Jungle Hunt

Galo was frozen where he lay, mouth locked open in a silent scream, unable to run, unable to move. In a few minutes it was all over, save for the occasional single shot as the merciless killers swept through the village one last time, finishing off the wounded. A burst of rifle fire sounded in the distance, and a pair of the camouflaged men emerged from the jungle on the far end of the village, their rifles smoking as they laughed to each other.

The man in the cab, the leader of the operation, stood on the running board of the large truck, face partially shaded by the safari hat, his light blue eyes sweeping across the shattered remains of the village and the motionless bodies of its inhabitants.

The men regrouped at the truck, climbing in only when the man in the hat gave the signal. The vehicle turned around in the clearing and had begun heading out when it came to a halt. The man in the hat rolled his window down and peered out at the jungle—right where Galo was hiding.

Ducking his head, the boy held his breath, not daring to move. The truck stayed where it was for what seemed like an eternity. Galo’s heart hammered in his chest as he expected to hear the savage bark of the killers’ rifles any second. He was steeling himself to jump up and run deeper into the forest when the truck’s engine revved up again and it moved out down the road, its growl growing fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear it.

Yet still Galo stayed where he lay, under the orchids, not daring to move.

A light rain began falling on Galo, the slaughtered village…everything.

Still, the boy did not move.

1

Even dressed in khaki chinos and a bright tropical shirt—dark blue with palm trees and red-and-yellow macaws patterned all over it—Mack Bolan felt underdressed as he moved through the huge, raucous dance party in the favela of Rocinha, one of Rio de Janeiro’s worst slums. Even the police feared coming into the seemingly endless blocks of closely packed, brightly colored two- and three-story tenements, each of which often contained several families living almost on top of each other.

Rio’s government, however, was prepping for the 2016 Olympics, and high priority was to clean up the favelas and crack down on the flourishing crime spawned there, especially the drug trade.

That was why Bolan was here. Street intelligence said that Thiago Bernier, one of the city’s top drug lords, was making a rare public appearance here, accepting tribute from the slum dwellers while presiding as the unofficial “king” of the baile, or dance party. Although Stony Man and the U.S. government typically left internal policing to the respective country, Bernier was the middleman in a smuggling ring that stretched across South America, from the Atlantic to the Pacific and all the way up to Mexico. When the local police were less than forthcoming about providing intelligence and assistance on his operation, Bolan had decided to handle things his way: get into the country, find Bernier and bring him out—one way or another. The resistance had been just enough for Bolan to consider whether officers inside the department had been bribed by the ever-present tide of drug money washing over the city, but that investigation would have to wait for another time.

Typically, Anglos stood out anywhere they went in the sprawling metropolis. Besides his clothes, Bolan had disguised himself with a spray-on tan. With his black hair, he figured he’d blend in well enough, even if he was several inches taller than the majority of the dancing, singing, drinking crowd around him.

Fortunately, even his loud shirt was positively subdued compared to the riot of color and sound surrounding him. Remixed bossa nova music blared from speakers on every block, the pulsating beat driving men and women, all dressed in bright costumes, to dance wildly all around him. Bolan could even understand the frenetic activity—celebrate life this day, because any one of the partygoers around him could be dead tomorrow. It wasn’t a philosophy he subscribed to—whenever possible, he preferred to be the one holding the gun.

Although he tried to stick close to the sides of buildings, occasionally knots of partiers would sweep him into the maelstrom that was the nonstop street party. So far, besides spotting several hired guns positioned throughout the revelers, Bolan hadn’t seen a concentrated force yet—he figured that was coming soon, and he was right.

A vacant lot had been taken over to install Bernier as the king of festivities. Swarthy, black-haired and handsome, he presided over the party with a casual bored air of the slumming kingpin. One thing Bolan had to give him credit for was the number of pigs roasting in pits around the lot. The rich smell of the roasting pork overlaid the strong smell of cheap cologne, sweat and filth that permeated the street. At least the attendees’ll eat well this night, Bolan thought. Assuming they survive the next few minutes.

A flash of movement across the street attracted his predator senses and Bolan glanced over to see a brief altercation already being broken up by several people. It was enough, however, for him to spot a familiar-looking face, topped by a shock of black hair with a distinctive streak of white.

Davi Giachetto—the police are here? Although annoyed, Bolan wasn’t surprised that his own source had made sure the local brass had shown up. He got paid twice, and there was a better-than-even chance that one or both of the parties using the information would be killed in the ensuing firefight, leaving him in the clear. It was actually pretty clever. Bolan made a mental note to himself that if he ever saw that snitch again, he’d be sure to remind him how much he didn’t like being sold out.

But that was then—now, he had to prevent a potential bloodbath. Bolan had nothing against the short, tireless Brazilian cop. Sergeant Giachetto had cojones the size of soccer balls to even come down here in the first place. He had to know that if he was made, he’d be dead before he got to the end of the block.

But just because Bolan liked the man didn’t mean he trusted him. After all, what better way to eliminate a competitor in crime than to bribe a cop to arrest the man, then have him shot while “resisting arrest” or “attempting to escape.” Although he was usually on the side of the badges, Bolan had run into his share of bent police officers in the past and always approached every one he met with the same amount of caution and skepticism until he was sure of their loyalty.

Raising his smartphone, he took a picture of the street’s festivities, making sure to catch the officer in the shot. As he did, Bolan ran another casual sweep of the narrow avenue, revising his assessment of the posted security. Even as he watched, three of them had already been neutralized and replaced with Giachetto’s men. Slick, he thought, pushing his way to the front of the empty lot, which was guarded by three men several inches taller than him and twice as wide.

“Eu tenho que ver o Senhor Bernier,” Bolan said in passable Portuguese. His smartphone’s translator program was just hitting beta test in the U.S. Army. Bolan was part of the field testing, right here, right now.

“Ninguém vê o Senhor Bernier,” one of the big men grunted, shaking his head. “No one sees Mr. Bernier.”

“É urgente. Eu trabalho para o Alarico Nascimento.” Bolan cautiously pulled up his shirt to reveal his smartphone in a holster at his waist, noting the man’s large hand creeping behind his back. The bodyguard on Bolan’s left was backing up his partner while the third man kept watch over the boisterous crowd. These guys were definitely not local muscle for hire—they were professionals.

When the bodyguard saw the phone, he nodded his massive head once. Bolan speed-dialed a number and handed the phone to the hulk. “Leve isso para o Senhor Bernier.”

The big man stared at Bolan for a moment, looked suspiciously at the phone, dwarfed in his huge paw, then turned and lumbered into the lot, the two other guards closing ranks behind him. He reached Bernier, who was watching a pair of scantily clad women dance in front of him while texting on his own smartphone.

The kingpin looked up at his henchman over his round glasses, then followed the other man’s finger as it pointed out Bolan. Frowning, he took the phone and put it to his ear. Bolan watched Bernier stiffen as he heard his lieutenant, Alarico Nascimento, tell him that the bearer of this phone should be trusted implicitly, as he had been sent by Nascimento himself to Bernier. The drug dealer stared at Bolan again, then spoke to his guard and pointed at Bolan, who casually rested his hand on his hip—the better to draw his compact SIG Sauer pistol hidden at the small of his back if needed.

The big man whispered in his cohort’s ear, then waved Bolan forward. He slipped past the two men, taking the opportunity to look behind him for any sign of the polícia. He thought he caught a glimpse of Giachetto’s face in the crowd, but an exuberant dancer crossed in front of him, cutting off his view. Then Bolan was behind the bodyguard wall, walking to Bernier’s cheap wooden throne.

“You work for Alarico?” the dealer asked in Portuguese.

“Yes,” Bolan answered.

“Why are you here?” Bernier asked.

“He sent me to warn you—the police are coming, tonight, for you, right now.” All of that was true—Nascimento had been captured by Stony Man operatives while on vacation in Canada and had provided Bolan’s bona fides as part of a witness protection deal.

Bernier slouched back in his chair and laughed. “The fucking police wouldn’t dare show their faces in the favelas!”

Bolan held his hand out for his smartphone, which Bernier tossed at him with a sneer. Flicking through the screens, Bolan brought up the photograph he’d taken of the street a few minutes ago and zoomed in on Giachetto’s face. Holding the phone out, he asked, “You recognize this cop?”

Bernier stiffened when he saw the sergeant’s face. “Shit! That son of a bitch!” He whistled, a sharp blast that brought his bodyguard back. Bernier hissed commands that made the man get on his cell, most likely trying to raise the other security guards in the area. Bolan looked at the front of the lot to see the other men not even bothering to hide their weapons, each one carrying a compact Steyr Tactical Machine Pistol with extended magazine. Bolan kept his expression carefully neutral at the sight, although he realized that the possibility of a slaughter had just increased by a factor of ten. The Steyrs were compact “room brooms,” spitting out 9 mm bullets at 850 rounds per minute. If the police mishandled the arrest, the resulting riot could leave dozens injured or dead.

Bernier sprang from his chair. “Javiero! Let’s get the fuck outta here! You—” he pointed at Bolan “—you’re coming with us, as well. If this is a double cross, you’ll be the first to die! Get moving!”

Keeping his hands in plain sight, Bolan walked ahead of Javiero the bodyguard. They were heading toward the back of the lot and a sleek Range Rover with tinted windows when a flurry of gunshots cracked from the crowd.

“Shit!” Bolan spun to hear the staccato bursts of the Steyrs as they spat death into the crowd. Screams and shouts ensued as the panicked men and woman tried to scatter for cover, running into each other and trampling several in their haste to escape the kill zone.

“Javiero! Cover me!” Bernier had drawn his own pistol, a chrome-plated Desert Eagle, and was covering Bolan with it. “You’re my insurance.”

“Whatever you say—but I wouldn’t go out the back—” was all Bolan got to say before Bernier shoved the pistol under his chin.

“Why? You trying to lead me into a trap so os porcos can arrest me?”

“No, but the police’ll have that covered, as well.”

Just then another fusillade of shots sounded from ahead of them, and Bernier’s driver exchanged fire with unseen assailants before driving off in a squeal of tires.

“Bastard! Aquele cachorro!” Bernier swore as Javiero let loose with his machine pistol, the roar of the compact weapon drowning out the rest of the man’s swearing. He kept the cops under cover while moving to fire from behind the only protection he could find—one of the roasting pigs. Bullets punched through the carcass, spraying juices through the air.

Several cartridges also tunneled through the meat and into the huge bodyguard, making him sit with a surprised look on his face, his machine pistol slipping from his hand as he died.

2

“Merda! Now what?” Bernier stared at his dead guard in shock.

“This way!” Bolan shoved the Desert Eagle out of the way and yanked the kingpin toward the light green building on their left, which had every window and door boarded up. “Gimme that!” Snatching the large-caliber pistol out of the other man’s hand, he aimed it at a covered window and fired four rounds, blowing one of the wooden slats in two. Yanking the broken pieces away, Bolan was about to enlarge the hole when a machete blade chunked down on the windowsill from inside. Bolan aimed high and fired two more rounds through the wood, making the blade vanish along with pounding feet as the people inside fled from the gunfire.

Bullets cracked into the mortar wall around them. Bolan pointed the Eagle backward, still angling the barrel up, and emptied the magazine, making everyone in the vicinity duck for cover. “Get inside!” he shouted at Bernier as he smashed out more planks with the butt of the pistol.

Bernier scrambled through the narrow gap, with Bolan right behind him. The room they found themselves in was dark and small, yet still contained a cube refrigerator, table and shelves against one wall. A doorway opened into more blackness. The room stank of thousands of old meals, sweat and despair.

Grabbing his charge by the sleeve, Bolan shoved him against the wall next to the door. “Got any spare mags for this?”