Kitabı oku: «Desperate Passage», sayfa 2

“Offroad, back down to the regional highway, then the road into Jakarta. Forty-five minutes, maybe one hour.”

“Patrols? Roadblocks? More Laskar gunmen?” Bolan asked.

“Possible. There are Indonesian marines in the area to combat Laskar’s influence. Sometimes it works, sometimes not.”

They rounded the corner fast and Sukarnoputri screamed. Headlights filled the windshield as another car raced up the narrow road toward them. Sukarnoputri yanked the wheel hard to one side, swerving to avoid the onrushing vehicle. The SUV lurched to the left, and there was a horrendous screech as the two vehicles skidded off each other. A shower of sparks formed a rooster tail in the driver’s window, and Bolan had an impression of a battered jeep filled with figures.

Immediately behind the first vehicle was a second, and Bolan caught a glimpse of a third set of headlights beyond. Then the front of the SUV bucked up hard and came down, leaving the windshield filled with the leaves and branches of jungle foliage.

Sukarnoputri tried to turn the SUV back out of the jungle, but suddenly the massive trunk of a tree appeared in front of the out of control SUV. Bolan threw his arms up instinctively.

The impact was followed by the violent reversal of momentum. As the hood crumpled and the fender was bent inward, Bolan was thrown hard against his seat belt. He felt something smack his face, then heard the air bags deploying.

He was blinded by the emergency cushion and could see nothing of what was happening but felt the car begin to roll. His world suddenly inverted, and he was thrown against his door. Then just as suddenly he slid up in his restraint to bang his head on the roof as the SUV completed its roll and landed on its blown-out tires. The air bags settled, quickly deflated and Bolan sprang into action.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

He snapped the release on his seat belt and reached for his door handle, but the door refused to budge. There was no answer from Sukarnoputri.

“Are you all right!” Bolan repeated, shouting.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said.

The Executioner threw his shoulder against the inside of the passenger door.

“Can you get out?” he asked.

“No, my door is jammed!” Sukarnoputri’s voice sounded panicky.

Bolan leaned back and kicked. With a screech the stubborn door finally opened. Bolan snatched his M-4 and scrambled out.

“Come on!” he snapped.

He looked over the caved in hood and saw a short convoy of three vehicles stopped in the middle of the logging road on the other side of the thick brush from his wreck.

Two Indonesian men dressed in grungy civilian clothes and packing AKM assault rifles appeared. Bolan moved toward the rear of his vehicle as one of the men raised his assault rifle to fire. The Executioner drew a snap-bead and put the man down.

Bullets struck the ruined SUV, and Bolan sensed Sukarnoputri crawling out of the wreck behind him. He pivoted his barrel across the collapsed roof and fired a second time, putting the other man down as well.

Angry shouts came from the road and weapons up and down the length of the convoy erupted into action. A hailstorm of lead cut through the jungle, ripping the flora apart, shredding bark and leaves and riddling the SUV.

Pinned down, Bolan struggled to act.

3

The Executioner threw himself over the screaming woman.

“Crawl for that tree!” he ordered.

Twelve yards ahead of them an old jungle giant had been battered down in some monsoon gale years before. Its trunk would form a bulwark against the withering gunfire tearing up the topography around them.

He shifted his weight off her body and immediately she started scrambling forward, her belly tightly to the ground and her head down. Bolan let her crawl a body length ahead of him, then began to follow.

Sukarnoputri reached the log and made to slither over it but another burst tore splinters of wood from the dead tree and she froze.

Bolan charged forward, coming up to his hands and knees, and rammed his shoulder into her, sending her tumbling over the top. He landed atop her in a tangle of limbs. She whimpered at the treatment, but he ignored her protests and scrambled into position.

“Stay down!” he barked.

He levered his rifle barrel over the edge of the tree trunk and tore loose with a long burst of answering fire. He then rolled took a position at the end of the log where a tangled mess of old roots had been torn from the earth. He used the broken cover to quickly survey the scene.

The militia gunmen from the convoy had advanced and fallen against the road bank, using it like a berm to gain cover as they fired at their adversaries. On the left side two of the braver men had begun to creep forward under the covering fire of their teammates.

Bolan swung his carbine, spraying the wreck of the SUV. Three times he poured tight bursts into the vehicle until he managed to ignite the gas tank. The already ruined vehicle exploded into flame. Black smoke rolled off the bonfire of gas, rubber and oil. It began to choke the thick forest.

He rolled around and crawled across the ground next to the cowering Sukarnoputri. Bolan realized that necessity had put him in the company of a person completely unsuited for the situation.

“We have to move,” he urged the frightened woman.

She nodded, her face streaked with tears, and Bolan was able to coax and into a crawl. He pushed her forward to speed their flight into the jungle. As he turned to cover their retreat, he saw a gunman race forward, weapon at the ready. The man’s eyes squinted hard against the choking smoke, and Bolan used the advantage to put a single 5.56 mm round through his throat.

The man tumbled forward and sprawled on the ground. A second gunman leaped over the body, weapon chattering in his fists as he fired from the hip. Bolan triggered a 3-round burst that put the man down two steps from the corpse of his militia brother.

“Move!” Bolan urged.

Sukarnoputri lurched to her feet and stumbled behind the cover of a thick tree, swatting away low-hanging branches as Bolan burned off the rest of his magazine in covering fire.

The bolt on his M-4 locked open as he fired his last round, and he dumped the empty magazine as he turned and sprinted for cover. More gun-fire answered his, and bullets tore through the jungle all round him.

Bolan slid around the cover of a tree and slammed a fresh magazine home. He went to one knee and twisted around the trunk of the tree. He saw figures moving in the smoke and foliage and triggered snap bursts in their direction without striking a target. He heard an all-too-familiar shrieking sound and instinctively ducked behind the tree.

A second later the 84 mm warhead of a RPG-7 struck off to his left and exploded with savage, devastating force. Bolan felt the shock waves roll over him even through the sturdy protection of the massive tree trunk. Shrapnel burst through the jungle and Bolan heard Sukarnoputri scream.

He rose and whirled, his ears still ringing from the explosion, and sprinted away from the battle. He stormed through the undergrowth searching. He saw the huddled woman on the ground and went to her.

He rolled her over and saw her blouse was splattered with blood and a long gash had opened across her forehead, turning her beautiful face into a mask of blood. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and her eyes flickered beneath her lids. She moaned in pain as Bolan lifted her and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

He rose, lifting her slight form easily, and began to run.

Sukarnoputri’s blood poured over him in a hot, sticky rush. His shirt clung to his skin as if glued there, and each bouncing step he took forced another agonized moan from the woman. Behind him gunshots rang out but the bullets flew wider and wider as the Executioner ducked around and through trees, heavy brush and bamboo stands.

He knew from the reconnaissance maps he had looked over prior to his jump that a Malwi river tributary down out of the mountains near his location. He was unsure how far they had driven in their chaotic ride, but he estimated the bridge for the river should be no more than a few miles from their present position.

He began to make his way back toward the road. Roots and vines tugged at his feet, threatening to trip him up at every step. Branches slapped at his face and angry shouts chased him. He had no time to check Sukarnoputri’s wounds and the slip of a woman had ceased to groan. He feared she had fallen into shock.

Bolan gritted his teeth against the strain and ran on.

He cut out of the brush minutes later and hit the road well below the initial contact site. He jogged onto the road. It was simply too hard to break a trail through the jungle with the woman on his back. For his plan to work he needed to make it to the bridge quickly and as fresh as possible.

He crossed the road and began making his way back toward the stalled convoy that had transported the men now hunting him.

When he caught sight of the convoy, he slowed his approach and took to the trees, choosing his steps carefully. The burning SUV caused light and shadow to flicker and dance across the vehicles.

Bolan paused and scanned the scene. All the vehicles, two battered Nissan Pathfinders and an even older jeep, had been left with their engines running to facilitate movement under fire. Two armed men in black and olive drab civilian clothes and headbands had been left behind to secure the vehicles.

The men stood at either end of the convoy in the middle of the road. The hectic action in the jungle kept drawing their attention away from their posts and toward the still burning hulk of Bolan’s vehicle. The soldier gauged the distance and frowned. When he moved there would be no time for hesitation. Other members of the militia were calling out from the trees, close at hand.

The Executioner made his decision.

He looped the end of his rifle sling over his right shoulder. Grabbing the M-4 carbine by its pistol grip, he was able to steady his muzzle one-handed by thrusting his weapon against the pull of the sling braced against his shoulder. At this range it would be enough.

Bolan gritted his teeth and shifted the limp form of Sukarnoputri into a more comfortable position. He jogged forward out of the brush and onto the road about five yards from the tailgate of the last vehicle in the line.

He shuffled forward four steps before the sentry closest to him turned. Bolan flexed the muscles of his forearm and triggered his weapon. The M-4 bucked in his hand with the recoil of his 3-round burst. The 5.56 mm rounds caught the spinning militiaman high in the chest.

The man staggered backward at each impact before he went down. Bolan brought the M-4 to bear as the second sentry turned in alarm at the ambush. He saw the man snarl in fear and outrage as he lifted his Kalashnikov, and a burning cigarette tumbled from his mouth as he fought to bring the AKM around in time.

Bolan stopped him with a 3-round burst to the gut. The AKM tumbled to the ground and bounced before the slack corpse of the gunman pinned it to the dirt. Almost immediately a questioning cry was raised by the trailing members of the hunter-killer team deployed near the crashed vehicle.

Bolan wasted no time. Letting the M-4 dangle from its sling, he opened the door on the jeep and ducked inside. He thrust the unconscious Sukarnoputri across the seat and up against the front passenger door.

The glass in the window of the driver’s door shattered as bullets slammed through it. Bolan dropped and spun, swinging the M-4 up by its pistol grip. He saw a figure at the top of the berm above the roadside.

He triggered a blast from the hip across the fifty yards and punched the man back into the underbrush. Wasting no time, he jumped behind the wheel of the jeep and slammed the door shut. Leaving his carbine across his lap, he threw the vehicle into reverse and gunned it, twisting in the seat to look out the back window.

He heard Sukarnoputri moan on the seat beside him, but he couldn’t risk looking down. Still driving in reverse he navigated the primitive road as more bullets began to strike the vehicle frame and punch holes through the windows.

There was no time or space to perform a bootlegger maneuver on the narrow track, so Bolan simply drove in reverse. The windshield caught a round and spiderwebbed, but the intensity of fire coming from the jungle had begun to slacken and he knew the members of the Indonesian crew were making for their own remaining vehicles.

Suddenly a screaming gunman raced into the middle of the road and took up a position in the jeep’s path. Kalashnikov rounds punched through the rear windshield and burned through the space around Bolan’s head. The soldier floored the gas pedal on the already erratically bouncing jeep and hurtled toward the gunman.

Green tracer fire arced through the cab of the jeep and rounds thudded into the seats. Sukarnoputri screamed at his side as the plastic screen over the gas gauge and speedometer shattered. A 7.62 mm round struck the steering wheel, and for a wild second Bolan thought it was going to come apart in his hands.

Then the speeding jeep struck the gunman. As metal made contact with flesh and pulverized it. Blood splashed into the back of the jeep, painting the seat and a battered old jerri can of gasoline.

Bolan felt the vehicle shudder as he rolled over the man. Then he was past the corpse and around a bend in the logging road.

He continued to drive in reverse, hunting for a place where the road widened sufficiently to turn the jeep around.

Driving in reverse, he was unable to use his headlights and so was unable to circumnavigate some of the more egregious ruts and potholes. The jeep was taking a brutal beating, and both he and the wounded woman were being knocked around mercilessly. She was moaning softly but when Bolan risked a glance to look at her he was surprised by how alert she appeared.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I feel awful, dizzy and my arm and back hurt badly. But I don’t think I was hurt, you know, inside,” she said.

“Good, because we’re in a damn tight spot.”

Sukarnoputri struggled to sit up. She lifted her arm and pointed out the spiderwebbed front windshield back down the road from where they had fled.

“I only want to see my little girl again. Please you have to help me see her again,” she cried.

Bolan knew her voice was too raw with emotion to be a lie, he respond with the same honesty.

“I will, I promise you. I will help you. But you have to help, you have to fight.”

“Here they come!” she cried.

Bolan whipped his head around and saw headlights appear out of the darkness, bearing down on them with deadly speed.

He snarled something Sukarnoputri didn’t catch and continued driving. The vehicle was shaking apart from the beating it was taking on the rough road. Sukarnoputri fought her way into a sitting position and snapped her seat belt into place. Bolan pushed the gas pedal to the floor of the jeep.

Then the grenades began to rain down.

4

Sudden flashes of light and the deafening sound of explosions hammered into the Executioner. Suddenly the steering wheel was wrenched from his grip and he felt the jeep fly into the air and tilt. He rolled, weightless, for a long moment then the vehicle crashed back to the ground and he was jarred hard against his seat harness.

He heard metal shriek in protest as the roof of the car crumpled inward and felt the frame slam into his head. He hung upside from his seat belt and his M-4 flew up from his lap and smashed his nose.

He felt the inverted jeep sliding forward, hurtling across the broken road. Dirt flew up through the shattered windshield to spray him. Fumbling with the release on his seat belt, he found it and released himself, dropping onto the crumpled hood. The jeep pitched abruptly and he was thrown against Sukarnoputri.

The vehicle slammed hard into something, and Bolan was catapulted forward again. He buckled around the steering wheel and dropped against his seat in a heap.

His head was spinning from the blasts and the crash. He could feel a sticky mask of blood on his face and he gasped for breath. He reached for his assault rifle but couldn’t find it. Pulling the Beretta clear of the sling beneath his arm, he struggled to get orientated properly.

Machine-gun fire raked the bottom of the vehicle. Bullets burned through the frame and tore the covers off the seats, stuffing exploding into the air. Bolan was clipped above the elbow and felt a hammer blow on the heel of his boot. Sukarnoputri screamed, and Bolan twisted to look as she shoved herself forward through the blown-out windshield of the car.

He waited until she was clear then followed.

“Go!” he shouted.

He reached out a hand to give her support and the jeep exploded behind him.

They were tossed through the air, everything went black.

THE ROOM WAS STARK AND BARE, devoid of furniture other than a heavy metal table shoved up against the far wall. There was a panel of lights above Bolan and a bright, hot lamp on the table pointed toward his face. A drain was set in the concrete floor at his feet. He noticed the dark stains on the metal fixtures.

His eyes slowly focused on the man standing before him, an Indonesian in BDU fatigues devoid of rank, unit insignia or national affiliation. The man was bearded with bright, black eyes.

“Wake up sleepyhead.”

Bolan looked at him.

The man leaned in close, mock concern on his face. “How do you feel? You were pretty banged up there in the accident.”

Bolan said nothing.

“What is your name?” the man asked.

Bolan closed one swollen eye against the blinding glare of the table lamp. “Where’s the girl?” he croaked.

The man lifted his gaze from Bolan’s and nodded to another man standing nearby. Bolan had a sense of someone large moving out from around him in his limited peripheral vision.

The punch caught him flush along the jaw and rocked his head to the side. He slowly turned his head and spit blood on the floor. The thug who had hit him lifted one big fist to strike again.

The interviewer held up a hand to stop his muscle from delivering another blow.

“I ask the questions,” the man said softly.

“Suli.” He nodded toward the thug.

Bolan tensed, waiting for another blow but it didn’t come. Instead the thickset man walked leisurely over to the metal table set against the wall. Now that Bolan’s vision was clearing, he could make out items on the table. He saw various tools and implements, including pliers and knives that would be useful for torture.

He watched as Suli rummaged around on the table before picking up a clasp knife with a four-inch blade. The edge of the knife was as rusty as the drain screen on the floor at Bolan’s feet.

The man turned and stalked closer to the tightly bound Bolan. The Executioner set his jaw and tensed his arms against the restraints binding his wrists behind the chair. He felt the ropes pull and shift, perhaps even give a little but only in an insignificant way. He wasn’t going anywhere. He forced himself to relax as Suli stepped in front of the lead interrogator, blocking the smaller man from view.

“What is it you wanted to know?” Bolan asked. “Tell Zamira Loebis that if he wants something from me he can ask himself.”

Suli looked over at the chief interrogator, but the man didn’t respond.

Suli reached out and yanked Bolan’s shirt by the ruined collar, then used the clasp knife to cut the garment. In an almost bored fashion Suli let the ruined shirt hang open, exposing Bolan’s bruised and blood-caked torso. Behind him the interrogator looked on with glittering eyes.

“My name is Matt Cooper,” Bolan said as he worked at loosening his bonds.

The interrogator came forward. “Have I impressed upon you who is in charge?”

Bolan looked away and sagged against the back of the chair as his thumb popped free of the rope coils binding his wrist. He turned his face like a defeated man and nodded dumbly. In the eyes of Indonesian he was broken, helpless.

“Good. So, Mr. Cooper, why have you invaded the sovereign lands of the Laskar Jihad, destroyed my property and killed my people?”

Bolan let his head loll on his neck. He swallowed loudly and muttered something inaudible. He had gauged the character of the two men he faced very carefully. If he were to attack Suli and reveal he’d escaped his bonds, then the interrogator would simply call for help. Suli was a thug. A sadist and a bully, but a fighter. If his boss was attacked, Suli’s first instinct would be to charge forward, not to call for help.

The Executioner had established a long and bloody career exploiting the weaknesses of those who had chosen to become his enemy.

The interrogator leaned in. “What?” he snapped.

He reached out and grabbed Bolan’s hair. The big American gave him a cold stare, and the sneer melted off the Indonesian’s face.

Bolan slipped his arm out of the loosened ropes. His hand slapped up like the strike of a coiled snake onto the back of the interrogator’s neck in a headlock.

The interrogator squawked in sudden surprise and tried to pull away. The muscles in Bolan’s arm bunched as he locked the man into immobility. Bolan snapped his head brutally into the interrogator’s face. He felt the man’s nose pop under the jarring impact.

The interrogator’s knees buckled and he dropped to the floor at Bolan’s feet, dazed. Suli roared in surprised outrage at the sudden action and charged forward. Still bound to the chair Bolan could only tense in preparation.

The thickset terrorist still held the clasp knife, and it gleamed dully in the stark light of the cell as he rushed forward. Bolan made no move to slide away or dodge as Suli came down upon him.

Bolan timed his strike as precisely as he could. His free hand clutched Suli’s at the wrist and he lowered his head as the Indonesian charged in.

Suli crashed into Bolan hard, like a lineman laying into a quarterback. The Executioner felt the impact flow through him. He felt the weight and momentum of Suli drive him backward, then the squeal of protest as the chains holding the chair to the floor were payed out to their length. Then the chair shattered under the force and both of the big men crashed to the floor.

Bolan felt blood hot and sticky flow across his grip and knew he had twisted Suli’s knife into him, but the big man was far from dead.

Suli began to shriek in protest as the two men rolled.

Suddenly the thug was down and Bolan was up. He slammed his forehead into Suli’s face twice. The Indonesian released his grip on the knife stuck in his belly, and Bolan grasped it and twisted hard.

The soldier sensed movement from behind him and whirled. He saw the interrogator pushing himself up off the floor. Bolan yanked the blade from Suli’s gut and lunged. The interrogator yelped in terror and tried to dive away, but Bolan caught him in the leg just above the knee. Blood stained the man’s pants as Bolan pulled the knife down with deadly force.

The man’s hands went to his wounds as he fell on his back, but Bolan jerked the knife out of his reach.

“Where is the girl?” Bolan demanded.

The interrogator didn’t answer or even struggle.

Bolan rose on one knee and used the blood-smeared blade of his clasp knife to cut the fragments of chair and get clear.

He stuck the knife, blade still open, in his waistband, where it was easily accessible. He realized he had minutes, possibly seconds before he was discovered. He had to seize the initiative and maintain it. He had no idea where Sukarnoputri was being kept, but time was running out. He had come to Indonesia for a reason, and he needed his contact.

It was time to get moving.

The Executioner picked up his Beretta checked the feed, the magazine and the sound suppressor. He quickly secured the rest of his equipment, getting himself ready for his run.

He crossed the blood-splattered room and headed for the heavy door. Beretta in hand, he reached out and turned the door handle slowly before gently pushing the door open a crack and looking out.

He saw a long hallway, windowless, poorly lit and grimy. From the direction Bolan was looking it ran for about thirty yards before ending at a solid door. A guard stood with a slung FN P-90 submachine gun, smoking a cigarette and knocking the ashes straight onto the floor. Bolan was sure the man was long used to hearing screams coming from the interrogation room.

Bolan moved through the doorway room in one fluid motion. He lifted the Beretta 93-R in both hands and squeezed the trigger. The pistol coughed twice and 9 mm Parabellum rounds slapped into the startled sentry. The man went down, his rifle sliding off his shoulder and his burning cigarette tumbling from limp fingers.

Bolan spun to cover the opposite end of the hall, but saw no other targets.

There were three doors in the short corridor. He quickly tried the handles on each. One was a broom closet, long disused. The other two opened into empty rooms.

There was no clue as to Sukarnoputri’s whereabouts.