Colony Of Evil. Don Pendleton

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      “WE HAVE A TAIL,” Bolan said, turning to confirm what he’d already seen in his side mirror. Two cars, several lengths behind them, had swerved rapidly to match Guzman’s lane change.

      “Maybe coincidence,” Guzman said as his dark eyes flickered back and forth between his rearview mirror and the crowded lanes in front of him.

      “Maybe,” Bolan replied, but he wasn’t buying it. The nearest off-ramp was a mile or more ahead of them. Commuters would already know their exits. Tourists new to Bogotá would have their noses buried in guidebooks or street maps, and the odds that two of them would suddenly change lanes together without need were minuscule.

      “You wouldn’t have a gun, by any chance?” Bolan asked. “Just to tide me over, through our little shopping trip.”

      “Of course, señor,” his guide replied, and reached beneath his driver’s seat, drawing a pistol from some hidey-hole and handing it to Bolan.

      Bolan recognized the IMBEL 45GC-MD1. He checked the chamber, found a round already loaded, pulled the magazine and counted fourteen more.

      It could be worse.

      Most .45s had straight-line magazines, and thus surrendered five to seven rounds on average to the staggered-box design employed by most 9 mm handguns. IMBEL had contrived a way to keep the old Colt’s knock-down power while increasing its capacity and sacrificing none of the prototype’s rugged endurance.

      Bolan wished he might’ve had a good assault rifle instead, or at the very least a few spare magazines, but he was armed, and so felt vastly better than he had a heartbeat earlier.

      “Two cars, you think?” Guzman asked.

      Bolan looked again, in time to see a third change lanes, some thirty yards behind the second chase car. “Two, at least,” Bolan replied. “There might be three.”

      “I took every precaution!” Guzman said defensively. “I swear, I was not followed.”

      It was no time to start an argument. “Maybe they knew where you were going,” Bolan replied.

      “How? I told no one!”

      Grasping at straws, Bolan suggested, “We can check the car for GPS transmitters later. Right now, think of somewhere to take them without risking any bystanders.”

      “There’s no such place in Bogotá, señor!”

      “Calm down and reconsider. Last time I passed through town, there was a warehouse district, there were parks the decent people stayed away from after dark, commercial areas where everyone punched out at six o’clock.”

      “Well…sí. Of course, we have such places.”

      “Find one,” Bolan suggested. “And don’t let those chase cars pull alongside while we’re rolling, if you have a choice.”

      “Would you prefer a warehouse or—”

      “It’s your town,” Bolan cut him off. “I don’t care if you flip a coin. Just do it now.”

      His tone spurred Guzman to a choice, although the driver kept it to himself. No matter. Bolan likely wouldn’t recognize street names, much less specific addresses, if Guzman offered him a running commentary all the way.

      Bolan wanted results, and he would judge his guide’s choice by the outcome of the firefight that now seemed a certainty.

      Headlights behind the Volkswagen sedan showed Bolan four men in the vehicle. He couldn’t see their backlit faces, and would not have recognized them anyway, unless they’d been featured in the photo lineup he’d viewed before leaving Miami. Still, he knew the enemy by sight, by smell, by intuition.

      Even if the dark Mercedes and the smaller car behind it, which had changed lanes last, were wholly innocent, Bolan still had four shooters on his tail, almost before he’d scuffed shoe leather on their native soil. That was a poor start to his game, by any standard, and he had to deal with them as soon as possible.

      If he could capture one alive, for questioning, so much the better. But he wasn’t counting on that kind of break, and wouldn’t pull his punches when the bloodletting began.

      “All right, I know a place,” Guzman announced. “We take the first road on our left, ahead.”

      “Suits me,” Bolan replied. “Sooner’s better than later.”

      “You think that they will try to kill us?”

      “They’re not the welcoming committee,” Bolan said. “Whether they want us dead or spilling everything we know, it doesn’t work for me.”

      “There will be shooting, then?”

      “I’d say you could bet money on it.”

      “Very well.”

      Guzman took one hand off the steering wheel, leaned forward and retrieved a pistol from his waistband, at the back. It was another IMBEL, possibly a twin to Bolan’s .45, although he couldn’t tell without a closer look. Guzman already had it cocked and locked. He left the safety on and wedged the gun beneath his right leg and the cushion of the driver’s seat.

      “We’re ready now, I think,” he said.

      “We’re getting there,” Bolan replied. “We need our place, first.”

      “Soon,” Guzman assured him, speaking through a worried look that didn’t show much confidence. СКАЧАТЬ