Don Pendleton - Shadow Search

A group of people was clustered around a car listening to another repeat of the taped message that had been sent to the station within minutes of the bomb blast. The rebels claimed responsibility for the explosion and were threatening more if the government did not accede to their demands. They had been forced into this position because the government had refused to compromise. So the people of Tempala would pay the price. The voice on the tape made the usual excuses, used the same condescending tones as he claimed that what had happened was the fault of a repressive administration. The rebels had been forced to make this dramatic gesture. Not once during the tape did the man even hint at any kind of regret over the deaths of innocent people.

The scenario wasn’t unfamiliar to Bolan. He had seen and heard the same in other locations around the world. The work of savages who considered this kind of thing a legitimate part of their agenda. The senseless death and destruction was intended to cow the populace into favoring the demands of the opposition. In Bolan’s estimation these people had just crossed the line. They were using the most base form of coercion, and as far as the soldier was concerned, Tempala’s rebels—as he had said to President Karima—had stepped into the shadow land that marked them down as nothing more than terrorists.

“They talk as if it’s our fault,” someone close by said.

Bolan looked up and saw the big sergeant bearing down on him, clutching mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. He handed one to Bolan. The sergeant’s uniform was stained and bloody, his black skin streaked with dust and gleaming with sweat.

“That’s what they want you to believe,” Bolan said. “Make the people feel guilty so they come around to the way of the terrorist.”

“Don’t you mean our glorious rebels?” the policeman said with more than a hint of irony in his voice.

Bolan looked him in the eye. “No, I mean terrorist.”

The sergeant sized up the tall American as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind about the man yet. “You know about this kind of thing?”

“A little.”

The sergeant shook his head. “I think a lot, my friend.”

He stuck out a large hand. Bolan took it and they shook.

“Now tell me who you are. And why you are wearing a gun under that jacket you haven’t taken off even in this heat.”

There was no threat in the man’s tone.

“Name’s Mike Belasko. I arrived a few hours ago. I’m part of Leland Cartwright’s team. The man who…”

The sergeant nodded. “I know who he his. So, Mr. Belasko, what is your job on the team?”

“Security advisor.”

“That would explain the gun.”

Bolan smiled. “No fooling you.”

“My job.”

“You have a name, Sergeant?”

“Christopher Jomo.”

“You been a policeman long?”

Jomo gestured at the destruction. “When I see things like this I think too long. Then I remember why I became a police officer and I get angry. Angry at the bastards who do such things. Tempala is not a bad country. Because of President Karima things are getting better all the time. They are not perfect yet, but we’ll get there. If we weren’t being plagued by these damned…terrorists…we would get there a lot faster.”

“Nothing worth having comes without a fight, Jomo.”

“I can accept that,” the policeman said. “But not when they wage war on children.”

Jomo was looking at the five small forms covered by sheets. In death they seemed to shrink even smaller. The big man’s shoulders sank and he bent his head for a moment.

“Not the children,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Now these men receive no mercy.”

No mercy. The policeman’s words might have come from Bolan himself.

“You know one of the crazy things here,” Jomo said. “Many of the injured are Kirandi. The idiots have killed their own people as well.”

“Belasko?”

Bolan glanced round and saw McReady pushing through the crowd. The man looked genuinely concerned when he saw the state of Bolan’s clothing.

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“Yes. I’ve been giving a hand.”

McReady recognized Jomo. “I see you two have met.”

Jomo smiled. “Mr. Belasko has been a good friend today. It will not be forgotten. I must go and see how my men are doing. We’ll meet again, Belasko.”

Bolan nodded briefly. He watched the big policeman walk away. Jomo hesitated as he passed the bodies of the five children, and Bolan realized just how badly the man had been affected.

“Hey, you sure you’re okay?”

“Phil, don’t worry. I just need to get cleaned up.”

McReady sensed the hardness in Bolan’s words. “Belasko? What is it?”

Bolan took a long, hard look at the death and destruction surrounding them. He listened to the faint cries of the injured.

“This has just become a war,” Bolan said and walked away.

BACK IN HIS HOTEL ROOM Bolan used the number Karima had given him and spoke briefly with the president.

“Have you heard personally from the terrorists, sir?”

“I received a call minutes after the explosion. It was a taped message.”

“Justifying what they had done?”

“It stated that the bombing was a show of commitment by the rebels,” Karima said. “That they meant business. They threatened there could be more of the same.”

Bolan considered the implications of the statement. Something didn’t sit right. “Why now?”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Belasko.”

“The ten days they gave you are not up yet. So why suddenly embark on a bombing campaign before they know whether you are going to accede to their demands?”

“As they said, it was to show they are serious.”

Bolan shook his head. “I don’t buy that. They took your children and murdered your driver. How much more serious does it get than that?”

“Mr. Belasko, what are you suggesting?”

“I’d rather not say anything until I’m sure. I’ll contact you again once I have some news.”

“Very well. I have to leave now. I’m going to the scene of the explosion, to see for myself what these people have done.”

Bolan put down the phone. He was thankful Karima hadn’t pressed him on his thoughts as to why the terrorists had set off their bomb. At the back of his mind lurked the possibility that the president’s children were no longer a bargaining ploy. Maybe they were already dead and lost as a lever by the terrorists? It was a tenuous strand but one the Executioner had to consider. He knew he was looking at the worst-case scenario—but in his line of work looking on the dark side was a common practice. In this case he hoped it was no more than speculation.

Bolan had opened his travelling bag and spread the contents across the bed. His combat gear, blacksuit and boots. His combat harness already loaded and ready for action, the pockets holding additional magazines for the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle as well as the Beretta. A sheathed knife was fastened to the belt of the harness. In one of the pockets was a wire garrote. Another held a number of plastic wrist restraints. He checked the gear, then moved to the Uzi SMG, spending a few minutes stripping it down, checking that everything functioned. The soldier reassembled the weapon, then picked up a double magazine; one magazine taped to another for quick reloading. He snapped the magazine into its slot, cocked the weapon and set the safety. He had two more of the double magazines. These went into the small backpack he had brought, along with a small med-kit and some field rations. There was a canteen he would fill with water from his room fridge before he moved out. Satisfied he had everything he needed, Bolan packed the gear away in the bag and stowed it in the wardrobe, locking it and pocketing the key.