Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton

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      “Merda! Now what?” Bernier stared at his dead guard in shock.

       “This way!” Bolan shoved the Desert Eagle out of the way and yanked the kingpin toward the light green building on their left, which had every window and door boarded up. “Gimme that!” Snatching the large-caliber pistol out of the other man’s hand, he aimed it at a covered window and fired four rounds, blowing one of the wooden slats in two. Yanking the broken pieces away, Bolan was about to enlarge the hole when a machete blade chunked down on the windowsill from inside. Bolan aimed high and fired two more rounds through the wood, making the blade vanish along with pounding feet as the people inside fled from the gunfire.

       Bullets cracked into the mortar wall around them. Bolan pointed the Eagle backward, still angling the barrel up, and emptied the magazine, making everyone in the vicinity duck for cover. “Get inside!” he shouted at Bernier as he smashed out more planks with the butt of the pistol.

       Bernier scrambled through the narrow gap, with Bolan right behind him. The room they found themselves in was dark and small, yet still contained a cube refrigerator, table and shelves against one wall. A doorway opened into more blackness. The room stank of thousands of old meals, sweat and despair.

       Grabbing his charge by the sleeve, Bolan shoved him against the wall next to the door. “Got any spare mags for this?”

       Bernier nodded, handing over two 9-round magazines. Bolan reloaded the large pistol, then drew his own SIG Sauer, readying both as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Outside, the gunfire continued, with the police apparently pinned down. Bolan grimaced at the thought—they might need the military to come get them, but if that was the case, they’d probably be dead before help arrived.

       “Shouldn’t I get my gun back?” Bernier pouted.

       “Not if you wanna get out of here alive,” Bolan said. “Now be quiet.” He listened to the noises inside the building—scurrying feet, hushed whispers. “If these people recognize your voice, tell them you’ll reward them in exchange for assistance out of here.”

       Bernier stepped forward and called into the hallway, rattling off several sentences in rapid Portuguese. There was another conference, then a slight form emerged out of the darkness—a girl about fourteen years old.

       “Come here, child.” Bernier waved her forward. “You take myself and my friend out of here safely, and I will reward you and your family handsomely.”

       Shaking her head, she held out a grimy hand.

       Bernier chuckled. “They learn young,” he said as he pulled out an alligator-skin wallet.

       “Yeah, well, she’s gonna learn what a bullet in the face feels like if we don’t get out of here quick.”

       Bernier held out a hundred dollar bill, but when the girl moved to grab it, neatly tore it in two. “This half and two more when we are safely away.”

       The girl stared at him, then nodded as she turned and began walking down the corridor. Bernier exchanged a glance with Bolan, who nodded. “She’s our ticket out.”

       The kingpin started walking down the dark hallway, with Bolan bringing up the rear, one pistol pointed ahead, the other behind him. Doorways—empty frames and also holes cut into the walls, some covered with hanging blankets, others empty and gaping—lined the hallway on both sides.

       Bolan wasn’t claustrophobic, but the narrow passage plus the lack of light and multiple attack vectors were sending his senses into overdrive. He was crazily alert to every noise in the place, and there were many—too many. The only good news was that they seemed to be leaving any pursuit behind.

       The girl led them up a cramped staircase, the steps concave, worn from years of feet tramping up and down. Bolan caught the aroma of wood smoke and vegetables sizzling—someone was cooking nearby. The stairs opened into another hallway, identical to the first one, with rooms on either side. Bolan tried to watch every direction as they went down it, but he had to trust that the girl was really taking them out—a dangerous proposition here, where both Bernier and he could disappear, their bodies never to be found again.

       Shouts and crashes echoed up the stairwell, making Bolan quicken his pace. The girl ducked under a tattered blanket into a room at the end of the hall, waving them forward. Bernier hurried to follow.

       “Wait—!” Bolan’s whispered warning came too late. He tucked the SIG away and, leading with the Desert Eagle, pushed into the room—only to feel a circle of cold steel press into his neck. Bolan froze, the Desert Eagle held with its muzzle pointing in the air as he took in the room. A frown on her face, the girl stood by a crude rope ladder leading to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Two other men besides the punk holding the gun on Bolan stood in the room. One had a pistol trained on Bernier, the other held an iron pipe, ready to reinforce either of his criminal partners.

       “Drop the pist—” was all the gunman had time to say before Bolan snaked his arm around the shooter’s wrist, levering the gun out of line on him and trapping it between his elbow and side. The moment the pistol was neutralized, he leveled the Desert Eagle and put a round into the second gunman’s chest, the boom of the .357 deafening in the small room.

       Steadying the guy with his left hand, Bolan pulled him close as he brought his forehead down, smashing it into the thug’s nose. Cartilage crunched and blood squirted as the guy screamed in agony. Releasing him, Bolan stripped the pistol from his hand as he fell to the floor, keeping it locked between his arm and his side.

       In the three seconds it had taken to do that, the pipe-wielding man charged at Bolan, wildly swinging his pipe. Trying to aim the Desert Eagle at his attacker, the end of the pipe connected with the large gun’s frame hard enough to jar it out of Bolan’s hand. The shiny pistol skittered across the floor, but Bolan couldn’t track it, as all his attention was on the man in front of him, who was already cocking the pipe for another swing. There was no time to draw the SIG again, so Bolan went for the pistol under his arm. Pulling it out, he cocked the hammer back on the revolver and snap-fired as soon as he had it out far enough to line up the stubby barrel on the guy’s face. As he squeezed the trigger, Bolan felt tape on the handle and hoped the Saturday Night Special didn’t blow up in his hand.

       It did something far worse—the hammer fell on a chamber, but no bullet fired. It was a dud.

       “Hell!” Bolan ducked underneath the man’s wild swing, the pipe coming close enough to him to ruffle his hair. He was about to step forward and hammer the pistol butt into the man’s face when the left side of his head simply exploded, demolishing his facial features, as well. At the same time, another thunderous boom reverberated in the room, painfully hammering Bolan’s eardrums. The man’s body followed his brains, toppling over on his side to the floor.

       He glanced over to see Bernier aiming the smoking Desert Eagle at the girl, who just stood and stared back at him. He nodded at the three dead men, the question obvious. Shaking her head, she spit on the nearest one, then pointed up at the trapdoor again.

       Bolan watched this all with his eardrums feeling as though they were stuffed full of cotton. Dimly he heard noise from outside, in the hallway. Bernier heard it, as well, for he walked to the doorway, stuck the pistol out and fired three rounds. Pointing it at the girl, he waved her up the ladder. She scrambled up like a monkey, pushing the trapdoor—just a piece of plywood, no doubt scavenged from a construction site—out of the way and climbing out onto the roof.

       “Go!” SIG СКАЧАТЬ