Pirate Offensive. Don Pendleton

DAYS LATER, Bolan was driving a battered jeep, rattling through an entirely different kind of jungle.

      The midnight raid on the Caracas Police Headquarters had gone off without a hitch. Dozens of armed officers saw Bolan enter, but his forged papers passed muster, and an EM scanner jammed the expensive electronic lock on the master file room. Five minutes later, he was driving across town with a series of clandestine photographs tucked into his pocket. So far, so good. Now it was time to kill a traitor.

      Always trying to keep tabs on freedom fighters around the globe, Bolan knew several details about the Ghost Jaguars—a medium-sized group of rebels fighting Uruguay’s incredibly corrupt government. To the best of his knowledge, they had never crossed the line into unwarranted violence. Never kidnapped an innocent family member to force a crooked cop into confessing or conducted any blanket executions—although the government had certainly given them enough excuses to do so.

      The Jaguars stayed the line, kept hard and simply did not take any crap from anybody. Bolan liked that. All too often, fighting an evil turned even the best intentions dark, and soon, one became the very thing one detested. It was a constant fear of his own, and one that Bolan kept a very close eye on. The moment he started to enjoy killing people was the day he would toss his weapons into the sea and go retire somewhere. Bali, maybe, or Kalamazoo.

      Just not today, Bolan added privately, steering his rented jeep deeper into the wild jungle.

      The jeep was old, circa World War II, but still in excellent shape, and the studded tires were getting excellent traction from the weight in the rear. Lashed securely into place were nine heavy wooden boxes, all of them marked “soil samples.”

      Leaving the paved highway behind, Bolan started down a gravel road, switched to four-wheel drive and trundled up a dirt path that snaked deep into the misty mountains.

      The Ghost Jaguars constantly asked for help from America, but Bolan knew that would never happen. Uruguay was an oil-producing nation, and it sold thousands of barrels a year to the good ol’ USA. In these troubled times, that was a powerful incentive for America to leave the internal politics of Uruguay alone. Happily, Bolan had no such restrictions.

      Time passed, as did the long miles. Double-checking his GPS, Bolan parked the jeep in a cluster of giant ferns, letting the engine cool while he rechecked his maps and notations. If his original intel was good, combined with the crude notes stolen from the police files, then the main camp for the Ghosts would be somewhere inside the mountain range just ahead. The crosswinds between the jagged peaks were brutal, making an aerial reconnaissance damn near impossible. Countless waterfalls could help mask any minor heat signatures, such as truck engines or campfires, and the area was a favored hunting ground for jaguar.

      The situation reminded Bolan of an old trick—hide in plain sight, with the warning, “Here be Monsters.” It kept out most of the innocent bystanders, and if there was an invasion, disposing of the body afterward could be left entirely to the animals. Alexander the Great had used something similar in his military outposts around the world, as had the Romans.

      Sliding on a backpack, Bolan checked over his weapons, then started climbing up the steep hillside. The footing was tricky because of the deep carpeting of loose leaves and the many snakes hidden beneath them. After a few miles, Bolan’s EM scanner had yet to find a single live microphone hidden in the trees, a land mine or even a proximity sensor. Could he be wrong? Had the rebels moved to another location? It was possible. Perhaps the real reason the secret police had never found the Ghost Jaguars was because they had disbanded or...

      Bolan froze as the needle of the EM scanner jerked wildly. Straight ahead of him was a land mine. No, a field of land mines, spread out in every direction. Dozens...hundreds. His intel had been right—this was the place. Now, it was just a matter of cutting a deal with people who disliked outsiders, had no reason whatsoever to trust him and hated most Americans.

      Warily, Bolan moved through the maze of high-explosive death traps, keeping a constant watch on the flickering indicator. If the needle ever swung into the red, it would be too late. Red would mean the mines were about to explode. But there was no other way to reach the rebel camp.

      Edging steadily closer, Bolan caught a glimpse of a massive wall of upright logs hammered into the dark soil. The jungle grew right up to the wall, helping to mask its presence. The logs were at least a foot thick, patched with concrete, draped in camouflage netting and topped with concertina wire.

      The razor blades shone with fresh oil—much-needed protection from the constant mist and dampness. Nothing was visible over the top of the wall, but Bolan saw crude birds’ nests here and there. That’s where the video cameras would be hidden. Most likely. He needed to get over that damn fence in spite of them.

      Holding his breath, Bolan listened intently to the soft sounds of the jungle—the wind through the trees, the rustle of snakes, the chirps of various insects. Oddly, no noise seemed to be coming from his left, so he carefully headed in that direction. He soon discovered the source of the unnatural silence. A pair of jaguars was chained to the base of a large tree, their dappled fur helping them blend into the shadows.

      As the animals turned to face him, Bolan pulled out a pneumatic air gun and fired several times. The tiny darts disappeared completely into the thick, spotted hides of the huge animals, and they paused, wobbled slightly, then lay down clumsily.

      Just to be sure, Bolan gave them a couple of extra minutes to pass out. Jaguars were smart and often only pretended to be dead, or asleep, to lure their prey in closer. Which was probably why the rebels had chosen them as their symbol—smart and deadly. A good combination.

      Once he was satisfied the jungle killers were well and truly unconscious, Bolan approached the tree. He pulled a pair of slim knives out of his belt, then kicked the sides of his boots, releasing their climbing spurs.

      The ascent into the tree was easy, but every leaf seemed to hold a gallon of water, and by the time he reached the top, Bolan was soaked to the skin. Ignoring the minor inconvenience, he extracted a pair of compact binoculars and looked over the base.

      It was impressive. He saw a dozen log cabins and several large tents, everything draped with camouflage netting. He counted ten armed trucks, a dozen mountain bikes and two large canvas lumps. From the angle and positions, his best guess was that the lumps were missiles, probably surface-to-air. He also spotted what sure as hell resembled an old howitzer situated directly before the front gate.

      Designed for lobbing colossal shells a great distance, the blast of the 155 mm caliber cannon would be devastating to anything at such a short range. The gunnery crew could probably only get off one shot, maybe two, if they were really good. But the first government tank rumbling into the base would have a hot reception.

      The rebels themselves were men and women of all ages, some seeming too old to march, whereas others didn’t look old enough to shave. Everyone carried a gun and a machete. Nobody had any insignia of rank. Bolan assumed this was a small, tight group—if you were not personally known, you’d be killed on the spot. Brutal, but good tactics.

      An old switchback road snaked down the side of the mountain, and the base was located at the edge of a crumbling cliff that overlooked the ocean. The height was extreme—ten, maybe fifteen miles. But a brave man with a parachute might make it down to the coastline alive. An escape maneuver that most invading troops would not be able to duplicate.

      Easing his way back to the ground, Bolan moved to a small clearing where he could see the front gate. Bolan pulled out a small transceiver, thumbed aside the protective cover, waited for the green light, then pressed the arming button twice.

      Ten miles away, the stacked boxes of cargo in the rear of the jeep cut loose in a prolonged display of thermite, dynamite, white phosphorous and cheap fireworks.

      Within seconds, the front gate of the base was throw open, and a ragged convoy of trucks and motorcycles charged out of the enclosure.

      As the defenders disappeared quickly down the dirt road, the gate slamming shut behind them, Bolan sprinted to the opposite edge of the compound and used his pneumatic air gun to launch a grappling