Don Pendleton - Lethal Payload

Bolan consulted his map. “The 2nd Parachute Regiment is stationed in Corsica. What’s our boy doing in South America?”

“He’s a certified hand-to-hand combat and commando instructor.” Kurtzman scanned his notes. “It seems he was transferred as a specialist to the 3rd Infantry Regiment and the Jungle Warfare School in French Guiana.”

“Interesting,” Bolan replied. “But if he’s active with the 3rd Infantry Regiment, what is he doing here in Suriname?”

“Well, his current post is less than a hundred miles from where you are now. What he’s doing on the wrong side of the Maroni River, we don’t know. He could be AWOL, or he could be there with permission. Of course, Suriname and French Guiana do have a disputed border area. He could actually be there on some kind of mission.” Kurtzman stared at Bolan fixedly. “That would take a great deal more probing of heavily secured French military files.”

“Just do what needs to be done. Hit and git when you feel someone tracking you.”

Kurtzman sighed. “Striker, do you have anything to directly tie the French military to terrorist actions taken by al Qaeda?”

Bolan shook his head. “No. All I’ve got are my instincts, and they’re going off like fireworks on the Fourth of July on this one.”

“Well that’s good enough for me, Striker. You know that.”

“Bear, something really nasty is coming down the pipe.”

Kurtzman nodded slowly. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go to French Guiana to poke around.”

“YOU’RE NUTS.” CIA Station Chief Kira Kiraly gazed at Bolan steadily.

Bolan shrugged. “Yeah, well…”

The station chief blew a lock of hair off her brow. It was just before dawn, and the heat was already rising. “So what are you expecting, again?”

“I’m expecting to get hit, by anywhere from ten to thirty accomplished martial artists and terrorists, armed with anything from machetes and AK-47s up to and exceeding rocket-propelled grenade launchers.”

Kiraly nodded once. “Right.”

It was clear she believed that Bolan was insane. The station chief was short, blond, sarcastic and very well put together. She didn’t look at all like a senior spook.

Bolan knew those were always the best kind.

“Listen.” Kiraly shook her head. “I know I’ve been told to extend you every courtesy, but—”

“What can you do for me?” Bolan smiled winningly. “I’m sorry about it being such short notice.”

She held up some keys. “I have a Volvo station wagon.”

Bolan shrugged. “Safest car on the road.”

“I love that car,” the station chief warned. She seemed deadly serious. “The air-conditioning works. You have no idea what kind of premium that is around here.”

Kiraly led as they crept around the embassy in the predawn gloom toward the parking area. A pair of Marine embassy guard jeeps and a VW Bug were parked in a line.

Bolan suppressed a grin. Slightly off to one side, parked in the place of honor, gleamed a brown Volvo station wagon with diplomatic plates.

“It’s beautiful,” Bolan acknowledged.

“Thank you.” She searched Bolan for sarcasm. “Maybe it would be best if I drove.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I think it would be best if someone drove and someone shot.” She looked Bolan up and down with genuine appreciation. “I’m going to trust you on the shooting part.”

Bolan shrugged. “I’m thinking the airport is a death trap.”

“I agree.”

Bolan glanced eastward toward French Guiana. “It’s just under two hundred miles to Cayenne.”

“Have I shown you the embassy armory?” the station chief inquired. “It’s lovely.”

THE VOLVO FLEW through the rainforest. After passing Nieuw Amsterdam, the coastal highway had swung inland. They were about thirty miles from the Maroni River and the border with French Guiana. Lush jungle encroached on either side. It was high noon, and the heat was scorching. Sane people in South America spared themselves and their vehicles during this time of day. They passed few cars and saw even fewer people. It was a perfect place for an ambush, and if the enemy was going to do it, they would have to do it soon.

The outside temperature was more than one hundred degrees. It had rained buckets ten minutes earlier, but there was no sign of it save occasional steam rising out of the shelter of the jungle. The Volvo slid down the highway like a blissfully air-conditioned dream at a comfortable sixty-five miles per hour. Comfortable was the word. If Kiraly suddenly floored it, Bolan doubted much more would happen.

The car hit a pothole and the package tied to the luggage rack thumped on the roof, a metallic reminder.

Bolan watched the heat images shimmer on the road ahead. “I know the air-conditioning is on, but why don’t you open the windows?”

Kiraly hit the power windows and superheated air swept inside the car interior. The speed of the car did little to mitigate the heat. The sunroof slid open, and the sun blasted down like light through a magnifying glass.

“I see why you love this car,” Bolan said.

She shook her head decisively. “You’d better not get this car killed, or…” Her voice trailed off as she caught Bolan’s expression. “What?”

The soldier reached for his rucksack on the floor. “Here they come.”

In the side mirror Bolan could see a pickup truck pulling out of the heat mirages behind them. It was coming up very fast.

Four motorcycles fanned out around it like outriders of the Apocalypse.

“Drive,” Bolan commanded.

Kiraly put the pedal to the floor of her ten-year-old, four-cylinder station wagon. They weren’t going to drive their way out of this one.

The pickup was gaining steadily. The motorcycles flew forward like hornets. Each bike carried two men. One man drove; the man behind carried a gun.

They would be in range in seconds.

Bolan clicked down the folding metal foregrip on the Beretta 93-R. The detachable skeleton stock was already affixed. He flicked the machine pistol’s selector switch to 3-round-burst mode, grimacing as he turned in his seat. The gunners on the motorcycles were carrying FN-FAL rifles. The big battle rifles were easily capable of chewing a Volvo to pieces. Accuracy would be problematic, but the assassins probably weren’t worried about that.

They intended to drive right up and dump their weapons into the car on full-auto at point-blank range.

Bolan stood up through the sunroof, shouldered his weapon and braced himself in the frame. The wind ripped at him as Kiraly pushed the car for all it was worth. Bolan roared over the searing wind, “Keep it straight!”

One of the motorcycles suddenly shot forward like an arrow. The driver’s face was lost behind the mirrored visor of his helmet. The gunner’s leer of blood lust was openly visible. He struggled to aim his weapon at the rear tires of the Volvo. Bullets ripped divots out of the road surface as his weapon hammered on automatic. The range was too long and the rifle too powerful to control, and his burst climbed away from his target.

The driver gunned his engine and shot forward to close the distance.

Bolan grimaced. Trying to shoot out the tires meant the enemy was going for a capture.

The gunner steadied himself for another burst. Bolan ignored him. He peered along the barrel, then squeezed his trigger.

The driver jerked backward as the burst walked up his chest and neck and punched in the visor of his helmet. The scream of the gunner was lost as the motorcycle went up on its rear wheel and drove out from under the riders. Gunner and driver hit the road in a seventy-five-mile-per-hour pinwheel of breaking bones. The other three motorcycles swerved wildly to avoid the rolling carnage.