Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River by Pendleton Don

Author:Pendleton, Don
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gold Eagle
Published: 2013-03-08T05:00:00+00:00

THE MOON was barely more than a discarded fingernail among the myriad stars that twinkled over the African plain, but the midnight sky was bright enough for Encizo to pick out the solitary sentry hunched in the bushes to his right.

His frogman training stood him in good stead, even here—whether landing at night on a Caribbean beachhead or creeping across the sands around a water hole in Africa, the Cuban could move as silently as a sidewinder. And he was every bit as deadly. Yagoda's watchdog was in for a surprise.

Encizo moved swiftly past the picket, turned and straightened up. Now he sauntered toward the guard from the one direction the guy was not expecting trouble.

Still the man turned. "Quiet?"

"Tomas. Esta bien," Rafael quickly reassured him. One of the squad had to be named Tomas. "iQue Nora es?"

The guard checked the luminous dial of his watch. "Son las dace y cuarto. zQue pasa?"

Encizo stepped closer, apparently fiddling with his fly. It was obvious to the sentry what "Tomas" was about to do.

Satisfied, the sentry turned away with a chuckle. He was still grinning when Encizo's hand clamped around his mouth. From left to right, the razor edge of the knife sank deep, through skin, muscle and gristle, to open up another wider, bloodwet grin . . . it slashed through everything vital. There was only a soft gurgling sound as Encizo gently lowered the corpse of his ex-compatriot to the ground.

Bolan and Ohara hurried through the unguarded gap in the perimeter. They could see the dark shape of the Cuban nightfighter crouchwalking across the open patch in front of them. Ohara veered off to the right, toward the bundled forms of the sleeping soldiers. Bolan followed fast on Encizo's heels.

Over on the far side, the Angolan guard was pacing nervously back and forth, AK-47 held ready, still wondering what dreadful creature was prowling out there on its nightly hunt. He never saw Mulanda. The assegai flashed out of the darkness, split the sentry's sternum and erupted from his back.

He swayed for a moment, then fell to his knees grasping the decorated shaft, too surprised to even call out. Before he could summon the last of his strength to shout a warning, the Mussengamba tracker was upon him. A blade glittered cold in the starlight as the fallen man's throat, too, was slit from side to side.

Mulanda picked up the AK-47 out of the grass. In his opinion not much of a weapon, but for booty it was all right.

Keio Ohara, the man who had forgotten more than a ninja was ever taught, found what he was looking for—Colonel Boris Yagoda. The youthful KGB officer was wrapped tight inside a poncho. But he was not to be the shadow warrior's target. Keio wanted the man lying right beside him: the Cuban sergeant.

The fellow turned restlessly, emitted a snuffling little snore, and murmured, "Te quiero. . .", whoever he was making this sleepy declaration of love to would never hear him say it again.

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