Don Pendleton - Jungle Justice

If it was blood they wanted, the Executioner was ready to provide it. He would teach his enemies a lesson about taking victory for granted. Even if they killed him, survivors of the skirmish would remember, and perhaps take something with them from the carnage when they fled.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen, but the choice was made. His foes had called the play, but they would not control the game.

Bolan lined up his weapon on the trail and listened to the hunters, careless in their haste. That racket was another costly error. The only question, now, was whether any of the trackers would survive to learn from their mistakes.

Or whether Bolan would survive to see another day.

#259 Nightfire

#260 Dayhunt

#261 Dawnkill

#262 Trigger Point

#263 Skysniper

#264 Iron Fist

#265 Freedom Force

#266 Ultimate Price

#267 Invisible Invader

#268 Shattered Trust

#269 Shifting Shadows

#270 Judgment Day

#271 Cyberhunt

#272 Stealth Striker

#273 UForce

#274 Rogue Target

#275 Crossed Borders

#276 Leviathan

#277 Dirty Mission

#278 Triple Reverse

#279 Fire Wind

#280 Fear Rally

#281 Blood Stone

#282 Jungle Conflict

#283 Ring of Retaliation

#284 Devil’s Army

#285 Final Strike

#286 Armageddon Exit

#287 Rogue Warrior

#288 Arctic Blast

#289 Vendetta Force

#290 Pursued

#291 Blood Trade

#292 Savage Game

#293 Death Merchants

#294 Scorpion Rising

#295 Hostile Alliance

#296 Nuclear Game

#297 Deadly Pursuit

#298 Final Play

#299 Dangerous Encounter

#300 Warrior’s Requiem

#301 Blast Radius

#302 Shadow Search

#303 Sea of Terror

#304 Soviet Specter

#305 Point Position

#306 Mercy Mission

#307 Hard Pursuit

#308 Into the Fire

#309 Flames of Fury

#310 Killing Heat

#311 Night of the Knives

#312 Death Gamble

#313 Lockdown

#314 Lethal Payload

#315 Agent of Peril

#316 Poison Justice

#317 Hour of Judgment

#318 Code of Resistance

#319 Entry Point

#320 Exit Code

#321 Suicide Highway

#322 Time Bomb

#323 Soft Target

#324 Terminal Zone

#325 Edge of Hell

#326 Blood Tide

#327 Serpent’s Lair

#328 Triangle of Terror

#329 Hostile Crossing

#330 Dual Action

#331 Assault Force

#332 Slaughter House

#333 Aftershock

#334 Jungle Justice

Jungle Justice

Don Pendleton

There is no forgiveness in nature.

—Ugo Betti, 1892–1953

Crime on Goat Island

Nature takes care of her own, but we sometimes can’t afford to wait. This time, I’m helping to level the scales.

—Mack Bolan

For the Linkup, fighting for justice one step at a time.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Sundarbans Wildlife Park, India

“I’m still not clear exactly why we need an army escort in a game preserve,” Phillip Langley said.

His guide, a thirty-something diplomat named Rajit Singh, concealed any frustration that he may have felt concerning Langley’s poor retention. Smiling, he replied, “All wildlife is protected in the Sundarbans, and most particularly tigers, sir. Of course, the law is one thing, and reality is something else entirely, as I’m sure you know.”

Joyce Langley spoke up from the seat beside her husband, swaying with the rocking motion of their boat as it moved ever deeper into the world’s largest mangrove swamp. “You mean that poachers hunt the tigers, even here?” she asked.

“Most certainly, memsahib,” the guide replied. “And here most cunningly of all.”

Stomach uneasy, Phillip Langley asked, “When do we go ashore?”

“Not long, sir,” Singh assured him. “Fifteen minutes, maybe less.”

The heat was even more oppressive here than in Calcutta, where Langley and his wife had spent the previous night in what passed for a four-star hotel, after meeting their guide at the local seat of government. Langley’s role as special U.S. envoy and a member of the President’s task force on preservation of endangered species had assured Langley the best room in the house—which wasn’t saying much.

At least, he reassured himself, it was a far cry from the teeming, reeking slums they’d seen while driving from the airport to their rendezvous with Rajit Singh. Langley was clueless as to how people survived in squalor so profound and hopeless. Given half a chance, he would’ve filmed Calcutta in 3-D, bottled its smell and shared the grim experience with everyone who ranted about poverty in the United States.

Compared to the worst of Calcutta, the South Bronx and Cabrini Green looked like a juicy slice of Beverly Hills, 90210. Langley wasn’t sure that any of the people he’d seen lying in the streets and gutters had been dead, but on the other hand, living in such conditions made the prospect of a coronary sound like sweet relief.

Now, here they were, sweating beneath a broiling sun, the humidity close to one hundred percent, and his industrial-strength bug repellent was barely holding the king-sized mosquitoes at bay. They’d seen some birds that Langley didn’t recognize, and several crocodiles that eyed him as if he was a prospective snack.

Even with the rocking of the boat, Langley had almost soured on the plan to go ashore. Ideally, he’d have ordered Singh to turn the boat around and take them back to the Port Canning railhead, but how would that look in his final report?

Stiff upper lip, he thought, wiping the perspiration from it with his sleeve.

“I understand most of the tigers in the Sundarbans are man-eaters,” his wife was saying, using all of her considerable charm on Rajit Singh.

“You are correct, memsahib,” the guide replied. “That is another reason for the military guard, you know. Because prey in the game preserve is scarce, and humans run so slowly, most of the three hundred Bengal tigers here have eaten men. We record an average twenty-six maulings per year, most of them fishermen and woodcutters.”

“And still, you work to save the tigers?”

“But of course. It is the law.” Raising an arm to point, Singh told them, “There, ahead, you see the dock where we will land.”

Langley could see the dock, all right, but he felt less secure than ever about stepping from the boat. Twenty-six tiger kills in a year meant one every two weeks. When had the last one been, he wondered. Was it time to log a fresh statistic on the butcher’s bill?

The boat was veering toward the dock on his left. Langley knew he was running out of time. “About these tigers, Mr. Singh,” he said. “What happens if we meet one on our tour? I mean, if we meet a hungry one.”

Singh smiled at that, just short of mocking him. “Fear not, sir. We have the pistols without bullets—oh, what do you call them?”