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One of the officers crouched beside him. He seemed genuinely shocked by the condition of the injured young man.
“We need ambulances. Emergency services. Now,” Bolan snapped. “Call it in now.”
The officer reached for the transceiver clipped to his belt and began to call in rapid instructions. Two more police vehicles sped into view. Uniformed officers spilled out. One of them was a tall, powerfully built man, with sergeant’s stripes on his shirt sleeve. He began to yell orders to the other officers, directing them to specific tasks. The sergeant crossed to where Bolan was kneeling beside the injured man.
“You managing?” he asked, taking in Bolan’s bloody hands clamped about the victim’s leg.
“For the moment,” Bolan answered.
“What a mess,” the sergeant said. “Why can’t these bastards come out and fight like men? What do they expect to gain from this kind of thing?”
“Confusion. Intimidation. Anything to upset the status quo.”
“If I ever get my hands on them I’ll upset more than that.”
The sergeant glanced around and found himself face-to-face with the young officer who had called in for backup. He was about to yell at the man when he saw the shock etched on the man’s face.
“Go to the hotel, Kunda. Tell them we need blankets, sheets and towels,” he said in a gentle tone that belied his powerful physical appearance.
The officer looked at him, then turned and headed for the hotel.
“He needed that,” Bolan said.
“Ah, youngsters. We were all there once,” the sergeant replied.
Over an hour later, Bolan, dusty and bloody, sweat soaking his clothing, leaned against the side of the sergeant’s patrol vehicle. He had spent the intervening time helping to pull casualties out of the demolished store. Ambulances were still ferrying the injured to the city hospital. The dead were laid out on the road, covered with sheets. Bolan had counted sixteen. Five of them had been young children. The rescue teams were hard at it, digging through the rubble, searching for others who might still be trapped inside the building.
A group of people was clustered around a car listening to another repeat of the taped message that had been sent to the station within minutes of the bomb blast. The rebels claimed responsibility for the explosion and were threatening more if the government did not accede to their demands. They had been forced into this position because the government had refused to compromise. So the people of Tempala would pay the price. The voice on the tape made the usual excuses, used the same condescending tones as he claimed that what had happened was the fault of a repressive administration. The rebels had been forced to make this dramatic gesture. Not once during the tape did the man even hint at any kind of regret over the deaths of innocent people.
The scenario wasn’t unfamiliar to Bolan. He had seen and heard the same in other locations around the world. The work of savages who considered this kind of thing a legitimate part of their agenda. The senseless death and destruction was intended to cow the populace into favoring the demands of the opposition. In Bolan’s estimation these people had just crossed the line. They were using the most base form of coercion, and as far as the soldier was concerned, Tempala’s rebels—as he had said to President Karima—had stepped into the shadow land that marked them down as nothing more than terrorists.
“They talk as if it’s our fault,” someone close by said.
Bolan looked up and saw the big sergeant bearing down on him, clutching mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. He handed one to Bolan. The sergeant’s uniform was stained and bloody, his black skin streaked with dust and gleaming with sweat.
“That’s what they want you to believe,” Bolan said. “Make the people feel guilty so they come around to the way of the terrorist.”
“Don’t you mean our glorious rebels?” the policeman said with more than a hint of irony in his voice.
Bolan looked him in the eye. “No, I mean terrorist.”
The sergeant sized up the tall American as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind about the man yet. “You know about this kind of thing?”
“A little.”
The sergeant shook his head. “I think a lot, my friend.”
He stuck out a large hand. Bolan took it and they shook.
“Now tell me who you are. And why you are wearing a gun under that jacket you haven’t taken off even in this heat.”
There was no threat in the man’s tone.
“Name’s Mike Belasko. I arrived a few hours ago. I’m part of Leland Cartwright’s team. The man who…”
The sergeant nodded. “I know who he his. So, Mr. Belasko, what is your job on the team?”
“Security advisor.”
“That would explain the gun.”
Bolan smiled. “No fooling you.”
“My job.”
“You have a name, Sergeant?”
“Christopher Jomo.”
“You been a policeman long?”
Jomo gestured at the destruction. “When I see things like this I think too long. Then I remember why I became a police officer and I get angry. Angry at the bastards who do such things. Tempala is not a bad country. Because of President Karima things are getting better all the time. They are not perfect yet, but we’ll get there. If we weren’t being plagued by these damned…terrorists…we would get there a lot faster.”
“Nothing worth having comes without a fight, Jomo.”
“I can accept that,” the policeman said. “But not when they wage war on children.”
Jomo was looking at the five small forms covered by sheets. In death they seemed to shrink even smaller. The big man’s shoulders sank and he bent his head for a moment.
“Not the children,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Now these men receive no mercy.”
No mercy. The policeman’s words might have come from Bolan himself.
“You know one of the crazy things here,” Jomo said. “Many of the injured are Kirandi. The idiots have killed their own people as well.”
“Belasko?”
Bolan glanced round and saw McReady pushing through the crowd. The man looked genuinely concerned when he saw the state of Bolan’s clothing.
“Jesus, are you okay?”
“Yes. I’ve been giving a hand.”
McReady recognized Jomo. “I see you two have met.”
Jomo smiled. “Mr. Belasko has been a good friend today. It will not be forgotten. I must go and see how my men are doing. We’ll meet again, Belasko.”
Bolan nodded briefly. He watched the big policeman walk away. Jomo hesitated as he passed the bodies of the five children, and Bolan realized just how badly the man had been affected.
“Hey, you sure you’re okay?”
“Phil, don’t worry. I just need to get cleaned up.”
McReady sensed the hardness in Bolan’s words. “Belasko? What is it?”
Bolan took a long, hard look at the death and destruction surrounding them. He listened to the faint cries of the injured.
“This has just become a war,” Bolan said and walked away.
BACK IN HIS HOTEL ROOM Bolan used the number Karima had given him and spoke briefly with the president.
“Have you heard personally from the terrorists, sir?”
“I received a call minutes after the explosion. It was a taped message.”
“Justifying what they had done?”
“It stated that the bombing was a show of commitment by the rebels,” Karima said. “That they meant business. They threatened there could be more of the same.”
Bolan considered the implications of the statement. Something didn’t sit right. “Why now?”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Belasko.”
“The ten days they gave you are not up yet. So why suddenly embark on a bombing campaign before they know whether you are going to accede to their demands?”
“As they said, it was to show they are serious.”
Bolan shook his head. “I don’t buy that. They took your children and murdered your driver. How much more serious does it get than that?”
“Mr. Belasko, what are you suggesting?”
“I’d rather not say anything until I’m sure. I’ll contact you again once I have some news.”
“Very well. I have to leave now. I’m going to the scene of the explosion, to see for myself what these people have done.”
Bolan put down the phone. He was thankful Karima hadn’t pressed him on his thoughts as to why the terrorists had set off their bomb. At the back of his mind lurked the possibility that the president’s children were no longer a bargaining ploy. Maybe they were already dead and lost as a lever by the terrorists? It was a tenuous strand but one the Executioner had to consider. He knew he was looking at the worst-case scenario—but in his line of work looking on the dark side was a common practice. In this case he hoped it was no more than speculation.
3
Bolan had opened his travelling bag and spread the contents across the bed. His combat gear, blacksuit and boots. His combat harness already loaded and ready for action, the pockets holding additional magazines for the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle as well as the Beretta. A sheathed knife was fastened to the belt of the harness. In one of the pockets was a wire garrote. Another held a number of plastic wrist restraints. He checked the gear, then moved to the Uzi SMG, spending a few minutes stripping it down, checking that everything functioned. The soldier reassembled the weapon, then picked up a double magazine; one magazine taped to another for quick reloading. He snapped the magazine into its slot, cocked the weapon and set the safety. He had two more of the double magazines. These went into the small backpack he had brought, along with a small med-kit and some field rations. There was a canteen he would fill with water from his room fridge before he moved out. Satisfied he had everything he needed, Bolan packed the gear away in the bag and stowed it in the wardrobe, locking it and pocketing the key.
It was now early evening. Since returning to his room Bolan had showered and dressed in fresh clothing. The gash on his cheek had stopped bleeding. It stung occasionally, reminding him of the day’s violent event. He decided it was time to eat, so he called room service and asked if they could send him up something light and a pot of coffee. He was promised something very shortly.
Picking up his cell phone Bolan speed-dialed the Farm and waited until he heard the distant connection lock in. The voice that came on was instantly recognizable as Barbara Price’s.
“How’s it going, Striker?” the mission controller asked.
He told her about the bomb incident.
“Sounds like you walked right into trouble.”
“I’ve had pleasanter days. Has the Bear come up with anything on those names and the cell phone number I gave him?”
“Hold on.”
He heard paper rustling.
“Aaron didn’t find anything very interesting on either man. They both look clean. Nkoya is down as a loyal member of the government. Backs President Karima all the way down the line. He does a lot of traveling on behalf of the Tempala administration. He was on some kind of government trip about three weeks ago to London and Paris.”
“Sounds like a man who moves around a lot.”
“I suppose.” Price hesitated. “You want to share that with me?”
“Share what?”
“Striker, I know the way your mind works. You can make the most casual remark sound like an accusation.”
“Maybe I have a suspicious nature. Go with me on this. Have the Bear dig a little deeper. Look at Nkoya’s finances. See if he has anything tucked away. Money. Stock. You know the routine. Same with Simon Chakra, the military guy.”
“There’s nothing on the cell phone number yet.”
“Tell the Bear to stay with it.”
“Okay. We’ll talk later.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, Striker, you take care.”
Bolan broke the connection and put the cell phone down. He stood for a while, staring at the phone. Was he being too suspicious? Looking for things that didn’t actually exist? If he was wrong no harm had been done. On the other hand…
He heard the tap on his door. Room service. Bolan crossed the room and opened the door. The muzzle of an automatic pistol was thrust in his face.
“Step away from the door,” the man holding the gun said.
Bolan eased back, the man following. Without warning Bolan’s hands swept up, fingers clamping around the gunman’s wrist. The Executioner pulled the man toward him, half turning and throwing the gunman over his hip. The African gave a startled yell as he was hurled across the room. He hit the floor hard, the gun bouncing from his hand. He squirmed over on his back, bleeding from a split lip. He saw Bolan closing in and tried to stand. He barely managed to get his feet under him before Bolan reached him, driving a hard foot into the man’s chest that knocked him back down.
The Executioner wondered if the man was on his own and turned to check the open doorway. He caught a glimpse of a dark shape lunging at him, saw the glint of metal an instant before something hard clubbed him across the side of the head. The blow stunned him. Bolan stumbled, fell to his knees, nausea rising. A second blow drove him to the floor, and he felt the room shrink around him, turning black and swallowing him.
BOLAN CAME AROUND SLOWLY, staying still so as not to alert his captors he was awake. He was on the seat of a car by the sounds and movement. He could hear the sound of the motor, feel the bump and sway as the vehicle sped along an uneven road.
There were at least two of them that he knew of. Maybe there were more. It was hard to tell from his current position. He was aware of the pulse of pain in his skull. He could also feel the sticky streaks of blood that had run down the left side of his face from the gash in his temple.
Bolan assessed his situation. He had walked right into the attack. Opening the door without verifying who was there. He made no excuses. The opportunity to check had been in his own hands. His momentary lapse had let his captors subdue him. The next question asked where they were taking him and why? The options were few. They would either question him or kill him. Bolan couldn’t see any other variants. Either way his evening looked grim.
He decided that playing dead wasn’t going to gain him a great deal. He moved and uttered a low groan, pushing upright on the seat, then flopping against the backrest. Within those few seconds he checked out the passengers. One man behind the wheel, a second sitting across from Bolan on the rear seat, holding a gun on him.
“Wake-up time, brother. Wouldn’t want you to waste your last ride missing all the local sights.”
