State Of Evil

“You must go after him and bring him back at once.”

“Of course, Master.”

“A hunting party, is it?” the Colombian asked. “That sounds like fun. I’ll join you.”

The Arab standing to his left immediately looked suspicious. “I will also go,” he said.

“You wish to interrupt negotiations?” Gaborone seemed more amused than curious.

“Why not?” the Colombian asked. “It won’t take long.”

“By all means, then, enjoy yourselves,” Gaborone said. “But be aware of dangers in the jungle. Trust in Nico’s judgment if you value life and limb. And, Nico?”

“Yes, Master?”

“I want the boy alive.”

“WHO ARE YOU?” Patrick Quinn demanded when his eyes swam into focus on the stranger’s face in front of him.

“A friend,” Bolan replied, not altogether sure if that was true.

“I don’t think so,” the youth challenged. He tried to rise, but weakness and the residue of drugs still coursing through his system dropped him back against the tree trunk. “I was with my friends,” he said, “before you grabbed me. You kidnapped me from Obike!”

Bolan didn’t have the time or inclination to debate the point. “That’s one way you could see it.”

“It’s the true way. But you didn’t knock me out,” Quinn said. He raised a slow hand to his neck, feeling the sore spot there. “What did you—? Did you drug me?”

“Nothing heavy,” Bolan lied. “We didn’t have the luxury of sitting down to tea and chatting. It was touch and go, you might say.”

“You’re a fool for choosing me,” Quinn told him. “I suppose you’ve heard my family’s rich, but guess what? They’ve disowned me. I don’t have a penny to my name, and they won’t pay whatever ransom you’re expecting.” Quinn produced a woozy smile. “You’re out of luck.”

“It’s not a ransom snatch,” Bolan replied, and watched the humor vanish from his young companion’s face, supplanted by confusion and a healthy dose of fear.

“You don’t want money?”

“No.”

“Then why…?”

Apparently, Quinn’s mind was clear enough to think of several possibilities. The first one he came up with was a stretch, but it caused him to tremble, even though he tried to hide it.

“No ransom. That means you’re working for the enemy!”

“I told you, I’m a friend.”

“You would say that, of course. You’re lying! Master Gaborone has warned us. But you’re making a mistake.”

“How’s that?” Bolan asked.

“I don’t have the information that you’re looking for. Whatever you came after, I can’t help you. I’m nobody, just a flunky in the village.”

Bolan frowned. “I thought you all were equal in the master’s sight?”

“Well, yes, but…See, that proves it! You’ve been studying the Process. That makes you—”

“A friend of Val Querente,” Bolan interrupted him. “Do you remember her, or is your brain really as messed up as it sounds?”

“Val sent you?” Quinn considered it, then shook his head. “I don’t believe it. No, you’re lying. It’s impossible. How could she—”

“Care enough to go the extra mile and help you?” Bolan shrugged. “Beats me. I only work here. Now, if you can make your legs work—”

“Wait! You think I’m going somewhere with you?”

“One way or another, that’s exactly what I think.”

“Well, guess again. You took me by surprise the first time, with your needle or whatever, but I see you now. I won’t go quietly.”

Bolan leaned closer, let the muzzle of his Steyr AUG rest lightly on Quinn’s left kneecap. “I’ve carried you this far,” he said, “and I can carry you to the LZ. You don’t need kneecaps to ride piggyback, and consciousness is strictly optional.”

Quinn didn’t seem to register the threat. “LZ? What’s that?” he asked.

“Your exit from the Process. Will you walk, or not?”

Quinn struggled to his feet, using the tree trunk for support. “Val wouldn’t do this,” he insisted. “I explained to her about my faith. I grant you that she wasn’t happy, but she understands.”

“You can discuss it with her soon,” Bolan said.

“This is a mistake,” Quinn said.

“It wouldn’t be my first,” the Executioner replied. Then he pointed through the trees and said, “That way.”

GABORONE WATCHED as the hunting party vanished into jungle gloom, a tracker leading Nico and four of his men, Camacho and Sharif surrounded in the middle of the group. He craned his neck and tried to find the sky above the forest canopy, where daylight glimmered on the sea of leaves.

How long before nightfall?

Some hours yet, and maybe time enough for Mbarga’s team to overtake the fugitive American. Mbarga was pledged to capture him alive, if possible, but there were other perils in the forest that might claim Quinn’s life before he was discovered. If they found him dead, the fires and his escape would be a nagging mystery.

Or worse.

Gaborone had puzzled over the events, attempting to resolve them in his mind, but there were still too many missing pieces. It seemed inconceivable that Quinn had been corrupted by their enemies outside Obike, but if that wasn’t the case, what had possessed him? Had his mind snapped in the jungle, as some others had before? Why else would he attempt to burn the village down, then flee into the forest?

It was too much to suppose that someone else had set the fires, and that Quinn coincidentally had chosen that precise moment to run away. That was preposterous. Unthinkable.

Or was it?

Gaborone began to worry that Mbarga’s party might not find Quinn, even with the tracker’s keen nose to guide them. If the American was fleeing southward toward Brazzaville, despite the near impossibility of a white man and a stranger to the jungle covering that distance on his own, Gaborone knew he should do anything within his power to cut that journey short. Quinn might find other settlements much closer to Obike, and who could predict what he would say about the Process or its master if he wasn’t silenced?

Gaborone still had a few tricks up his sleeve, and there would never be a better time to use one.