Buch lesen: «Jungle Hunt»
Hostile takeover
Genocide is spreading through the jungles of South America. The swift and silent massacre in villages on the Ecuadorian border seems to be part of a larger plan fueled by blatant greed. Mack Bolan heads into the rain forest to expose the truth behind the slaughter and put an end to this new wave of atrocities.
Bolan comes face-to-face with pure evil when he gets caught in the cross fire between a rogue army general hungry for power and a ruthless multinational corporation plotting to reap billions from the blood of the innocent. But the Executioner is ready to lay his trap as he heads deep into the bush to stalk the deadliest predator of all—man.
The masked man came in low
Mack Bolan staggered backward, lining up his sights on his opponent. Before he could draw a bead, the man was on him, grabbing the pistol. Bolan hit the earth with a breath-stealing thump, his gun flying from his hands. His opponent jumped on top of him and settled on his chest, crushing the air out of his lungs.
Just as Bolan’s vision began contracting to a fuzzy gray tunnel, his hand scrabbled over the other man’s mask and found his unprotected throat. Curling his fingers, Bolan threw a short punch directly at his enemy’s Adam’s apple. Taken by surprise, the man choked. His grip slackened for a moment, and that was all Bolan needed.
Twisting his upper body, he wrenched the merc’s hands from his throat and shoved him off.
Bolan rose first.
Tackling his opponent, he slammed his interlaced fingers into the back of the man’s neck.
The merc collapsed to the ground, with the Executioner on top of him, and lay there, unmoving, as one last breath wheezed out of him.
Jungle Hunt
Don Pendleton
Do not call the forest that shelters you a jungle.
—African proverb
I often find that those who rape and pillage villages within Third World nations think no one will notice or care. And I am happy to show the perpetrators the error of their ways.
—Mack Bolan
The
Mack Bolan
Legend
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Travis Morgan for his contribution to this work.
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Quito, Ecuador
The air in the large office, located in a nondescript building on a side street of the capital city, was humid and still, barely stirred by a slow-moving ceiling fan. The daily rain had already come, leaving a damp scent of water ignored by the two men in the room.
Jaime Cordero sat in the guest seat, a leather-upholstered wingback chair that squeaked with his every movement. A thin, stooped man, his shoulders were hunched from decades of civil service, service that had worn on him over the years, lined his face, eroded his stature, receded his hairline. His brown, off-the-rack suit hung on him like a scarecrow’s costume, a stained tie loosely knotted around his neck. His watery brown eyes, magnified behind thick-lensed glasses, roamed nervously around the room, but always came back to rest on the alligator briefcase resting on top of the large mahogany desk.
The man sitting behind the desk was the exact opposite of Cordero in every way. Alfredo Roldos was the picture of health, his slightly protruding stomach hardly showing under the vest of his tailored navy three-piece Savile Row suit. His thick black hair, accented with just a touch of silver at his temples, was brushed back from a handsome widow’s peak. His manicured hands were swift and sure as they clipped the end off a Don Conti Robusto. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”
“N-no, Mr. Roldos—I simply wish to take care of our business.”
“Of course, but I hope you do not mind if I indulge.” Roldos applied an even blue flame from his butane lighter to the end of the cigar, drawing smoke slowly and letting it leak out the side of his mouth.
“No, sir.”
Roldos savored his Robusto for another minute, exhaling the smoke in lazy plumes that were barely stirred by the overhead fan. Across the desk, leather squeaked as the other man shifted uneasily.
At length, Roldos set his cigar down in a mirror-bright silver ashtray. “Well, I suppose we should get down to business.”
* * *
GALO MOVED SILENTLY through the sweltering tropical jungle, his bare feet making no noise on the thick carpet of rotting vegetation and wood. His breechclout covered his private parts, but the rest of his body was naked, decorated with bright red paint and a handwoven braided necklace. His curious brown eyes looked out at the world from a round face topped by straight black hair cut bowl-style. His unblinking gaze was currently fixed on the prize he sought a few yards away. Although the forest around him teemed with noisy insects and small animals, Galo tried his hardest not to make a sound as he crept forward.
The bird he was stalking, a toucan with primarily black feathers, save for an orange-and-red chest, with a red circle around its eye, shuffled along a branch, eyeing a cluster of guarana berries. Galo was only three yards away, then only two… .
The rumble of a large engine in the distance silenced all of the nearby fauna and made Galo’s head whip around. The red-breasted toucan he’d been stalking spread its wings and launched into the air.
A frown crossing his normally happy features, Galo took off through the jungle, leaping fallen tree trunks and avoiding dangling vines as he ran toward the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming closer to him, and he thought the vehicle must have been taking the single-lane road to his village.
Galo’s heart quickened at the thought of visitors, who often brought strange and magical devices from the world outside their small jungle home. Small boxes that showed amazing pictures, devices that fit into a hand that allowed the holder to talk to someone they could not see, who might be a dozen, or even a hundred miles away. Perhaps he could even trade some of his wood carvings for a pair of the dark glasses that fit over his eyes and blocked the sun, or even, if he was lucky, a knife with a blade that folded into the handle like the one his father owned.
The tenor of the engine changed and Galo sensed the truck had stopped somewhere nearby. He crept through the thick foliage, mindful of the brightly colored tree frogs whose skin exuded a deadly poison, until he could see the olive-drab truck. When he did, his brows knitted in a frown—these were not the usual missionaries or traders that came to their isolated village. This truck looked menacing, a large interloper in the verdant, peaceful jungle.
And the men it carried—with their pale white skin and hair on their faces—were dressed in black clothes. But as he watched, they changed into long-sleeved shirts and pants that mimicked the greenery and shadows of his home. They didn’t carry the usual equipment of those coming to trade with his village, either—each man had either in his hands or slung over his shoulder a big, long, black piece of metal that resembled the rifle his father used for hunting, but much uglier and more dangerous-looking. The men talked in a strange language and smoked cigarettes, the acrid smell making Galo’s nose twitch and his mouth dry.
Another man dressed in tan clothes and a safari hat got out of the front of the truck and talked to the men in back in their peculiar language. The smoking men all laughed as they checked their large black rifles, then the leader walked back to the front of the vehicle and got in, as the others climbed into the back. The truck started moving again, heading toward Galo’s village. He followed, paralleling the truck through the jungle.
* * *
ROLDOS EXAMINED THE sheaf of papers the other man had placed on his desk. He already knew what they contained, but skimmed the odd paragraph here and there to ensure nothing had been inserted at the last minute. “Everything seems to be in order…mineral and logging rights for an area in Ecuador’s interior rainforest…” He named the longitude and latitude coordinates. “And you’re sure this is on the edge of Yasuní?”
Cordero nodded, his head bobbing on his neck like a stork. “I checked the numbers myself—the territory abuts the park, but does not encroach on it.”
“Excellent. The ten-year term is listed here…” Although I’m sure we won’t need the space for nearly that long, Roldos thought. “There is nothing left to do but sign.” Taking a gold Mont Blanc pen from his shirt pocket, Roldos signed the copies where necessary with a bold flourish, then pushed the assignation of rights contract back to Cordero, who hesitated only slightly as he picked up the pen, his expression twisting on his strained face, as if suffering a late attack of conscience.
Without saying a word, Roldos reached down for the handle of the aluminum briefcase sitting on the floor behind his desk, lifted it and set it on the table. Cordero’s eyes widened when they fell upon the case.
“You—you promise that the indigenous peoples of the area will not be harmed, sim?” he asked, his gaze lingering on the case’s smooth surface.
Roldos smiled, a warm, relaxed smile that lit up his face—and stopped a mile short of reaching his eyes. “Jaime—please. The natives are a huge part of our operation. We’ll need experienced guides who can show us the area and expedite access to the more remote regions. Making contact with them is crucial. We’ll be compensating them well for the trouble,” he lied.
The other man’s head nodded almost unconsciously at Roldos’s smooth voice. He bent over the contracts and scribbled his name on the line, sealing the deal.
When the last copy had been executed, three copies safely tucked away in Cordero’s battered briefcase, with another set residing in the top drawer of Roldos’s desk, he slid the metal case across the desktop toward the other man. With slightly trembling fingers, Cordero reached for the case, almost clutching it to his chest before restraining himself and setting it on his lap. His head came up as he looked at his benefactor, the naked question all over his face.
Roldos permitted himself a slight chuckle and waved his hand. “It’s all right, my friend. You will not insult me—if I were in your shoes, I would want to look inside, too. Go ahead, you’ve earned it.”
Cordero flipped the catches on the case and slowly opened it, inhaling audibly when he saw what was inside—two hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars, enough for him and his family to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.
“Thank you, Alfredo, thank you.” Cordero closed the case again, stood and shook Roldos’s hand.
“No, my friend, thank you.” Roldos escorted the Assistant Secretary of the Interior to the door, said goodbye and made sure his secretary showed him the way out.
Once he was alone, he closed the door and locked it. Striding back to his desk, he sat and took a satellite phone from another desk drawer. Activating it, he dialed a number from memory. It rang three times, then a connection was made.
“Ja?”
“The contract is signed. Begin the operation.”
“Ja.”
Roldos broke the connection, put the phone away and reached for his Robusto again, intending to smoke it down to the butt. And in a few days, we’ll be on our way to making more money than anyone’s ever seen.
* * *
STILL TRAILING THE TRUCK, Galo scrambled across a large tree trunk that had fallen the day before and presently spanned a plant-choked ravine. The voracious denizens of the rainforest were already going to work on it, however, and soon it would be eaten away and fall into the divide, to rot and return to the earth. But for the moment, it made an excellent natural bridge.
On the other side, Galo scurried through the underbrush, with less than fifty yards to go until he reached the village clearing. He was about to emerge from the jungle and greet the visitors when he heard screams, followed by a sound he knew all too well—the sharp crack of gunfire.
Dropping to his stomach, Galo crawled forward until he was able to peek under a large cluster of purple orchids and watch what was happening to his friends and family.
The men from the truck, their heads covered by cloth masks, were all out of the vehicle and splitting up throughout the village, which consisted of about a dozen thin-walled huts on stilts with thatched roofs. The inhabitants, including Galo’s mother and father, had been coming out to greet the newcomers, but presently ran in terror, only managing a few steps before being gunned down and dropping in their tracks. The men were focused, efficient and deadly. Two-man teams moved from hut to hut, checking inside and shooting anyone they found. Screams of terror were cut off instantly by bursts of automatic-rifle fire.
Galo was frozen where he lay, mouth locked open in a silent scream, unable to run, unable to move. In a few minutes it was all over, save for the occasional single shot as the merciless killers swept through the village one last time, finishing off the wounded. A burst of rifle fire sounded in the distance, and a pair of the camouflaged men emerged from the jungle on the far end of the village, their rifles smoking as they laughed to each other.
The man in the cab, the leader of the operation, stood on the running board of the large truck, face partially shaded by the safari hat, his light blue eyes sweeping across the shattered remains of the village and the motionless bodies of its inhabitants.
The men regrouped at the truck, climbing in only when the man in the hat gave the signal. The vehicle turned around in the clearing and had begun heading out when it came to a halt. The man in the hat rolled his window down and peered out at the jungle—right where Galo was hiding.
Ducking his head, the boy held his breath, not daring to move. The truck stayed where it was for what seemed like an eternity. Galo’s heart hammered in his chest as he expected to hear the savage bark of the killers’ rifles any second. He was steeling himself to jump up and run deeper into the forest when the truck’s engine revved up again and it moved out down the road, its growl growing fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear it.
Yet still Galo stayed where he lay, under the orchids, not daring to move.
A light rain began falling on Galo, the slaughtered village…everything.
Still, the boy did not move.
1
Even dressed in khaki chinos and a bright tropical shirt—dark blue with palm trees and red-and-yellow macaws patterned all over it—Mack Bolan felt underdressed as he moved through the huge, raucous dance party in the favela of Rocinha, one of Rio de Janeiro’s worst slums. Even the police feared coming into the seemingly endless blocks of closely packed, brightly colored two- and three-story tenements, each of which often contained several families living almost on top of each other.
Rio’s government, however, was prepping for the 2016 Olympics, and high priority was to clean up the favelas and crack down on the flourishing crime spawned there, especially the drug trade.
That was why Bolan was here. Street intelligence said that Thiago Bernier, one of the city’s top drug lords, was making a rare public appearance here, accepting tribute from the slum dwellers while presiding as the unofficial “king” of the baile, or dance party. Although Stony Man and the U.S. government typically left internal policing to the respective country, Bernier was the middleman in a smuggling ring that stretched across South America, from the Atlantic to the Pacific and all the way up to Mexico. When the local police were less than forthcoming about providing intelligence and assistance on his operation, Bolan had decided to handle things his way: get into the country, find Bernier and bring him out—one way or another. The resistance had been just enough for Bolan to consider whether officers inside the department had been bribed by the ever-present tide of drug money washing over the city, but that investigation would have to wait for another time.
Typically, Anglos stood out anywhere they went in the sprawling metropolis. Besides his clothes, Bolan had disguised himself with a spray-on tan. With his black hair, he figured he’d blend in well enough, even if he was several inches taller than the majority of the dancing, singing, drinking crowd around him.
Fortunately, even his loud shirt was positively subdued compared to the riot of color and sound surrounding him. Remixed bossa nova music blared from speakers on every block, the pulsating beat driving men and women, all dressed in bright costumes, to dance wildly all around him. Bolan could even understand the frenetic activity—celebrate life this day, because any one of the partygoers around him could be dead tomorrow. It wasn’t a philosophy he subscribed to—whenever possible, he preferred to be the one holding the gun.
Although he tried to stick close to the sides of buildings, occasionally knots of partiers would sweep him into the maelstrom that was the nonstop street party. So far, besides spotting several hired guns positioned throughout the revelers, Bolan hadn’t seen a concentrated force yet—he figured that was coming soon, and he was right.
A vacant lot had been taken over to install Bernier as the king of festivities. Swarthy, black-haired and handsome, he presided over the party with a casual bored air of the slumming kingpin. One thing Bolan had to give him credit for was the number of pigs roasting in pits around the lot. The rich smell of the roasting pork overlaid the strong smell of cheap cologne, sweat and filth that permeated the street. At least the attendees’ll eat well this night, Bolan thought. Assuming they survive the next few minutes.
A flash of movement across the street attracted his predator senses and Bolan glanced over to see a brief altercation already being broken up by several people. It was enough, however, for him to spot a familiar-looking face, topped by a shock of black hair with a distinctive streak of white.
Davi Giachetto—the police are here? Although annoyed, Bolan wasn’t surprised that his own source had made sure the local brass had shown up. He got paid twice, and there was a better-than-even chance that one or both of the parties using the information would be killed in the ensuing firefight, leaving him in the clear. It was actually pretty clever. Bolan made a mental note to himself that if he ever saw that snitch again, he’d be sure to remind him how much he didn’t like being sold out.
But that was then—now, he had to prevent a potential bloodbath. Bolan had nothing against the short, tireless Brazilian cop. Sergeant Giachetto had cojones the size of soccer balls to even come down here in the first place. He had to know that if he was made, he’d be dead before he got to the end of the block.
But just because Bolan liked the man didn’t mean he trusted him. After all, what better way to eliminate a competitor in crime than to bribe a cop to arrest the man, then have him shot while “resisting arrest” or “attempting to escape.” Although he was usually on the side of the badges, Bolan had run into his share of bent police officers in the past and always approached every one he met with the same amount of caution and skepticism until he was sure of their loyalty.
Raising his smartphone, he took a picture of the street’s festivities, making sure to catch the officer in the shot. As he did, Bolan ran another casual sweep of the narrow avenue, revising his assessment of the posted security. Even as he watched, three of them had already been neutralized and replaced with Giachetto’s men. Slick, he thought, pushing his way to the front of the empty lot, which was guarded by three men several inches taller than him and twice as wide.
“Eu tenho que ver o Senhor Bernier,” Bolan said in passable Portuguese. His smartphone’s translator program was just hitting beta test in the U.S. Army. Bolan was part of the field testing, right here, right now.
“Ninguém vê o Senhor Bernier,” one of the big men grunted, shaking his head. “No one sees Mr. Bernier.”
“É urgente. Eu trabalho para o Alarico Nascimento.” Bolan cautiously pulled up his shirt to reveal his smartphone in a holster at his waist, noting the man’s large hand creeping behind his back. The bodyguard on Bolan’s left was backing up his partner while the third man kept watch over the boisterous crowd. These guys were definitely not local muscle for hire—they were professionals.
When the bodyguard saw the phone, he nodded his massive head once. Bolan speed-dialed a number and handed the phone to the hulk. “Leve isso para o Senhor Bernier.”
The big man stared at Bolan for a moment, looked suspiciously at the phone, dwarfed in his huge paw, then turned and lumbered into the lot, the two other guards closing ranks behind him. He reached Bernier, who was watching a pair of scantily clad women dance in front of him while texting on his own smartphone.
The kingpin looked up at his henchman over his round glasses, then followed the other man’s finger as it pointed out Bolan. Frowning, he took the phone and put it to his ear. Bolan watched Bernier stiffen as he heard his lieutenant, Alarico Nascimento, tell him that the bearer of this phone should be trusted implicitly, as he had been sent by Nascimento himself to Bernier. The drug dealer stared at Bolan again, then spoke to his guard and pointed at Bolan, who casually rested his hand on his hip—the better to draw his compact SIG Sauer pistol hidden at the small of his back if needed.
The big man whispered in his cohort’s ear, then waved Bolan forward. He slipped past the two men, taking the opportunity to look behind him for any sign of the polícia. He thought he caught a glimpse of Giachetto’s face in the crowd, but an exuberant dancer crossed in front of him, cutting off his view. Then Bolan was behind the bodyguard wall, walking to Bernier’s cheap wooden throne.
“You work for Alarico?” the dealer asked in Portuguese.
“Yes,” Bolan answered.
“Why are you here?” Bernier asked.
“He sent me to warn you—the police are coming, tonight, for you, right now.” All of that was true—Nascimento had been captured by Stony Man operatives while on vacation in Canada and had provided Bolan’s bona fides as part of a witness protection deal.
Bernier slouched back in his chair and laughed. “The fucking police wouldn’t dare show their faces in the favelas!”
Bolan held his hand out for his smartphone, which Bernier tossed at him with a sneer. Flicking through the screens, Bolan brought up the photograph he’d taken of the street a few minutes ago and zoomed in on Giachetto’s face. Holding the phone out, he asked, “You recognize this cop?”
Bernier stiffened when he saw the sergeant’s face. “Shit! That son of a bitch!” He whistled, a sharp blast that brought his bodyguard back. Bernier hissed commands that made the man get on his cell, most likely trying to raise the other security guards in the area. Bolan looked at the front of the lot to see the other men not even bothering to hide their weapons, each one carrying a compact Steyr Tactical Machine Pistol with extended magazine. Bolan kept his expression carefully neutral at the sight, although he realized that the possibility of a slaughter had just increased by a factor of ten. The Steyrs were compact “room brooms,” spitting out 9 mm bullets at 850 rounds per minute. If the police mishandled the arrest, the resulting riot could leave dozens injured or dead.
Bernier sprang from his chair. “Javiero! Let’s get the fuck outta here! You—” he pointed at Bolan “—you’re coming with us, as well. If this is a double cross, you’ll be the first to die! Get moving!”
Keeping his hands in plain sight, Bolan walked ahead of Javiero the bodyguard. They were heading toward the back of the lot and a sleek Range Rover with tinted windows when a flurry of gunshots cracked from the crowd.
“Shit!” Bolan spun to hear the staccato bursts of the Steyrs as they spat death into the crowd. Screams and shouts ensued as the panicked men and woman tried to scatter for cover, running into each other and trampling several in their haste to escape the kill zone.
“Javiero! Cover me!” Bernier had drawn his own pistol, a chrome-plated Desert Eagle, and was covering Bolan with it. “You’re my insurance.”
“Whatever you say—but I wouldn’t go out the back—” was all Bolan got to say before Bernier shoved the pistol under his chin.
“Why? You trying to lead me into a trap so os porcos can arrest me?”
“No, but the police’ll have that covered, as well.”
Just then another fusillade of shots sounded from ahead of them, and Bernier’s driver exchanged fire with unseen assailants before driving off in a squeal of tires.
“Bastard! Aquele cachorro!” Bernier swore as Javiero let loose with his machine pistol, the roar of the compact weapon drowning out the rest of the man’s swearing. He kept the cops under cover while moving to fire from behind the only protection he could find—one of the roasting pigs. Bullets punched through the carcass, spraying juices through the air.
Several cartridges also tunneled through the meat and into the huge bodyguard, making him sit with a surprised look on his face, his machine pistol slipping from his hand as he died.
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