Dick Stivers - Royal Flush

The body had been discovered.

Within seconds the chase would be on.

Bolan jerked Jill Desmond into the room at the end of the corridor of the damaged munitions dump. He pushed her toward the back wall.

"I'll give you a boost," he told her. "Once you're over, head for the tree line."

"What about you?" There was a genuine concern in her voice.

"I'll catch up to you," Bolan grunted.

He stooped and grasped her around the hips. He hoisted her into position so she would grab the top of the wall.

She started to pull herself up and over to the outside. Bolan placed one hand behind on a nicely shaped rump and gave a purely strategic push.

Jill hauled herself to the top. A second later she disappeared over the wall.

Bolan was right behind her.

He paused at the top of the wall.

There were several sections of the old munitions depot roof that were intact, though drooping, especially near the edge of the roof.

Bolan moved out onto one of those sections for a better look at the uproar gripping the Xan Lung camp.

The VC were disorganized. But only for the moment. Already someone had thrown more wood on the fire so that it blazed and shed stronger illumination across the jungle surrounding the clearing.

Time for the play, grandstand and all.

Last chance, in fact.

The blitz artist tugged grenades off his belt, moving smooth and efficiently, pulling out the pins one by one. He tossed the bundles of death and hellfire into the VC camp.

One Cong saw things dropping from the sky and let out a startled yell.

The first grenade blew and ripped him apart, leaving a shallow hole in the clay and a mangled splotch where a heartbeat before a man had stood.

One after another the grenades exploded.

Some of the VC dived for cover, but many of them never had a chance. Shrapnel tore into them, shredding lives and limbs in a fireworks display of airborne body parts. The air was filled with high-pitched screams as men died.

It took just seconds for Bolan's five grenades to unleash their hellfire. At least half a dozen VC died as the Executioner canceled their tabs.

That left quite a few of them alive. Some of them spotted Bolan.

Bolan flicked the M-16 to full-auto as the cooking muzzle tracked an arc of death. Bolan cut down three more of the enemy in a figure eight of blistering lead. They never knew what hit them. The 5.56mm slugs ripped through flesh, splattering brains, pulverizing hearts. Vietcong did weird death dances in the flickering firelight, before sprawling immobile into the dark shadows.

Bullets whizzed all around Bolan, singing angry songs near him.

From his position atop the wall he cast a glance toward the tree line where waist-high elephant grass bordered the jungle.

Jill had already vanished into the night.

Even if he never left this clearing, Jill would have a chance, he thought.

And that was all you could ask for in the jungle.

The M-16's muzzle spit its last round, planting a death kiss on the forehead of a Cong who had peeled off some rounds at Bolan from half-assed cover.

Bolan slung the rifle over his shoulder and grabbed for his holstered .45. But his weight suddenly became too much for the section of roof on which he perched.

With a rumble, it caved in.

Bolan fell with it.

As he dropped, he twisted his body in an instinctive reflex. His back scraped the top of the wall, but he fell outside the building.

He hit the ground, rolling, and came up ready to dive toward the back corner of the bombed-out arms depot.

Too far away.

His body would be butchered by VC slugs before he could cross the clearing.

"Hit the dirt!" a female voice yelled at him from somewhere beyond the flickering blaze.

Bolan hit the dirt, his .45 and eyes panning the night for targets.

He saw Jill come around the corner of the old munitions building with one of the fallen sentries' AK-47s. She held the rifle awkwardly, but there was nothing clumsy about the chattering stream of hot lead that erupted from its muzzle.

Bolan stayed prone under the line of fire and let the slugs chew up the careless enemy. Several went into stumbling death slides, blood spurting.

Bolan triggered his .45, adding to the carnage.

Jill reached his side and crouched there.

Their combined firepower, the lady journalist with her confiscated AK and marksman Bolan with the .45, was withering.

The smattering of answering fire from the darkness stuttered into nothing.

The jungle line was only a few meters away.

Bolan seized the lull, leathered his side arm and grabbed the lady's wrist, guiding her along with him as he withdrew for the tree line.

They plunged into the dark jungle undergrowth needless of the branches and vines whipping at them like hungry things.

Jill let out a ragged breath from time to time, but Bolan urged her on. They could not afford to face more VC who might be in the vicinity.

Within moments, sounds of pursuit rustled in the distance behind them.

"Where did you learn to fire an assault rifle like that?" Bolan asked the woman.

"Back there," came the grim reply.

There was no trail through this part of the jungle, but they were heading in the general direction of the road from Three Click Fork.

Or so Bolan hoped.

His instincts proved right.

They stumbled out onto the rough surface of the road forty minutes later.

They would be better targets at the moment, if the VC managed to close in on them from behind, but they could move faster on the road.

The VC had not yet reached the road.

A shadow moved in front of them.

Bolan spun Jill away from him, splitting them up to make them harder targets. He brought up the reloaded M-16 and tracked the rifle on the moving spot.

His finger froze on the trigger a fraction of a second before sending a bullet into the night.

He heard the cry of a child.

A little boy, no more than four or five years old, stumbled into the road, tears running down his cheeks. His clothes were in tatters. There was blood on his face from a gash in his scalp.

He was alone.

Jill crouched on the other side of the road, her AK-47 up and ready. She saw the child, too, and moved back into the center of the road to join Bolan. He was already advancing toward the boy, more wary than ever of an enemy trap.

The child saw the two adults approaching and turned to run away.

Bolan caught the child's arm and stopped him.

Two still forms on the road nearby caught Bolan's attention. He took a closer look: the child's parents. Dead. Slaughtered.

"From that burned-out village, more than likely," Bolan grunted under his breath. "The VC caught them on their way out. This is no place for the little guy. Not tonight."

The soldier gathered the child up in his free arm and glanced at Jill.

She looked as if she needed to catch her breath, dangerous though the delay might be.

There was still no sign of Charlie.

Bolan let himself start to hope they might successfully escape.

"Take a minute," he told the woman. He looked at the boy and saw the terror on that young face. "It's okay, son. You'll be all right now." He patted the child.

The boy didn't understand the words, but Bolan's gestures reassured him. He stopped crying.

Jill watched the care and compassion with which Mack Bolan handled the Vietnamese youngster.

"Thank you," she said abruptly. "After everything I said to you earlier tonight, I don't know why you put your life on the line to save me."

"Orders," he said gruffly, grinning.

"I'm not so sure. I'm not sure about a lot of things I used to be very sure about."

"Like who the savages are?"

She grimaced.

"I think I was just introduced to them. What I saw… the atrocities they committed… that's what this war is all about, isn't it?"