Don Pendleton - Conflict Zone

But on her seventh morning of captivity, when Mandy Ross awoke from fitful sleep, she realized that somehow she was less afraid than she had been on waking yesterday. She had survived another night intact, and misty daylight lancing through the forest shadows didn’t bring the sense of waking terror that had been her only real emotion for the past six days.

Of course, she was afraid, convinced the worst still lay ahead of her, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was all out of her hands.

For instance, Mandy’s captors hadn’t raped her yet, although she recognized the looks they gave her, and she didn’t need a crash course in whatever dialect they spoke to understand what some of them were saying when they flashed grins in her direction.

It was coming, she supposed. And so was death.

The leader of her kidnappers had made that crystal-clear. If K-Tech Petroleum didn’t meet their demands, she would be killed. Not merely shot or stabbed, mind you, but hacked up into pieces while alive, the odd bits mailed off to her father and to K-Tech’s various directors as an object lesson in obedience.

The problem, simply stated, was that while her father was a wealthy man, he didn’t have a hundred million dollars or the prospects for obtaining it by any means before the deadline imposed by her captors ran out. And even though he was in charge of K-Tech’s operations in Nigeria, he obviously couldn’t grant the kidnappers’ alter-native demand, for a company pull-out. Even if he lost his mind and tried to order an evacuation of all K-Tech workers from the country, he’d be countermanded by his bosses in a heartbeat, either fired or placed on leave until he had regained his senses.

Nope.

The way it looked to Mandy Ross, she was as good as dead.

The thing, now, was to face her death as bravely as she could—or maybe hasten it along herself, before the goons who’d snatched her took it in their pointy little heads to stage an orgy with her as the guest of dishonor.

They hadn’t left her much in terms of weapons, but she’d thought about the problem long and hard over the past few days, as it became more and more obvious that she would never leave the rebel camp alive.

She had no blades or cutting tools of any kind, no rope or any other kind of ligature with which to hang herself, no toxic substances that she could swallow in a pinch. Childhood experience had taught her that you couldn’t suffocate yourself by force of will alone, holding your breath. At some point, you passed out and started breathing automatically, as nature reasserted its control.

But she had teeth, and with some effort she supposed that she could reach the same veins in her wrists that other suicides accessed with knives and razors. It would hurt like hell, but only for a little while. When her only other option was to wait around until she was gang-raped, then fileted alive, well, anyone who thought that was a choice needed to have his or her head examined.

The only question, now, was how long she should wait.

How much time did she have?

To hell with it, she thought. There’s no time like the present. Get it done.

NIGHT FELL HARD in a tropical country. There was no dusk to speak of, no romantic twilight. Having screened most of the sun from ground level, casting massive shadows all day long, the great trees played their final trick at sundown, producing the illusion of a switch thrown by a giant to put out the lights.

Bolan had witnessed the effect on four continents and knew what to expect. He’d almost reached the campground clearing when he lost daylight, and only needed moments for his night eyes to adjust.

Three guards lay dead behind him, in the forest, which cleared roughly one-quarter of the camp’s perimeter. He hoped it would be all he needed, but he didn’t have an exit strategy so far, and wouldn’t until he had found out where the MEND terrorists were confining Mandy Ross. From there, once she was extricated from whichever hut or tent they kept her in, he could decide on how to flee.

A narrow unpaved road allowed the rebels access to the world beyond their forest hideout, passable for Jeeps, dirt bikes and—if it didn’t rain too hard—the ancient army cargo truck that stood out in the compound’s motor pool. Bolan had no idea where following that track might lead him, and he filed it as a last resort, without trying to guess.

He had considered that he might find Mandy Ross already dead or hurt so badly that she couldn’t travel. Even with real soldiers, passions sometimes flared out of control, resulting in atrocities. If that turned out to be the case, Bolan could switch from rescue to revenge mode in a heartbeat. And whatever he might see inside the camp, he’d keep to himself, most definitely never sharing with the victim’s family.

How much could one endure and still go on?

It all depended on the person, both their outward strength and inner fortitude. Some persevered while others crumbled and surrendered, let themselves be swept away. He had no take on Mandy Ross, as yet—except that nothing in her affluent and privileged life would have prepared her for her present circumstance.

Scanning the camp with practiced eyes, he noted points of interest: the command post, the motor pool, a commo tent with a pole-mounted satellite dish for some kind of battery-powered commo setup. The men slept in puptents or out in the open, but one other hut caught his eye.

The only one with a sentry outside it.

If that wasn’t the camp’s one-room jail, then what was it?

Bolan was determined to find out.

He had begun to move in that direction, following the tree line still, using the shadows, when he saw one of the MEND gunners heading for the guarded hut. He was five-nine or -ten, wiry and muscular, bearing a metal plate of food, wearing a pistol on his right hip and a sheathed machete on the left. Bolan watched him dismiss the guard after some muffled talk that almost sounded like an argument.

The guard left, and the plate-bearer entered the hut. Before he closed the door, Bolan had time to glimpse the startled face of Mandy Ross.

“WHAT DO YOU want?” Mandy Ross asked.

“I’ve brought your supper,” the grinning gunman said.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied, and almost giggled, thinking, I’ll just nibble on my wrists tonight, if you don’t mind.

“You must keep up your strength,” the intruder said, still smiling.

She recognized him as an officer, second or third in charge of things around the camp. His name was James Something-or-other, which would have surprised her if she hadn’t spent the two weeks prior to her abduction meeting Africans with Anglo given names who were her father’s business colleagues. As it was, she focused on her captor’s face and words without distractions.

“Strength for what?” she asked him. “Are we marching somewhere?”

“Marching? No.” He laughed at that. “But after being kept so long in this place, you must need some exercise.”

She saw where he was headed, his dark eyes sliding up and down her body like a physical caress, and tried to head him off.

“I’m fine.”

“Indeed, you are,” James Something instantly agreed.

“Thanks for the food,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll eat my monkey meat alone.”

“Tonight is lizard, I believe,” he said. “Perhaps you need something to stimulate your appetite.”

“No, thanks, all the same.”

“But I insist.”

Still keeping up the smile, James looked around her tiny cell, as if expecting that it would have sprouted decorations other than the folding cot that was its only furniture. She guessed that he was looking for someplace to set the plate. At last, he turned back toward the door and placed it on the hut’s dirt floor.