Dick Stivers - Royal Flush

His head exploded in a shower of blood and gray matter. He pitched backward in a death sprawl.

Bolan tracked right, squeezing off another round.

Another of the bastards went spinning into oblivion as a slug punched open his head.

Two more VC went down before the others realized someone in the shadows was sniping at them. The ones still alive cast about frantically for some sign of the wraith-like, silent sniper.

Shouting in anger, one of the VC peppered the nearby jungle with rounds from his machine gun. He was kicked backward an instant later by a burst that splattered through his neck.

Another threw a grenade into the trees.

Bolan was on the move and out of range by the time it exploded. The Executioner dropped the grenade thrower with another short burst from the M-16. He slammed another clip into the assault rifle and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

He stayed on the perimeter of the village, always on the move, pausing every few feet to deliver death to another of these vermin who preyed on their own countrymen.

He had to take one of them alive, so he could find out where the others had taken Jill Desmond.

He snapped off another shot. A running Cong flopped to the ground. Bolan scanned the area.

There had to be at least one more VC around here. There had to be.

Bolan moved out from the tree line.

In the darkness he heard the snap of a twig to his left.

He slipped to the side as automatic-weapon fire ripped through the space where he had just been.

The muzzle-flash came from near one of the burning huts.

Bolan put a round through the ambusher's chest and another through his thigh. The VC fell, weapon spinning away. He sprawled on the ground thrashing and screaming in pain.

He was still alive.

Bolan stepped forward.

The wounded VC fumbled for a grenade.

Bolan's booted foot lashed out and broke the man's wrist. The grenade bounced away harmlessly, pin intact.

Bolan pressed the muzzle of the M-16 against the guy's chest.

"I hope to hell you speak English."

The Cong's eyes were wide, filled with terror. But he did not respond.

Bolan switched to Vietnamese. His fair command of the language got his point across.

The guy twisted his head back and forth in response to Bolan's question. The fear grew stronger. So did the pain as shock wore off. Blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. His breathing was harsh, ragged.

Bolan asked once more where the others in the group had gone.

Again the man shook his head.

Bolan's eyes darted around the burned-out village, looking for any sign of Jill Desmond.

Nothing.

She was gone.

Taken.

A coldness grew inside Bolan, a white-hot coldness.

He thought about what would happen to the woman if she remained a VC captive for even a short time.

Then he shifted the M-16 and pressed the hot muzzle against the sweating forehead of the wounded creep.

For the last time, Bolan asked his question.

This time, the guy answered.

"Xan Lung!" he screamed out.

Bolan eased off the pressure of the M-16 threatening to blow the guy's skull to bits. He stood, trying to decide what to do with the man, when the VC made the decision for him.

The VC scrambled as fast as he could toward a fallen machine gun, dragging his shattered leg behind him. He got his hands on the weapon.

Then Bolan's burst from the M-16 ripped the VC apart.

The Executioner was alone in a village of death.

He drew a long breath and let it out slowly. Fatigue tried to claim his body and soul. But he refused to acknowledge it.

Time to get moving.

The nights were never totally quiet.

There were insects and other small creatures moving through the jungle. The sounds of nature went on.

The path Bolan followed was narrow and winding, the bushes around him so thick that only the smallest glimmer of moonlight penetrated.

He moved by instinct most of the time, hurrying along the trail at a soundless jog, the jungle fighter in his element.

He quickly circled the perimeter of the decimated village before leaving it behind, and his first thought was confirmed.

Jill was not among the dead.

The VC had her.

They could make use of a captured American, especially an attractive female journalist.

There would be more than the inevitable rape. They would debase her totally as a woman, as a human being.

Mack Bolan was not going to let the woman die.

He stepped up his pace.

With his rifle at the ready, his combat senses fine tuned to danger in the jungle around him, he hustled along.

The wounded VC back at the village had told him with two words where the others had gone.

Xan Lung.

A village one hour to the north that had already felt the purging touch of the VC. They had taken over the village, constructed a munitions dump there. They abandoned the settlement when the Americans learned of the VC presence and shelled the area.

The village was well off the main "highway."

Bolan headed in that direction, making his own path at first, then following the trail he came across. He was fairly sure that the VC had used the path earlier that night. An occasional vine that had been hacked away from the jungle trail told Bolan that the wounded man had not lied. The VC had come this way.

With Jill.

The path was muddy in places. The muck suctioned at his boots. The ever-present stench of decayed vegetation filled his nostrils, making the air thick.

The sound of voices came to his ears.

Bolan slowed.

The voices were low pitched. The source was ahead of him, just off the trail.

He melted into the bush on the same side of the path and stood absolutely still. His alert senses had saved him from walking directly into a security perimeter. He heard two voices, conversing in Vietnamese.

Okay.

If they were lookouts, they weren't very good ones. Deep in the jungle, though, he supposed it was easy for them to get overconfident.

He moved up on them so softly that not even the night creatures were disturbed.

Within moments he was a few feet from the enemy but neither of them had any idea of his presence.

One of the VC laughed at a comment from the other one.

Bolan knew he had to take out both of them almost at the same time to prevent any outcry.

He rushed forward between the two of them. Surprise registered on one of the men's faces, but not for long as Bolan rammed the M-16's butt sideways. There was a cracking sound as skull bone shattered. One VC, dead on his feet, stumbled back, blood spurting from his nose and mouth.

The other man only had time to emit a startled grunt. He started tracking his rifle upward, but the Executioner pivoted in a lightning-fast maneuver and swung the gun stock again. The second VC, his head caved in, dropped lifelessly to the ground alongside his comrade.

Bolan left them there.

A few steps and he was back on the trail.

Where there was one set of guards, there would be another.

Bolan advanced a few meters, then left the trail. The going would be slower, but he was willing to sacrifice a little speed.

Long minutes passed as the nightscorcher made his way through dense clinging undergrowth.

A whiff of cooking came to him, intermingled with the usual smells of this jungle world.

The VC camp at Xan Lung.

Suddenly a guttural voice challenged him.

Bolan dived forward, somersaulting and coming up in a crouch. He spotted the shadowy bulk of a sentry in the darkness and triggered off a round.

The silenced assault rifle chugged.

The figure in the shadows staggered, clutching at its middle, and fell.

Bolan moved to the man's side, knife unsheathed, poised.