Don Pendleton - Whipsaw

"No need for that," Bolan said.

"You butt out," McRae snapped, turning to give the big guy yet one more appraising look. "You're a guest here. Guests mind their own business."

"There's no need to be so rough. He's just a kid."

"The kid was carrying an AK. He'd cut your heart out and eat it. So tuck off."

Colgan stood by silently. The tall man had folded his arms across his chest, and Bolan watched the fingers of one hand patting an elbow. Colgan looked as if he were in an empty room. If he were aware of anything going on around him, it left him uninterested.

"Okay, Carlos," McRae said, "chain these little bastards to the wall while I figure out what to do with them."

Colgan turned suddenly and strode toward the door. Bolan followed him. He grabbed the tall man by the arm and spun him around.

"What's going on here?" Bolan demanded.

"We've taken prisoners. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And?.."

"And nothing, Mr. Belasko. That's Mr. McRae's department. I don't interfere."

"What usually happens?"

"Ask him..." Colgan turned away. He paused for the slightest of moments, balanced on the balls of his feet, then walked across the compound to his hut.

Bolan heard the sharp sound of skin on skin, then a moan. He dashed back into the prison hut.

One of the prisoners was down on his knees. Even in the dim light, Bolan could see the angry welt just beginning to swell under the kid's left eye.

The kid looked at Bolan. For a second there was a glimmer of contact, as if the kid were trying to tell him something or asking for help. But the glimmer quickly faded, and the kid turned a baleful glare McRae's way. McRae raised his hand again, and Bolan stepped forward, grabbing the raised hand and bending it back against the wrist.

"That's enough, McRae."

"You mother..." McRae ducked under and spun around, releasing the pressure on his wrist. He dropped into a crouch and bulled toward the big guy.

Bolan let McRae throw a couple of wild punches, neatly sidestepping each one, then landed a sharp left just under McRae's right eye.

McRae stumbled backward, tripping over the kneeling prisoner.

In a flash the kid was on him, trying to wrap his chains around McRae's throat. He missed twice, then butted McRae with his head. This time he succeeded in getting a loop of chain around the larger man's neck. He started to pull it tight, and McRae scrambled to get his fingers in between the bulky links and the flesh of his neck.

The kid was wiry and he was furious. McRae thrashed around on the dirt floor, trying to throw the kid off him, but he was losing control. His eyes started to bulge, and Bolan saw the skin on either side of the chain start to turn bright white. He looked at Carlos, but Carlos either didn't know what to do or had, unconsciously perhaps, chosen sides.

Bolan reached down and hauled the kid to his feet. McRae, still wrapped in the chains, came with him. Bolan grabbed the kid's right arm and jerked it away from the chains. McRae spun free, then lay on the floor, gasping, as the kid searched Bolan's face for some indication whether he had made a mistake or not.

Bolan already knew the answer. McRae was not going to forget this. Not in two lifetimes. He lay there gagging and cursing, his breath coming in quick, sharp gasps. He braced himself with one hand. The other chafed the skin on his neck, now neatly encircled by a bright red impression of the chain.

Each link was clearly and deeply etched.

McRae struggled to his feet, still cursing. He turned on Bolan. "Don't think I'm going to thank you, you son of a bitch. If you hadn't stuck your nose in, this wouldn't have happened in the first place."

"Just make sure it doesn't happen again," Bolan hissed. "Next time I'll let him finish."

Bolan left the prison hut. He heard steps and whirled, but it was only Carlos.

"You have made a bad enemy, senor," Carlos whispered.

Before Bolan could respond, Carlos was in full stride. A moment later he disappeared into his own hut. Bolan crossed the open space slowly, rubbing one hand thoughtfully against a two-day growth of whiskers. Something was dreadfully wrong, and he just couldn't get a fix on it. It was right under his nose, but Colgan was so bizarre that all the usual indications meant something other than he was used to.

It was like trying to read a favorite fairy tale translated into an alien language.

He had to get a handle on the place, and on Colgan, before he could even begin to take the next step. He would need Colgan to get to Harding, but he couldn't stand by and watch McRae's vicious behavior. Marisa seemed like the only way to get to Colgan.

Bolan walked to his hut and sat in the doorway, watching the door of the prison hut.

McRae came out a few seconds later, glanced at Bolan, then disappeared into his own hut. It was nearly noon. One by one, men started drifting from their huts to the mess hall.

A few of them glanced curiously in Bolan's direction, but none of them so much as raised a hand in greeting. Each man carried his automatic rifle slung over his shoulder.

When Marisa and Colgan appeared, Bolan stood and walked across the clearing to meet them.

Colgan looked at him curiously but said nothing. Bolan said hello, and Marisa tilted her head slightly before responding.

"You must be hungry, Mr. Belasko."

"Why?"

"Dealing with Mr. McRae always makes me hungry. I assume you and I are alike."

"All you think so?"

"All yes, I do."

"I don't..."

"Why's that?"

"Because I wouldn't put up with him. The man is a time bomb just waiting for somebody to set him off."

"He's an enthusiast," Colgan cut in. "He is a passionate man. You of all people should be able to understand that."

"Passion? Not really. Not that kind, anyway."

"What kind do you understand?" Marisa smiled while she waited for his answer. "Or should I guess?"

"You'd better guess," Bolan answered.

"Mr. Belasko has a passion for justice, Marisa." Colgan smiled distantly. "He fancies himself some sort of guardian angel."

"What are you going to do with the prisoners, Colgan?"

"Ah, I've struck a nerve, I see. I didn't realise my characterization was so close to the mark."

"What's the answer?"

"It's no concern of yours."

"I'm making it my concern."

"Very noble of you. But Mr. McRae is an old hand. He knows how to handle such things."

Changing tacks, Bolan hesitated for just a second. "Do you know where Charles Harding is?"

"No."

"Do you know where his headquarters is?"

"I'm sure not. Why, do you wish to change sides?"

"I'm not on any side to begin with."

"Oh, but you are. Whether you wish it or not."

"I have to get to Harding."

"Tell me why."

"I think you already know."

"Do you, now? And just what is it I know?"

"Stop playing games. You carry on like some mystical pharaoh. You're no less a petty autocrat than Harding is."

Marisa placed a hand on Colgan's arm.

"That's not fair, Mr. Belasko. My husband is trying to help these people, my people. He didn't come here to impose his will on them."

"Like Harding, you mean?"

"Yes, like Harding. And like you."

"I'm not trying to impose my will on anyone. But Charles Harding has to be stopped. And, just in case you didn't notice, those three kids in that hut are your people, too. Not mine, not Harding's or McRae's. Not even your husband's, Marisa. They're your people. And you stand around and watch while an animal like McRae brutalises them. What's he going to do with them?"

"I have no idea."

"You better get one, lady. You better get one, before it's too late."

"And I suppose you'll clap on your white hat and ride out of the hills to save the world, then ride off into the sunset. Is that it, Belasko? Is that what you have in mind? By God, I misjudged you. You're a fucking hero, that's what you are," Colgan said, turning his back. "But this country already has enough heroes."