed?
Who tends the ragged wounds and clips the severed arteries? Who stitches or removes the ravaged organs? Who sets shattered bones and searches for new skin to cover burns?
I do, the surgeon answered silently. For all the good it does.
One truth Nathan Weiss had learned in years of military practice dogged his thoughts through every waking hour and in nightmares: no wound ever truly healed.
Bones mended. Torn flesh produced scar tissue. Spilled blood could be replaced. Some organs were expendable.
But what about the soul?
How did a man really recover after he’d been shot, stabbed, tortured, set on fire or blasted with explosives? Even if he learned to walk again without a cane or limp, if he could show a more or less unblemished visage to the world, what was going on inside?
What did he wish, hope, dream, regret?
How did he claim the life he had before?
Weiss couldn’t answer that one, and he’d long since given up on trying. Elbow-deep in blood again, he concentrated on the open body that demanded his attention at the moment. It was male, peppered with shrapnel wounds that seemed almost innocuous from the outside, but which wreaked havoc with the vital parts inside.
“Do something, please,” he said, “about these goddamned flies.”
His two assistants blinked at each other, each raising a bloody hand to point accusingly. They didn’t speak, but the expressive eyes above their surgical masks said everything the surgeon needed to hear.
“I’m sorry, never mind,” he told them. “Please, just keep them from the wounds.”
Heads bobbed in unison. They could do that, at least.
Flies were a part of working in the field, along with ants and roaches, the occasional pit viper, leaky tents and wheezing generators that could fail at any time and plunge the operating tent into lethal darkness with the job unfinished.
Just another day at the office.
The young man before him had suffered wounds to both kidneys, but one of them could probably be saved. The spleen was gone, which meant that the young man—assuming he survived the night—would have some difficulty fighting off infections in the years to come. His perforated stomach had been sutured and its spillage cleared away. Two feet of shredded small intestine had been excised, the remainder spliced. A deep wound to the prostate might or might not leave him impotent.
But none of that would kill the young man.
In the operation’s second bloody hour now, Weiss had moved on to things that took a bit more time. Two surgeons might’ve finished up the job by now, but he was on his own, as usual. There were no shortcuts, no Get Out of the OR Free cards in this life-or-death game.
He was the only surgeon in the area—or, anyway, the only one who’d work on battle wounds without a hotline heads-up to the same men who’d inflicted them.
And so he did it all, with two assistants who were learning as they went, eye-rolling when the blood flowed freely, grimacing as charnel odors filtered through their masks.
“Forehead, someone, please,” he requested. “I’ve got my hands full.”
One of his helpers found a sponge and moved around the table, careful not to block the surgeon’s field of vision as he dabbed sweat from the tan expanse of forehead.
“Thanks,” Weiss said. “Let’s clean this up and close.”
TEAM PANTHER WAS on schedule, closing on the target with determination borne of knowledge that there might not be another chance. They had already missed the target twice during the past six months. A third failure was bound to have unpleasant repercussions.
Following his point man down a muddy jungle trail, Team Panther’s leader thought, Strike three. You’re out.
A third miss wouldn’t cost his life, but it would be embarrassing. He’d lose prestige and likely be passed over on the next attempt. He might be shuffled to some post in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do but slap mosquitoes and type his resignation on a rusty portable.
An air strike might’ve done the trick more swiftly and effectively, but killing from the sky was not always reliable. The air force had no “smart” bombs in their inventory, and they could’ve strafed the jungle all day long without scoring a verified hit on the target.
So much for high technology.
When wet work was required, it still came down to men who weren’t afraid of dirtying their hands.
Behind their leader and the point man, moving through the rain forest in single file, two dozen soldiers focused single-mindedly upon their goal. It helped distract them from the swarms of biting insects, mud that tried to pull their boots off, lukewarm rain that fell just long enough to soak them to the skin then waited for their camouflage fatigues to nearly dry before it started up again.
The nagging irritations made them anxious for a fight.
Eager to kill.
They were the best at what they did, these men. Team Panther had a reputation to defend, which had been sullied by their failed attempts to burn the target in October and December. Now they had another chance, and every member of the team had sworn a blood oath to succeed this time.
The leader checked his compact GPS unit. Assuming that their information was correct, they had another half mile left to go, dense jungle all the way.
WEISS’S FIFTH PATIENT had once been fairly handsome, if his eyes and brow were any indication, but the bullets that had ripped into his cheek and jaw had spoiled his face forever. It was something of a miracle they hadn’t killed him on the spot, in fact, but there was grim determination in those eyes, before the morphine blessed him with oblivion.
Why do you bother? asked the small voice in his head. Why heal them, so that they can maim and kill?
Because somebody had to do it.
And Weiss wasn’t altogether sure that they were wrong.
Shouting outside the operating tent distracted him, but he recovered so quickly his aides never noticed. Split-second hesitation on the scalpel stroke, but when he made the cut it was deep, clean and sure.
A runner burst into the tent and stopped short on the threshold, gaping at the deconstructed form in front of him.
Shifting to half-baked Portuguese, Weiss told the newcomer, “You’re risking this man’s life by coming in here. Turn around and leave.”
The interloper stood his ground, though he was trembling as he said, “They’re coming, Doctor.”
“Who is they? More casualties?”
“The enemy.”
That made the surgeon pause. He glanced up at his two assistants, found them staring back at him, and swiveled toward the messenger. “How long?”
“Perhaps a quarter of an hour.”
“That’s too soon. I still have work to do.”
He knew the words were nonsense, even as he spoke. The surgeon’s enemies wouldn’t withdraw until he finished with his patients. They had come to stop him, after all. If they could finish off the job they’d started with the wounded, it would just be icing on the cake.
“What should we do?” the messenger inquired.
“Get ready to evacuate. And buy some time.”
“We’ll try,” he said, and fled the tent. Weiss wondered whether he had sent the messenger to meet his death.
Too late to think about that now.
He had a short while left to finish with the patient on his operating table. Enough time, anyway, to close the last incision, though he couldn’t manage any of the fine work needed to reduce scarring.
All wasted effort if the patient couldn’t be evacuated safely in the time that still remained to him. There’d be no mercy from the enemy when they arrived. They’d come in killing and be quick about it this time, trying to make sure no one escaped.
Weiss glanced back toward the corner of his makeshift operating room that served as sleeping quarters when he wasn’t carving flesh. Jungle fatigues lay folded there, and resting on the bundle of his hiking clothes, an Uru submachine gun.
Kill or cure.
This day, perhaps, he’d do a bit of both.
TEAM PANTHER’S leader listened to the terse report from his point man. The target lay five hundred yards ahead, though still invisible from where they stood, surrounded on all sides by looming trees and dangling vines like ropes in a gymnasium.
“How many did you see?” the leader asked.
His scout considered it, a moment dragging as he did the mental census. “Six or seven men with weapons, sir,” the point man said at last. “They carry others in and out of tents.”
“And did you count the tents?”
“One big, three small, sir. Also, they have an open space covered by tarp on poles, with men laid out on stretchers. And a generator near the big tent.”
“Is that everything? No vehicles?”
The point man stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “There is no road, sir.”
“None on this side that we know about. Answer the question.”
Sulking, the soldier said, “No, sir. No vehicles.”
Team Panther’s leader did the calculations swiftly. Six or seven armed and able-bodied men against his twenty-five. The wounded would present no difficulty. They were enemies, presumed guilty of crimes against the state, condemned by their own treasonous behavior. He would leave them where he found them, after making sure they didn’t live to fight another day.
And he would have the one who’d managed to elude him for so long, making a mockery of each attempt to capture him.
This time, the leader told himself, I will succeed.
He’d be a hero back at headquarters, or at the very least erase the black marks placed beside his name the last two times he’d led teams through the jungle, searching for the man his enemies referred to simply as O Médico.
The Doctor.
One who gave them hope when they should have none, who restored the broken bones and ravaged flesh of terrorists, enabling them to spread more carnage and imperil everything Team Panther’s men were dedicated to defend.
This day it would end.
They would eliminate O Médico once and for all. If he surrendered, they would take him back for trial and the inevitable prison cell. If he resisted…well, Team Panther would be forced to remedy the state’s misguided abolition of capital punishment.
Either way, the doctor was finished. He’d already seen his last patient.
He simply didn’t know it yet.
Team Panther’s leader fired a rifle shot into the air above the smoking tent and shouted to his hidden troops, “Attack! Attack!”
THE SPOOK SAT at his desk, chain-smoking while he studied maps and photographs, sitreps and transcripts of interrogations. He was looking for a bright spot, but it stubbornly eluded him.
The telephone beside his elbow was an enemy, a traitor. For the past six months it had refused to transmit anything except bad news from sources in the field and criticism from his boss. Each time it rang, these days—as it was ringing now—the spook experienced the urge to rip its cord out of the wall and drop the damned thing in his wastebasket.
Instead he lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Downey.”
“It’s me.”
He recognized the caller’s voice. It was a gift that served him well, despite accents. The caller was a valued asset, though he hadn’t been performing well of late. In fact, he’d left a fair amount to be desired.
“I need good news,” the spook advised. And from the silence on the far end of the line, he knew there would be none forthcoming. “All right, then. How bad?”
“We missed again.”
“When you say missed…”
“My people found the place, all right. Just where you promised it would be. A scout saw people in the camp, guerrillas, some of them on stretchers.”
“So?”
“We still aren’t sure what happened. By the time he came back with the main force and they had the camp surrounded, there was no one there.”
The spook reached for another cancer stick. “You tipped them off somehow,” he said accusingly.
“We’re looking into it.”
“Fat lot of good that does.” He smoked and fumed.
“It’s worse,” the caller said.
“Worse than another empty bag? All right, tell me.”
“The team took casualties. One man dead, another six or seven injured.”
“How the hell? You said there was nobody there.”
“Some kind of booby trap, or maybe just an accident. We’re—”
“Looking into it, I know. This isn’t what we talked about at all. You understand that, right? This doesn’t just reflect on you.”
“Of course, you’ll blame me all the same,” the caller answered back, showing some attitude.
“I call ’em like I see ’em,” the spook said. “You said yourself, the intel I provided led your hunters to the target. They saw people in the camp, for Christ’s sake! Now you see ’em, now you don’t. What kind of crazy shit is that? You want to say it’s my fault that your people can’t throw down on targets standing right in front of them?”
“I will find out what happened.”
“Beautiful. And what about the mark?”
“We’ll have to try again.”
“Just like that, is it? Let my fingers do the walking through the goddamned business pages, maybe. See what they’ve got listed under traitor comma dirty fucking.”
“You have contacts,” the caller replied. “We have contacts.”
“And they’ve told us where to look for him three times. How many strikes are you entitled to, I wonder?”
“Strikes?” The caller was confused now.
“Never mind. Forget about it. I’ll put on my thinking cap again and see if I can find another angle. In the meantime, it’s your job to make sure that the latest screwup does not go public under any circumstances. Are we clear?”
“I hear you.”
“Right. But are you listening?”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I hope so, for your own sake.”
And for mine, the spook thought as he dropped the telephone receiver back into its cradle. Once again he felt the urge to rip, discard, destroy.
Instead he lit a fresh smoke from the one he’d had clenched between his teeth and waited for the nicotine to work its magic on his jangling nerves.
Spilled milk, he thought. No use crying about it.
What he needed now, and goddamned soon, was some spilled blood to solve his problem. One more chance, if he was very lucky, and he didn’t dare waste it.
But what was left?
He needed specialists.
And with that thought in mind, he reached for the hated telephone.
CHAPTER TWO
San Diego, California
Mack Bolan took his time on Harbor Drive, westbound, checking his rearview mirror frequently. He hadn’t been in San Diego for a while, no reason anybody should be looking for him here, but vigilance was the price of survival. The first time Bolan let his guard drop, taking personal security for granted, it was safe to bet that negligence would turn and bite him where it hurt.
No tails so far.
His progress in the rented Chevrolet was leisurely enough that other motorists were glad to pass him, but he wasn’t driving slow enough to risk a ticket for obstructing traffic. Just the right speed, Bolan thought, for someone seeking a specific address in an unfamiliar neighborhood.
The address in question belonged to a block of professional offices, one of those buildings designed to resemble a twenty-first-century bunker. It was bronze and brown, metal and stone, with windows that reflected sunlight in a painful glare across the nearby lanes of traffic. In short, it was an eyesore, but the ritzy kind that advertised the affluence of those who had their offices within.
He wheeled into the parking lot and checked the rearview mirror once more, just to play it safe. Nobody followed him, none of the other drivers slowed to track his progress as they passed.
Now all he had to think about was what might be inside the ugly building, waiting for him.
Theoretically, it was a friend he hadn’t seen in better than a year. The contact had been clean, secure on Bolan’s end, no glitches to excite suspicion. Still, he was alive this day because he always took that extra step, preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.
The parking lot was only half full at this hour, approaching lunchtime, and he found a space within a short sprint of the revolving glass door. No one was loitering outside, but tinted windows wouldn’t let him scan the lobby from his vehicle.
Twelve minutes left.
He didn’t have the hinky feeling that an ambush often prompted, small hairs bristling on his nape, but Bolan didn’t live by premonitions. Instinct, training and experience all went together in the mix, occasionally seasoned by audacity.
Do it or split, he thought.
He didn’t need to check the pistol slung beneath his left armpit in fast-draw leather—fifteen cartridges in the Beretta’s magazine and one more in the chamber—so he simply had to squeeze the double-action trigger. Two spare magazines in pouches underneath his right arm gave him forty-six chances to kill any assailants who might try to jump him at the meet.
Relaxed? No way.
Frightened? Not even close.
He locked the car and left it, crossed the sidewalk, stepped into the maw of the revolving door. This was the first chance for an enemy to take him. Shooters waiting in the lobby could unload on him while he was sandwiched between panes of glass, most likely take him down before he could retaliate. It didn’t happen, though, and in another moment he was standing in the lobby, bathed in frosty air-conditioning.
There was an information desk to Bolan’s left, manned by a senior citizen. Off to his right, a wall directory served those who didn’t want the human touch. Bolan ignored them both, sweeping the empty lobby as he moved directly to the dual elevators.
Bolan didn’t need to check the floor or office numbers. They had been supplied, and he’d memorized them, end of story. Now he simply had to hope there would be no nasty surprises waiting for him on the seventh floor.
The smooth and solitary ride lasted no more than ninety seconds, but it gave him ample time to think about the call that had surprised him, coming out of nowhere with a plea for help. The caller was a man whose martial prowess nearly rivaled Bolan’s, one who rarely bluffed and never folded if he had a prayer of staying in the game.
They hadn’t talked details, an indication that the caller was concerned about security, despite precautions taken when he made the link-up. The arrangement of their meeting was another warning sign, behind closed doors, using the office of a lawyer Bolan didn’t know from Adam.
Hinky? Not so far.
Cautious? Believe it.
Bolan’s circle of devoted friends was small and dwindling over time. It was the nature of his life and his profession that attachments came with price tags. Sudden death or worse lay waiting for the careless. He had more friends in the ground than standing on it, and the trend would always run that way.
It was a law of nature in the hellgrounds where he lived.
Bolan had no suspicion that the caller might betray his trust. It was unthinkable. That didn’t mean, however, that some rude third party couldn’t find a way to horn in on the meet. Technology was only one short step behind imagination, these days, and he couldn’t discount pure bad luck.
There was a chance, however minuscule, that Bolan’s contact might be followed to the meet, or that a leak inside the lawyer’s office might produce a most unwelcome welcoming committee. Bolan doubted it, but it was possible, and that meant he would have to be on full alert throughout the interaction.
SOP, in other words.
Another normal day in Bolan’s life.
He felt the elevator slowing into its approach and stepped back from the door, to the left side. A straight-on spray of bullets when the door slid open wouldn’t take him, though he’d have to watch for ricochets.
Jacket unbuttoned for swift access to his pistol, Bolan stood and waited with his hand almost inside the jacket, feeling like a caricature of Napoleon. The elevator settled and its door hissed open to reveal an empty corridor.
A small sign on the facing wall directed Bolan to his right. He moved along the hall with long strides, radiating confidence and capability. He had no audience, but they were qualities the tall man couldn’t hide. He might not stand out in a crowd on any given street corner, but when push came to shove he was the leader of the pack.
Make that lone wolf, most of the time.
But not today.
His destination was a door like every other on the floor, with a bronze plate that gave a number and the lawyer’s name. The knob turned in his hand and Bolan stepped into a small but suitably luxurious reception room.
Four empty chairs faced an unattended desk. No sign of a receptionist or anybody else.
He didn’t need to check his watch. A stylish wall clock told him he was right on time.
Bolan was running down a short list of his options when a door behind the vacant desk swung open to reveal a smiling face.
“I’m glad you found the place okay,” Rosario “The Politician” Blancanales said.
BLANCANALES HAD EARNED the “Politician” nickname in another life, a tribute to his skill at soothing fear and agitation among Asian villagers whose lives and homes were threatened daily by the ever-shifting tides of war. He had been part of Bolan’s Special Forces A-team, one of several thrown together in the hellfire moment who had forged lifelong alliances.
One of the few who somehow managed to survive.
“I guess the staff is out to lunch,” Bolan remarked as they shook hands.
“We have an hour to ourselves. Friend of a friend, you know?”
He didn’t bother running down the details of a family in peril, spared against all odds, with gratitude that reached beyond the limits of a long lunch on a busy afternoon. Pol knew that Bolan didn’t need the details, didn’t really care how they had come to find themselves alone in an attorney’s office on the seventh floor of a building he’d never visited before this day and wouldn’t see again.
“He sweeps the place, I guess?” Bolan asked, thinking of security.
“I swept it, coming in. It’s clean.”
“Okay.”
“You want to talk out here or use the inner sanctum?”
“This is fine.”
Bolan took one of the four matching chairs. Blancanales noticed that he didn’t touch the arm rests with his hands. It was a small precaution, probably unnecessary since his law-enforcement files across the country had been closed and marked “Deceased,” but playing safe was second nature to the Executioner.
“I’m glad you had some time,” Blancanales said, easing into it.
“No sweat,” Bolan replied. “What’s going on?”
“I caught a squeal the other day, through Toni.”
Toni Blancanales was the Politician’s sister. She was also CEO of Team Able Investigations, a private security firm Rosario Blancanales had launched years ago with another war buddy, electronics wizard Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz, to make ends meet in peacetime. Now that Pol and Gadgets operated more or less full-time for Hal Brognola and Stony Man Farm—the same covert nerve center that fielded Bolan for various do-or-die assignments—Toni ran the show and rarely needed her big brother’s help.
“Why that route?” Bolan inquired.
“Long distance. A long time out of touch.”
“A mutual acquaintance?” Bolan asked him, frowning.
“You remember Bones.”
Blancanales didn’t phrase it as a question. There was nothing wrong with Bolan’s memory, and he saw instant recognition in the warrior’s eyes.
The nickname came from “sawbones,” as in “doctor”—or from Star Trek, same damned thing. In their Special Forces days together there’d been many medics, too many M.A.S.H. units, but only one Bones.
“Nate Weiss,” Bolan said.
Blancanales nodded. Make it Captain Nathan Weiss, M.D. A wizard with a scalpel, long on empathy for patients, short on tolerance when military red tape hampered his attempts to care for sick and wounded soldiers. Thinking back, Blancanales could remember Weiss cutting and stitching under fire, while Bolan’s team faced down the enemy, one of their own guys on the table leaking life.
The frown was still on Bolan’s face. “I haven’t thought about him in…”
“About a hundred years?”
“Seems like it. How’d he track you down?”
“It wasn’t him, exactly.”
“Oh?”
“An intermediary. Bones gave her my last name and remembered that I came from San Diego. No real hope of getting through, I guess, but Toni’s in the book. She caught a break.”
“And ‘she’ is…?”
“Marta Enriquez. She knew some jungle stories that could only come from Bones. It feels legit.”
“So what’s the squeal?”
“Long story short, the way she laid it down, he’s in Brazil, running some kind of floating hospital for anyone who needs him in the bush. Somewhere along the way, he started stepping on official toes.”
“How’s that?”
It was Blancanales’s turn to frown. “She claimed it has to do with Indians. The Amazon is one huge place, as you well know. We hear a lot about the forest being cut and burned for shopping malls, whatever, but the fact is, they’ve got tribes down there no white man’s ever seen. Some others sit on land the government and certain multinationals are anxious to ‘improve’ and put a few more millions in their pockets. When the honchos in Brasilia want a stubborn tribe to move, it can get Wild West messy. I’ve seen some of that, up close and personal.”
“But you have doubts about her story,” Bolan interjected, going to the heart of it.
“Let’s say I have some reservations, pun intended.”
“Why?”
“You know the history. They’ve had civilian government for only twenty years or so. Before that, it was hard-core juntas all the way. Some wouldn’t mind a switch back to the bad old days. You’ve got guerrillas in the backcountry, fighting for one thing or another, and banditos everywhere you turn. I wasn’t kidding when I mentioned the Wild West. Jivaro headhunters, covert Indian wars—Bones could be into damn near anything.”
“And someone’s hunting him?” Another cut, right to the heart.
“Sounds like it, yeah.”
“Whatever it is, he can’t turn to the law.”
“The way it was explained to me,” Blancanales said, “that’s not an option.”
“So, either the government is hunting him or it doesn’t mind someone else doing the dirty work.”
“I’d say that sums it up.”
“It’s not like Bones to ask for help.”
“Unless he really needs it, no.”
“I’m guessing, since you called, that Able Team can’t take it on,” Bolan said.
Blancanales shook his head. “Not soon enough. I’m stealing time as it is from a job in Baja.”
“Have you talked to Hal?”
“He isn’t thrilled about it, but he says it’s up to us. Resources as available, but no hands-on collaboration till we’ve got a clear fix on the problem.”
Bolan’s smile took Blancanales by surprise. “‘We’ meaning me,” he said.
“If you decide to do it, right.”
“And is the woman still around? This Marta?”
“Waiting for a verdict as we speak.”
“Not here?”
“Nearby. The way it seems to me, she’s used to hiding out.”
“When can we talk?”
Blancanales felt himself start to relax inside. “How do you feel about right now?” he asked.
THEY TRAVELED separately, Bolan trailing his old friend to form a little two-car caravan that traveled half a dozen blocks on Harbor Drive, then swung inland. Blancanales led him to the spacious parking lot of a motel located near the U.S. naval station, then drove around the back with Bolan following, and parked close to the open stairs. The Executioner said nothing as he trailed his friend upstairs and left along a balcony to Room 252.
“I called ahead,” the Able Team commando told him, “so we wouldn’t spook her.”
Blancanales knocked and waited while the tenant of that room surveyed them through the peephole’s fish-eye lens. There came a fumbling at the locks, and then the door swung open to admit them. Only when they were inside, door locked again, did Bolan have a clear view of the woman he had come to meet.
Marta Enriquez was approximately thirty-five years old, a slim Latina with a curvaceous figure. A pinched look almost spoiled the face, framed by a fall of raven hair, but large, dark eyes and high cheekbones redeemed it.
Blancanales made the introductions, using Bolan’s relatively new Matt Cooper pseudonym, and the woman surprised him with the strength of her handshake.
“If we could all sit down,” Blancanales said, “this won’t take long.” He settled on one corner of the queen-size bed, leaving the room’s two chairs for Bolan and their nervous hostess. “Marta, why don’t you tell my friend what brings you here.”
“I want to help O Médico,” she said. “He has done so much for my people in the past three years, I must somehow repay him if I can. The danger that he faces now is too much.”
“What kind of danger?” Bolan asked her.
“From the army and the death squads,” she replied. “I know your press tells you Brazil is free and all are equal there, but things aren’t what they seem. My people—the Tehuelche—have been driven from their homes and deep into the forest, where the hunters seek them still. They are shot on sight. Sometimes a ‘gift’ of food or clothing is delivered, and more of us die.”
“It’s classic,” Blancanales interjected. “Your manifest-destiny types did the same thing right here, with poisoned grain and blankets spiked with smallpox. Talk about weapons of mass destruction.”
“O Médico—Dr. Weiss—has helped us without charge since he arrived. He offers care to anyone in need, and for that crime, the state will kill him, or at least expel him from Brazil.”
“You’ve witnessed these attempts?” Bolan asked.
Enriquez nodded. “Once, when we went to Diamantino for supplies, three men approached us. They insulted me, touched me and Dr. Weiss told them to stop. They turned on him then, but he left all three of them unconscious in the street.
“Later,” she continued, “they sent helicopters to the village of my people, shooting from the sky. O Médico treated the wounded, even while bullets flew around him.”
“I don’t know what you’re asking us to do,” Bolan told her. “If the government wants to get rid of him, they’ll find a way to do the job. We can’t declare war on Brazil.”
“Nathan told me that he had friends of great ability in the United States. He sent me here to ask for help, but I am not a fool. I know he cannot stay and help my people any longer without giving up his life.”
“What, then?”
“You must persuade him to give up, go home, before he’s killed. Take him by force, if necessary. Be his friend and save his life.”
“Just drop into the jungle there and kidnap him.”
“Maybe he’ll listen if you talk to him,” she said. “Remind him that he is American and not Tehuelche.”
“Couldn’t you do that?” Bolan asked.
“To my people, Nathan—Dr. Weiss—is almost like a god. They need him to survive and love him for the help he offers them, but they think first about themselves. Sometimes, it seems as if they think he is immortal and cannot be harmed by common men.”
Bolan had picked up on her use of Weiss’s given name and wondered whether there was something more between them than a simple doctor-patient relationship. Despite the time they’d spent together under fire, some jungle R and R between engagements, Bolan didn’t know the details of his old friend’s private life, his taste in women, anything along those lines. He knew the man’s determination, though, and the soldier didn’t like the odds of him persuading Bones to leave his self-appointed mission.
“You say he’s being hunted just because he helped your people?” Bolan asked.
“It’s one reason,” the woman answered, “but the government has ample cause to hate him. Before us, he was in Rio de Janeiro. There, he had a clinic for street children. Did you know that some policemen, after hours, drive around the streets and shoot the homeless children as if they were rabid dogs?”
“I’ve heard the stories,” Bolan said.
“They’re true, and sometimes worse than what you read in newspapers or magazines. After six months in Rio, the police got an injunction to prevent Nathan from treating children without the consent of their parents. Orphans! You see? When he continued, they put him in jail. Before he was released, they burned his clinic and declared the fire an accident.”
“So he moved on?”
“To spare the children, after a police lieutenant told him every one he treated would be thrown in prison to amuse the perverts. It hurt him, but he left to find new patients.”
“It’s a jump from Rio to the Mato Grosso jungle,” Bolan said.
“He tried some other places first. AIDS patients in São Paulo. Plantation laborers at Uberlândia. Guarani Indians in the Serra Dourada. Each time it was the same. Suspicion, threats against his life and those he tried to help.”
“It’s obvious he isn’t listening,” Bolan replied. “What makes you think that he’ll hear anything I have to say?”
“Because he asked for you, his friends.”
“Unless you’re holding back, he didn’t ask us to come down and snatch him out of there.”
“Perhaps he’ll listen. But if not, when it is done, at least he will be safe.”
“What’s to prevent him turning right around and going back?” Bolan asked. “We can’t lock him up and throw away the key.”
“Perhaps, when he has time to think in peace, he’ll realize that nothing can be gained by what he’s doing in my country.”
“What about your people?” Blancanales inquired.
Stone-faced, she said, “We’re finished, don’t you see? Nathan can’t save us. No one can. He’ll only waste his life, when he could be of such great help to others, somewhere else.”
“Would you be coming with him?” Bolan asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps, if Nathan wants me.”
“When are you going back?”
“Tomorrow. One way or another, I must give him your decision.”
“I’ll tell him myself.” Turning to Blancanales, he said, “We need a minute to ourselves.”
THE MOTEL BALCONY was adequate, no one in the adjoining rooms to eavesdrop as they leaned against the rail in hazy Southern California sunshine.
“Now I’ve heard her,” Bolan said, “give me your take on this.”
“I think Bones may be losing it. Looking for a cause, some way to make his life count for something. Hell, for all I know it could be your basic midlife crisis.”
“Maybe. But who’s picking up the tab? Free clinics may be free to patients, but they eat up money just the same, and plenty of it.”
“I can answer part of that,” Blancanales said. “I ran a check on Bones through Stony Man. He had some money from his family, back East. Not Rockefeller money, but they did all right. He’s the last of the line, never married, no siblings. Had a good adviser, made some smart investments. Most of it was liquidated when he left the States. Call it a cool half million, give or take.”
“That’s seed money,” Bolan replied. “A big seed, sure, but he’s been working with the lady’s tribe for three years now, no charge, and all the other deals she talked about before he focused in on them. The Rio clinic and what-have-you. Would half a million last that long, paying for medicine, equipment and facilities, travel?”
“I doubt it.”
“So, I’ll ask again. Who’s picking up the tab?”
Blancanales shook his head. “Don’t know.”
“One thing we do know,” Bolan said. “If Bones has his mind set on helping these people, he won’t be talked out of it.”
“No.”
“And I don’t fancy trying to carry him out of Brazil on my back, bound and gagged.”
“Why are you going, then?”
“First thing, to have a look and see what’s really happening.” He nodded toward the door numbered 252. “I think we’ve got a case of hero-worship here, or maybe love. I don’t believe she’s told us everything she knows about what Bones is doing in the big, bad woods.”
“You figure it’s political?”
“She talks about a man who’s looking for a cause. Maybe he wants to be a martyr. I won’t know until I see it for myself.”
“Wish I could back you up,” Blancanales said.
“I’m just observing,” Bolan told him.
“Rii-iight. And I’m the next Olympic figure-skating champion.”
“I’ll need a flight. One way for now,” Bolan said. “Find out where she’s touching down and send me somewhere else. I’ll catch a shuttle to the airstrip nearest Bones. Don’t tell her when I’m flying.”
Blancanales frowned. “You figure she’s a sell-out?”
“Why take chances? If she’s straight, there’s still at least a fifty-fifty chance she’ll be picked up when she gets home. If someone sweats her, I don’t want her spilling my itinerary.”
“Right,” Blancanales said. And then again, “You’re right.”
“I’ll need a contact on the other end for various supplies, including hardware. Play it safe and don’t use anyone connected to the Company or NSA.”
“I know an independent dealer in Belém.”
“That’s fine, if I can get a charter flight from there to Mato Grosso with no questions asked.”
“I’ll check it out today,” the Able Team commando promised. “If it doesn’t work, your best bet for a touchdown where you want to go will be Cuiabá. I’ll find somebody there.”
“Before you cut her loose,” Bolan said, “get the best fix that you can on where Bones has his chop shop. If he’s mobile, try for base coordinates, at least. I’ll GPS it and go solo in the bush.”
“That’s risky, man.”
“Hiring a guide is worse. I won’t know who he’s really working for until it hits the fan.”
“You’re right again. Has anybody ever told you that’s an irritating habit?”
Bolan smiled. “My childhood aspiration was to be a know-it-all.”
“And how’s that working for you?”
“I’m still working on it.”
Blancanales went somber, then. “I’m having second thoughts about this whole damn thing,” he said.
“It’s Bones,” Bolan reminded him.
“I know that, but you’ve got me thinking now. Suppose someone’s already bagged him, squeezed him. Now they’re putting out feelers to see who’ll try a rescue mission. Pick off Santa’s little helpers one by one.”
“It doesn’t have that feel about it,” Bolan said. “Somebody wants to take out Bones for helping Indians, whatever, why would they go fishing in the States?”
“Because they can?”
“It’s thin,” Bolan said, “but I’ll keep an eye peeled, just in case.”
“It may be too late, once you’re down there.”
“Maybe not. Let’s see what happens.”
“The more I think about it,” Blancanales said, “the more I wish I hadn’t called you.”
“Spilled milk, guy. Just make those calls and let me have the word before you head back down to Baja.”
“It’ll be a couple hours, give or take.”
“You’ve got my number.”
“That’s affirmative. Where will you be?”
“Around.”
“Okay. I’ll be in touch.”
Blancanales lingered on the balcony as Bolan went downstairs. No one was lurking near the rented Chevy, no one peering from the nearby rooms. Behind the wheel, the soldier took time to stop and think about the mission he’d accepted and what it would mean to follow through.
A friend in trouble, right.
But he could only help the willing.
And if Nathan Weiss had asked for help, that made him willing, on the surface. But what kind of help was Weiss expecting?
Extrication or combat support?
Bolan had no illusions concerning his ability to make a one-man stand against the whole Brazilian army, even if a friend’s life might be riding on the line. Weiss might be looking for a martyr’s end, but that would never be a part of Bolan’s plan.
Die fighting if he had to, absolutely.
But to throw his life away?
Forget about it.
He would have a look, as promised, and take it from there. The next step would be up to Bones.
And Bolan hoped the bones he left behind him in the jungle wouldn’t be his own.
CHAPTER THREE
Belém, Brazil
The first leg of Bolan’s long journey was a two-hour flight from San Diego to Mexico City, with ninety minutes in the airport terminal, waiting to make his connection. He stayed alert from force of habit, even though no one he could think of had any reason to be hunting him in Mexico.
His enemies in that troubled country were all either dead or in prison, as far as he knew, but it never hurt to be careful. He bought an English-language guidebook for Brazil and started reading it at the departure gate, killing time.
The authors considered Brazil a Latin miracle of sorts, emerging from military rule to reclaim civilian democracy in the mid-1980s, battling back from a decade of economic crises to stand head and shoulders above its neighbors, national triumph symbolized by five straight victories in World Cup soccer finals. There was only passing mention of the country’s long-time military junta and its brutal violence, countered by rebel insurrection in the cities and the hinterlands. No mention at all of homeless children hunted through the streets by death squads or the covert policy of “relocating” native tribes at any cost.
Bolan wasn’t surprised by the guidebook’s omissions. Tourist economies thrived on illusion, whether it was Carnivale in Rio, Atlantic City’s neon boardwalk or the Las Vegas Strip. No advertising agent pointed out his client’s warts or called attention to the smell of rot that wafted from behind most glittering facades.
In Bolan’s personal experience, there was no government on Earth without a dark core of corruption at its heart. No tourist paradise without a nest of vipers in the garden or a school of sharks cruising offshore. No end of problems for a die-hard altruist to tackle in the autumn of his life.
But why in hell had Nathan Weiss chosen Brazil?
He was a doctor, and more specifically, a trauma surgeon. Weiss would find trauma to spare in Brazil, but the same could readily be said for New York City, San Francisco, London or Madrid. Unless Shangri-la had been discovered since the last time Bolan watched CNN, there was no shortage of victims anywhere on Earth.
So, why Brazil?
It wasn’t for the love of jungle climates. Bolan knew that much from time he’d spent with Weiss in another green hell, on the far side of the world. Bones didn’t often complain, but mosquitoes and tropical germs were among his pet peeves in those days.
Why seek them out, then, when he could’ve written his own ticket at any stateside hospital and most of those in Europe?
Pol Blancanales had been clueless on that score, nothing in Weiss’s file from Stony Man to clarify the mystery. Bolan was still puzzling over the problem when they called his flight, and during the four-hour transit to Belém. He skipped the in-flight movie, browsed his guidebook, ate the packaged pseudo-food they set in front of him, but still the question nagged him.
Why Brazil?
Whatever the reason, Bones had gotten in too deep, and now he needed help. He’d reached out for The Politician because Blancanales was traceable. If Weiss thought of Bolan at all, these days, he would presumably accept the media reports describing Bolan’s fiery death in New York City. Surgery had altered Bolan’s face more than once, made him unrecognizable if he had passed Weiss on the street.
And would he recognize the doctor, after all that time? Would he want to see what Bones had become?
And what was that, exactly?
Being hunted by the government proved nothing, either way. One man’s criminal or terrorist was another man’s heroic freedom fighter. Bolan himself had once graced every Top Ten list of fugitives in North America and western Europe, and he’d been guilty as sin in the eyes of the law, convicted by his own admission on multiple counts of murder, arson, kidnapping and sundry other felonies.
Being a fugitive meant different things, in different times and places. Ditto criminal indictment and conviction. On the basis of the sketchy data in hand, Bolan couldn’t tell if Nathan Weiss was being hunted for crimes against humanity or for helping the underdogs survive.
All he had, at the moment, were his memories of Bones and an ingrained sense of duty to a friend who’d never let him down. As to where that led him, and to what result, the next few days would tell the tale.
Bolan had a twelve-hour wait for his charter flight to Cuiabá, in Mato Grosso State, departing at six o’clock the next morning. There’d been no way to speed it up, but Blancanales had supplied him with the name of certain hardware dealers in Belém and the assurance that a private flight within Brazil involved no baggage checks. As soon as he was settled into his hotel, Bolan would take his rented car and embark on brief shopping tour to prepare for his time in the bush.
Still hoping for the best, and bracing for the worst.
BLAINE DOWNEY COULD’VE braced his target at the airport, but he thought it lacked a certain style. There was a piss-off factor, too. If he got in the stranger’s face and spooked him into turning around and leaving Brazil on the next available flight, it would minimize the meddler’s inconvenience. On balance, Downey preferred to let him rent a car, check into his hotel, and then realize it had all been a huge waste of time.
One thing, though. Looking at the man who matched the photo faxed from San Diego, Downey didn’t think he was the kind who frightened easily.
Of course, he could be wrong.
It wouldn’t be the first time, as his supervisor frequently reminded him.
The photos hadn’t told him much. A team in San Diego had observed the woman, snapped as many pictures as they could of anyone she’d spoken to in the city. There’d been waitresses, two cab drivers, a motel maid—and two men who had called upon her in her room. One showed up twice, the second time with company. Nice head shots for the pair of them, and Downey wondered now if someone should’ve used a rifle instead of a Nikon’s zoom lens.
The two-timer had been identified, after some effort, as a private investigator and security specialist named Rosario Blancanales. He was a Special Forces veteran whose service history included black ops in the Badlands. These days, as far as Langley could determine, he was more or less retired, letting his sister run the business he’d built from the ground up after his discharge. The handful of customers identified so far, including Uncle Sam, pronounced themselves entirely satisfied with the performance of Team Able Investigations.
So, the woman wanted help—and who could blame her?
Why she’d look for it in Southern California, and specifically with Blancanales, was a riddle Downey longed to solve, but it eluded him. Right now, he had a problem closer to home.
Number two. The new arrival.
The guy took a good photo, but his mug shot wasn’t stored in any high-tech archive the Agency had thus far been able to tap. The car he’d used in San Diego led them to the rental agency, where Downey’s counterparts had obtained a second-generation photocopy of the guy’s Virginia driver’s license. The license, in turn, gave them Matthew Cooper’s birth date, social security number and last-known address.
Which, in turn, led them nowhere.
The birth date might be accurate, for all Downey knew, but he couldn’t confirm it from any known source. The target’s address was a mail drop in Richmond, and his social security number—while technically active—revealed no activity of any kind since it was generated two years earlier.
Which made him…what? A criminal? A spook?
If he was in the cloak-and-dagger trade, who paid his salary? Not Langley, Downey was assured by his superiors. The Agency had worked against itself from time to time, the old right-versus-left-hand syndrome, but he’d been promised that no such snafu was in progress this day.
And that, unfortunately, didn’t reassure him in the least.
Who stood to profit if his operation in Brazil went belly up? Downey couldn’t have guessed with anything approaching certainty, so he declined to play the game. Sometimes he had to treat the symptoms, put out brush fires as they sprang to life, and let someone else track the roots of the problem.
Downey couldn’t be everywhere at once, and right now his target was standing in line at a car-rental desk on the airport concourse. He might’ve been a businessman whose flight to Belém was pure coincidence, unrelated to his meeting with the woman the previous day.
But Downey didn’t think so.
Not a chance in hell.
That’s why he watched and waited, trailed the guy until he found his car, then swiftly doubled back to meet his driver waiting at the curb, parked at the red curb with a traffic cop fuming and glaring at the diplomatic license plate.
That’s why he trailed the mark to a hotel downtown and went inside to meet the stranger, one-on-one. A little face time, just to break the ice and see what Matt Cooper was made of.
It was easier that way, than bringing in a crew and taking him apart.
UNPACKING WAS a waste of time, so Bolan didn’t bother. He changed shirts, pocketed a knife he carried in his check-through luggage and decided not to bother shaving. Halfway to the door, he heard the unexpected rapping and went on to use the peephole, checking out his uninvited visitor.
The man stood three or four inches below six feet, looking burly or just overweight in his suit. The lens made it difficult to judge, but at least his hands were empty and he was alone.
Bolan opened the door and stood waiting, silent.
“Mr. Cooper?”
Bolan didn’t answer, didn’t step aside. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Downey,” the stranger said, thrusting out a hand, which was ignored. “Blaine Downey, from the U.S. Embassy.”
Bolan knew what that meant. He simply didn’t know, yet, if the man was CIA, NSA or attached to some other intelligence service that made up the Washington-Pentagon alphabet soup.
The bad news was, they had him marked.
But how deep did it go?
“What do you want?” he asked.
“A minute of your time, that’s all. May I come in?”
Bolan considered making him explain his business in the hallway, but security took precedence. His cover might be blown, but that was still a long way from announcing his mission to every guest on the hotel’s fifth floor.
“Five minutes,” Bolan said, “is all I have to spare.”
“Suits me,” Downey said, brushing past him in a beeline for the small room’s single chair. He sat, leaving Bolan to pick a corner of the bed or stand.
He stood.
“My hope, in a nutshell,” said Downey, “is to save you from a world of hurt.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re in Brazil on business that is bound to turn out badly,” Downey said.
“Which is?”
“Marta Enriquez. She’s a subject of some interest to the U.S. government, as well as to authorities here in Brazil. You met her yesterday, in San Diego. Now you’re here. I don’t believe in that kind of coincidence.”
“Nobody asked you,” Bolan said.
“That’s right. Nobody did. Sometimes, unfortunately, there are situations where you have to deal with consequences, even if you’d rather not. Catching my drift?”
“Not even close,” the Executioner replied.
“I’ll spell it out, then. Whatever Marta Enriquez and Mr. Rosario Blancanales may have told you in Dago, whatever they asked you to do, whatever they offered in return—you don’t want to go there.”
Denial seemed pointless. Confession, while possibly good for the soul, was unthinkable.
Time to stall.
“Because…?”
“Because I say so, Mr. Cooper. And because I represent the U.S. government.”
“We’re not in the United States.”
“You weren’t born yesterday,” Downey replied. “In fact, according to your social security records, you’re almost two years old. Happy birthday, Mr. Cooper.”
Bolan had decades of practice at keeping surprise off his face. Instead, he smiled and asked, “You’re IRS?”
“Heaven forbid! I couldn’t care less what you do with your hard-earned money, friend. Declare it, don’t declare it. All the same to me. But if you travel any further down this particular road, you’ll be stepping on some very tender toes.”
“You’ve got sore feet? Try Dr. Scholl’s.”
Downey put on a deprecating smile. “I’m just the messenger. You get one warning, friend.”
“What happens next?”
“I don’t believe you want to know.”
“No hints?”
“Let’s say you won’t enjoy it.”
“I should turn around and go back home, you’re saying.”
“To the Richmond mail drop, or wherever home may be.”
Showing his hand like that, Downey had to think he had it covered. Bolan, on the other hand, wasn’t convinced.
Not yet.
“I’ll think about it.”
Downey rose, rubbing his hands together like a miser in a high school play. “That’s all we ask,” he said, mock-cheerful. “Somber thought about the risks of pissing off your Uncle in D.C. and various locals who may have even shorter fuses.”
“Hey, I thought Brazil was friendly.”
“That depends,” Downey replied, “on you.”
“I get your drift.”
“Smart man. I thought you would.” There was a brief pause on the threshold, Downey turning with another phony smile and parting shot. “Enjoy your flight.”
I must be slipping, Bolan thought. He’d missed the watchers back in San Diego, and again at the airport. It was an inauspicious start, but Bolan didn’t feel like backing down.
Not yet.
He thought of calling Hal Brognola in Washington and then decided not to risk it. If they had his room, they likely had the telephone, as well.
He’d have to fix that, taking one step at a time.
Slight change of plan.
He had a tail to shake before he could begin his shopping spree.
THE TAIL WAS obvious.
Either they wanted it that way or Downey had a bunch of amateurs on staff, and Bolan didn’t think that was the problem.
They were dogging him to send a message and to make sure Bolan—or Matt Cooper—didn’t rendezvous with anyone he may have come to meet. They would observe him every moment he was in Brazil, and thus prevent transaction of whatever covert business he’d agreed to in the States.
But how much did they know?
If they had Marta Enriquez covered, why not wait until Bolan made contact, then drop the net over all of them at once?
Because they don’t know where she was, thought Bolan.
And they wouldn’t get a fix from him.
Not here. Not now.
The black American sedan trailing his rented car was obvious. He drove around downtown Belém for fifteen minutes, circling blocks and twice ignoring stoplights, to make sure the glaring tail was no coincidence. When he was satisfied on that score, Bolan turned his mind to losing them and treating Downey to a message of his own.
Step one was getting out of the hotel. They didn’t try to stop him when he walked out empty-handed, confident that even if he lost them somehow in the city, he would have to come back for his bag.
But they were wrong.
Bolan had packed light for the trip, knowing that most of his civilian trappings would be useless in the bush. Stuffing his pockets with the necessary items—wallet, money, passport, cell phone and GPS unit—he walked out of the place without a backward glance.
The black sedan was waiting for him, and it had been on him ever since.
After the downtown circuit, Bolan reckoned that he wouldn’t shake his watches by racing through alleys or running red lights. He’d satisfied himself that there was only one team watching him, which made it easier.
Not easy in the classic sense, of course, but better than a running battle in the streets.
Especially since he was still unarmed.
He set off in the general direction of the hardware dealer, then sidetracked himself when he was halfway there, seeking a place where he could ditch the watchers and their disappearance wouldn’t be reported for a while.
All cities had bad neighborhoods, omitted from the tourist guidebooks and sightseeing tours, where locals walked in fear and the police patrolled in two- or three-man teams. Bolan found one such neighborhood, parked on its outskirts where his car probably wouldn’t be stripped down for parts within the hour, and made his way from there on foot.
One myth about the world’s great urban slums was that they teemed with cutthroats waiting to snatch any man or woman off the streets in broad daylight. The thugs existed, of course, but they were typically nocturnal predators, and long experience had taught them how to pick and choose their prey.
Some people were natural victims, defeated by life and timid to a fault. They seemed to lurch from one disaster to the next, recognized by bullies on sight. Others were strong and confident, broadcasting an alert that told potential hunters any confrontation might prove hazardous.
Belém’s slum dwellers noticed Bolan as he made his way across their turf, but no one tried to intercept him. Even if he hadn’t been a clear-cut Alpha male, the fact that he was trailing heat had registered before he covered half a block.
Both trackers from the black American sedan came after him on foot. It was their first mistake, and Bolan meant to save them the embarrassment of making any more. He led them three blocks deeper into hostile territory, then picked out an alley that was well-shadowed despite the midday hour. Turning in, he ducked behind the nearest garbage bin and stood back to wait.
The stalkers followed him, then passed him by. One of them started to say something, but his partner shushed him. “Quiet now, and watch your step,” he said.
“Too late,” Bolan advised.
THEY TURNED as one, to find him standing in the middle of the alley, blocking off their access to the street.
“What’s this?” the seeming leader asked him.
“You tell me,” Bolan replied.
“I don’t know you from Adam, pal.”
“Which makes me wonder why you’re tailing me,” Bolan said, standing fast.
The leader’s ruddy cheeks flushed darker still. Apparently his brief didn’t include a face-to-face with Bolan, even though they clearly meant to spook him out of town.
“You must have us mixed up with someone else,” he said.
“Convince me.”
“How would I do that?”
“You could show me some ID,” Bolan suggested. “Maybe tell me why you’ve been tailgating me since I left the hotel.”
The second spook had worked up nerve enough to speak. He said, “Hey, now!” before his partner cut him off.
“You’ve got some nerve,” the leader said. “I’ll give you that.”
“Your boss left that part out when he was briefing you, I guess,” Bolan replied.
“My boss?”
“Downey.”
The two men blinked as one. “I don’t know anybody by that name,” the leader said, too late.
“So, he won’t miss you, then.”
“Miss who?” The second spook had trouble keeping pace.
“We’re going now,” the leader said. “Have a nice day.”
“I don’t think so.”
They telegraphed the rush with sidelong glances, back and forth. Not certain what to do, now that their crude surveillance had backfired, the pair surrendered to machismo. Bolan saw it coming and was ready when it got there.
Number one, the mouthpiece, led his partner by six feet or so, looking to tackle Bolan, taking him down and maybe thumping him for a while before he tired of it and left.
It didn’t quite work out that way.
The Executioner dropped to a fighting crouch at the last second, while his adversary’s thick arms closed on empty air. He fired a rabbit punch into the spook’s short ribs and heard him grunt with pain as he was doubling over. No time to evaluate the damage as he drove a rising knee into the stranger’s nose and flattened it across his florid face.
The leader dropped to hands and knees, while Bolan turned to face his sidekick. Number two was growling as he sprang toward Bolan, one arm cocked to throw a mighty haymaker. If it had landed, Bolan would’ve been in trouble, but he ducked the punch instead, seized the extended arm and used his enemy’s momentum as a weapon, flinging him to earth.
The spook went down, then came up cursing, red-faced, instantly forgetting most of what his martial-arts instructor would’ve taught him during basic training. What he tried and failed to execute was a high kick toward Bolan’s face.
Bad move.
It was a simple thing to block the kick and grab his ankle, twist it sharply, and kick through the knee of his remaining leg where it supported him. This time, when he went down, the spook was squealing in pain.
Bolan turned back to number one and found him struggling to his feet, blood streaming from his broken nose to stain his white dress shirt.
“Bathtid,” he growled. “Ahm gawn kitchur ath.”
Bolan feinted a swing, then caught him with a roundhouse kick behind one ear. The guy went down, poleaxed, and hit the ground this time without a whimper.
Leaving one.
His backup had rolled to the garbage bin, clutching one rusty side as he struggled to drag himself upright. It was painful to watch, and he was wasting precious time.
Bolan chose his spot, the base of the skull, and aimed his elbow shot for maximum effect without the killer follow-through. It dropped his man, inert, and he was pure deadweight as Bolan hoisted him into the bin. Moments later, when the two spooks lay together on a bed of reeking garbage, Bolan dropped the bin’s lid and left them to their troubled dreams.
Sleep tight.
Don’t let the slum rats bite.
No one appeared to notice Bolan as he walked back to his car. He found it at the curb, untouched, and saw the black American sedan parked on the far side of the street. It might still be there when the two spooks woke and crawled out of the garbage bin.
Then again, it might not be.
Too bad.
Still watching out for tails, he joined the flow of traffic and set off to see a man about some combat gear.
THE DEALER’S SHOP was half a mile from where Bolan had left his two incompetent shadows. Out front, bilingual signs offered repair of watches, small appliances and such. Inside, a man of middle age was hunched over a cluttered workbench, peering at the guts of an electric motor through a jeweler’s loupe. He glanced up as a cow bell clanked to signal Bolan’s entry and set down his screwdriver.
“Boa tarde, Senhor.”
“Fala inglês?” Bolan asked, thus exhausting his Portuguese vocabulary.
“English, yes, I speak. How may I help you?” Bolan spoke the phrase Blancanales had provided, watching as the merchant’s face registered first surprise, then caution.
“Ah. You wish to see my special stock?”
“That’s right,” Bolan confirmed.”
“One moment, please.”
The shopkeeper rose from his stool and limped past Bolan to the door, which he locked while reversing a small cardboard sign.
“Is siesta time now,” he explained with a smile. “You will please follow me.”
Bolan trailed him through a curtained doorway to a tiny, cluttered storeroom, where another door opened on steep wooden stairs. The proprietor descended first, taking the stairs without complaint despite his limp. Bolan followed into another storeroom, this one spotless and smelling of gun oil.
Bolan could’ve launched a small war with the dealer’s inventory, but he had no plans to mount a grand offensive. He passed on the heavy machine guns, rocket and grenade launchers, and the Barrett M-82 A-1 Light Fifty sniper rifle. In their place, he chose a Steyr AUG assault rifle, a Beretta 92-F semiauto pistol and a Ka-Bar combat knife. Spare magazines and ammunition, with a side order of frag grenades, completed his heavy-metal shopping list. The rest came down to camouflage fatigues, web gear, an Alice pack and shoulder rig for the Beretta, two canteens and sturdy hiking boots. The purchases filled two stout duffel bags and took a fair bite out of Bolan’s bankroll, but he didn’t quibble over price.
The money, strictly speaking, wasn’t even his.
Before leaving the States, he’d tapped a San Diego crack dealer for sixty thousand dollars and some pocket change. Six different banks had sold him nine grand worth of AmEx traveler’s checks, and thus avoided mandatory red flags to the IRS. The rest had funded Bolan’s flights, the rented car and his unused hotel room where his bag and civvies were waiting to be seized by someone from the Company.
He hoped the clothes turned out to be a lousy fit.
Before packing the gear, he loaded the Beretta and two spare magazines, adjusted the quick-draw harness to fit his torso, and covered the setup with his windbreaker. The waning day outside was cool enough, here on the coast, to prevent him from standing out by the jacket alone. After he cleared Cuiabá, farther in-country, concealment of his weapons would no longer be an issue.
Climbing the stairs behind the shop owner, Bolan slung one bag over his left shoulder and carried its mate in his left hand, leaving the right free for action if need be. He didn’t anticipate trouble this early, but in most cases preparedness was more than half the battle.
Exiting the shop, he paused to scan the street in both directions, but aside from the neighborhood pusher, he saw no one who qualified as suspicious. Bolan walked back to his car and stowed both bags in the trunk, satisfied with the pistol for now. He would bag it, as well, when the time came to fly, but he still had hours to burn in Belém before his crack-of-dawn rendezvous with a charter pilot who asked no impertinent questions where payment in cash was concerned.
Bolan used an hour of that time to scout the airstrip, studying the hangar and its layout on the drive-by. He would return before dawn to check it again, watching closely for any lurkers in the shadows, but he retained an air of cautious optimism.
So far, so good.
And if experience was any guide, his chosen road could only go downhill from here.
Belém isn’t Rio, but Bolan had no problem getting lost in the crowd, alternately driving and walking, never straying far enough from the rental to put his new hardware at risk from light-fingered locals. Staying awake through the night was no challenge. Call it a familiar ritual, divorced in Bolan’s mind from any concept of fatigue.
He could sleep in the air, on the long flight westward to Cuiabá. And after that—who knew?
In the grand scheme of things, feeling weary was the least of a combat soldier’s problems. In the days ahead, Bolan expected to be faced with worse.
All for the sake of friendship.
For the sake of duty.
And to find out what in Hell was going on with Nathan Weiss.
CHAPTER FOUR
The pilot was a twenty-something woman with short red hair and a black patch covering her left eye. The one Bolan could see was emerald-green and flicked suspiciously in the direction of his duffel bags before he loaded them aboard a Piper PA15 Vagabond at least a decade older than its owner.
Whatever she was thinking, cash resolved the lady’s doubts about her passenger, and they were in the air by 6:15 a.m., soaring southwestward over rain forest that could’ve swallowed regiments with ample room to spare.
Where are you, Bones? he thought. What brought you here?
Bolan was glad to get out of Belém and out from under scrutiny, at least for the time being. He had no illusions about pulling off a long-term fade, if agents of the CIA made any serious attempt to locate him. They’d find him in Cuiabá, given time, but Bolan didn’t plan to hang around to see the sights.
If they pursued him on his mission through the jungle, it would be another story. They would be on his turf, then, and nothing in their past experience would’ve prepared them for a contest with the Executioner.
The weak part of his plan was still Marta Enriquez. Spooks had followed her to San Diego, where they’d picked up Bolan’s trail without him noticing. That was a personal embarrassment, but he could live with it. The extra bad news was that if they’d spotted him, they also had to have marked Pol Blancanales, which, in turn, might lead them back to Able Team and Stony Man, if they dug deep enough.
Granted, the Company had been aware of Stony Man from the beginning, and a team of Langley rogues had once attempted to destroy the Blue Ridge Mountain farm, but general knowledge and specific details were two very different things. Bolan was on a private errand in Brazil, albeit with the knowledge of his old friend Hal Brognola, who ran Stony Man from Washington. What Bolan hadn’t known, before he left the States, was that his mission placed him in direct conflict with agents of the CIA.
That was the kind of problem that could boomerang on Brognola in nothing flat, and friendship demanded that he warn Brognola at the very least.
And if the big Fed tried to call him off, then what?
He couldn’t answer that until he reached Cuiabá. Enriquez was supposed to meet him there and help him with the next stage of his journey. If she didn’t show, or if a swarm of spooks was trailing her, he might be forced to scrub the play.
As for the risk that he might pose to Brognola and Stony Man by pushing on, Bolan would have to weigh that against his prevailing sense of duty to an even older friend.
Cruising over the primeval forest at 130 miles per hour, Bolan reviewed what he knew so far. Blaine Downey hadn’t mentioned Nathan Weiss at their brief meeting in Belém. Rather, he’d warned against collaborating with Marta Enriquez—but why?
Was the woman herself a target of investigation, distinct and separate from Weiss? It seemed unlikely, but Bolan had seen enough of politics in various banana republics to know that anything was possible.
Then again, if the Company was after Weiss, presumably acting in conjunction with the Brazilian government, what had Bones done to provoke their anger? Was it really just a matter of him helping persecuted aborigines, or was there something else at stake?
Bones was a healer. Even in the midst of war, he’d treated wounded soldiers of both sides impartially. His dedication was to mending flesh and lives, not scrutinizing racial pedigrees or weighing ideology. A man of peace, he’d volunteered to serve in combat, where he thought his skills were needed.
Most people found that kind of dedication laudable, until it trespassed on their politics. Healing our side was fine, of course, but hands off the alien-radical-subversive-demonic other side. Under no circumstances could healers help them.
Bones hadn’t toed that line in Asia, and the odds against him heeding it now were astronomical.
But had he tipped the other way at some point, in the years since Bolan saw him last? Had he abandoned his trademark impartiality to join some cause that placed him in the outlaw ranks?
And if so, what could Bolan do about it?
Nothing, Bolan thought.
Not if the doctor’s mind was set.
But he was flying on the wings of guesswork now, and that was reckless. He would wait to see if Marta met him in Cuiabá, if she had the means of putting him in touch with Nathan Weiss. And if she could, he’d find out what Bones had to say for himself.
Until then, the trick was just staying alive.
Belém
“YOU STINK, the two of you,” Blaine Downey said.
“Yes, sir. We came straight back,” Sutter replied. “I didn’t want to phone it in.”
“Straight back from where? The city dump?”
“Almost.”
“Explain yourself.”
“You ordered us to keep an eye on Cooper, sir, and follow him if he left the hotel.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory, Sutter.”
“No, sir. Anyway, he did leave the hotel, and we trailed him. Making it obvious, just like you said. He saw us, all right, started boxing the block to make sure, then he led us downtown. Parked on the outskirts of the red-light district.”
“Window shopping?” Downey asked.
“That’s what we thought,” Sutter replied. “We figured if he tried to score a little action, we could break it up and spoil his evening for him.”
“Fair enough. How does that bring us to your tragic choice of aftershave?”
“We followed him a couple blocks from where he parked, and then he ducked into an alley.”
“And?”
“We went in after him.”
“Of course you did.”
“First thing, I thought we’d lost him somehow. Maybe he ducked through a door we didn’t see or something. Then, before you know it, he’s behind us.”
Downey saw where this was going, but he let the flow of words continue.
“Anyway,” Sutter continued, “we had words.”
“Such as?”
“He challenged us,” Sutter said.
“Challenged us,” Jones echoed, speaking for the first time since he’d entered Downey’s office. “Right.”
“Who made the first move?” Downey asked.
“Well…”
That answered it.
Downey refused to let the two incompetents provoke a raging outburst, though the pair of them deserved no better. He preferred to take his time, dissect them with a surgeon’s skill, enjoying every slice.
For all the good that it would do him now.
“I see,” he said. “The target challenged you, and one or both of you attacked him. Did I order you to rough him up, Sutter?”
“You didn’t say—”
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a no. The two of you exceeded your instructions and then, what? He kicked your asses, I suppose?”
Jones fidgeted with eyes downcast. Sutter was fuming, anger radiating from his body like the stench of garbage that surrounded him, but he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut.
“Right,” Downey continued. “So, he kicked your asses for you. Knocked you both unconscious, I presume, since your report is hours late. And from the way you stink, I’d guess he dropped you down a manhole. Were you floating in the sewer all this time, ladies?”
Nothing.
“I can’t hear you.”
The crunching sound from Sutter had to be grinding teeth. His face was red enough to fit a stroke victim. Beside him, Jones reluctantly answered, “A garbage Dumpster, sir.”
“How’s that?”
“He put us in a Dumpster, sir, not down a manhole.”
“I’m relieved,” Downey said. “I don’t think that I could stand another load of shit from either one of you.”
“No, sir,” Jones answered.
“Will you shut up!” Sutter hissed.
“I’m gravely disappointed in the pair of you,” Downey announced. “You’ve turned a simple job into a screwup that’s left the Company exposed on levels you don’t even understand. You wouldn’t catch me lighting any candles if the mark had bled you out instead of marinating you in garbage. Are we clear?”
Apparently, since neither of the smelly two replied.
“My choices, broadly speaking, are to can your asses on the spot or to send you back to Langley for retraining and potential reassignment. That’s if I report your sorry asses for the mess you’ve made.”
“And if you don’t? Sir?” There was something close to hope in Sutter’s surly voice.
“You must redeem yourselves,” Downey said.
“How can we do that?”
“Begin by thinking for a change. What do you think might change my mood, right now?”
“Locate the mark!” Jones said, pleased with himself despite his reek.
“And…?”
“And…trace him to his contact?” Sutter asked.
“At which time,” Downey prodded, “you would…?”
That one stumped them for a moment, until Sutter hit upon the obvious. “We take ’em out,” he said. “Use locals if we can. No comebacks on the Company.”
“Be careful, gentlemen, and shower thoroughly before you start, for God’s sake. I’ll expect good news within…shall we say, forty-eight hours?”
“Yes, sir.” A two-man chorus.
“If you can’t manage that, I suggest you keep going. Find a hole and burrow deep. Pray I don’t find you alive.”
Cuiabá, Brazil
THE RED-HAIRED PILOT beat her own best ETA by forty minutes, even after bucking killer turbulence over the Serra Formosa. Bolan tipped her thirty percent of her fee and got an inkling of a smile in return before she left him to fuel the plane for her return trip to Belém.
When Bolan turned, hefting his bags, he saw Marta Enriquez standing in the shadow of the airstrip’s terminal. She raised a hand and Bolan nodded in return, while scanning left and right for any sign of watchers in the neighborhood. He’d missed them back in San Diego, and he was determined not to make the same mistake again.
This time around, his life depended on it.
Bolan crossed the tarmac and a strip of poorly tended grass to reach the terminal. He didn’t go inside, because the country’s rural landing strips demanded nothing in the way of customs declarations or security procedures. It was why he’d gone the charter route, instead of booking a commercial flight.
Enriquez put on a smile to greet him, saying, “I was worried that you wouldn’t come.”
“I’m here. You have a car?”
“This way.” She eyed his bags. “May I…?”
“No, thanks.”
She led him to the far side of the small building and a bare-dirt parking lot of sorts. Three vehicles stood baking in the sunshine, the woman’s four-door model Bolan didn’t recognize. Something domestic, he decided, patterned on some U.S. model from the 1960s.
Bolan put his bags in the back seat and let himself into the oven on wheels. The sedan’s air-conditioning gave out asthmatic wheezing sounds, and Enriquez left the windows down, raising her voice as she accelerated on the highway to Cuiabá.
“Were there any difficulties on your trip?” she asked.
“I had a welcoming committee in Belém,” Bolan replied.
“Oh, yes?” She sounded nervous.
“A guy from the U.S. embassy. He doesn’t like the company I’m keeping lately.”
“Oh?” Her eyes flicked back and forth between the road and Bolan’s face.
He didn’t feel like tiptoeing around it. “Did you know you had a tail in San Diego?”
“Tail?”
“That you were being shadowed. Watched.”
The horrified expression on her face answered his question well before she found her voice. “I didn’t know. I promise you.”
“You put them onto me, and they were waiting when I touched down in Belém.”
“What did they say?” she asked.
He gambled on the truth. “They called you ‘a subject of interest’ and told me to leave you alone, go back to the States, this and that.”
“But you came anyway.”
“I like to judge things for myself,” Bolan replied.
“Did they say anything about Na—About Dr. Weiss?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d caught herself speaking of Bones in a familiar way. Or was that intimate? Bolan couldn’t swear the question was relevant to his mission, but it might have some bearing on how much he trusted the woman.
“He wasn’t mentioned.”
“Oh? Perhaps they just want me.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“I’ve been involved in antigovernment protests since they began to drive my people off the land.”
“That’s a domestic problem,” Bolan said. He guessed the answer to his next question before he spoke, but asked it anyway. “What does it have to do with Washington?”
“Your country has involved itself in Latin American matters for two hundred years, from the Monroe Doctrine and the Panama canal to Noriega and the Contras. Some say Washington supports regimes that favor U.S. businesses.”
“And what do you say?” Bolan prodded.
“Dr. Weiss needs help,” she said. “Soon, it may be too late. If you’re his friend, please help him.”
“First, I have to find him.”
“I will show you where he is,” she said.
“That wasn’t part of the agreement,” he reminded her.
“How else will you locate him?” Enriquez asked.
“Technology. You give me the coordinates and I take it from there.”
“I’m sorry,” she responded with a calculating smile, “but I don’t understand such things. I’ll have to show you where he is. Are we agreed?”
Washington, D.C.
HAL BROGNOLA TOOK the call from California on his private, scrambled line. He recognized the voice at once and asked, “How’s Baja?”
“Hot and dry,” Rosario Blancanales said. “I’ve got another problem, though. You ought to know about it.”
“So, let’s hear it.”
“Toni had two visitors at the home office earlier today. They claimed affiliation with the State Department, but she says they smelled like Company.”
Brognola frowned at that. “How sure is she?”
“Ninety to ninety-five percent.”
“That sure. Okay.”
“They asked about Brazil,” Blancanales said.
“Asked what, specifically?”
“Whether Team Able handles foreign clients, and by any chance is one of them Marta Enriquez?”
“What did Toni say?”
“She cited confidentiality. We often work for lawyers, so it’s covered unless they come back with a warrant. In which case, there’s nothing to find.”
“But they still made the link,” Brognola said.
“Exactly. I don’t know how they tagged us, but I’m working on it. Anyway, it made me think about our friend.”
Brognola was thinking about Bolan, too. If the CIA had tracked Marta Enriquez from Brazil to San Diego, then it stood to reason they’d be waiting for her when she got back home. They might have Bolan’s face on film already, though it wouldn’t take them far. More troublesome, to Brognola’s mind, was the prospect of a hostile welcoming committee waiting for him in Brazil.
The private task Bolan had taken upon himself for friendship’s sake was difficult enough, without yet another chef stirring the pot. And if Langley backtracked Bolan far enough, under one of his code names, would the trail lead back to Stony Man Farm?
Brognola needed to check his firewalls, but first he asked Blancanales, “Did Toni get names?”
“Smith and Thomas, if you can believe it.”
He didn’t, but that was par for the course. The CIA had covert millions to spend, but Langley often suffered from a near-criminal lack of imagination. Mr. Smith, for God’s sake. Mr. Thomas.
“I’ll do what I can on this end,” Brognola said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“About our friend…”
“No word, so far. I don’t really expect to hear from him, since this is unofficial.”
“Then we won’t know if he hits a snag.”
Brognola had considered that when Blancanales briefed him on the woman’s story, asking for a dossier on Dr. Nathan Weiss. It made him nervous, then and now, but there was little he could do about it. Part of Bolan’s deal with Washington and Stony Man included freedom to reject assignments, or to tackle missions of his own when he was off the clock. It hadn’t often been an issue in the past.
But now…
It galled Brognola, thinking that his best field agent, one of his oldest living friends, might come to fatal grief while handling a private errand on the side. He’d braced himself a hundred times for news of Bolan’s death, had privately rehearsed the secret eulogy, but this eventuality had troubled him beyond all else.
The Executioner was only human, after all.
Like all flesh, he was prey to accidents, disease and plain bad luck. The fact that he had led a more or less charmed life to this point didn’t mean it would continue.
Luck could turn in a heartbeat.
Life could stop on a dime.
“I need to make some calls,” Brognola said. “Take care, and call me back if anybody gets in touch.”
“Will do.”
Brognola cradled the receiver, scowling at the modest clutter on his desktop. Life went on in Washington, no matter who was being threatened, maimed or killed halfway around the world.
He started taking stock.
Brognola knew where Bolan was, at least approximately, and he knew one contact’s name. He had a slim file on the man Bolan had gone to see, perhaps to extricate from trouble of the killing kind—and possibly in contravention of local authority. Now Langley had a fat thumb in the pie, and that potentially changed everything.
Except the fact that Bolan’s mission was a private one, unsanctioned by Brognola’s superiors. And if Bolan’s personal pursuits placed him in conflict with the government, where did Brognola’s loyalty lie?
His paychecks came from Uncle Sam, but Brognola had forged a bond with Bolan long ago, back in the days when the Executioner was a Top Ten fugitive and the big Fed had been assigned to bring him in, dead or alive. He’d bent the rules to work with Bolan then, against the Mafia—but could he do the same against the CIA, despite the closed-ranks posture of the War on Terror?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Before he made his choice, Brognola needed more hard information.
And he needed it right now.
Cuiabá, Brazil
“I UNDERSTAND,” Anastasio Herreira said. In his rage, he clutched the telephone so tightly that his knuckles blanched from olive to a shade of ivory.
“Do you?” the sharp voice in his ear demanded. “Do you really understand our problem? I’m not sure you grasp it, Major. I don’t think you’re up to speed on this at all.”
Stiffly, cheeks aflame, Herreira answered, “Mr. Downey, I assure you that I’m doing everything within my power to locate this rogue American. He has invaded my country, not yours, where he would be at home. He serves my enemies, not those of the United States. And frankly—”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Downey said, interrupting him. “I hear you say something like that and I can tell you haven’t got a clue about the big picture. When we talk about big pictures in the States, we don’t mean giant paintings on the wall. Understand?”
“Senhor Downey—”
The caller forged ahead, oblivious. “When we say big picture, we’re talking the long view, wide-screen, all-inclusive. A man coughs in Moscow, they catch cold in China and sneeze in Manila. You get me?”
“If you have some point to make—”
“That is my point, amigo. Right there, in a nutshell. You’ve got creeping Red cancer in your country, and it’s going to eat you alive if you cut it out, root and branch. Now, if you think that only affects Brazil, and not the States—or the whole freaking world, for that matter—you’re not only blind, you’ve got your head stuck in your ass.”
Major Herreira wasn’t sure how many more insults he could endure from the crude Yankee before he exploded in fury. That, of course, would jeopardize his agency’s relations with the CIA, which in turn would outrage his none too tolerant superiors. Better, perhaps, to rage in private and placate the Yankee. They were allies, after all, engaged in a common struggle.
“What would you have me do?” Herreira asked Downey.
“I’m sending a couple of men out to help you,” Downey said.
Herreira bristled at the notion. He needed Yankee “helpers” as he needed jungle rot or syphilis—and having suffered both, the major knew the irritations they produced.
“Senhor Downey—”
“Before you get all territorial, they have information that can help you wrap this up, okay? They’ve seen the new kid on the block, this guy recruited by your woman for whatever reason.”
“She is not my—”
“Anyway, they’ve met him. They can spot him, where your men might think he’s just another gringo tourist looking for some action.”
“Photographs would do as well,” Herreira said.
Downey ignored him, saying, “More importantly, my men can take him out with no reflection on your team.”
Herreira wasn’t easily deceived by specious arguments. The Brazilian government had no qualms about jailing foreign intruders or killing those who resisted arrest. A simple-minded blind man could’ve seen that Downey’s primary concern was to prevent embarrassment for the United States.
The doctor had been bad enough, but if he’d started to recruit allies from the U.S., some might regard it as more than intrusion. It could mean invasion, perhaps an act of war.
“Your men must willingly submit themselves to my authority,” Herreira said.
“Sure thing, Major,” Downey answered with a broad smile in his voice.
Herreira knew that he was lying, that his agents would behave as they had always done in “Third World” countries for the past two hundred years. Imagining that only the U.S. was fit to form opinions, dictate terms, decide what should be done in any given situation from Latin America to Europe and Southeast Asia.
“In that case,” Herreira replied, “I welcome their assistance.”
“That’s my boy. Expect a call within the hour.”
So, Herreira thought, they were already in Cuiabá or well on their way. His agreement, once more, meant no more to Downey than a rubber stamp on plans already finalized. He’d have to watch them every moment, to be certain they didn’t overstep their bounds.
Or if they did, and tragedy ensued, Herreira had to make sure that he couldn’t be blamed.
And if some accident befell them in the process, it was Downey’s job to deal with it, smother the breath of scandal.
Let the Yankee do his job, then. And together, they might just manage to save Herreira’s career.
“I STILL THINK it’s a bad idea,” Bolan insisted.
“Senhor Cooper, I’m Tehuelche. What you see—” the hands that smoothed her dress had polished nails “—is only one facet of what I am.”
“I understand that, but—”
“I know the jungle,” she informed him. “I was born and raised there, educated in a mission school. Your high technology may locate map coordinates, but it won’t tell you if the doctor has been forced to flee again or where he’s gone this time.”
“He’s moving?”
Marta Enriquez shrugged. “We won’t know that until we reach the meeting place.”
“I’ve done some tracking of my own, from time to time,” Bolan informed her.
“Were you hunting men?”
“Yeah, I was.”
She frowned at that. Sometimes the newbies asked what it was like, killing and almost being killed, but Enriquez had to have seen that for herself. Instead she simply asked, “Why are you here, really?”
“Bones is—or was—a friend of mine. If he’s in trouble now, I’d like to help him.”
“With no politics involved?” she asked.
“The man I knew wasn’t concerned with politics. He was a healer.”
“Tell me why you call him ‘Bones.’”
Bolan explained, briefly. When he was done, she asked, “And you would help him, even if he now heals those who might be enemies of the United States?”
“If he needs help—wants help—I’ll do my best. I didn’t come to join a cause or fight against one. If there’s fighting to be done, though, you’ll be in the way.”
“In any case,” she said, “it makes no difference. I have supplies for Dr. Weiss. If I don’t go with you, then I must go alone into the forest.”
Bolan saw that argument was futile in the face of such determination. He had no doubt that Marta would proceed without him, and it was entirely possible that she’d withhold Weiss’s location if Bolan refused to cooperate.
At last, resigned, he said, “All right. We need an early start tomorrow.”
“Is dawn early enough?” she asked him, smiling.
“Just about.”
“I’ll let you sleep, then.” At the door of Bolan’s hotel room, she paused and turned. “What if they follow us, your people?”
It was Bolan’s turn to shrug. He didn’t think he’d seen the last of Downey’s people yet. “I shook them once,” he said. “I can do it again.”
But shaking might not do it in the jungle. He might have to bury them, if they were bent on doing some irrevocable harm to Nathan Weiss or to himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d clashed with Company spooks, where lives were at stake.
“I hope you can do it,” she answered. “They may be here already.” And having said that, she slipped out of the room.
Alone, Bolan got busy with his fear. He would be wearing street clothes when they left the following day, in Enriquez’s car, but he wanted his canteens full and his weapons ready to go. He’d change clothes when they reached their jumping-off point, where they’d have to ditch their wheels and take to water, then proceed on foot. There were no roads where they were going, yet.
What was waiting for them at the end of the trail?
A friend, perhaps—or maybe not.
Time changed minds, hearts, people. Bolan didn’t think that Nathan Weiss had been transformed into a villain or mad scientist since they’d last seen each other, but it was entirely possible that Bones had found himself a cause to follow. And it might be one that ran against the grain with Bolan, one way or another.
Insurrection, revolution—the American tropics bred them like fever. Most countries south of the Rio Grande had battled their way through long series of rebellions, civil wars and military juntas over the past two centuries, and some were still embroiled in that struggle. Brazil had seemingly beaten the trend.
Bolan would see what waited for him when he reached trail’s end, and not before. Meanwhile, he needed sleep, in case he couldn’t find it in Green Hell.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cuiabá
“I hope the dirty SOB resists,” Dirk Sutter said.
“I’m counting on it,” Clement Jones replied.
They sat together in a plain brown van, with three secret police types huddled in the back. Waiting. Jones had a MAC-10 submachine gun in his lap, fat sound suppressor extending its abbreviated muzzle, but the weapon still looked almost toylike in his black-gloved hands. Sutter had picked a micro-Uzi, likewise silenced, and was feeding it a magazine of Parabellum hollowpoint rounds.
“It needs to look good, though,” Sutter remarked.
“That’s why we brought the three amigos,” Jones reminded him.
The locals all spoke English, more or less, but Jones saw no reason to spare their feelings. He was an American, for God’s sake. Anywhere he set his feet was home, thanks to the megabillions spent on foreign aid and the new atmosphere of militancy prompted by the War on Terror.
It wasn’t the natives he worried about, sitting sweaty and tense in the van. He worried about Downey and the man they’d come to neutralize.
Jones still wasn’t sure how Downey had zeroed the target’s hotel in Cuiabá. Some kind of high-tech hocus-pocus, he supposed, or maybe an old-fashioned squeal from an informant. Either way, they had his crib on quarantine, nobody in or out, and in another five minutes or so they would be going in to smoke him out.
Or waste him, as the case might be.
Downey had given them some latitude, after the fuck-up in Belém. He wasn’t letting them forget it—likely never would, the bastard—but at least he hadn’t sent them out unarmed this time. They were prepared, complete with reinforcements duly authorized to make arrests.
Not that he planned on taking Mr. Hot Shit into custody.
Not even close.
There’d been a time when asshole bullies used to get their kicks by stuffing Clement Jones in lockers, trash cans and the like, but Jones had turned that trend around by pumping iron for two years straight, then kicking ass and taking names. To save himself from bullies, he’d become a bully, and his path was set for life.
Until the moment in Belém, when all his muscle got him was a headache and the stink of garbage in his hair.
Somebody had to pay for that insult, the damage it had done to him in Downey’s eyes, and one Matt Cooper was about to rue the day he ever fucked with Clement Jones.
But Jones was nervous, sweating through his lightweight suit despite the early morning chill. The three studs waiting on the van’s rear bench seat seemed immune to nerves, but Jones saw Sutter fidgeting behind the steering wheel. Jones wasn’t psychic, but he had a fair idea of what was going on in Sutter’s head.
He didn’t want to give this Cooper prick another chance to kick their asses, nothing hand-to-hand unless the guy surrendered and they got him handcuffed. Maybe tune him up a little then, to settle scores, but if he offered anything resembling physical resistance, they would put him down.
Case closed. No second chances.
“Room 228, you said?” he asked Sutter.
“You got it.”
“And the woman’s in 230?”
“Right next door,” Sutter replied. “Connecting rooms, for all I know. Maybe they’re playing house. Guy wants to change his luck.”
“It’s changed, all right,” Jones said.
Sutter glanced over at him from the driver’s seat. “Remember, now, the first move’s his. We’re playing by the rules.”
“No sweat.”
It wouldn’t have to be much of a move, Jones thought. The prick could blink his eyelids, maybe clear his throat, and that was all the physical resistance it would take to spark a storm of automatic fire.
Their cleanup gear included body bags.
Jones didn’t really care about the woman, one way or the other, though the trouble had begun with her. He wished someone had taken care of her in San Diego, maybe left her in the desert with the others who were robbed and killed crossing the line from Mexico. It would’ve been the easy way, but no one thought of it.
Dumb bastards.
Now Jones had to kill a man who’d kicked his ass and dropped him in a garbage Dumpster. Maybe kill the woman, too, though she’d done nothing to offend him yet.
“It’s time.”
Sutter was out and moving, even as he spoke, tucking the micro-Uzi underneath his jacket. Jones opened his door, half turning toward the goons in back, and said, “Let’s rock and roll, amigos.”
They breezed through the lobby without opposition, rode the elevator up two floors, and followed the wall-mounted arrows to their target. Jones and Sutter took the door to Cooper’s room. Their three companions, pistols drawn, staked out the entrance to the woman’s crib. On three they kicked both doors and rushed inside, shock troops of the apocalypse.
And found both rooms deserted.
“Shit! He isn’t gonna like this,” Sutter said.
Jones scanned the empty hotel room and muttered, “That makes two of us.”
THEY WERE MAKING fair time, but Bolan still wished the old riverboat could’ve gone faster. Its diesel motor labored, fouled the air around them, and propelled them at a steady four to five knots with the current, but he’d hoped for more.
Broad daylight now, and if the Company was looking for them in Cuiabá, then its spooks would soon know they were gone. The question would be where, and Bolan wished they could’ve gained a better lead before the hunters started tracking them afresh.
An airlift would’ve done the trick, but Marta didn’t skydive and she’d finally convinced him that trackers would waste more time questioning Cuiabá’s several thousand river rats than checking out a hundred-odd bush pilots. It made sense and gave the warrior time to think.
But he still wished for speed.
The Rio Cuiabá flowed southwestward from the city that shared its name, winding through primal forest toward the Bolivian border, where it met and fed the Rio Paraguai. Bolan and his companion didn’t plan to follow it that far, however. They were landing fifty miles downriver and would hike from there, through wilderness that one early explorer had described as “Hell on Earth and Eden, all rolled into one.”
So far, it wasn’t Bolan’s notion of a holiday.
It felt like coming home.
Bolan had grown up in a jungle, spilled his first blood there and earned the nickname that would follow him through life, even beyond his early grave. That jungle was located on the far side of the world, but all of them were more or less the same. The predators and prey varied by continent, but it was still survival of the fittest in a world where no quarter was asked or granted.
The one rule carved in stone was kill or be killed.
Bolan knew that rule by heart, and he was still alive.
The captain of their boat ignored them after he’d collected cash up front, which suited Bolan perfectly. He lingered at the rail and watched the forest pass, unscrolling like the background footage in a wildlife film. Bright-colored birds hovered or swooped among the trees, while monkeys swarmed and chattered. Caimans waited on the bank for fish or careless swimmers to present themselves.
Forest primeval. Given half a chance, he knew that it would eat him up alive.
And somewhere in the midst of it was Nathan Weiss.
Bad choice, Bones, Bolan thought. And once again, Why here?
Enriquez was suddenly beside him at the railing. She’d changed into khaki hiking clothes and sturdy boots, hair pulled back from her face and cinched with an elastic band. She wore no makeup, and she didn’t seem to miss it.
Both of us were going home, Bolan thought, but it didn’t warm the cockles of his heart.
“It shouldn’t be much longer,” Enriquez told him, eyes fixed on the wall of forest opposite. “I know a place where we can stay tonight. A village. By nightfall tomorrow, with luck, you can speak to your friend.”
“After all this time,” Bolan said, “you’re a closer friend to him than I am.”
“Maybe not.”
“I’m betting on it. And I’m hoping you can shed some light on why he chose this place.”
“We’ve never talked about it,” she replied. “I felt so lucky that the choice was made, for both my people and myself. I didn’t want to question it.”
“Okay.”
“But if I had to guess,” the woman went on, “I think he feels a need to heal the world. It sounds ridiculous, perhaps.”
“Not necessarily.”
“I think, for Dr. Weiss, it’s not enough to have an office in the city or to work at an important hospital. He talks about red tape sometimes. You know of this?”
“It rings a bell,” Bolan replied.
“He hates red tape and rules. Out here, I think, he finally feels free.”
And Bolan was supposed to talk him out of it.
Welcome home.
Belém
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you lost them both?”
Downey could feel the anger stirring, rising through his body like a head of steam seeking an outlet, throbbing in his ears, a second pulse. He didn’t need a mirror to imagine the pink color in his face.
“Um, well, sir,” Sutter stammered over the long-distance line, “we took the team as planned and checked that address you supplied us, half-past five in the a.m. They were already gone.”
“Checked out?”
“No, sir. I asked the desk clerk, after. They just walked. Nobody saw them go.”
Was that pure luck, or had somebody put a bug in Cooper’s ear? He would’ve been expecting company, after the ruckus in Belém, but not so soon. How could he know they’d pin him down that fast?
He couldn’t, Downey thought.
Luck, then—or else, the kind of skill that made dumb luck superfluous.
“All right, here’s what you do,” he said. “Get after them. I don’t care what you have to do, just find out where they’ve gone and follow them. You understand.”
“Yes, sir. But—”
“But nothing,” Downey cut him off. “You have one job and only one. Find Cooper and the woman. If they’re hiding in Cuiabá, root them out. If they’ve gone native and they’re swinging from the goddamned trees, you grab a vine and follow them. I hope you’re reading me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you find them, liquidate the problem, Sutter. Rub it out. Until that job is finished, you and Jones will not return. Under no circumstances known to God or man will I accept one more report of failure. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then move your ass and get it done.”
Downey put down the telephone receiver, then immediately lifted it again. The urge to share his misery was irresistible. He dialed the number of security police headquarters from his memory, one of perhaps five hundred crucial numbers filed inside his head, and waited while his call was passed along to Anastasio Herreira’s desk.
“Está?” Herreira greeted him.
“Está, yourself. Are we secure?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve got bad news.”
“It’s the only kind you ever bring to me.”
“Somebody screwed the pooch this morning, in Cuiabá,” Downey said. “I’m not assigning blame, you understand. Mixed signals, who knows what it was. Long story short, we missed the woman and her friend at the hotel.”
“I see.” Herreira’s voice was glum.
“Now, what we need to do is find out where they’re going. Either head them off or trail them to their destination. Maybe wrap it up once and for all.”
“You make it sound like meeting old friends in the park,” Herreira said. “You think they’ll leave a trail for us to follow?”
“Everybody leaves a trail. It’s a fact of life. The trick is knowing what to look for, how to read the signs.”
“Mato Grosso is the third-largest state in Brazil, Senhor Downey, and the most sparsely populated. Outside Cuiabá—”
“I don’t need a geography lesson. I need hunters who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.”
Herreira lowered his voice as he asked, “What is it you propose?”
“We have a chance to wrap this up once and for all, within the next few days, if we’re not squeamish. We’ve already missed our chance to stop the woman slipping past with her hireling, but the mistake may work for us if we’re quick enough.”
“You think they’ll lead us to the doctor?”
“That’s exactly what I think. Of course, we have to find them first.”
“And I must say again—”
“Don’t tell me what you can’t do. I need a can-do attitude for this job. Think about the money Langley’s pumped into your service, and the cut you’ve skimmed off for yourself.”
“Senhor—”
“Nobody’s faulting you,” Downey said. “Hell, I know the way things work. All I’m suggesting is that you should earn a little of that money, now and then. You need to work a little overtime, put extra bodies on the street.”
“What am I looking for?” Herreira asked, resigned.
“Smart money says they’ve left Cuiabá. If we find out how they went, we also find out where they’ve gone. Get those coordinates, a drop-off point, and we can start to hunt for real.”
“All right,” Herreira said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And let me know, ASAP.”
“Of course.”
“Good man,” Downey said, smiling even as he broke the link.
THE FIRST HOUR on foot was the worst, Enriquez thought. It still surprised her, after all this time, that her body was forced to reacclimatize each time she returned to the jungle from a trip away. Even a weekend in Cuiabá, with its running water, fans and air-conditioning could tip the balance of her metabolism it seemed, and had her sweating like a rank tourist when she came back home.
Moving along the narrow, unmarked trail, she made a point of watching Cooper on the sly, quick glances from the corner of her eye or underneath an arm when she paused to wipe her brow. He seemed to bear up well, with both the heat and the equipment that he carried. He was cautious, yet almost casual about it, not like one of those big-city “sportsmen” who clutched his weapon as if danger waited behind every tree.
Though it might, she admitted.
They hadn’t left danger behind by escaping from the city and the men who hunted them through the streets. Those hunters would follow, or send others in their place, and still more peril waited on the trail ahead.
Marta hoped Matt Cooper was equal to the task, and for a moment she almost felt guilty for bringing him into the jungle.
Almost.
Dr. Weiss—her Nathan—needed help to stay alive. If that meant taking him away, so be it. She would either find some means of joining him, or she would stay behind and nurture fading memories of what they’d had together.
Either way, the most important thing was his survival and the good work he could still do elsewhere, if he lived.
He had such talent, such compassion, and it would be wasted if he died here, clinging to a futile hope that he could change the hearts and minds of common men.
“Within two hours,” she told Cooper, “we should reach the village.”
“Is it yours?” he asked.
“The people are Tehuelche and they welcome me,” she answered, “but it’s not my home. A smallpox epidemic killed most of my people years ago, while I was in the residential mission school. I’ve seen where they were heaped and burned together for the public good. My parents have no graves.”
“I buried mine,” he said. “The markers aren’t much help.”
“You may think I was lucky to be off at school.”
He shrugged beneath his heavy pack. “You’re still alive.”
“The residential schools were meant to break us, wipe out old beliefs and fill our heads with something new.”
“It looks like you outsmarted them,” Bolan said.
Grim-faced, Enriquez shook her head. “They broke me with the rest,” she answered. “Only in the past few years have I recovered what was lost.”
“Still, that’s a victory,” Bolan replied. “They knocked you down but couldn’t beat you.”
“Oh, they beat me,” she corrected him. “Nobody in the mission schools escaped beatings—and worse. You’ve heard the stories, I suppose.”
“From Canada,” he said. “Not so much from Brazil.”
“They’re much the same. It was a silent holocaust of torture, rape, indoctrination. No one who survived it was unscathed. Recovering the culture that was beaten out of us may take a lifetime, but the time is what we don’t have, Mr. Cooper. Even as we speak, the government and industry are finishing the slaughter that began more than a hundred years ago.”
“Is that what brought Bones to Brazil?”
“It may surprise you that we never talked about his motives. He is a very private man. I was too grateful for his help to question it.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I just want to understand what we’re all doing here,” he said.
“The doctor heals. You’re here to save his life.”
“And you?”
She frowned again and said, “I’m not sure, yet.”
They spoke little over the next hour, their silence broken only when Enriquez pointed out some animal or plant that posed a threat. On those occasions, Bolan listened, paid attention and moved on.
She smelled the village from a half mile out, wood smoke and food in preparation for the evening meal. Before she could alert Cooper, she realized that he had smelled it, too.
Clearly, he wasn’t just another handsome face.
They were two hundred yards from contact when the first shot made her jump. Two more immediately followed, wringing from her throat a strangled protest.
“Please, God, no!”
Bolan released his weapon from its shoulder sling and plunged into the jungle, following the sounds. Fearing what she would find, Marta Enriquez clenched her teeth and followed him.
A QUICK COUNT made it ten or fifteen shooters dressed in mismatched clothes, no military trappings other than their weapons. Bolan had no time to scout the village, making sure. The gunmen he could see were busy when he got there, herding unarmed Indians in the direction of a long house built from logs. Its thatch roof was already smoking. Bolan saw one of the raiders shoot a woman with a baby in her arms, a single bullet drilling both.
He fired instinctively, a 3-round burst dropping the shooter in his tracks. Most of the raiders were distracted, but a couple saw the dead man drop and spun to find out where the killing shots had come from.
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