Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton

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       The rooftop they were on was indistinguishable from a thousand others around them. Gunshots still sounded from the street below, but they’d become more sporadic. Bernier and Bolan looked around for the best way out.

       “You have a car somewhere, right?” the kingpin asked.

       Bolan pointed. “Yeah, six blocks that way—if it hasn’t been stolen or stripped yet. We should try to find other wheels anyway. The police will be looking for newer vehicles coming out of here.”

       Bernier turned to the girl and asked her a question. In response, she held out her hand. “Damn it!” He counted off four more hundred-dollar bills, plus the torn half of the first one. “Let’s go!”

       The girl scurried off, leading the two men to the back wall, where a plank she placed between two buildings served as an improvised bridge. Although it creaked under Bolan’s two hundred pounds, it held him as he crossed.

       They went across three more rooftops, ascending the stacked buildings of the favela until coming to a single-lane road. The girl trotted past three houses until she came to what looked like a crude garage with a door made of jury-rigged corrugated tin sheets, secured with a brand-new, shiny padlock. The girl pointed to it, then held out her hand a third time.

       “Gonna be broke by the time we leave,” Bernier grumbled, but counted another five hundred dollars into her hand. “Go, get out of here, you extortionist.” The girl made the last payment disappear as quickly as she had the first one, then whirled and dashed off down an alley, gone from sight in seconds.

       “How are we getting in?” Bernier asked, pointing the pistol at the lock.

       “No! Shooting’s too loud—it’ll draw everyone to us. Just keep watch.” Bolan bent down and got to work with his picks. Two minutes later, the lock was picked. Pulling the door open revealed a battered Subaru Brat, minus the hood and with dented and rusty doors and side panels. “Haven’t seen one of these in forever. Let’s go.”

       “Can you get it started?” Bernier asked as he got in on the passenger side.

       “Of course.” Bolan exposed the steering column of the almost thirty-year-old vehicle, stripped the right wires and touched them together. The light truck’s engine sputtered and coughed. Bolan pumped the gas once and touched the wires together again. This time the Subaru turned over with an earsplitting racket—apparently the muffler was long gone, too.

       “Let’s go!” Bernier shouted. “I got a feeling this wasn’t hers to sell!”

       “You and me both!” Bolan pressed the brake, then engaged the clutch and gave it gas. The little two-seater shook its way out of the garage just as two men came around the corner, one carrying an ax handle, the other clutching an old, double-barreled shotgun. When they saw their vehicle being stolen, the shotgunner aimed his weapon.

       “Down!” Bernier shouted as the back window disintegrated in a shower of glass pellets behind them. Bolan cranked the wheel hard right and hit the gas, making the Subaru leap ahead as it lurched into gear. Bernier stuck his Desert Eagle out the passenger window and cranked off the rest of his magazine, making the two men duck for cover.

       Downshifting into second, Bolan made the Subaru fly down the single lane, praying no one stepped out into the road, as he wouldn’t be able to stop and there was nowhere to swerve. The alley remained empty, fortunately, and he took the first road they came to, cranking left to get back onto one of the main roads and out of the slum.

       “Incredible! You are something else!” Bernier had put away his pistol and stared at Bolan in admiration. “A man of your talents shouldn’t be wasted on Alarico. How about you come work for me? At triple your previous pay, of course!”

       “That is a very generous offer, Senhor Bernier. Let’s get out of the city first, and then we can discuss my new arrangements—and my payment.”

       “Of course, of course.” Bernier took out his smartphone. “I can have my jet ready to go in an hour. Head to Galeão.”

       Bolan kept his smile to himself—the international airport twenty minutes away from the city was where they were headed anyway.

       They negotiated the afternoon traffic to get on the highway and were soon cruising along underneath the bright sun, the carnage of a half hour ago rapidly receding. Bernier smoked a cheroot and talked expansively, promising Bolan a top position in his cartel. “Maybe even to replace that weasel Alarico—his payments have been a little light recently. I think you could handle his operations very nicely.”

       For his part, Bolan kept his eyes on the road and nodded where appropriate.

       “The Gulfstream is in hangar 11E, just head right down, they’re expecting us.”

       Bolan took the turnoff to the private hangars, but as 11E came up, he didn’t turn toward it.

       Bernier looked at his jet as they drove past his hangar. “What are you doing? It’s back there, you missed it…” He trailed off when he saw the SIG Sauer in Bolan’s hand pointed at him.

       “I’m afraid I came to you under false pretenses, Senhor Bernier. I’m not going with you—you’re coming with me. What condition you’re in during the flight, however, is completely up to you.”

       Bernier’s gaze rose to his face, and Bolan knew exactly what he was thinking. Could he draw and shoot before he fired? Bolan shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t.” Bernier slumped back in his seat.

       They turned into another hangar, where a larger Gulfstream jet was idling on the tarmac. A tall man with light brown hair and dressed in a summer-weight tropical sport coat, open-collared shirt and sunglasses stood by the open stairway. Bolan pulled to a stop in front of him.

       “Afternoon, Mack.” The man’s voice had a thick layer of cockney in it.

       “David.”

       “Any problems?”

       “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

       The head of Phoenix Force shook his head. “Still say it would have been more prudent to have me with you.”

       Bolan smiled. “I wanted to get one man out, David, not bring down the entire slum around me.”

       “Fair enough.” David McCarter moved to the passenger door. “This our third passenger?”

       “Yup.”

       McCarter grinned, a sharklike baring of teeth that was completely devoid of warmth or humor. “You aren’t gonna be any trouble now, are you, mate?”

       Staring at the fox-faced Brit, Bernier shook his head. David reached in and relieved him of his sidearm and smartphone. “All right, then, time to go.”

       It was on the way to the plane that Bernier got some of his courage back. “Wait a minute. You cannot just take me out of the country—there are rules to this sort of thing. I cannot be extradited like this. I demand to speak to your State Depart…” He trailed off at seeing the wolfish looks on Bolan’s and David’s faces.

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