Don Pendleton - Shadow Search

“I don’t know what you want.”

“We can start with why?”

“You were interfering in something that was none of your damn business. We took a contract to kill you.”

“That answers my second question then. All I need is the name of the one who gave the order.”

Despite his position Benjo managed a nervous laugh. “You expect me to tell? You might as well shoot me. I give you names I’m a dead man.”

“Don’t fool yourself I won’t do it,” Bolan said. “Your people went over the line when you set off that bomb yesterday. You killed innocent children in the name of your struggle and expect mercy?”

“Hey, man, I’m no rebel. I just took a job from them. The ones who died in that blast were just unlucky they were in the way.”

“Pity they weren’t asked if they wanted it that way.”

Benjo pushed against the muzzle pressed to his head. His face showed the anger inside. “So go home, Yank. This is not your fight. Go home before you die, too.”

Bolan’s smile was all the more chilling because it failed to reach his eyes. They were hard and cold, without a shred of pity.

“Tell me what I have to be frightened of? A bunch of backstreet thugs who bomb women and children? Real hardmen who can only kidnap the president’s young kids because they don’t have the guts to challenge him in the open?”

Bolan spun Benjo aside and pushed him away. He leveled the pistol.

“Game’s over, Benjo. You had your chance and wasted it. Time’s up.”

Benjo looked back over his shoulder. Maybe gauging how far he had to go to reach the freedom of the dark night. He even made a tentative movement with his foot. His manner changed abruptly. Benjo dropped to a crouch, yanking up the leg of his trousers, and snatched a slim-bladed knife from an ankle sheath. His arm went back in the first stage of a throw.

Bolan reacted quickly, twisting to one side, bringing the pistol back on line.

From somewhere behind Benjo a handgun fired, briefly illuminating the shadows with its muzzle-flash. The bullet hit Benjo between the shoulders, exiting through his upper chest. The velocity of the powerful slug created a substantial wound, shards of bone mingled with the lacerated flesh. Benjo fell facedown on the concrete floor, his limbs in spasm for a time.

Bolan watched the spot where the shot had come from. He wasn’t exactly surprised when he saw the tall figure of Sergeant Christopher Jomo appear. The man was in civilian clothing this time. He came to stand over Benjo, tucking his .44 Magnum revolver into his belt.

“You have a strange way of relaxing, Mr. Belasko.”

“I wasn’t given any choice in the matter.”

“I saw them bringing you out of the hotel.”

“Which you just happened to be passing?”

Jomo smiled. “I was on my way to see you.”

“About?”

“I was curious. Something made me want to know more about you.”

“Such as?”

“The real reason you are here in Tempala. I was just parking my car when I saw those two coming from the rear of the hotel dragging you along with them.”

“Lucky for me you have a curious streak.”

Jomo glanced at the bodies, then back at Bolan. “I think you’ve satisfied my curiosity here tonight. Especially why you are in Tempala.” Jomo stepped forward. “It wasn’t hard to overhear what you were saying. Now I’ll tell you something. If the president’s children have been taken, let me help. You’re going to need someone who knows the country. I was born on a farm and spent my childhood in the bush country.”

Bolan held back only for a moment. “What about these terrorists? Any thoughts on where they might take the children?”

“Out of the city, that’s for certain. Too many chances of being spotted if they stayed here. The children are known by the people. They would be recognized.”

“Sounds logical. Do they have a base? A central place they operate from?”

Jomo smiled. “My friend, this is Africa, not New York. The whole country is their base. Which is why they are hard to locate. These people live in the bush, move around as they have done for centuries. They can live off the land so they have no need for bases to store their food. They get water from the springs they know or from the water holes the animals use.”

“I get the message. So where do we start?”

“In the bush,” Jomo said.

“What about these two? Any thoughts?”

“I know the one you shot. Petty criminal. Native Kirandi. Been in prison a couple of times. Has a history of violence. He would have ended up shot sooner or later.”

“Any political leanings?”

Jomo shook his head. “He wasn’t the committed type. If you are asking if he was with the rebels I’d say no. Most likely he was hired to kill you because he was on the spot.”

“Pretty much what I heard.”

Jomo bent over the man and searched his pockets. He stood up again, waving a thick roll of banknotes. “Check Benjo. He’ll be carrying the same. He was a brother criminal.”

Bolan found a similar roll of bills. He threw it to Jomo.

“Plain and simple, Belasko. They were paid to make you disappear.”

AS THEY DROVE BACK to the hotel in Jomo’s battered Land Rover, Bolan told the sergeant about Karima’s kids. He knew he could trust Jomo, and he needed someone with Jomo’s knowledge on his side. The light was starting to fail by the time they reached the hotel. The hard heat of the day had begun to fade as Jomo parked in a dark corner of the parking lot. Bolan went in and up to his room. Nothing had been touched. His captors had even closed the door when they had left, taking him with them. They must have used the fire escape to avoid being seen. He took the shoulder bag from the wardrobe. Bolan stripped and pulled on his blacksuit and boots. He spent a few minutes in the bathroom doctoring his head wound. He packed his weapons and gear into the backpack, then filled the canteen with water from the fridge. Slipping his cell phone into one of his zippered pockets he left the room and made his way back downstairs, using the fire escape. He walked around the side of the building and rejoined Jomo.

The policeman took a look at the blacksuit. “Now you dress for business?”

“Something like that,” Bolan replied.

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