Lethal Payload

The Executioner walked to the edge of the highway and swung a leg over the guardrail. There was a bloody handprint on the curved metal. Bolan took a deep breath and scanned ahead. Six feet away the jungle was a solid wall. He looked down into the mud beside the highway. There were boot prints.

Two sets of them.

They were clearly two different sizes, but both sets of prints had the exact same pattern of tread marks. The smaller set of prints faltered and smeared twice on the right hand side. The larger set grew deeper. Bolan nodded. One of the men was definitely wounded. He memorized the pattern of the treads for a future sketch and walked back to the road. He picked up a couple of his opponent’s spent shell casings and pocketed them and then returned to the car.

Kiraly lay back like a wet rag in the driver’s seat. Her nose was broken and so was her left hand. Her spent Glock lay in her lap with the action racked back on an empty chamber. She gave Bolan a bruised smile and reached up to pat the cracked dashboard.

“Volvo. Safest car on the road today.”

5

Hotel Cayenne, French Guiana

“What do you think?”

Kurtzman responded over the videophone link. “Nice piece of work there.”

Bolan glanced at the sketch he had made of the tread patterns he had seen in the mud by the highway. “So what did you make of them?”

The computer expert hit a key and an image popped up on Bolan’s screen. It was a pair of combat boots. They were distinctive in that they had a leather flap and two buckles in addition to the laces. “They’re standard French military issue, and, not surprisingly, standard issue to the French Foreign Legion, as well.” Kurtzman grinned. “Like I said, nice piece of detective work there.”

“What did the Cowboy make of the shell casings?”

“French manufactured .223 ammunition.” Kurtzman punched another key, and John Kissinger’s report popped up on the screen. “Cowboy says whoever those two boys shooting at you in Suriname might be, they were firing the latest generation FAMAS G-2 rifle, and doing it with French army ammo.”

Bolan grimaced as he forced himself to stretch. The bouncing around he’d taken in the Volvo during the battle and the subsequent crash left his body feeling like he’d lost a bar fight.

He considered the battle. “The guys on the motorcycles and the truck were more of the pandekar’s boys. Had to be. I’m betting the rocketeer was our friend Ki. The two guys at the roadblock were our real players.”

Kurtzman raised an eyebrow. “Legionnaires?”

“Actually, I’m thinking French Foreign Legion deep reconnaissance commandos.” Bolan shrugged and rolled his neck to work out the kinks. “But I can’t prove that yet.

“The guys on the motorcycles were fearless, but they were strictly local talent. The other two were highly trained professionals. They engaged with aimed fire and took out the vehicle. Our boys closed in for the kill, and when I opened up and wounded one of them they extracted under fire, right into open jungle. If I had to bet, I’d say those two guys went ‘escape and evade’ and walked home all fifty miles through the rainforest. They were ghosts.”

Kurtzman was clearly troubled. “Deep reconnaissance commando kind of ghosts.”

“That’s my current theory.” Bolan shrugged. “Until I can come up with something better. You get me my stuff?”

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