Bolan watched Taylor hold the stub of a cigarette against the end of the fresh one stuck in his mouth. The Executioner and Grimaldi would take off for Colombia just as soon as the loose ends at the Rodriguez ranch were tied up. The rest of the strike sites in Mexico would have to be put on hold.

  There was no point in fishing for scattered minnows when the sharks were gathering.

  Bolan was impressed with the speed with which Janie had gained the Colombian general's confidence, and her timely call to the phone booth in the parking garage had proved her dependability. But the warrior saw trouble looming ahead in another form, from an angle he couldn't have anticipated.

  Janie was falling for him.

  He had suspected it the last few times they'd talked, and the phone call from Bogotá had confirmed his suspicions. The tone of the woman's voice and the almost apologetic way she reported Montoya's pillow talk had erased all doubts from his mind.

  Bolan's affection for the likable young woman was platonic. He recognized Janie as the unknowing victim that she was, the end result of a girlish dream of stardom never achieved. She had unwittingly traded the important things in life for the superficial.

  Janie had mistaken that affection for another type of love.

  There was no easy answer to the situation. His only course was to resolve the matter as quickly and painlessly as possible when he got to Bogotá.

  As the rain fell harder and lightning flashed in the distance, the Executioner turned onto a pitted blacktop road. He systematically took mental inventory of his weapons. The Beretta rode snugly under his left arm, its big partner resting in hip leather on the other side. His black combat suit bore extra magazines for the subgun and both pistols. A Gerber Mark II Survival/Attack blade and a double row of fragmentation grenades hung from the battle harness crisscrossing Bolan's chest.

  Insufficient armament wouldn't necessitate a retreat from the ranch. Not this time.

  Bolan watched Taylor stub the cigarette butt in the ashtray as the black sky thundered and the rain poured down. He switched the wipers on high as he turned up the dirt drive to the ranch house, hoping the natural camouflage of the rainstorm would help conceal their arrival.

  "Fasten your seat belts," Bolan reminded the two men.

  Taylor looked up and frowned. "Why?"

  The Executioner snapped his own belt into place as he floored the accelerator and sloshed through the muddy approach. "I don't have time for questions, Taylor. Just do what I tell you."

  As they neared the house, Bolan cut the wheel hard to the left and cut across the lawn to the rear. They skidded to a halt, mud and grass flying beneath the wheels. The warrior threw the transmission into neutral, gunned the engine twice, then slammed it into Drive.

  More mud oozed over the Buick's hood as Bolan stomped on the pedal. The car slid through the rain, smashed through the row of glass doors and burst into the living room. Scraps of glass and aluminum fell over the Executioner's shoulders as he leaped from the vehicle, the Uzi filling his right hand.

  A surprised man on the couch fumbled for a pistol that lay on the coffee table. Bolan fired from the hip and a short stutter of 9 mm parabellums punched the man back against the cushions.

  Bolan saw Taylor and Jackson exit the Buick. Jackson crouched in combat stance while Taylor rolled behind the solid oak wet bar on the far side of the room.

  Two gunners raced headlong through the hall door. Bolan's Uzi cut down the first man in midstride, while Jackson poured a steady stream of .223s into the second.

  The Executioner took position near the door, his back against the wall. He raised the Uzi, expecting more resistance from the household guard.

  The house was quiet.

  Dead quiet.

  Noiselessly Bolan pressed along the wall toward the door. He risked a quick glance around the corner, jerking his head back just in time to avoid the shotgun blast that tore the door frame from the wall.

  The Executioner dropped to the floor and inched his way back to the opening on elbows and thighs. Then, rising to his knees, he fell forward into the doorway. A second load of buckshot exploded above him where his head had appeared moments before.

  Bolan fired as he hit the ground. A long-haired, bearded man dropped the shotgun, rebounded off the wall and fell facedown, pools of blood seeping to both sides of his body.

  Footsteps crunched on the broken glass behind Bolan. He twisted around to face two wet and muddy gunners as they sprinted into the house.

  The first man's weapon blazed as he crossed the threshold, and Bolan took cover behind the front of the Buick. The gunman fired again and Jackson went down, a .45-caliber slug entering and exiting his right bicep.

  The Executioner rose as the gunner sent his third round wildly over the wet bar, shattering the mirror. Tapping the Uzi's trigger, Bolan blew three holes in the guy's face.

  The second defender spun back through the demolished doors and dived behind the air-conditioning compressor just outside. Bolan moved back to the wall and cautiously approached. He saw the man's feet protruding from where he crouched behind the thin green metal and heard short, heavy gasps for air above the steady hum of the motor.

  Bolan showered the compressor housing with 9 mm projectiles. Gray-edged holes drilled through the green paint, and the motor sputtered to a halt. The heavy breathing changed to one final sigh as the gunman fell from cover.

  The warrior retraced his steps to where Jackson lay, stunned. Dropping the Uzi, he ripped the shirt from the merc's chest and mounted a crude field bandage to stop the blood flow.

  A gunner in jeans and a white shirt burst through from the hallway as Bolan knotted the bandage. The guy had just enough time to raise his revolver before the Executioner drew the Desert Eagle and sent a .44 round into his throat. The shocked gunman dropped to his knees then fell forward, the white shirt turning crimson.

  Bolan shoved the big Magnum back into its holster and dragged Jackson to the back seat of the Buick. He was about to begin a search-and-destroy of the house when he remembered Taylor. The man hadn't fired a shot since barricading himself behind the bar.

  Moving cautiously to one end of the bar, Bolan drew the Beretta and held it in a two-handed Weaver's grip as he turned the corner.

  The M-16 he'd issued Taylor was aimed at his stomach.

  The merc's cold black eyes jumped from the Executioner's to the Beretta before he lowered the weapon, his face growing pale with the effort.

  "Sorry," he whispered. "Couldn't be sure it was you." The Executioner nodded. He glanced at the rows of bottles behind the bar.

  "You planning on helping out, or would you rather stay here and have a drink of two?"

  The loose flesh below Taylor's chin wiggled as his lips curled into a sneer. "Couldn't help it," he said. "Got pinned down. It happens to the best of us, you know."

  Bolan nodded again. "And the worst. Stay here and look after Jackson. He's out of sight in the car, but he's had it if they happen to find him."

  Taylor hesitated. "Want me to come with you?"

  "No, I don't. This job is tough enough without babysitting you. Just stay here. And out of my way."

  The warrior grabbed the Uzi as he crossed the floor and replaced the clip with a fresh load. His gut-level instinct told him the house was empty — that the gunners inside had all been drawn to the firefight downstairs.

  But he had to make sure.

  Calmly and methodically he checked each room, probing into closets and any place large enough to conceal a man.

  In the master bedroom upstairs, he found a trapdoor that led to the attic. With the Uzi pointed upward, he pulled the cord and unfolded the steps.

  Bolan fired a short burst through the opening before climbing up the shaky stairs, and just before his head reached the entrance, he extended the Uzi and fired a 360-degree stream throughout the attic. With the light of a small pen-flash he surveyed the musty room. Nothing.

  He returned to the living room, where Taylor still hid behind the bar. "I'm going to check the rest of the grounds," he told the man.

  Bolan turned his back to the bar and reached into one of the pockets of his combat suit for another 9 mm load. He'd just ejected the near-empty magazine when he heard the metallic thud of an M-16 bolt snap closed behind him. He was starting to turn, when three armed men appeared in the shattered door frame.

  The warrior dived to his left, slamming the clip into the subgun as he fell. He heard the crisp crack of .223s and felt the heat as a 3-round burst missed his ear by scant inches.

  From behind.

  The Executioner rolled behind the couch. Neither Taylor nor the cartel gunners had a clear shot at him. But depending on the penetration capability of the weapons the Mexicans wielded, the couch could become a death trap.

  And the .223 rounds in Taylor's M-16 would burrow through the padded fabric like paper.

  Bolan heard more cracks from the M-16, but the couch remained unpunctured. Taylor was evidently preoccupied with the enemy. He had finally been forced into action.

  But the warrior knew his brief reprieve would end in seconds. Either Taylor or the Mexicans would emerge victorious, and the winner would turn his attention to the man behind the couch.

  Bolan plucked a grenade from his battle harness, pulled the pin and hurled the orb over the back of the couch toward the doorway. He placed a hand over his left ear and covered the right with his shoulder, retaining his grip on the Uzi. Then, hearing the muffled explosion, he sprang from concealment.

  Two of the men lay dead in the doorway, their bodies shredded by shrapnel. The third was on his knees, spasming in a pool of blood and vomit, hands clutching what remained of his abdomen. A short volley from the Uzi sent him to join his partners in hell.

  A soft moan came from behind the bar. Dropping the near-empty subgun, Bolan drew the Desert Eagle and walked cautiously forward. Taylor writhed painfully on the floor, soaked in the various liquors that had splashed from the exploding bottles overhead. A sharp section of the bar's copper trim protruded from his thigh.

  "You son of a bitch," Taylor gritted. "You damn near killed me."

  He cursed again as the Executioner wrenched the metal from his leg. Bolan tore strips from a bar towel and tossed them to the merc. "It's not deep," he said. "Tie it off."

  "You damn near killed me," Taylor repeated. "And after I saved your life."

  "After you what?"

  "You'd have been dead meat, Pollock, if I hadn't plugged that guy coming in the door."

  Bolan stared down at the man. "I'm going to search the rest of the grounds."

  "Just don't forget what I did," Taylor said as Bolan walked away. "But what the hell. We're on the same side, right?"

  * * *

  Bolan sprinted from the house to a nearby storage shed and blew the padlock with a round from the Desert Eagle. Empty. Searches of the other outbuildings flushed no more gunmen. Walking back toward the house, he surveyed the road and prairie. The rain had stopped, leaving the roads semisolid rivers of red mud. He saw no sign of reinforcements over the horizon.

  Still, someone would arrive soon — police, army or more cartel gunmen. Maybe all three. He had no time to begin the tedious process of searching for the drug cache.

  It didn't matter.

  The ranch had been given life by money from the death-inducing substance it now concealed. It could die with it.

  Bolan found several five-gallon cans of gasoline in the barn. He opened the horse stalls, scurried the animals through the door then emptied one of the cans throughout the building. Leaving a trail of gas through the door, he struck a match and watched as the structure burst into flame.

  The Executioner moved rapidly from building to building, leaving a cleansing flame in his wake. He helped Taylor and Jackson into the back seat of a station wagon before scattering gas from the last two cans throughout the ranch house. He drove the station wagon to safety a hundred yards away and jogged back down the road to the house.

  Yanking another grenade from his harness, he pulled the pin and sent the steel destroyer crashing through the glass of a window. A moment later he heard the muffled thunder within, and then the house was consumed.

  Bolan kept one eye on Taylor as the wagon slid through the mud to the blacktop. The merc leader lighted a cigarette. The stale smoke and his liquor-soaked clothing made the car smell like the last hour of a New Year's Eve party.

  "Not a bad piece of work, if I do say so myself," he observed. "Just don't forget, Pollock — I saved your ass back there." He grinned across the front seat, waiting for Bolan's response.

  The Executioner didn't answer. Years of battle had taught him that many things happened in the course of a firefight; things that altered the perceptions of men accustomed to the stress. Even experienced warriors sometimes confused the sequence of events.

  But that wasn't the case with Bolan. He knew what had happened at the ranch house. More importantly, he knew in what order it had happened.

  Buddy Taylor had tripped the bolt of the M-16 before the three gunners appeared at the doorway. Although fired in their direction, his rounds had been meant for the Executioner.

  It was Bolan he had tried to kill.

  5

  The faint glow of the flames grew brighter as Bolan fell through the air. He hit the ground running, pulling the lines to gather the chute even before his forward momentum slowed to a walking pace. In the distance he could hear voices.

  The warrior tried to distinguish what was being said as he folded the chute. He'd spotted the camp fire during his HALO descent, but he had limited control over where he landed. The mountain winds of the Eastern Cordillera were ever-changing, and although he had maneuvered the lines with the skill that came from years of practice, he had landed less than two hundred yards from the fire.

  The Executioner scraped a shallow hole in the ground for the parachute, covered the material with dirt, then rolled a boulder over the top before slinging his equipment pack and Uzi over his shoulders. During the flight, he'd blackened both his face and hands to blend with the tight-fitting combat suit.

  It was unlikely that whoever tended the nearby fire had spotted him or the black chute. If they had, he would have known by now.

  But he could afford to take no chances.

  Cautiously he climbed over the rocks toward the voices. Unfamiliar words drifted through the trees to the soldier's ear — they weren't Spanish. Certainly not the pure Castilian that the inhabitants of Colombia's major cities prided themselves on speaking. More than likely the people at the fire were members of one of the many Indian tribes that still inhabited the mountains. Guambianos, most likely. He was too far south to encounter the fierce Motilones.

  But whatever language it was that Bolan now heard, it carried no tone of urgency or excitement and confirmed his suspicion that his entry into Colombia had gone unobserved.

  Bolan moved silently at a forty-five-degree angle to the fire, maneuvering to higher ground to get his bearings. Down the mountain, far to the west, he saw the moonlight reflecting off what had to be the Rio Magdelena.

  He peeled back the black canvas watch cover, the luminous hands shining an eerie green in the darkness. If he missed the scheduled meeting with Janie in Bogotá, there would be no way to contact her without casting suspicion her way. She had called Bolan just before he and Grimaldi had taken off, advising that Montoya had insisted that she move into his private quarters with him. Trying to contact her there could be disastrous.

  The Executioner knew he had to keep the appointment. He glanced again at his watch. He could make it if he started now, and if he took the most direct route.

  But that route lay immediately in front of him, through the camp fire and the unknown people who gathered there.

  He had studied a topographic map of the area, and the closest alternate route to this mountain pass lay almost ten miles to the west, through the dense jungle of the valley between the Western and Central Cordillera. It would delay his arrival in Bogotá by several hours.

  It was simple, really. He didn't have the time.

  Concealed by the shadows, the Executioner moved closer until the silhouettes of several small shacks encircling the fire became visible. Two dozen ragged men, women and children sat cross-legged around the flames.

  The warrior had come upon a shantytown. The groups of shacks had become more prevalent over the past few years as the economy of Colombia continued to shift, the drug lords of the cartel gaining even more wealth as the hardworking Colombian peasants grew increasingly more destitute.

  Bolan heard laughter and watched as a man with a gray beard passed a clay jug to the woman seated next to him. Above the fire, the frail carcass of a goat rotated slowly on a wooden spit, its body the only thing more emaciated than the children and adults who huddled together.

  The Executioner moved back slowly until he reached the small clearing where he'd landed, then climbed up a short ledge to a pass above the camp fire. Dropping to all fours, he inched his way past the poverty-stricken band.

  He moved on through the mountains, following the path between a stream and the mountain wall to his right. As he knelt to drink from the stream, he felt a cool chill run up his spine.

  The Executioner's battle senses went on alert.

  He was being stalked.

  Bolan rose and peered through the darkness.

  Nothing.

  Moving cautiously along the path, his eyes searched the darkness, his ears primed for any foreign sound.

  A twig snapped on the ridge overhead.

  The warrior drew the silenced Beretta from shoulder leather and backed slowly under an overhang, his eyes probing the ridge.

  The night remained silent, then from above came the faint sound of quiet, steady breathing. A shadow fell slowly over the edge of the overhang, forming a distinct shape in the stream in front of the Executioner.

  Cougar. Puma. Mountain lion.

  Whatever you called it, its jaws could crush a man's skull while it ripped the jugular vein from his throat with its razor claws.

 

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