Don Pendleton - State Of Evil

“What of their effects? The camera? The other things?”

“Buried,” Nico assured him. “Buried deep.”

“There will be questions.”

Nico shrugged. “We saw them board the plane and fly away.”

“What of the pilot?”

“He has sisters in Obike. He will land in Brazzaville on schedule. How can he explain the disappearance of his passengers, once they departed from his care?”

“It’s not much of a story, Nico.” Gaborone sometimes enjoyed being the devil’s advocate.

“It is enough, Master,” the bodyguard replied. “We pay the Brazzaville police enough to close their eyes.”

“But what of Washington? Their President wields power, even here. Their dollars buy compliance.”

“You believe they’ll crack the pilot?” Mbarga asked.

“Given time and the incentive, certainly.”

“I’ll see to it myself,” Mbarga said.

“Soon, Nico. Soon.”

“I’ll leave tonight, Master.”

“How many sisters of the pilot share our faith?”

“Three, master.”

“Take one of them with you to the city.”

“Sir?”

“If he should simply die, more questions will be raised. A scandal in the family, however, raises issues the police can swiftly put to rest.”

“A scandal in the family.” Mbarga seemed to understand it now.

“Sadly, not everyone shares our view of morality.”

“No, sir. The woman—”

“Tell her she’s been chosen for a mission in the city. Flatter her, if necessary. Has she any special skills.”

Mbarga shrugged. “I don’t know, Master.”

“Think of something. Use your powers of persuasion, Nico. I’m convinced that you can do it.”

Meaning that he didn’t want the woman dragged aboard a Jeep, kicking and screaming. He didn’t want her spreading stories to her sisters or to anybody else during the short time left before her one-way trip to Brazzaville.

“It shall be done, Master.”

“I never doubted you. And, Nico?”

“Master?”

“Make me proud.”

Airborne: 14° 2’East, 4°8’South

The aircraft was a Cessna Conquest II, boasting a forty-nine-foot wingspan and twin turboprops with a maximum cruising speed of 290 miles per hour. It had been modified for jumping by removal of the port-side door, which let wind howl throughout the cabin as it cruised around eleven thousand feet.

The air was thin up there, but the aircraft was still below the level where Mack Bolan would’ve needed bottled oxygen to keep from blacking out. His pilot, Jack Grimaldi, didn’t seem to feel the atmospheric change, although he’d worn a leather jacket to deflect the chill.

Twenty minutes out of Brazzaville and they were halfway to the target. Bolan had already checked his gear, but gave it all another look from force of habit, nothing left to chance. He tugged at all the harness straps, tested the quick-release hooks, making sure that he could find the rip cords for the main chute on his back and the smaller emergency pack protruding from his chest. Bolan had packed both parachutes himself, folding the canopies and lines just so, and he was confident that they would function on command.

The rest of Bolan’s gear included military camouflage fatigues, the tiger-stripe pattern, manufactured in Taiwan and stripped of any labels that could trace them to specific points of origin. His boots were British military surplus, while his helmet bore the painted-over label of a manufacturer whose products were available worldwide.

His weapons had apparently been chosen from a paramilitary grab bag. They included a Steyr AUG assault rifle manufactured in Austria, adopted for use by armies and police forces around the world. The AUG was well known for its rugged construction and top-notch accuracy, its compact bullpup design, factory-standard optical sight and clear plastic magazines that let a shooter size up his load at a glance. Bolan’s sidearm was a Beretta Model 92, its muzzle threaded to accept the sound suppressor he carried in a camo fanny pack. His cutting tool was a Swiss-made survival knife with an eight-inch, razor-sharp blade, its spine serrated to double as a saw at need.

The rest of Bolan’s kit came down to rations and canteens, a cell phone with satellite feed, a compact GPS navigating system and a good old-fashioned compass in case the global positioning satellite gear took a hit at some point. His entrenching tool, flashlight and first-aid kit seemed antiquated by comparison, like items plucked from a museum.

When he was satisfied that nothing had been overlooked or left to chance, Bolan moved forward to the cockpit. Grimaldi glanced back when he was halfway there and raised his voice above the rush of wind to ask, “You sure about this, Sarge?”

“I’m sure,” Bolan replied. He crouched beside the empty second seat, too bulky with his parachutes and pack to make the fit.

“Because if anything goes wrong down there,” Grimaldi said, “you’re in a world of hurt. That’s Africa down there. If you trust the folks at CNN, a lot of it still isn’t all that civilized.”

“Worse than New Jersey?” Bolan asked. “The South Side of Chicago?”

“Very funny.” From his tone, Grimaldi clearly didn’t think so. “All I’m saying is, your sat phone may connect you to the outside world, if it decides to work down there, but even so, it’s still the outside world. You’ve got no backup, no support from anyone official, no supply line.”

“I’ve got you,” Bolan reminded him.

“And I’ll be waiting,” the pilot assured him. “But my point is, even if you call and catch me sitting in the cockpit with my finger on the starter, it’ll be an hour minimum before I’m in position for a pickup. Plus, with the restriction on armed aircraft, I can’t give you anything resembling decent air support.”

“Just be there for the lift. That’s all I ask,” Bolan replied.

Grimaldi shifted gears. “And what about this kid you’re picking up?”

“He’s twenty-two.”

“That’s still a kid to me,” Grimaldi said. “Suppose he doesn’t want to play the game?”

“I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi frowned. “I mean to say, he’s here by choice. Correct?”

“In theory, anyway,” Bolan said.

“So he’s made his bed. He may not want to leave it.”

“I’ll convince him.”

Bolan didn’t need to check the hypodermic syringes in their high-impact plastic case, secure in a pouch on his web belt, but he raised a hand to cup them anyway. The kid, as Jack called him, would be coming out whether he liked it or not.

Whatever happened after that was up to someone else.

Grimaldi gave it one last try. “Listen,” he said, “I know where this is coming from, but don’t you think—”

“We’re here,” Bolan said, cutting off the last-minute debate. “I’m doing it. That’s all.”

“Okay. You’ve got my cell and pager set on speed-dial, right?”

“Right after Pizza Hut and Girls Gone Wild,” said Bolan.

“Jeez,” Grimaldi said, “I’m dropping a comedian. Who knew?”

“I needed something for my spare time,” Bolan said.

“Uh-huh.” Grimaldi checked his instruments, glanced at his watch, and said, “We’re almost there. You’d better assume the position.”

“Right.” Rising, Bolan briefly placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Stay frosty,” he said.

“It’s always frosty at this altitude. I’ll see you soon.”

Turning from the cockpit, Bolan made his way back to the open door, halfway along the Cessna’s fuselage.

“WE’VE GOT a quarter mile,” Grimaldi shouted back to Bolan in the Cessna’s open doorway, waiting for the quick thumbs-up.