Line Of Honor. Don Pendleton

they are led by a terrible individual called Yellow Mnan. They say he keeps hyenas in his main camp and feeds people to them.” Haitham stopped translating. “Something about him being an…evil ghost?”

      Bolan considered that. “Ask her if Mnan is black like you but has skin like me.”

      Mina nodded and made the sign against the evil eye.

      “He’s an albino.” Bolan knew how much of a badass an albino had to be to rise to a position of leadership in a genocidal civil war.

      Mina continued.

      “Anything Mnan does not want, he burns,” Haitham said. “Anyone Mnan does not want, he kills.” He frowned. “And Mina says when they kill they take their time.”

      “Sound like some real loco hombres, Jefe,” Ochoa added.

      “Janjaweed,” Bolan said.

      Sirel and Mina flinched in unison.

      Ochoa brightened. “Ganja weed?”

      “Janjaweed, Sancho. It’s an Islamist militia. They were originally drawn from the nomadic tribes in East Darfur. The Sudanese government used them to try to pacify the rebelling farming tribes who were mostly Christian and Native African animists. The lines got blurred pretty quickly. At one point it was rumored the government in Khartoum was emptying the prisons, giving each man a horse and an AK, saying, ‘Go west, young man.’ They were widely accused of genocide.”

      “Jesus…”

      “Jesus is right, Sancho. They’re real bad hombres, and loco.” Bolan did a quick head count and clicked his com link. “Russo, I need thirty-seven protein bars and the same of the bottled waters.”

      “Sacre bleu!” The French agent sounded bemused. “Do I detect a big, fat heart in that American chest?”

      “Just do it.” He turned to Haitham. “Ask them how far behind Mnan and his Janjaweed men are.”

      Sirel spoke for long moments. Haitham looked as if he might cry. “Sirel says his people are the dead, walking in dust. They leave little to follow unless one of them dies. He says Mnan probably does not know where they are, but he will be roaming for his next prey.”

      “Jefe?” Sancho asked.

      “Yeah?”

      “I don’t like this Mnan. I don’t like him at all.”

      “Me, neither, Sancho.”

      Nelsonne walked up with Onopkov behind her. The lanky Russian carried a big box. The refugees were scared of Bolan and his group, but they recognized international aid immediately and swarmed forward for food and water. Nelsonne smiled, chucked chins and passed out food and water and hugs like a pro. More than the concentrated calories and desperately needed hydration, the woman was passing out empathy, and hope. She was also quickly interviewing each person she fed. The French agent was also cataloging interviews as she distributed aid. When the last elderly person had cracked the cap on his water bottle and the last child had crinkled open the wrapper of his food bar, Nelsonne rose and leaned in to Bolan. “Tell me.”

      “What?”

      “Tell me we’re going to wipe the Sudan with this Mnan.”

      “The French do have the term ‘mission creep,’ I assume?”

      Bolan had to factor in the fact that Nelsonne was an intelligence agent and quite possibly had her own agenda, but the woman seemed to be getting genuinely worked up about the refugees. “Then why did we stop and give them food? We fatten them up for slaughter?”

      “To get intel? Because we couldn’t have them walk on top of us and set up camp?” Bolan suggested.

      “We’re going to kick Mnan’s ass.”

      “We just might teach him not to go our way.” Bolan watched the refugees as they finished their rations. They sat huddled together, literally leaning against one another to hold themselves up. Half had already fallen into exhausted sleep. Some couldn’t help themselves and tore into the rations Nelsonne had issued for the morning. “Or theirs.”

      “So we kick his ass?”

      Bolan considered the geometry of horror in sub-Saharan Africa. Sirel and Mina’s people had left tracks. The only reason they hadn’t been ridden down already was that Mnan and his cohorts had probably found something else to temporarily distract them. Sirel and Mina’s little band had women worth raping and young girls to be sold in the slave trade. They also had young boys who could be used the same way or turned into child soldiers; and when all was said and done, Yellow Mnan would be very interested to hear about a heavily loaded convoy headed into the interior.

      Bolan nodded. “We’re going to kick him in the nuts and see how he likes it.”

      Nelsonne rose up on her toes and kissed Bolan on the cheek. He smiled as his right cheekbone tingled pleasingly. The soldier clicked his com link. “Lucky, put the Rovers into gun-jeep configuration and prep the cycles.”

      The Mongolian grinned. “You got it, hot rod.”

      Nelsonne stood on tiptoe and breathed in Bolan’s ear. “Hey, soldier. You want to get laid?”

      “In Bruges,” Bolan murmured back. “And only if we win.”

      5

      Bolan’s caravan went hostile. By the dawn’s early light, Rover 1 now sported a recoilless antitank gun mounted in the bed and an automatic grenade launcher on the hood for the man riding shotgun. Rover 2 mounted a Russian .50-caliber machine gun in the bed and a light machine gun in the passenger-side hood mount. The caravan’s mother ship, the Unimog, had a ring-mounted .30-caliber gun on the cab roof. Each vehicle was packing a HongYing 5 shoulder-launched antiaircraft missile in the back, and had locked and loaded RPGs.

      Pienaar lit a cigarette. “So, you and T-Lo going on recce?”

      “If we’re not back by noon, start heading east. We’ll catch up. If you haven’t heard from us by sunset, we bought it. In that event I gave Russo a number to call. You’ll be informed of the mission parameters and asked if you want to continue. If the team agrees to go ahead, I want you to take command. Though I would pay particular attention to anything Russo has to say. The French have assets and intel in the region.”

      “Copy that, Striker.” Tshabalala walked up and the two brothers-in-law fist bumped. Pienaar jerked his head at Bolan. “Have him home at a decent hour, T-Lo. Keep your hands to yourself.”

      Tshabalala threw back his head and laughed.

      Bolan threw a leg over his bike. His MZ 125 SX motorcycle was German-made and ex-French military issue. The four-stroke thumper had been painted matte black and was remarkable for weighing only 124 kilos while at the same time being remarkably tough. Tshabalala checked his kit one more time and looked at Bolan expectantly. He had declared himself an “aces” cross-country cyclist. It turned out Pienaar was an actual local South African champion and had taught Tshabalala all he knew, but Pienaar was also the most experienced truck driver, as well, and had become Bolan’s de facto second in command.

      The Executioner pulled down his goggles and grinned at his companion. “Tshabalala?”

      “Say it ten times fast, china.”

      Bolan gave the scout a sly look before he pulled down his goggles. “Zulu?”

      Tshabalala grinned and pulled down his own. “Too right I’m Zulu.”

      “You’re down with the plan?”

      “Well, it sounds a bit like mission creep to me. Then again, this Mnan sounds like a real clutch plate.”

      Bolan kicked his MZ into life and headed out across the hostile landscape. Tshabalala took position at his eight o’clock.

      By sunrise the Sudan was beautiful in its own