Don Pendleton - Jungle Justice

And maybe that, thought Bolan, was the reason many of his nation’s battles had been fought.

History books extolled the U.S. combat soldier’s dedication to abstractions—Justice, Freedom and Democracy were those most prominently listed. Bolan, for his part, had never met a soldier who spent any barracks time at all debating politics, when there was talk of women, sports or food to be enjoyed. And in the orchestrated panic that was battle, he had never heard a fighting man of either side die with a patriotic slogan on his lips. They asked for wives or lovers, parents, siblings—anyone at all, in fact, except the leaders who had put them on the battlefield.

Armies defended or invaded nations. Soldiers fought to stay alive and help their buddies. Only “statesmen” waged war for ideals, and most of them had never fired a shot in anger, or been fired on in return.

Bolan had once maintained a journal, filled with thoughts about his private wars, the Universe, his place within the scheme of things and mankind’s destiny. He’d discontinued it some years ago, more from a lack of idle time than any shift in feeling, and he didn’t miss it now.

Who’d ever read or care about his private thoughts, in any case? Officially, he was a dead man, had been since his pyrotechnic finish had been staged by Hal Brognola in NewYork. From there, he’d been reborn—new face, new life, new war.

Except, in truth, his war had never really changed.

His enemies were predators in human form, who victimized the weak and relatively innocent. Like some unworthy patriots and holy men, they dressed their crimes in disguises of infinite variety. They were left- and right-wing, conservative and liberal, Muslim and Christian, Jew and gentile, male and female, young and old. They came in every color of the human rainbow, but they always wanted the same thing.

Whatever they could steal.

Bolan stood in their way, sometimes alone, sometimes with comrades who were dedicated to the fight for its own sake. And while he knew he couldn’t win them all, he’d done all right so far.

He found the spot he’d designated for his meeting with Brognola, leaned against the rough stone of the parapet and settled in to wait. The man from Justice thrived on punctuality, but Bolan was ten minutes early. He had time to kill.

He couldn’t see or hear the ghosts who walked those grounds, but Bolan never doubted they were present, bound by pain and sacrifice to the last battleground they’d known in life. And something told him that they didn’t really mind.

BROGNOLA STEPPED UP to the wall at Bolan’s side, and said “Been waiting long?”

“Not too long,” Bolan answered. “Shall we walk?”

“Suits me,” Brognola said.

He studied Bolan, as he always did, striving for subtlety. It wasn’t good to stare, but he supposed that shooting furtive glances from the corner of his eye would make him seem ridiculous, like something from a Peter Sellers comedy.

“How are you?” he inquired at last.

“Getting along,” Bolan replied.

Okay. No small talk, then.

“I’ve got a project that I thought might suit you, if you’re interested,” Brognola told him, cutting to the chase.

“Let’s hear it.”

“What do you know about India?”

Bolan considered it, then said, “Huge population. Sacred cows. Border disputes with Pakistan and China. Trouble with the Sikhs.”

“Endangered species?” he suggested, prodding.

Bolan shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“What about tigers?”

“Big and dangerous. Just ask Siegfried and Roy.”

“I’m thinking more of tigers in the wild.”

“Not many left, if memory serves,” Bolan said.

“They’re making a comeback of sorts on Indian game preserves,” Brognola told him, “but there’s still a thriving trade in pelts and organs.”

“Organs?”

“Right. Go figure. In the Eastern culture, certain organs are believed to help male potency.”

“I thought that was rhinoceros horn,” Bolan said.

“Same thing,” Brognola admitted. “Different strokes for different folks.”

“So, poachers,” Bolan said.

“Big-time. Not only tigers, but elephants, too. Apparently, it’s a major crime wave.”

“Too bad,” the Executioner replied. “But still—”

“I know, it’s not our usual.”

“Not even close.”

“Does the name Balahadra Naraka ring any bells?” Brognola asked.

“Vaguely. Can’t place it, though.”

“He’s a legend of sorts from what I gather,” the big Fed explained. “Started out as a small-time poacher, then he caught a prison sentence and escaped, killing some guards as he went. That was ten or twelve years ago, and the government’s been hunting him ever since. He’s the Indian equivalent of Jesse James or John Dillinger. Naraka has a gang, hooked up with dealers in Calcutta and buyers all over the world. Reports vary, but it seems he’s killed at least a hundred game wardens and soldiers. Some reports claim two hundred or more.”

“Bad news,” Bolan said, “but I still don’t see—”

“Our angle?” Brognola had anticipated him. “Last week a U.S. diplomat, one Phillip Langley, paid a visit to West Bengal with his wife. Langley is—or was—a member of the President’s task force on preservation of endangered species, working in conjunction with the United Nations.”

“Was a member?” Bolan asked.

“He’s dead,” Brognola replied. “The wife, too. Some of Naraka’s people jumped their convoy on a game preserve ninety miles outside Calcutta. Killed their escorts on the spot, then snatched the Langleys and demanded ransom.”

“Washington, of course, refused to pay,” Bolan said.

“Right. So, anyway, the army got a lead on where Naraka had them stashed and tried to pull a rescue. When the smoke cleared, they had two dead hostages and one small-timer from the gang, but no sign of Naraka and the rest.”

“Which leaves the White House angry and embarrassed,” Bolan guessed.

“And shit still rolls downhill,” Brognola said. “This load just landed on my doorstep yesterday.”

“You want Naraka chastised.”

“Neutralized,” Brognola said, correcting him. “Along with anybody else who had a hand in murdering the Langleys.”

“And the local government can’t handle it?”

“They’ve spent more than a decade chasing him around in circles, getting nowhere. As I mentioned, he’s already killed at least a hundred of their officers, and still they haven’t laid a glove on him. No reason to suppose they’ll score a sudden breakthrough, just because he smoked a couple of Americans.”

“A diplomatic squeeze might do the trick,” Bolan suggested.

“Some say we’re spread too thin as it is, or throwing too much weight around already. Either way, the word’s come down to handle it outside normal channels.”

“Ah. And where would I start looking if the natives don’t know where to find their man?”

“I said they haven’t found him,” Brognola replied. “That doesn’t mean they don’t know where he is.”

“Collusion?”

“Or ineptitude. It wouldn’t be the first time, right?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Bolan agreed. “My question’s still the same. Where would I start?”

“Calcutta,” Brognola suggested. “It’s the capital of West Bengal, Naraka’s happy hunting ground, and anything he moves to foreign buyers will be passing through the city. I’ve already tapped the Company for contacts, and they’ve got a man on standby to assist you if you take the job.”

“A native?”

“Born and bred,” Brognola said. “He’s on the books with a ‘reliable’ notation.”

“Name?”