State Of Evil

The upshot of Mbarga’s grilling was that he knew nothing more of Quinn than when he’d started. Did the young man have a special friend inside the village, either male or female? Master Gaborone himself controlled the coupling of his congregants, selecting mates based on criteria known to himself alone. Even the married people, though, were segregated into dorms by gender, granted conjugal relations at the master’s pleasure, once per month on average.

Of course, that didn’t stop some villagers from falling prey to whimsies of the flesh. Mbarga and his men caught them from time to time, rutting like animals inside a storage shed or in the forest, passion honed to razor sharpness by the danger of discovery. In such cases, Mbarga took names for Master Gaborone, and punishments were devised to fit the crime. Public humiliation was a common penalty, sometimes accompanied by corporal punishment.

And wayward girls were marked. The master liked to counsel them himself.

In fact, the young American named Quinn appeared to have no contacts of that kind within the village—which meant none at all, since he was never sent outside Obike on his own. It seemed unlikely, then, that passion would’ve led to fire setting, and since he’d fled alone, it couldn’t be supposed that he’d eloped.

Mbarga still had more questions than answers when he carried his final report to the master, but at least one thing was settled. He knew where the white man had gone. More precisely, he knew how Patrick Quinn had left the village, though his destination still remained obscure.

He found the master standing with their foreign guests, and approached cautiously from fear of interrupting some important conversation. They had business to discuss, Mbarga knew, and it was not his place to meddle in such things.

“Nico, what news?” the master asked as he approached.

“Master, the white man is no longer in Obike, but I found the point where he departed from the village, heading south.”

“Toward Brazzaville?” Gaborone asked.

“Master, the city is two hundred miles away.”

“I know that!”

“My apologies, Master.”

“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.

Picking up the sermon megaphone, Gaborone faced toward the heart of the village and called out an amplified name. “Samburu! Samburu Changa, come to me!”

A moment later he saw Mbarga’s first lieutenant running toward him from the eastern corner of the village. Changa wore a worried look, as if afraid that some new crisis had befallen them and he wouldn’t be equal to the task awaiting him. He stopped short, several paces from the stoop of Gaborone’s bungalow, breathing heavily and clutching his rifle tight to one side.

“Master, how may I serve you?”

“As you know,” Gaborone said, “Nico has gone to find our missing sheep. The visitors are with him, and I fear that they may slow his pace.”

Changa waited for more. He had the gift of silence.

“I’ve decided you should help him,” Gaborone explained. “I want another team to hurry on ahead and intercept our wayward brother. Failing that, you may explore the nearer villages and satisfy yourself that he will find no shelter there.”

“Master,” Changa said, looking suddenly confused, “the nearest village to Obike, southward, is still fifteen miles away. I cannot reach it before nightfall, even if I leave right now. To overtake Captain Mbarga—”

“Calm yourself, Samburu. I ask nothing human flesh and bone cannot achieve. Fetch Danso Beira and three soldiers you can trust. Drive to the airstrip. Use the bird!”

Changa smiled at that, now understanding the command. “Yes, Master! As you say, so let it be!”

“Go swiftly! Time is of the essence.”

Bowing sharply from the waist, Changa turned and fled the royal presence, shouting names as he moved through the village. Gaborone smiled after him, convinced that his last-minute inspiration would resolve their problem nicely. He would catch Quinn in a pincers, capture him alive with any luck, and then squeeze him at leisure for the secrets of his flight.

Rapid resolution of the crisis would persuade his visitors that Gaborone was someone to be taken seriously. They would respect him as more than a conduit for the merchandise they craved, and having seen him act decisively, they might be less inclined to quibble over price.

Perhaps.

If not, thought Gaborone, he might be forced to wipe the slate clean and begin anew with different customers.

It was a seller’s market, after all.

And Armageddon could afford to wait.

CHAPTER FIVE

The world seemed upside down to Patrick Quinn. His thoughts were jumbled, often contradictory, and he could only blame a part of that on the injection he’d received before the stranger snatched him from Obike. Truth be told, the hazy aftershock of being drugged was fading rapidly, but Quinn’s mind still played tricks on him.

He knew what Master Gaborone would say and do if their positions were reversed, and yet another part of Quinn rebelled against indoctrination, whispering to him that he was safe now, better off than he had been in months.

But how could that be right?

If Master Gaborone was truly wise, a prophet of the Lord, then being separated from him was a loss no true believer should accept without a fight. And yet, the stranger who had kidnapped Quinn knew Val Querente—knew her name, at least, and Quinn’s association with her in the States. He hadn’t picked that information from thin air. And yet…

Quinn had discussed his newfound faith with Val, and while she’d clearly disapproved, she’d left the decision to him. Free will, and all that. Quinn’s father hadn’t been so understanding, tried to get his way, as usual, with bribery and threats. Quinn hadn’t been surprised when he was cut off from his trust fund, and the master didn’t seem to mind. There’d been no sudden exile from the Process, as Quinn’s father had predicted. It was still his family, his home.

The move to Africa had seemed like an adventure, though it had plainly troubled Val. He’d seen her only once after the great transition was announced. She’d tried to talk him out of it, more earnest than he’d ever seen her, but Quinn had been resolute. A man should be decisive, as his father always said, and Quinn had made his choice.

“Another ten feet to your left,” the man behind him said, “and hold that course until I tell you otherwise.”

Quinn did as he was told without complaint, for now. He still didn’t feel strong enough to fight the larger man, armed as he was, but he was fleet of foot and reckoned that he could outrun the stranger when he had an opening and had regained his strength.

How long until they reached the “exit,” the mysterious LZ? Quinn didn’t know, but he felt stronger with every stride along the twisting jungle trails.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.