Executioner - Tiger Stalk Part 2

None hit the Executioner.

Bolan cut down the terrorist with a short burst from the Uzi, then focused his attention on the woman.

"Drop the gun," he repeated.

As he waited for her to comply, she offered a cold smile of hate and tightened her finger on the trigger. The negotiations were over.

He fired a trio of rounds. Two of them tore into her side before she could fire back. The third destroyed her left kneecap.

Blood colored her camouflage uniform.

Despite being in obvious pain, she tried to shoot back.

"Don't," Bolan warned.

Stubbornly she kept trying.

There wasn't time for pity. As the terrorist leveled her weapon, Bolan let loose another short burst that punched her to the ground.

He turned to head out, but some instinct made him whirl. Another terrorist stood behind him, another woman, younger than the first but just as deadly.

Her eyes were filled with hate. "You are prisoner," she spit in fractured English.

"Drop weapon." Bolan lowered the Uzi, trying to figure how to stay alive.

Shots rang out from behind the female guerrilla.

She fell forward, dead, the rounds from her a.s.sault rifle tearing into the ground. Madi Kirbal lowered her weapon and walked forward to join Bolan.

Neither said a word as they walked out of the jungle and got into her vehicle.

The woman reached under her seat and took out an envelope. "I was asked to prepare a situation report for you. The names of some of the major players, and their involvement in the current crisis, are included." "Later. First we have to get out of here in one piece." Kirbal saw the grim determination in the soldier's face and slid behind the wheel.

"Agreed," she replied as she started the engine and s.h.i.+fted gears.

He looked down at her lap, which held her .45-caliber Colt Commander.

"Do you always drive with a loaded weapon in your lap?" "Only when I'm in a war zone," the woman replied bluntly.

The Executioner knew she was right. This was a war zone, and he had invited himself to join in the battle.

The weathered sign on the front door of the compact one-story warehouse on Old Moor Street read Shanghai Trading Company. Inside, cartons of merchandise were stacked high in the storage area.

A sliding wall divided the area into two. The other half was only half-filled with wooden crates marked Electronic Components. Inside the boxes were thousands of rounds of ammunition for the Chinese-made AKBLEDGS, as well as cases of grenades and rockets.

A gla.s.s-paneled door stood at the far end of the stone-and-metal building.

Inside the office, a clean-shaved Oriental in his early fifties sat behind the plain wooden desk, his fingers locked together. The soft, neatly ironed cotton s.h.i.+rt and linen pants he wore couldn't mask his military posture.

As if he were viewing some distant object, Colonel Chen kept staring at the simple painting on the far wall. He had much to consider.

He had already known about the negotiator who had arrived from America, but the man had vanished before he could have him a.s.sa.s.sinated.

And a fis.h.i.+ng-boat captain had notified him that he had been hired to smuggle an American into the country. Obviously the U.s. was meddling again, sending a CIA agent to hunt for the diplomat.

He suspected that the efforts of the negotiator could be successful.

Both the Sri Lankan government and the Tamil Tigers had become weary of the ma.s.s killings.

Even his own Communist-led EPRLF guerrillas had started defecting and returning to their villages in the north of the country.

He had to find a way to stop any truce from becoming a reality. Those were his instructions from the Ministry of State Security in Beijing. Peace would end the efforts to turn Sri Lanka into an ideal Communist country, and, more immediate, would hurt the sale of Chinese-made arms to the various antigovernment groups.

A practical man, Colonel Chen had spent the past fifteen years maintaining relations with all of the terrorist groups. Over the years many of their leaders were smuggled out of the country and into China to undergo military training. The only commitment they'd had to make was to purchase their weapons from his country.

A s.h.i.+p filled with weapons for the rebels was waiting to be unloaded at a small dock north of Colombo. The cargo was consigned to the Tigers.

Even if they weren't Communists, Chen was pleased to sell them arms.

Anything to keep the Sri Lankan government in turmoil.

He would let nothing interfere with that goal, which was why he'd had Major Sung send a force of revolutionaries north to meet the American agent sent to find the missing diplomat. Fortunately the fis.h.i.+ng-boat captain had told him where and when he would land.

What was the name of the agent? Colonel Chen searched through a small stack of papers for his notes and found it: Michael Belasko.

The Chinese Intelligence official smiled, certain that the name was created for the mission. Most likely the man was with the CIA.

His personal terrorist squad, the Eelam People's Revolutionary Liberation Front, was at this moment waiting in ambush to kill this Belasko.

The next step was to find the diplomat who had come to Sri Lanka as a mediator and send him to join his ancestors.

Chen began to scribble a list of names on a pad.

It would take the efforts of all the forces he had in Sri Lanka to locate the negotiator and the Tigers entertaining him. He would have Major Sung make the contacts as soon as he returned.

There was a soft knock on the door. It was late. The warehouse workers had all left, as had his secretary, May Ling, an attractive young woman who even now was waiting for him at his house outside of the city.

Unless he was mistaken, the knock belonged to Major Sung, the new aide Beijing had sent to a.s.sist him. Probably the man had returned to gloat about his first major victory in Sri Lanka.

But, he reminded himself, a careful man never took unnecessary risks.

Chen opened his desk drawer and eased out a pistol, placing it on his lap.

"Enter, please," he called, then pretended to scan some doc.u.ments.

Sung entered, his eyes filled with fear.

"I bring sad news, Colonel." Sighing, the gray-haired man set down his notes and looked up. "What great tragedy has occurred that couldn't wait until morning?" "The forces we sent are dead. When I got no radio message, I contacted one of our people who works in the Whelped National Park. He drove to where the American was supposed to land, but all he found were the bodies of the men who were supposed to stop the mercenary." "The American?" "I presume he is alive. So is the woman." "So your men failed." Sung knew better than to argue. Colonel Chen was both ambitious and vindictive.

"I hang my head in shame at their inadequacy," the younger man said, feigning a humble tone.

Chen stared icily at his subordinate. "So all we know is that he had come to Sri Lanka on some secret mission." "We a.s.sume that is why he is here, Colonel," Sung replied defensively.

"When a man sneaks into a country without going through normal channels, you can do more than a.s.sume he is not here for a vacation," Chen replied sarcastically.

"But is he here because the American negotiator has vanished?" "I will ask him when you capture him and bring him to me." He sighed.

"This is indeed sad news, Major Sung." He paused. "For all you know, he has found the missing negotiator and is getting ready to take him out of the country." The words came as a thinly veiled accusation.

The young major started to perspire. "We will pick up the search again in the morning." "Meantime many of our Marxist brothers have been murdered by this capitalist American." Sung cringed. Colonel Chen was the local intelligence chief for the Ministry of State Security. The MSS was responsible for espionage. This was Sung's first mission out of China, and he had already failed miserably.

Chen hammered another question at the younger man. "Do we at least know where he was going?" Sung's voice cracked as he replied. "We a I think his destination was Colombo. At least that's where the Americans have their emba.s.sy." "How would he get here?" "Our man found tire tracks that led to the main road." "So you a.s.sume this American is heading for the American Emba.s.sy here.

And he is alone." "Ia think so." "And there is one major highway that connects Whelped National Park and this city?" "Yes. Highway 3." "Then it doesn't really matter why he is here.

Gather some men and stop him before he arrives." The young man turned to leave, then stopped. "How many men?" The senior intelligence officer let his exasperation show. "How many will it take to stop him?" "I don't know. Two or three?" "He killed more than a dozen men tonight. I suggest you take at least that many. Perhaps more." "Yes, Sir." "And arm them properly this time," the colonel snarled.

The short, heavyset man reached across his large desk and pushed the intercom.

"Get me Colonel Pratap," he ordered brusquely.

As he waited for his secretary to complete the call, Allan Bandaran drummed his fingers on his desk. Despite the special dehumidifier he'd installed, he could feel perspiration soaking the armpits of his carefully ironed white s.h.i.+rt. The moisture had begun to soak into his impeccably tailored suit.

He could hardly contain his rage. How dare the Americans send one of their diplomats to his country to talk to the Tamils? This was purely an internal matter. And he, as minister of internal security, was solely responsible for maintaining the peacea"even if it meant killing a lot of the Tamil trash to achieve it.

It had been a difficult morning since that first call from Simon Alphamundai.

"Allan, this diplomat the Americans sent several days ago has vanished," the cold, formal voice had reported.

"What diplomat, Mr. President?" "John Vu. He came here to see how he could help us establish better relations with the Tamil revolutionaries." Bandaran was stunned. "You knew this and didn't tell me? I thought he was just on a goodwill tour." "His government asked that his presence as anything but a tourist be kept quiet. We depend on the United States for both a.s.sistance and trade. I saw no need to violate their confidence." "And now we have a kidnapping on our hands.

Probably done by those d.a.m.ned Tigers," Bandaran growled.

"I am ordering you to send out every man you can spare and find him.

Alive. If he is killed, the entire country will be shamed in the eyes of the world. Not just the Tamil rebels." "What happens if we find him alive?" "Then perhaps we can finally achieve peace," the Sri Lankan president said, and hung up.

The rest of the day had pa.s.sed no better. Bandaran was too preoccupied to care. He could see his sizable side income shrinking to almost nothing if the American diplomat was able to achieve his true purpose for coming to Sri Lanka.

Just as he slammed his fist on the desk in rage, the phone rang.

Bandaran s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the cradle and growled into the speaker.

"Pratap?" "Yes, Minister." "We have a problem. A serious one. Free up your schedule. I'm driving to your camp for an in-person conference." He slammed down the phone and forced his paunchy body from the leather chair. Suddenly he felt older than his fifty-seven years. If things continued to go so badly, he might have to resign and live off the money he had carefully set aside in Zurich.

Bolan and Kirbal had been driving for two hours. The highway to Colombo was poorly lit.

Long stretches of forest lined Highway 3, interspersed with the outskirts of small cities, an occasional village and countless Buddhist shrines.

As they drove, Madi Kirbal wondered how the Chinese "importer" would react when he heard that more than a dozen of his private army troops had been killed in battles with Belasko.

She had called Thamby to tell him about being ordered to a.s.sist the American.

Not only was Rajiv Thamby one of the triumvirate that ruled the Liberation Tigers, but he was also her lover. Her obsession for him had turned her into someone she never imagined she'd become.

Because of him and her loyalty to her mother's Sri Lankan family, she had violated her oath of allegiance to the Indian government and become an informer for the rebel cause.

That she was also betraying the Americans didn't bother Kirbal. Blood and love were thicker than water, even if American blood would flow before this episode was finished.

Thamby had agreed that she should a.s.sist the American until he was done talking to the diplomat.

The Tamil commander had added one more order. "My sister, Sirimavo, was kidnapped by the special task force when they raided her village. She is one of the thousands living in squalor at the Boosa Camp. Suggest to the American that if he rescues her, she might be willing to tell him where to find mea"and the diplomat he seeks." She was skeptical. "Isn't that dangerous?" "Except for a few trusted friends, n.o.body knows Sirimavo is my sister, and she would rather die than betray the cause." "What if she does tell him, or your talks with the negotiator fail?" "Then I will kill the diplomat and I will expect you to do the same with the American Intelligence agent." The thought of killing the man sitting next to her bothered Kirbal. Not that she had a rational explanation for how she felt.

He was different from most other men. As cold and precise as he appeared, there was a compa.s.sion for people inside he couldn't hide. She felt sadness knowing that he would have to be killed, probably by her.

Bolan's voice brought her back to the present.

"Something bothering you?" "No, not at all. I was thinking about the innocent people who have died because of the war between the rebel liberationists and the government." Kirbal tried to pa.s.s on some of the background to the Sri Lankan conflict to the American sitting next to her.

"You will hear that the war between the Tamils and the Sinhalese is based on different religious beliefs. To some degree that is true. For the most part the Sinhalese are devout Buddhists. Legend has it that a branch of the bo tree under which Buddha sat to gain enlightenment was brought to this country and planted in the north. Who really knows?" "The Tamils, on the other hand, are of the Dravidian Hindu faith." She smiled cynically. "Ironically both the Tamils and the Sinhalese originally migrated to Sri Lanka from India." The soldier only half listened. He was busy keeping a wary eye out for possible ambushes.

Lonely stretches of highway were likely places for attacks by some hidden enemy. But he had heard enough of the RAW agent's comments to ask, "If not religion, why the hatred and violence?" "As in every other country in the world, it's a matter of political power and money. The Sinhalese control the government and will not share their power or wealth. Most Tamils work on tea plantations or in factories. Some run small shops. But there are no rich Tamils." "Then who pays for the Tigers' weapons?" Kirbal shook her head. "No one really knows.

Some say the funds come from Tamils who live in India, just across Adam's Bridge. Others claim the backing must come from foreign governments who think they can control the fate of Sri Lanka by helping to arm the Tigers." The Executioner made a face and asked a pointed question. "Like the Indian government?" "We tried that a number of years ago. We sent in a peacekeeping force, but maintaining even a semblance of peace almost bankrupted the government.

The other foreign powers will learn that no one controls the fate of this country except those who live here," the Indian woman replied, then leaned forward and focused her attention On the empty road.

"What about the special task force?" Kirbal shook her head. "They are the power that keeps the government in office. They run their own troops, maintain their own armories, train their own soldiers, run their own Prison camps and execute anybody they think is against them.

"The government formed the STF to fight the terrorists. They took their best soldiers and sent them abroad to learn from experts how to kill those who disagreed with them. Then they hired mercenaries to help the STF slaughter innocent men, women and even children." "Who runs the STF?" "The actual operations are run by a general staff in Colombo, headed by a team of officers. The most vicious is a Colonel Pratap, who runs their largest prison camp, just south of Colombo. The Boosa Camp is the worst in all of Sri Lanka. Pratap has thousands of Tamil prisoners, none of whom has ever had a trial.

His men are free to abuse the prisonersa" especially the womena"without threat of punishment. His personal taste, I am told, runs to young boys.

"But the real power is the minister of internal security, Allan Bandaran, who's half British, half Sinhalese. He is an Oxford-educated politician who has his finger in every illegal business in the country. Eliminate people like Bandaran and Pratapa"and the religious fanatics who back thema"and you've gotten rid of much of what is wrong with this country." "So a lot of innocent people are killed, just because they're the wrong faith, ethnic type or in the wrong location," Bolan replied. "Hitler, Saddam Hussein, the Ayatollah and a lot of men like them used to hire people who enjoyed seeing decent people suffer." Bolan studied various structures as they drove past them. Several villas surrounded by high stone walls appeared, but for the most part the houses were huts held together with little more than prayer.

Something made his skin tingle, a sense of danger ahead. He had survived too long to ignore the warning signals.

"Pull to the side of the road," he ordered.

The RAW agent misunderstood the reason for his command. "If you can wait a half hour, there is a small restaurant with rest-room facilities." "Now!" Surprised at the harshness in his voice, Kirbal pulled off the road, stopped the Land Rover, and turned to him.

"Is something wrong?" The soldier tried to listen past the usual night sounds. Nothing.

Reaching for the canvas bag, he took out the M16 A2 and several clips, which he shoved into the pockets of the combat vest. Checking the clip of the carbine, he snapped in a fresh magazine and jacked the first round into the chamber. Then he loaded an incendiary grenade into the M203 launcher mounted beneath the powerful a.s.sault rifle. Not only was the M16 A2 capable of pouring 800 rounds of high-velocity 5.56 mm ammo per minute at a muzzle velocity Of 1000 feet per second, but the launcher made it possible to hurtle a 40 mm grenade accurately as far as 400 yards.

Seemingly satisfied, Bolan started to rise, then changed his mind and reached into the bag again. As he brought out a long tube, the woman, who'd been watching him, recognized the weapon.

"Why on earth would you need a LAW right now?" "I might not," Bolan replied, slinging the ant.i.tank rocket over a shoulder, "but I always like to be prepared for anything." He nodded to the woman.