Executioner - Tiger Stalk Part 3

"Let's get going." As the woman resumed driving, Bolan could feel the heat of tension radiating from her.

"It may be nothing," he said, trying to rea.s.sure her, "but if there is an attack, follow my orders immediately. Every second you delay may cost us our-was The rest of his sentence was punctuated by automatic gunfire coming from both sides of the road.

"Get this car into the woods," he shouted, hefting the M16.

Without hesitation Kirbal spun the steering wheel hard and plunged into an open s.p.a.ce in the bushes.

The Land Rover bucked as it bounced on the uneven forest ground, but she managed to hold on to the steering wheel.

"Stop," Bolan shouted.

Stepping hard on the brake, she managed to stop the vehicle, causing it to stall.

"Get out and find cover," Bolan told her.

Gripping the Colt in her right hand, Kirbal threw herself behind a wide banyan tree. Glancing at where she had taken refuse, the soldier decided she was safe for the moment.

With determination he pushed his way into the thick vegetation and moved toward the source of the gunfire.

Two fatigue-clad a.s.sailants had their backs turned to him.

The sound of a small branch breaking made them spin. Each man had a firm grip on a Chinese-made 7.62 mm Type 85 light submachine gun. At the sight of the big American, the hardmen squeezed the triggers.

Bolan had antic.i.p.ated their actions. Dodging to the left like a fullback avoiding a tackler, he fired a burst of 5.56 mm bullets at the closer of his adversaries.

The rounds carved a path through the terrorist's neck and up into his brain, killing him instantly.

The second terrorist recovered quickly from the shock of seeing his comrade torn apart, and quickly emptied the magazine of his weapon at Bolan.

But the Executioner had twisted out of the line of fire and heard the rounds smack into the trunk of a tree behind him.

While the Tamil tried to force a fresh magazine into his weapon, Bolan turned his M16 on the man and swept his carbine in a deadly figure eight.

Looking down at the cavity where his stomach and digestive organs had been minutes earlier, the dying fighter saw the blood from his body wash over his hands, then sat down abruptly and waited for death to claim him.

Scanning the nearby woods for hidden enemies, Bolan sensed the presence of a large force on both sides of the highway. He knew he could stand and fight, but he had a more important task ahead of him. It was time to retreat.

Kirbal emerged from behind the tree and ran to him.

"Are they all dead?" "No, but it's time we got out of here." As they approached the Land Rover, Bolan stopped.

"Get the car started. I'll be there in a minute." Kirbal started to argue with him, then changed her mind. She had known him only a few hours, but already she trusted his combat judgment.

The soldier listened for a moment, then, focusing carefully through the sight mounted on the left, adjusted the setting. Squeezing the trigger on the M203 grenade launcher, he watched as the metal missile traveled above the treetops, then turned and ran for the vehicle as the grenade exploded.

The woman started to get out to let him take over the wheel.

"You drive," Bolan directed. "I might be busy keeping us alive." Getting behind the wheel of the vehicle, the woman waited until Bolan got in, then started the engine and floored the gas pedal.

As the Land Rover began to race in the direction of Colombo, a hail of autofire chased them down the highway. But disoriented by the grenade, the ambushers were too late, and their fire was high and wide.

"That takes care of that group," Kirbal commented in a calmer voice.

"We're not there yet," Bolan warned.

As if his words had been a prophecy, an armored personnel carrier lumbered out of the woods in front of them.

Bolan recognized it as a Chinese copy of the Soviet BTRBLEDJ. Sitting above the driver in a small swivel seat, a fatigue-clad guerrilla squinted carefully through the sight of the 7.62 mm RPBLEDF machine gun.

"Weave!" Bolan shouted.

Responding instantly, the woman swerved the Land Rover so their path was erratic.

A steady stream of lead pumped from the mounted machine gun, missing the Land Rover and its occupants by scant inches.

"The gunner's getting too accurate. Into the woods!" "Can't we outrun him?" "Not with the range of that machine gun. And we don't know what other kinds of weapons they're carrying." Kirbal drove the vehicle off the road and headed for a clearing in the underbrush.

Bolan jumped from the truck before she stopped it.

"I'll be back," he promised.

Major Sung opened the armored door to the roof of the APC and stared up at the gunner.

"Why did you stop firing?" "They ran into the forest, Comrade Sung," the gunner explained.

"We will follow them." As the driver spun the wheel of the armored vehicle, Sung reached down and picked up a flamethrower.

"We'll burn them out, or they can stay hidden and roast to death," he commented as he hefted the bulky weapon.

Twenty yards ahead of him he could see the faint outline of the British-made vehicle hiding behind some banyan trees.

"Stop here," he ordered, and got out when the carrier came to a halt.

"Maintain a stream of fire on the Land Rover," Sung ordered.

The weight of the bulky flamethrower made the major stoop slightly. He opened the valves and ignited the narrow tips, adjusting the flame until it sprayed a long stream of fire in front of him.

Then he walked slowly toward the Land Rover behind a steady spray of fiery destruction. Trees and bushes ignited, sending clouds of smoke skyward.

The frightened sounds of birds fleeing the area echoed in the sky.

"Colonel Chen will be pleased with our success," he proclaimed proudly.

Bolan had slipped behind the trees until he had a clear view of the BTRBLEDJ.

Slipping the LAW from his shoulder, he pulled the safety pin. The end caps fell away, and the weapon telescoped another six inches while it armed itself. The missile launcher carried a 66 mm round with a hollowpoint nose, shaped like a small teacup. The whole unit weighed about five pounds.

Sighting through the eyepiece that moved into position on top of the launcher, Bolan saw the flames spitting from the shoulder-mounted thrower.

Momentarily surprised that the guerrilla seemed to be Chinese, the soldier knew he had to move fast and accurately or he and his companion would be charred memories.

Focusing on the APC, he pulled the trigger and mentally crossed his fingers. The missile raced out of the tube at a speed of almost 500 feet per second and cut a hole through the BTRBLEDJ as if it were made of paper.

He could hear the missile exploding with the deafening sound of thunder, tearing the armored vehicle in two.

Molten bits of metal from the warhead and flames shot back at him, scorching trees in their path.

Over the exploding ammo, Bolan could hear m.u.f.fled screams as superheated chunks of metal and flame consumed the men in and around the APC. The smell of burning flesh fouled the air, making him feel nauseous.

He waited for the intense heat to dissipate, then worked his way back to the Land Rover. He hoped Kirbal had not been injured in the swift battle.

She was waiting for him, crouching on the floor of the vehicle. She started to raise the Colt Commander, then lowered it when she realized it was Bolan.

"Next time I will go with you," she snapped. "I felt like a helpless bystander watching a war being fought." Getting into the vehicle, Bolan pointed to the wheel. "Drive. It's been a very long thirty-six hours." The Executioner had arrived, and the terrorists had been taught a lesson about killing.

Denzil Pratap sat in the custom-built leather chair behind his desk and listened as the minister of internal security described his problem. The man stared down at Allan Bandaran. He'd had the furniture maker add four inches of height to his seat so he appeared taller to those who stood or sat in front of his desk.

"We need to find out where the Tamils are holding the negotiator," Bandaran insisted.

"How can I be of a.s.sistance?" "You must have someone among the thousands of Tamils who would have an idea where the Tigers would take such a man." Without a word the camp chief lifted the phone and summoned the person on the other end to come to his office.

A tall, wide man in a STF uniform entered the office. His mouth was twisted into a permanent smile, the result of battle wounds that had paralyzed his facial muscles.

"Sergeant Dharvin Raja is in charge of interrogation," Pratap told his visitor.

Briefly the colonel outlined the problem.

"We have questioned almost a hundred of them, the bull-like noncom commented. "All of them died before we could find the right kind of questioning to get them to talk." "There is a young Tamil woman we are holding here," Pratap said. "Her name is Sirimavo.

She is the youngest sister of one of the three leaders of the Tamil terrorists, the man who calls himself Thamby." Raja looked surprised. "I did not know, Colonel. None of the men or women I questioned said anything about her." Bandaran exploded. "Why wasn't I notified about her?" "I only just found out, Minister," Pratap replied calmly. "A call came from a Tiger informant who is willing to trade information to ensure his mother is treated well in the camp." "Have you questioned her about where her brother is hiding?" "I talked to her," Pratap admitted. "She even refused to acknowledge that she is the Tiger terrorist's sister." "It is essential to get her to tell us where to find Thamby." "Do I have your permission to use any means to get the information?" "Just remember that we are not animals like the Tigers." The camp commander looked at the sergeant and nodded his unspoken approval to use any means to get the woman to talk.

It was almost midnight before they reached the city. As they drove through the brightly lit downtown section of Colombo, dodging cars, buses, trucks and pedicabs, Bolan studied the pedestrians.

The streets were filled with them: tourists, the wealthy, police and army patrols and prost.i.tutes.

There wasn't a corner devoid of young women selling their bodies.

Poverty bred prost.i.tution, and Sri Lanka had become a poor country since the conflict between the Sinhalese and the Tamils had started.

"What do you know about contraband arms being smuggled into the country tomorrow night?" Bolan asked. "Do you know who deals in contraband?" "It could be one of a dozen men. The minister of internal security, Mr. Allan Bandaran, for one," Kirbal answered.

Bolan didn't look surprised. He had encountered politicians who used their positions to acc.u.mulate wealth, and had confronted many of them.

"Mr. Bandaran likes the things money can buy.

And he gets a commission for every s.h.i.+pment of illegal arms brought into Sri Lanka, with little exception. But I'm certain that your information about tomorrow night is incorrect. I would have heard." The Indian agent dug out a formal-looking business card from her purse and wrote a telephone number on it. "Call me when you're free," she suggested.

As they stopped for a red light, she looked at the soldier and asked, "Where can I drop you?" Bolan looked out of the rear window. They weren't being followed. "At the nearest cabstand." "There are barricades all over the city. I can take you part of the way.

You'll have to walk the rest. Or if you drop me at my home, you can borrow my vehicle," she offered.

"What if you need your car before I can return it?" "There is another one I can use. A government vehicle. I have to return it to our emba.s.sy car pool any way." As she directed him to her apartment complex, she fed him the information Thamby had given her.

"There is one thing more I heard. Thamby has a sister named Sirimavo.

She is being held by the STF at its prison camp south of Colombo." "I'm surprised they haven't tortured her to find out where Thamby is hiding," Bolan commented.

"They don't know she is his sister." She studied the soldier for a long time. "I don't think they will find it out from you. Not even if it meant your life." The Executioner nodded. He'd acquired the nickname Sergeant Mercy many years earlier because, while he killed those who were his enemies, he went out of his way to help the innocent and lead them to safety.

"If I can, I'll make sure she is returned to her family," he promised.

The next morning Kirbal made sure she wasn't being followed, then got out of the small Volkswagen cab she had called. She walked around to the rear of a sandstone building on Chatham Street, checked the contents of her large handbag, then entered a door.

Inside was a small commercial bank, the Colombo branch of the National Industrial Bank of India.

Without stopping, she walked unnoticed down a narrow corridor to a carved wooden door, fitted with a gla.s.s panel, and opened it.

The man behind the desk was in his early sixties.

A tall, stately-looking man with a shock of pure white hair, Ravindra Lai looked and sounded more like a member of the Indian diplomatic corps than an Indian intelligence officer.

He glanced up and nodded his acknowledgment of her presence, then went back to studying a single sheet of paper covered with typewritten words.

To the business community of Colombo, Lai was a banker. The t.i.tle on the closed wooden door proclaimed that he was the manager of the branch.

For more than twenty years, Lai had handled the financial needs of Indian clients doing business in Sri Lanka. To the attractive young woman who had taken the liberty of pulling a leather chair closer to his desk and sitting in it, he was much more than that. He was her superior, the head of the research-and-a.n.a.lysis wing of Indian Intelligence in Sri Lanka.

"We can talk frankly and without interruption?" Kirbal looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was peering in through the gla.s.s panel in the wooden door.

"As you may remember from your last visit, no one will disturb us as long as my door is closed," he reminded her.

He smiled and pointed to a couch. "Wouldn't you be more comfortable there?" She glanced around the room. It was furnished with English period pieces: a Hepplewhite cabinet, Queen Anne chairs and tables, a large display case crowded with antique porcelain dishes.

There was an air of decadence in the opulent room. She wasn't impressed.

"We could continue our conversation more comfortably this evening at my home," he suggested, implying there was more than business on his mind.

She shook her head. "I have an appointment later." "Nothing so important that it can't wait until to morrow?" Thamby was slipping into the city. The man behind the desk wouldn't understand if she told him the truth.

Her loyalties were divided between the country of her birth and the land in which she had spent so many years as a child.

"I suggest I present my report to you here," she countered.

He nodded and leaned back in his large upholstered chair.

"Let's get on with it. What have you found out about where Vu is being held?" She thought she knew. Thamby had to have him in custody in one of the camps in or around the city of Jaffna. The area was under his control.

She knew her superior would be disappointed with what she planned to tell him, but it would protect Thamby and the Tiger movement.