Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River Read online

  "They're here all right," said Bolan. "I can feel it. My bet is they'll be resting up during the daylight hours."

  "Traveling only at night?" Katz said. "Yes, I agree. What if we . . . ."

  Keio waggled his hand, signaling for quiet. "Vehicle approaching! Sounds like a tank."

  Manning tamped the last of the fresh dirt over the hole and covered it with a clump of dry grass, then cupped one hand to his ear to listen.

  "Yes." Bolan turned to the others. "Two vehicles. Okay, men, head for cover. Safeties off, but wait on my order."

  Keio had already vanished into the grass. Katz and Encizo crouched behind a thorn bush. Bolan quickly checked to see they had left no signs of disturbance on the ground, then he faded into the scrub.

  There was a flickering movement between the trunks of a clump of thorn trees, then a Land Rover swung into view. It was moving slowly and kicking up very little dust. The white man standing on the passenger side patted the black driver on the shoulder. They stopped and through field glasses the man methodically checked the bush stretching away on both sides of the track.

  Nothing out there . . . . The man spat in the dirt and gave a second signal for his driver to begin crawling forward again. An old truck appeared, following the first vehicle at two hundred yards. It sounded as if the exhaust system was in bad shape. Now they were close enough for Bolan to read the half-obliterated company name stenciled on the side: Afric Ore Extraction.

  He stood up and took three paces to the edge of the track. The driver stamped on the brakes so suddenly that his passenger lurched forward against the top of the windshield.

  "Jesus, Kambolo! Watch what you're . . . ." He stopped berating the driver and stared suspiciously at the stranger standing about thirty feet in front of them.

  "Mr. Rawson?" the battle-ready newcomer inquired.

  "Yes, that's me." He looked relieved. "You must be Phoenix."

  "You're late, Mr. Rawson. We expected to find you here waiting for us."

  Without a sound, Phoenix Force emerged from their hiding places. Rawson glanced round open-mouthed. Five more men. Big men. And armed to the teeth. Rawson always figured there wasn't much that escaped him in the bush, but these guys came out of nowhere, as silent as snakes.

  Kambolo sat impassively behind the wheel. Nothing that happened out here could surprise him. Mercenaries, UN troops, the Congolese army, and Mumungo' s soldiers—Kambolo had seen them all.

  "We got here as fast as we could," Rawson claimed. He turned around and signaled to the second driver to creep forward and close the gap. "Had a problem with the truck."

  "What sort of problem?" snapped Katz, feeling a warning prickle at the back of his neck.

  "Oil leak. Don't worry, it's fixed. Wouldn't come out here without spares for everything." His thin mouth compressed and the creases around his eyes bunched tighter. Rawson appeared a little indignant that he should have to offer an explanation. His eyes darted back and forth from the tall Oriental to the older man to the silent, Hispanic-looking guy.

  In the city, Rawson's wary look might have been thought of as shifty, but in these circumstances he just seemed cautious and watchful.

  "You can call me Luke. Kambolo here is my driver. The fellow driving the truck is Mulanda." The second black nodded from the open window of his cab. "He's Mussengamba—best damn trackers there are! He'll help us find the game."

  Bolan stared hard at Rawson. Very hard. Bolan thought of his foes as rats or vermin or the treacherous animals they so closely resembled, but never as "game." This was anything but a sport. His men were not here on a Sunday afternoon safari.

  Rawson shifted uncomfortably. "So . . . 'the visitors' have arrived?"

  "That was the report."

  "Well, they won't risk staying on this track. No telling who they might run into, eh?" Rawson looked around him. Encizo and Ohara were already loading their gear into the trucks. These guys were not wasting any time. "No, they'll probably travel through the bush on a parallel course."

  "They've still got to head for the Devil's Forge."

  Rawson spat again at Bolan's mention of that hellish desert. He made a circling movement with his left arm. "I suggest we make a sweep back out to the west. See if we can spot some sign. Mulanda's got some of his Mussengamba relatives out there. He can find out what they've seen."

  Bolan signaled for Manning to sit with him in the Land Rover. Katz ordered the others into the mining-company truck and climbed up into the back with them.

  "Okay, let's go!"

  KATZ WAS GLAD to be riding in the truck. He did not like Rawson. This whole assignment had started out on the wrong foot for him. But he did not let it show.

  John Phoenix might be calling the shots on this mission, but he, Katz, was still leader of the team.

  "Are those primers secure?" he asked Encizo, rather more sharply than he had intended. He tipped his head toward the case that was wedged between the food boxes and tents that Rawson had brought for the expedition. The truck was bouncing badly over the rutted path through a low thicket of thorny scrub.

  "Checked them myself," nodded the swarthy Cuban. He pointed to some movement in the bush. "What's that?"

  Katz balanced himself against the cover frame and tried to steady the field glasses in his good hand. "Lionesses. Starting the day's hunt."

  The endless cycle of life and death on the African savannah had begun for yet another day. Once more the predators were on the prowl.

  The big tawny cats in the distance stalked an unwary wildebeest. A pack of jackals followed at a respectful distance, hoping that they, too, would get their fill. Overhead, the vultures circled.

  It made no difference to the vultures what they feasted on.

  And across this savage land man hunted man.

  GARY MANNING GLANCED BACK through the choking haze to see how well the truck was keeping up. One more of these potholes and that muffler was likely to fall right off. Manning decided he'd take a look at it himself the next time Colonel Phoenix called a halt.

  They had spotted lions, hyenas, antelope and wild dogs—once Bolan thought he had caught a glimpse of an elephant in the distance—but no trace at all of Scarr's patrol. At one point they took a short break while Mulanda scouted out a village alone. But there was no news of strangers in the vicinity.

  Bolan kept a ceaseless vigil, constantly sweeping the endless yellow, brown and dusty green landscape. They were out there somewhere. He knew it.

  "So Scarr's come back for his treasure?" Rawson was only trying to make conversation, but Bolan didn't like the way he zeroed in directly on the goal of this mission. Just how well had their guide been briefed? And by whom, wondered Bolan.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Why else would Scarr risk his neck coming back here?" Rawson turned to display a reassuring grin. "Hell, everybody and his dog has heard of Scarr's treasure. Gold bars, diamonds, rubies . . . . There's a mountain of the stuff, if you believe all the rumors."

  "And what do you think?"

  "Like I said, it's all gossip." Their escort shrugged. "If Scarr knocked over the Tshilanga bank he'd have been lucky to get the deeds to a few properties, some stocks and bonds maybe, and some loose change. He's a fool to come back for . . . . Kambolo, stop!"

  The driver touched the brake pedal twice to flash a warning light to the truck, then pulled to a halt.

  Manning stood up in the back. "What did you see?"

  "Nothing. It's what I smell."

  Bolan had already caught the scent and was scanning the sector windward.

  "Got it. There!" He pointed to a faint dirty smudge drifting above the trees a couple of miles away.

  Kambolo drove the most direct route he could, the Land Rover bucking in the uneven terrain, but it still took nearly ten minutes to reach the place marked by the smoke.

  The acrid odor of smoldering thatch lingered on the breeze. And there was another sickly, sweeter smell. It had been in a different part of the world that Bo
lan had first been acquainted with that peculiar scent. There was no mistaking it: the stench of charred human flesh.

  7

  The wheels of the jeep spat out angry spumes of reddish grit as Kambolo trod on the accelerator. He steered straight for the low huddle of straw-thatched huts, smashing through the last of the low brush, then plowing across the corner of a dried-up corn patch.

  Bolan and Manning were ready for anything. Their weapons traversed to cover both sides of the vehicle as they roared into the village square.

  The jeep skidded to a halt.

  It must have been a poor-looking place at the best of times. But this was the worst of times. Ashes still swirled about the beaten-earth compound as the breeze plucked them from two of the ruined hovels on the far side of the street.

  Thirty feet in front of the jeep a woman knelt in the dirt, cradling the limp corpse of an old man in her arms. The gaily colored cotton wrap she wore, a pagne, was streaked with grime and bloodstains. Her mouth hung open as her shoulders shook with dry, half-strangulated sobs.

  Manning leaped from the back of the Land Rover and ran forward, but there was nothing he could do. The old man had been slit open from his crotch to his throat. Manning touched the woman gently on the shoulder, but she would not be comforted.

  Bolan had crossed the street. Another body, that of a younger man, hung by the wrists from the lowest branch of a nearby tree. His back was lacerated. White points of bone poked through the gaping slashes that crisscrossed his ebony skin. He had been flayed by an expert. The swarming flies buzzed indignantly at being disturbed as Bolan sliced through the bindings that held the victim.

  Wrists freed, the man's body dropped first to its knees, then toppled face forward. The cloud of flies settled back onto the corpse again.

  Bolan tucked the K-bar back into its ankle sheath and straightened up as the truck pulled in behind the Land Rover. Ohara waited for the vehicle to stop before he swung himself up onto the roof of the cab to stand watch.

  "Check those hooches," ordered Bolan. McCarter and Encizo began a fast but thorough house-by-house search along the edge of the square.

  Katz paused at the end of the empty corral. A man—or what was left of him—was lashed to a weathered post. The fire that had been lit between his legs still glowed faintly. The flesh on his thighs, genitals and lower stomach was a roasted, suppurating mess. The flies feasted on the blackened sockets of his eyes. His head twitched once as he made an obscene gurgle. It only took a single shot from the Uzi to dispatch the villager from his agony.

  The Israeli commando walked on to join Bolan. His expression was grim.

  "Ask her who did this," Bolan instructed Mulanda. These people were Nabu, a subtribe of the Bantu, but the black tracker knew enough of the local dialect to question the woman.

  She said nothing. Her eyes rolled upward piteously and her head lolled back and forth as she soulfully denied the ugly reality of what had happened to her home and family. It was apparent she would be of little use to them.

  Rawson and his driver were inspecting the tracks at the far end of the street.

  "Find anything?" Bolan called out. It could not have been more than an hour, maybe much less, since this massacre took place. He wanted to know precisely what they were up against.

  Even as the mining surveyor shrugged a negative reply, Manning yelled, "Look out!"

  The sound had come from a hut right behind the American commander.

  Katz whirled, finger on the trigger, the Uzi gripped in his good left hand like a pistol. He had only one split second to ease off the pressure and let the muzzle sag toward the ground.

  Standing in the open doorway was a shaven-headed youngster, no more than eight or nine, with flies clustered in the corners of his eyes and under his runny nose. He kept blinking in bewilderment. Bolan realized the boy must have been hidden away before the killing began.

  Mulanda said something to the kid.

  The boy slowly shook his head.

  "I told him we've just arrived," explained the tracker, "and we're trying to find out what happened here. I don't think he believes me."

  Who could blame him, thought Katz.

  Seeing that the moment's excitement was over, McCarter resumed his patrol. The next rondeval was partially gutted. Its roof had caved in and the smoke-blackened mud walls had crumbled. He stood at the entrance, surveying the debris. The lumpy outline half-buried in the ashes seemed to indicate a small dog or pig had got caught in the fire.

  The Englishman moved closer to the spot. It was not the remains of any animal—it was a baby!

  McCarter turned away, sickened by the savagery, and that was when he saw the man.

  "Hey, you!" McCarter yelled at the figure lurking in a corner of the last hut in the row. He had been there long enough to see half a dozen foreign soldiers prowling around the ruins of his village: the ghosts of les Affreux had come back to the Congo!

  At the sound of McCarter's voice the man started to run for his life.

  McCarter's challenge had alerted the others. Ohara swung around and brought the Armalite to bear. Bolan waved for him not to shoot, although from Ohara's vantage point he could draw a clear bead on the fleeing figure. Mulanda jumped behind the wheel of the Land Rover as Bolan vaulted in from the other side.

  The tracker gunned the jeep as he set off in hot pursuit.

  The running man had less than three hundred yards head start and that was quickly being narrowed. The dried stalks of the old corn plants whipped at his powerful legs as he raced toward the cover of the nearest scrub.

  Mulanda's face was a mask of concentration as the four-wheel-drive vehicle hit the lip of a deep rut and bounced high. He was coming up fast on the left.

  Bolan poised to make his leap. Mulanda closed the gap. Their quarry tried to swerve away sharply to the right. Too late! The big soldier launched himself in a flying tackle.

  Two hundred pounds of muscle and bone slammed into the man like a ton of bricks. They both crashed to the ground, sliding forward in a tangled, scrapping heap. The black had been winded by the impact and there was now little fight left in him.

  Bolan quickly overpowered him. He twisted the villager's arm behind his back and propelled him toward the Land Rover.

  "Get in!"

  Mulanda repeated the instruction in Nabu.

  Bolan unholstered his Beretta, but the man sat quietly in the seat, his shoulders set in a sullen slump. Powerful though he was, it did not seem as if he was going to put up any more resistance.

  They drove back into the square. The villager climbed out—for the moment he was too dispirited to try running away. It was obvious he was numbed to see the terrible destruction up close.

  Mulanda started questioning the man. But all he received was a bitter reply.

  "He wants to know why we did this to his village."

  "Tell him we didn't," said Bolan, "and we're just as interested as he is in whoever's responsible."

  Mulanda translated and exchanged several more comments as the brawny Nabu tribesman gestured to the southwest.

  "He was with the other men of the village. They hid the few cattle and goats they've got in the hills over there. He was out hunting a lion that's been raiding their livestock."

  The native spoke in quick, jerky phrases, holding up three fingers in front of Mulanda before making the same sign for Bolan's benefit. The tracker continued to translate simultaneously. "This morning—maybe two hours ago—he saw three truckloads of foreign soldiers. They were miles from any of the tracks, where no white man goes. Ziemba, that's his name, took a shortcut through the hill country . . . . to warn the village. He ran most of the way . . . ."

  "He must have seen Scarr," said Katz.

  "Ask him which way these soldiers were heading."

  Ziemba made a zigzag motion toward the north.

  "He wasn't sure where they could be heading—there's only a desert in front of them," explained the Mussengamba. "That's why he came back to warn
his neighbors—just in case the foreigners decided to pay them a visit."

  "It tells us two things," said Bolan. "First, that Yagoda and Scarr are traveling by day. And, second, that this butchery couldn't have been their handiwork."

  "Then who in bloody hell did this?" asked McCarter.

  "Mumungo!" Rawson's reply was loud and harsh. He turned away from the doorway of one of the burned-out rondevals and advanced stiffly on the small group in the center of the square. He was holding something behind one of his trouser legs.

  "General Mumungo?" The Englishman was puzzled. It didn't make sense.

  "He was only a sergeant before he got some big ideas." Rawson's laugh was a short, cynical bark. "I'm not saying he was here personally, but his men were. They did this."

  "Are you certain?" Bolan challenged him.

  Rawson nodded as he stopped in front of the others, then with a dramatic flourish he produced the object he had been holding out of sight. It appeared to be a long hard whip, but it was covered with a gray film of ash. "Do you know what this is?"

  Bolan was impatient to get on the trail of Yagoda's unit. There was no time to play games.

  "Well, do you?" repeated Rawson.

  The American shook his head.

  "It's a penis!"

  The Phoenix men stared in disbelief. Even Ohara looked down from his sentry post to inspect what Rawson was holding up for display.

  "Hippo maybe . . . or buffalo."

  "A sjambok?" guessed Katz, half-remembering some mercenary gossip in a nameless bar.

  "That's what they call it in South Africa," agreed the leathery-faced surveyor. "Up here, it's known as a fimbo. They cut off the penis, stretch it and dry it hard . . . ."

  "And it makes an unusual kind of whip," Bolan concluded grimly.

  "But very effective as you can see." Rawson used the fimbo to point to the body Bolan had cut down. "He was beaten to death with this. It's the mark of Mumungo's personal bodyguards, the Leopard Patrol."