Lethal Payload

A man rose from a stoop and raised his hands as he stepped into Bolan’s path. The Executioner ripped him off his feet with a forearm shiver without breaking stride.

People were coming out of their houses. The big American did not look back, but he could hear a mob swiftly forming behind him. The road ahead began to fill with alarmed citizens. Bolan drew his pistol as he ran, raised the gun in the air and fired off three quick rounds. The flat snap-snap-snapping of the little pistol cut over the sounds of concern and alarm.

The people ahead of Bolan parted like the Red Sea as he ran among them. But the angry mob behind was undeterred.

There was only one avenue of escape, and that was to run.

Bolan retraced his path. It wasn’t the quickest way out of the quarter, but it was his safest bet. He knew furious phone calls were crisscrossing, trying to arrange solid resistance ahead to cut him off. Bolan held up his gun to deter anyone who appeared before him. His heart hammered in his chest as he used his size and speed to put distance between himself and the ever increasing mob chasing him.

Bolan caught the scent of cayenne pepper as his lungs heaved. He pushed himself into an all out sprint toward the smell. A pair of dark-skinned men looked up in surprise as he charged past them.

Bolan burst into the Creole quarter. He had no friends here, but neither did the Javanese. He raced across a footbridge and tossed his pistol and holster into the canal below. A gun would not help him here. Behind him, he could hear people shouting at one another in a mix of languages. Creoles began coming out of their houses to see what the ruckus was about.

Many of them carried machetes loosely in their hands.

Bolan ducked down a side alley and quickly lost himself in the maze. He slowed to a walk and let his breathing return to normal. He was still in a dangerous part of town, and he did not expect any Creole to protect him out of Christian charity. But the five thousand Dutch guilders he carried in his belt could buy a great deal of indifference, and probably an anonymous ride back to the embassy, as well.

Bolan held up his prize. The dog tags he had taken from Ki glittered dully in the dim light.

It was time to give Kurtzman something to do.

4

Ki clutched his bruised throat as he spoke hoarsely over the phone. “Pak has been compromised.”

The voice on the other end of the line did not sound overly concerned. “How so?”

“They had his dog tags. They followed the trail here. They know he was a legionnaire.”

“Was a legionnaire,” the voice said. “So what?”

Ki’s face tightened with more than the pain in the hollow of his throat. “The man took my dog tags and escaped with them.”

“Well, now, that is an unfortunate turn of events.” The voice paused. “So, just for my edification, this man came in, claiming to be a legionnaire, and then beat up you, the pandekar, your friends, stole your dog tags and ran off into the night with them?”

“Yes.” Ki’s jaws were clenched. “That is about the size of it.”

“Tell me, where did he go? I assume you mounted some sort of pursuit?”

“We did. We chased him for some distance through the streets, but he was lightning fast. His attack at the pandekar’s was sudden and unorthodox. As was his escape. He is obviously some kind of professional.”

“Do you believe he is a legionnaire?” the voice said, this time more in reflection than sarcasm.

Ki had been devoting a great deal of thought to that question. “I do not know. The way he acted, it was clear he is a very experienced soldier. Things like that cannot be faked. Whether he served with Pak in Polynesia…” Ki’s scowl returned. “Without a name, that will be very hard to verify, with the unwanted attention it could attract.”

“Indeed,” the voice agreed. “Tell me, how was his French?”

Ki considered that. “Not perfect, and he spoke with an American accent, but that does not prove anything. The only legionnaires who speak good French are lying Frenchmen.”

The voice on the phone snorted derisively. “That is true.” The voice lowered. “But in your opinion, is he a legionnaire?”

“He had the dog tags, but I did not get to see them up close. He had the same tattoo as Pak and others who served as security in the atolls.” Ki grunted and shook his head. “But my instincts tell me no. I do not believe he is legion.”

“That is all I need to hear you say.”

Ki rubbed his throat. “So what do we do?”

“Let us assume your instincts are correct, and he is American. To my knowledge, the United States has no military or intelligence assets in Suriname to speak of. The only real place he can take genuine sanctuary or receive any sort of aid is the American Embassy.”

Ki spoke bitterly. His hand went to his chest, to the place were a familiar weight was uncomfortably missing. “He has my dog tags.”

“Yes, and if he has reached the embassy, he will be able to contact his confederates stateside. It will only be a matter of time before they determine who you are.”

“What do you propose we do?”

“Tell the pandekar to gather men he trusts. Cover the embassy now, twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later, he must come out. When he does, you and your men will kill him. I will send Cigarette and Babar to back you up, but you will lead, and you and the pandekar’s men must see to finishing the job. If you fail, then whatever kind of stink rises up, it must be a Javanese stink and one that ends in Suriname.”

Ki looked at the weapons mounted on the walls. They would be of little use in the coming confrontation. It was the weapons in crates beneath the cellar that would tell the tale now. “And if he somehow escapes us?”

Once more the voice on the other end of the line did not sound concerned. “If he somehow escapes and learns your identity, then he will most certainly come here.” The voice paused significantly. “And then I will most certainly kill him.”

Secure Communications Room,

U.S. Embassy, Suriname

KURTZMAN WAS CLEARLY unhappy. “Striker, we can’t keep plundering French military records.”

His brow furrowed on the videophone link. “We’re risking a lot. Busting into Suriname’s military database would be one thing, but France is a very modern country, with some of the most sophisticated technology in the world. In some areas of technology, France is even ahead of us. And right now, in all honesty, I cannot guarantee you that we’re getting in and out undetected. Much less what kind of electronic tracking and countermeasures we may be subjecting ourselves to. If French Military Intelligence catches a whiff of us and goes on a war footing, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that they could find us in spite of our fire walls and back doors.” Kurtzman shook his head. “I feel the risk may soon be too great.”

Bolan considered the problem. “Okay, but what have you got?”

“Well, there are some small hitches with the translation programs. The French foreign legion is kind of archaic in its military terminology. It’s also kind of tribal and has a lot of its own slang. Akira’s working on it, and—”

“And what have you got, Bear?”

“I’ve got French Foreign Legion Caporal Ki Gunung. Caporal in the Foreign Legion is a lot closer to sergeant in the U.S. or British military as far as authority and responsibilities than what we think of as a corporal.”

“What else have you got on him?”

“He’s active legion, and didn’t change his name when he joined up. He joined the 2nd Parachute Regiment and made it into the Deep Reconnaissance Commandos. The legion’s best of the best.”

Bolan consulted his map. “The 2nd Parachute Regiment is stationed in Corsica. What’s our boy doing in South America?”

“He’s a certified hand-to-hand combat and commando instructor.” Kurtzman scanned his notes. “It seems he was transferred as a specialist to the 3rd Infantry Regiment and the Jungle Warfare School in French Guiana.”

“Interesting,” Bolan replied. “But if he’s active with the 3rd Infantry Regiment, what is he doing here in Suriname?”

“Well, his current post is less than a hundred miles from where you are now. What he’s doing on the wrong side of the Maroni River, we don’t know. He could be AWOL, or he could be there with permission. Of course, Suriname and French Guiana do have a disputed border area. He could actually be there on some kind of mission.” Kurtzman stared at Bolan fixedly. “That would take a great deal more probing of heavily secured French military files.”