Predator Paradise

The Executioner watched as Collins snatched Dugula off the ground by the shoulder, then barked the handles of the four commandos who would ride with the colonel.

“One hour, Colonel. Clock’s ticking.”

No good luck, no kiss off, nothing. On his own, but he had been, pretty much, since accepting the mission.

The Executioner turned, forging into the dust as the Black Hawk landed. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was a familiar churning in his gut, warning him that everything wasn’t as it appeared with Collins and Cobra Force Twelve.

Bolan hopped into the warbird’s belly. Time, he knew, would separate truth from lies, the righteous from the unclean of spirit. Right then there was another battle to fight, and hopefully a village, or part of it, at least to save.

One hour, he thought.

It could prove an eternity.

CHAPTER THREE

As anxious as Collins was to put Somalia behind him and set the stage for round two, it wouldn’t hurt, he figured, to stay grounded for another hour or so. By then a few questions might get put to rest, or, perhaps better still, he could spare himself some grief in the future. No, it wouldn’t cause him the first twinge of pain or regret if Stone—or the other four without the snake handles—didn’t come back from the crusade. Stone the Merciful, he thought. What the hell kind of warrior went out of his way to play savior to people who were doomed to die anyway? The diseased of that village had never been on the itinerary of things to do, but it might just help his own scheme of things if Wild Card was aced in the next sixty minutes trying to play savior. Something about the big colonel was nagging him the more he pondered any number of possible scenarios. The SOB could be anything—a spy, a plant, a shooter with orders given behind his back to terminate all of them if…

There were calls over the satcom to make right then, last-minute details to be ironed out before the next incursion, a date with another homicidal megalomaniac that would go down inside Sudan’s border. Hot spots to ignite, more bad guys to stuff or cuff, dreams to hold on to, he thought. Stone was on his own. He’d forget about him for the time being and let fate run its course.

Collins was up the ramp, kicking through a few boxes strewed before him when he heard Dugula squawking for answers as Asp and Python snapped on the leg irons, removed the plastic cuffs at gunpoint, then clamped the warlord to the cuffs on the bench.

He marched up to Dugula, slashed a backhand across his mouth.

“I’ll say this one time only, Habir. Any more whining, any crap out of you at all, even give me that evil eye once more, I’ll put one through your eye and dump you off with the rest of your garbage outside,” Collins rasped. “You’ll know what this is all about when I’m damn good and ready to clue you in. Not another goddamn word! So sit back and enjoy the flight.” He stood, boring Dugula with his no-shit stare, found the warlord cowed into silence.

Where there was life, the guy figured there was hope, Collins thought, and left him to stew and taste the blood on his lip. He then passed out the orders, dividing up the duties between monitoring their consoles for any traffic in the area and securing the perimeter outside the Hercules. An all-clear from his commandos at the consoles, and he felt that insidious weight settle back on his shoulders.

Striding aft, he stared at the distant horizon. The warbirds were gone, Wild Card six minutes on the clock already. What the hell was that big bastard all about anyway? he wondered. Angered still the colonel had bucked the game plan, he recalled giving the tactical shift by Wild Card a long few moments’ worth of spectating. Sure, the big guy could move, a pro, no doubt in his mind, but that transport truck had been indirectly dumped on its side by his Apache. It didn’t take much martial skill or effort to plow a 40 mm knockout punch into badly mauled Somalis crawling out of that rig, but Stone had bored in, just the same, going for broke. The back-shooting of two on the fly he didn’t have a problem with—hell, he would have done the same, all that honor and facing down the other guy, armed and on equal footing, just a bunch of Hollywood nonsense. It irked him, finally, that Stone had beaten him to Dugula, the new guy first to haul in a door prize, but he wasn’t about to tip his hand that the old warrior pride had been stung. He knew a whole lot more than some glory on the battlefield was at stake.

BOLAN WAS UNDER no illusions he could save the village. Given the length of time Dugula’s genocide campaign had been underway, the thickness and numbers of black clouds rising to blot out the landscape, and swarms of vultures that seemed to multiply out of nowhere the closer the Black Hawk bore down on the massacre, the Executioner had to assume saving any innocents would simply prove an exercise in futility.

If that was the case, Bolan had an alternative going in.

Whatever Collins’s reasoning for not participating in what the soldier saw as the final solution to the Dugula atrocity, the least he could do for the dead was exact more than a few pounds of flesh from the savages.

His com link tied into the flight crews of the Black Hawk and Apache, he handed out the orders as soon as they soared over the hills. Bolan found utter chaos down there, black smoke cloaking entire areas of what he could only view as a vision of Hell. He made out brief bursts of autofire rattling throughout the village, screams whipped away by rotor wash, spotted men and women still being run down, shot. If this wasn’t worth fighting against, risking his life for…

Whether Collins had shown his true colors as a savage remained to be seen.

Bolan put together his attack strategy based on enemy numbers, village layout, civilian body count. The majority of Somali thugs appeared to be wrapping up their grisly cleansing chore, a series of pyres confined to the far eastern edge of the campsite. He figured fifteen to twenty still torching the dead, that hardforce fit best for some Apache chain-gun pronouncement of their fate. There were still pockets of gunmen on the move as he sighted them lurching about between rows of beehive huts, combing for any survivors, skirting along a straight north-to-south sweep. With all the smoke taking to the sky, shielding the birds, and coupled with what he believed was their single-minded obsession to murder and burn, Bolan figured they had a few moments to spare before the enemy noticed they were about to be hit.

Bolan gave it to the pilots, ordered his Black Hawk crew to drop him off at the southeastern edge of the village. There was no time to lay it out, diagram tactics and such. The Apache was to strafe the pyre grounds and churn up anything that cropped up with a gun, take out everything on wheels. To his mild surprise they copied, but why wouldn’t they? He shared leadership with Collins, but that alone was starting to make him wonder. There was no time to question motives or ponder all that Collins had done and failed to do as far as this leg of the mission fell. Bolan was on his own, and he told the four commandos Collins had handed over as much. They were to sit tight, help the M-60 door gunner with firepower from the air.

“So, tell me, why bring us along in the first place?” Roadrunner asked.

“We’re supposed to just sit up here and scratch ourselves, Colonel?” Tsunami added.

“Contagion,” Bolan told them, as the Black Hawk veered in the direction where it would drop him off. “The good major seemed real concerned about his guys coming into contact with some unspecified disease down there. Consider this a favor. You want to cover me from up here or play with yourselves, that’s up to you.”

A shrug, a grunt, a soft shake of the head but Bolan could almost read the thoughts behind the body language. He wasn’t looking to play hero, aware he could use all the help on the ground he could get. The problem was he wasn’t sure he could trust them. And if he pulled it off by himself, say cuffed and brought back a few top henchmen to Collins? Perhaps, he decided, it was time to take a deeper measure of the Cobra leader. His suspicion was that Collins had hung him out here to burn. If so, then why?

“Have it your way, Colonel,” Tsunami said as the Black Hawk lowered, the LZ clear of any hardforce as far as Bolan could tell. “Good luck.”

The Executioner jumped off, M-16 out and ready to announce his presence. Bolan didn’t have long to wait as two goons in skullcaps appeared from between a row of huts already ablaze. They swung his way, eyes wide, confused and shocked, but just in time for Bolan to wax them off their feet.

OMARI NAHBAT BELIEVED that not only were they doing a service for their country, but they also were performing God’s work. Surely, he thought, God wouldn’t want his children to suffer a slow, agonizing death from plagues that had no cure. Even if there was medicine to relieve their misery, it would only prolong a life that would end soon enough, flesh succumbing eventually to the ravaging dictates of plague. It was God’s will, since any antibiotics or painkillers that found their way into the country always ran out—or were pilfered by the strong who were meant to rule. Why fight the course of nature? That was hardly murder in his eyes, as he watched the corpses dragged by Ethiopians or the more brave of heart of his clansmen, the dead flung or rolled into the leaping flames. This was containment, pure and simple, a way to save the healthy populace from plague, spare the strong and healthy. Who or what could fight invisible killers, anyway? Fire was the only cure, cremation on the spot of the afflicted the only answer, the way he and the others saw it. There were no regulated state-run hospitals in his country, and doctors usually came in from beyond the borders, provided, of course, they had the nerve, the cash or the medicine to sell just to stay long enough to waste their time on the walking dead. Disease was as monstrous and unforgiving a killer as famine in Somalia, and it was everywhere.

The shriek jarred him. Nahbat slipped the AK-47 off his shoulder. Two of his clansmen, he found, wrestled with what he assumed had been a corpse. Arms thrashed, a cry rang out, then they tossed the boy’s body into the fire. One of them stepped back, chuckling, slapping his palms as if that might wash away any disease he might have come into contact with. The awful scream chilled Nahbat for a moment, shivering him to the bone, but he was grateful when it ended moments later.

He turned away, suddenly wondering, as he searched the line of clansmen, where Hussein had gone. There had been something in the boy’s eyes he had found unsettling. What was it? Horror? Contempt for the rest of them? Judgment? He was young, unaccustomed to the harsh realities of life, but that was no excuse for Hussein to neglect his duties, to not pull his weight. The boy needed to learn respect, he thought, show gratitude to a cousin who had given him life beyond being a simple goatherd and who might have perhaps been destined to suffer the same fate as the afflicted in the remote regions of the country.

The shooting was subsiding now to the south, the stink of plastic on fire from that direction flung up his nose, compounding the queasy churn in his gut as he found still more huts being torched. He strode from the pyres, both to clear his senses of burning flesh and to find Hussein. He had been standing at the edge of the pit moments ago, but the boy’s familiar short, spindly frame was nowhere to be found.

He needed to have a talk with Hussein anyway, find the truth of whatever was in the boy’s heart. There was no room in the clan for weaklings. If he discovered Hussein couldn’t cut it, he would have to kill his cousin, if only to save face.

He was forging into a wall of drifting smoke, searching the village, the fires spreading now, warping the plastic-covered tents, when he thought he spotted a large black object in the sky. It appeared to fly south, there then gone, but it was nearly impossible to make out what it was, the towering barricades of smoke all but obscuring his view.

He decided it was nothing more than his senses bombarded by the task at hand, eyes playing tricks, and went in search of Hussein.

“COME WITH ME, little one. Do not be afraid. I will take you from this place.”

He heard himself say it, only Hussein Nahbat didn’t believe his own words of assurance, much less feel any confidence he could pull off a disappearing act. If he did manage to escape into the surrounding wasteland, leading this boy to safety, then what? Where would he go? His parents were dead, and the village he had come from had perished recently from famine or disease, or so his cousin had said. Better to die, wandering in self-imposed exile, he decided, wasting away, step by step, hungry and thirsty, leaving his and the boy’s fate in the hands of God than play any part in the evil around him. Beyond his flesh, he had a soul still to think about, to attempt to save in the eyes of a merciful God. And surely God would judge this evil, he had to believe, in a world far better than the one he so desperately wished to escape.

He wanted to think himself a coward for running, not standing up to them, fighting back, but what could he do? He was only one against a small army of murderers. Not only that, he wasn’t sure he could even pull the trigger on his clansmen, despite the fact he knew they were evil men who deserved only death. And if he didn’t participate in throwing the dead—and, God have mercy, the dying—into the fires or shoot down unarmed women and children, they would deem him unworthy to live among their ranks, brand then execute him as traitor and coward. Flee, then, leave it all to fate. Perhaps, at the very least, he could find a way to spare one innocent from this madness, even if that meant risking his own life.

The sudden chatter of weapons fire from nearby jolted him. Nearly gagging behind his bandanna from any number of ghastly smells, he stared at the child, figured he was no more than five or six. It was hard to tell how old he actually was, the boy little more than a dark, emaciated scarecrow, flesh hanging loose on a body that hadn’t seen perhaps even a morsel of wheat, a crumb of bread, he believed, in days. The eyes were sunken, lifeless orbs, the face nearly a skull, that death’s-head expression he had seen on children who were too weak from hunger to even speak. Hussein felt the tears coming back, the burning mist equal parts grief and air singed by heat and the sting of death. How the boy had been missed by his clansmen, he couldn’t say.

Fate? Divine intervention?

Somehow he had gotten this far, managed to slip away, the others too consumed by their hideous undertaking, a few of them even laughing and joking about what they did, their callous displays somehow making the atrocity even more revolting. It had been an accident—or was it something else again?—when he had stumbled over what he had believed at first was a discarded bundle of rags.

He laid down his assault rifle. He had never fired the weapon, never would. He reached out a hand, swept away the debris the boy had hidden under.

“We must go.”

Did he see a flicker of hope in those eyes?

The boy took his hand, too weak to stand on his own, Nahbat knew, so he scooped the child up, clutching him to his chest.

He looked around at the firestorms consuming their homes, searching, fearing his armed brethren would discover him now, just as he was moving. He coughed, the sound alarming him, afraid he would be heard by roving killers, but he hoped the drifting banks of smoke would help conceal his escape. Beyond two fires, nearly converging, he saw open land. He was skirting around the dead who had been shot where they stood when he heard, “Hussein! Stop!”

He thought he would be sick, felt his legs nearly fold as despair froze him in his tracks. There would be no rational explanation in the eyes of his cousin, he knew, for this action, much less forgiveness.

So be it.

He turned slowly, a nauseous lurch in his heart. As he watched his cousin step through the drifting smoke, the AK-47 up and aimed his way, he experienced a moment of blinding clarity, a strange peace settling over him. It was over; both he and the boy were dead, but he wouldn’t beg for their lives.

“You disappoint me greatly, Hussein.”

“As do you and the others, cousin.”

He decided to try to reason with Omari, if only for the boy, even though he knew it was hopeless. “Do not do this, Omari.”

His cousin laughed. “You would die for him? For what? Why? You would risk catching plague and infect the rest of us?”

He smiled at his cousin. “You are already infected, I am afraid.”

“I have handled none of them, you fool, unlike you, who clutch that boy and are probably now infected yourself.”

“I was referring to your soul.”

The weapon was lowering, Omari considering something, baffled, it seemed, then Hussein saw the madness fly back into his eyes. Even before the weapon was up and blazing, Hussein Nahbat had a stark revelation, aware in his dying moment, as he felt the bullets tearing first into the boy, that he had only been dreaming a fool’s dream for thinking he and the boy could have survived this chaos.

CHAPTER FOUR

They were teenagers, fourteen, eighteen tops, but Bolan knew all too painfully well youth received no special consideration in a world where anarchy and savagery dictated who lived to steal a few more years on the planet. With the average life expectancy of a Somali male roughly two decades, if famine or drought or disease didn’t get them, they were snapped up by warlords to shoot it out with rival clansmen, profit somehow off the misery of their countrymen or marched out to commit genocide when there was no food or medicine to plunder from relief aid. An education on the hard facts, the dark side of life came by way of the sword. If they didn’t want to fight, they were killed on the spot.

Simple as that.

But who was to blame in the final analysis? Bolan had to wonder. The one who handed them the weapon, or the one who freely accepted it? Both?

No matter really, he knew, since a bullet would kill him no matter who fired it, whether a raving sociopath, a frightened kid threatened by elders to do murderous deeds, or a warrior fully seasoned with the blood of other warriors on his hands.

One of the boys was dead before he hit the ground, cradling something, the other standing, capping off another and unnecessary burst into unfeeling flesh, then taking in what he had done, head cocked halfway toward the Executioner, oblivious to all else, eyes twinkling mirrors of the firestorms. Was that pride in the eyes? The boy satisfied? Whatever sick drama had played out here, Bolan would never know but he could venture a guess. The soldier glimpsed the shredded ruins of the small child, butchered alongside with what he assumed was his potential rescuer, then he pounded a burst of autofire up the back of their killer. The boy never knew what hit him, and it was just as well, Bolan thought. Mercy, if any was due, was reserved for the afterlife.

There would be time enough, assuming he walked out of here in one piece, to feel hot anger later. Even still, he knew there could never be any reasoning—or mercy shown for the guilty—for the madness he found here. The Executioner briefly felt a curious, distant, otherworldly sense, as light as the wind, slightly disembodied even as he waded deeper into this horror. It was as if he’d been here before, and he had, too many times, in fact, to tally. It struck him—as he heard the Apache unload Hellfire missiles, the stutter of weapons fire from the Black Hawk mowing down illegal combatants—all of this murder of innocents strewed before him, a zenith of man’s inhumanity to man, had always been here, somewhere in time and place, one way one or another, throughout the ages. Human nature was the only one constant, and sad but true, that went double for animal man.

The guilty had to be punished, no exceptions, no mercy. High time, he decided, for a little Old Testament vengeance.

Bolan melted into, then swept out of the drifting smoke, his gut knotted with a grapefruit-size chunk of raw anger, despite the intention to roll into this a stone-cold professional. Unless he was a psychopath or simply evil, Bolan knew no man could fully digest without the first flicker of wrenching emotion the atrocity that had happened here. With the full slamming force of death in his face, the bile squirmed in his gut for a moment, urging him on to wax as many armed killers as quickly and mercilessly as possible. Flies and mosquitoes swarmed the dead; vultures, brazen and impatient to gorge, descending now on bodies. He could ill afford to concern himself with unfeeling flesh, dwell on the full, hideous impact of all these lives snuffed out so callously. And if there was contagion here, he was willing to risk infection, if only to avenge this monstrosity, Collins be damned.

They were running everywhere dead ahead, trying to flee certain death from above, haphazard human—or inhuman—traffic rearing up in his sights as he came out of the thickest patch of smoke. Closing on the hungry bonfires consuming diseased flesh, a few of the gunmen fired wild bursts at the warbirds, squawking in panic and confusion over this sudden final judgment of their deed. Three, then four hardmen wheeled around the corner of a firewall dancing up a hut that used to provide the most meager of shelter, he assumed, for the late occupants. They skidded to a halt, ten or so paces from Bolan, sandaled feet kicking up dust. Figure the horrific pounding of explosions and the sight of their own getting a heavy-metal dose of their own poison was too much for them to stomach, fleeing now to save themselves.

There was nowhere for them to run or hide.

Two of them stared at the sight of the tall white man who had marched out of nowhere, staring ahead as if he were some avenging angel of doom that had materialized out of the smoke. Their eyes wide, the soldier read the looks, then heard the muffled cries from behind bandannas. It sounded as if they wanted their lives spared, a show of mercy from the lone invader. It was all just some terrible mistake. Two of them were on the verge, it looked, of throwing down their arms.

How could they expect that which they had never shown? Bolan decided, and blew them off their feet, a raking blast of steel-jacketed projectiles down the line, flinging them back toward other running and doomed killing brethren being gored and gutted from the sky.

There was no point, Bolan knew, in engaging in a long and protracted sweep of the village and its perimeter. Fire was eating up anything left standing. The smoke was so thick, so putrid it left little doubt to Bolan the savages had completed their task.

What was left of the hardforce was pretty much chopped up or blown into the firewalls next as a Hellfire missile ripped through a motor pool, ten or more broken dark figurines taking to the air above the crunching blast. A half dozen far from the epicenter were sent staggering about from the shock wave, howling next, flinching, darting from renewed bursts of terror no doubt kicking them into high gear as wreckage hammered home.

Ducking under a winging slab of metal, Bolan hosed down a few more Somali killers, then changed clips on the advance, began searching the hellgrounds.

The evil fumes pouring into his senses was enough to nearly knock even the most battle-hardened soldier off his feet, and Bolan knew he wasn’t above any queasy roil in his gut. He swiveled, searching, attempting to control any deep intakes of the foul air. He spotted an armed runner to his nine, hit the trigger on his M-16. The Executioner drove the gunner into his comrade, who was minus an arm just above the elbow from the Hellfire amputation. A mercy burst, and the amputee dropped in his tracks in an ungainly flop, face plastered to earth.

All done?

Bolan listened to raging flames, scoured the dead for wounded or live ones, bodies strewed and stacked in what was a fairly tight but wide circle where the warbirds had unleashed their final ring of doom, two or three flaming technical carcasses seeming to float back to Earth like some ghastly magic act.