Don Pendleton - State Of Evil

Bolan frowned. “I thought you all were equal in the master’s sight?”

“Well, yes, but…See, that proves it! You’ve been studying the Process. That makes you—”

“A friend of Val Querente,” Bolan interrupted him. “Do you remember her, or is your brain really as messed up as it sounds?”

“Val sent you?” Quinn considered it, then shook his head. “I don’t believe it. No, you’re lying. It’s impossible. How could she—”

“Care enough to go the extra mile and help you?” Bolan shrugged. “Beats me. I only work here. Now, if you can make your legs work—”

“Wait! You think I’m going somewhere with you?”

“One way or another, that’s exactly what I think.”

“Well, guess again. You took me by surprise the first time, with your needle or whatever, but I see you now. I won’t go quietly.”

Bolan leaned closer, let the muzzle of his Steyr AUG rest lightly on Quinn’s left kneecap. “I’ve carried you this far,” he said, “and I can carry you to the LZ. You don’t need kneecaps to ride piggyback, and consciousness is strictly optional.”

Quinn didn’t seem to register the threat. “LZ? What’s that?” he asked.

“Your exit from the Process. Will you walk, or not?”

Quinn struggled to his feet, using the tree trunk for support. “Val wouldn’t do this,” he insisted. “I explained to her about my faith. I grant you that she wasn’t happy, but she understands.”

“You can discuss it with her soon,” Bolan said.

“This is a mistake,” Quinn said.

“It wouldn’t be my first,” the Executioner replied. Then he pointed through the trees and said, “That way.”

GABORONE WATCHED as the hunting party vanished into jungle gloom, a tracker leading Nico and four of his men, Camacho and Sharif surrounded in the middle of the group. He craned his neck and tried to find the sky above the forest canopy, where daylight glimmered on the sea of leaves.

How long before nightfall?

Some hours yet, and maybe time enough for Mbarga’s team to overtake the fugitive American. Mbarga was pledged to capture him alive, if possible, but there were other perils in the forest that might claim Quinn’s life before he was discovered. If they found him dead, the fires and his escape would be a nagging mystery.

Or worse.

Gaborone had puzzled over the events, attempting to resolve them in his mind, but there were still too many missing pieces. It seemed inconceivable that Quinn had been corrupted by their enemies outside Obike, but if that wasn’t the case, what had possessed him? Had his mind snapped in the jungle, as some others had before? Why else would he attempt to burn the village down, then flee into the forest?

It was too much to suppose that someone else had set the fires, and that Quinn coincidentally had chosen that precise moment to run away. That was preposterous. Unthinkable.

Or was it?

Gaborone began to worry that Mbarga’s party might not find Quinn, even with the tracker’s keen nose to guide them. If the American was fleeing southward toward Brazzaville, despite the near impossibility of a white man and a stranger to the jungle covering that distance on his own, Gaborone knew he should do anything within his power to cut that journey short. Quinn might find other settlements much closer to Obike, and who could predict what he would say about the Process or its master if he wasn’t silenced?

Gaborone still had a few tricks up his sleeve, and there would never be a better time to use one.

Picking up the sermon megaphone, Gaborone faced toward the heart of the village and called out an amplified name. “Samburu! Samburu Changa, come to me!”

A moment later he saw Mbarga’s first lieutenant running toward him from the eastern corner of the village. Changa wore a worried look, as if afraid that some new crisis had befallen them and he wouldn’t be equal to the task awaiting him. He stopped short, several paces from the stoop of Gaborone’s bungalow, breathing heavily and clutching his rifle tight to one side.

“Master, how may I serve you?”

“As you know,” Gaborone said, “Nico has gone to find our missing sheep. The visitors are with him, and I fear that they may slow his pace.”

Changa waited for more. He had the gift of silence.

“I’ve decided you should help him,” Gaborone explained. “I want another team to hurry on ahead and intercept our wayward brother. Failing that, you may explore the nearer villages and satisfy yourself that he will find no shelter there.”

“Master,” Changa said, looking suddenly confused, “the nearest village to Obike, southward, is still fifteen miles away. I cannot reach it before nightfall, even if I leave right now. To overtake Captain Mbarga—”

“Calm yourself, Samburu. I ask nothing human flesh and bone cannot achieve. Fetch Danso Beira and three soldiers you can trust. Drive to the airstrip. Use the bird!”

Changa smiled at that, now understanding the command. “Yes, Master! As you say, so let it be!”

“Go swiftly! Time is of the essence.”

Bowing sharply from the waist, Changa turned and fled the royal presence, shouting names as he moved through the village. Gaborone smiled after him, convinced that his last-minute inspiration would resolve their problem nicely. He would catch Quinn in a pincers, capture him alive with any luck, and then squeeze him at leisure for the secrets of his flight.

Rapid resolution of the crisis would persuade his visitors that Gaborone was someone to be taken seriously. They would respect him as more than a conduit for the merchandise they craved, and having seen him act decisively, they might be less inclined to quibble over price.

Perhaps.

If not, thought Gaborone, he might be forced to wipe the slate clean and begin anew with different customers.

It was a seller’s market, after all.

And Armageddon could afford to wait.

The world seemed upside down to Patrick Quinn. His thoughts were jumbled, often contradictory, and he could only blame a part of that on the injection he’d received before the stranger snatched him from Obike. Truth be told, the hazy aftershock of being drugged was fading rapidly, but Quinn’s mind still played tricks on him.

He knew what Master Gaborone would say and do if their positions were reversed, and yet another part of Quinn rebelled against indoctrination, whispering to him that he was safe now, better off than he had been in months.

But how could that be right?

If Master Gaborone was truly wise, a prophet of the Lord, then being separated from him was a loss no true believer should accept without a fight. And yet, the stranger who had kidnapped Quinn knew Val Querente—knew her name, at least, and Quinn’s association with her in the States. He hadn’t picked that information from thin air. And yet…

Quinn had discussed his newfound faith with Val, and while she’d clearly disapproved, she’d left the decision to him. Free will, and all that. Quinn’s father hadn’t been so understanding, tried to get his way, as usual, with bribery and threats. Quinn hadn’t been surprised when he was cut off from his trust fund, and the master didn’t seem to mind. There’d been no sudden exile from the Process, as Quinn’s father had predicted. It was still his family, his home.

The move to Africa had seemed like an adventure, though it had plainly troubled Val. He’d seen her only once after the great transition was announced. She’d tried to talk him out of it, more earnest than he’d ever seen her, but Quinn had been resolute. A man should be decisive, as his father always said, and Quinn had made his choice.

“Another ten feet to your left,” the man behind him said, “and hold that course until I tell you otherwise.”