Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton

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      STILL TRAILING THE TRUCK, Galo scrambled across a large tree trunk that had fallen the day before and presently spanned a plant-choked ravine. The voracious denizens of the rainforest were already going to work on it, however, and soon it would be eaten away and fall into the divide, to rot and return to the earth. But for the moment, it made an excellent natural bridge.

       On the other side, Galo scurried through the underbrush, with less than fifty yards to go until he reached the village clearing. He was about to emerge from the jungle and greet the visitors when he heard screams, followed by a sound he knew all too well—the sharp crack of gunfire.

       Dropping to his stomach, Galo crawled forward until he was able to peek under a large cluster of purple orchids and watch what was happening to his friends and family.

       The men from the truck, their heads covered by cloth masks, were all out of the vehicle and splitting up throughout the village, which consisted of about a dozen thin-walled huts on stilts with thatched roofs. The inhabitants, including Galo’s mother and father, had been coming out to greet the newcomers, but presently ran in terror, only managing a few steps before being gunned down and dropping in their tracks. The men were focused, efficient and deadly. Two-man teams moved from hut to hut, checking inside and shooting anyone they found. Screams of terror were cut off instantly by bursts of automatic-rifle fire.

       Galo was frozen where he lay, mouth locked open in a silent scream, unable to run, unable to move. In a few minutes it was all over, save for the occasional single shot as the merciless killers swept through the village one last time, finishing off the wounded. A burst of rifle fire sounded in the distance, and a pair of the camouflaged men emerged from the jungle on the far end of the village, their rifles smoking as they laughed to each other.

       The man in the cab, the leader of the operation, stood on the running board of the large truck, face partially shaded by the safari hat, his light blue eyes sweeping across the shattered remains of the village and the motionless bodies of its inhabitants.

       The men regrouped at the truck, climbing in only when the man in the hat gave the signal. The vehicle turned around in the clearing and had begun heading out when it came to a halt. The man in the hat rolled his window down and peered out at the jungle—right where Galo was hiding.

       Ducking his head, the boy held his breath, not daring to move. The truck stayed where it was for what seemed like an eternity. Galo’s heart hammered in his chest as he expected to hear the savage bark of the killers’ rifles any second. He was steeling himself to jump up and run deeper into the forest when the truck’s engine revved up again and it moved out down the road, its growl growing fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear it.

       Yet still Galo stayed where he lay, under the orchids, not daring to move.

       A light rain began falling on Galo, the slaughtered village…everything.

       Still, the boy did not move.

      1

      Even dressed in khaki chinos and a bright tropical shirt—dark blue with palm trees and red-and-yellow macaws patterned all over it—Mack Bolan felt underdressed as he moved through the huge, raucous dance party in the favela of Rocinha, one of Rio de Janeiro’s worst slums. Even the police feared coming into the seemingly endless blocks of closely packed, brightly colored two- and three-story tenements, each of which often contained several families living almost on top of each other.

       Rio’s government, however, was prepping for the 2016 Olympics, and high priority was to clean up the favelas and crack down on the flourishing crime spawned there, especially the drug trade.

       That was why Bolan was here. Street intelligence said that Thiago Bernier, one of the city’s top drug lords, was making a rare public appearance here, accepting tribute from the slum dwellers while presiding as the unofficial “king” of the baile, or dance party. Although Stony Man and the U.S. government typically left internal policing to the respective country, Bernier was the middleman in a smuggling ring that stretched across South America, from the Atlantic to the Pacific and all the way up to Mexico. When the local police were less than forthcoming about providing intelligence and assistance on his operation, Bolan had decided to handle things his way: get into the country, find Bernier and bring him out—one way or another. The resistance had been just enough for Bolan to consider whether officers inside the department had been bribed by the ever-present tide of drug money washing over the city, but that investigation would have to wait for another time.

       Typically, Anglos stood out anywhere they went in the sprawling metropolis. Besides his clothes, Bolan had disguised himself with a spray-on tan. With his black hair, he figured he’d blend in well enough, even if he was several inches taller than the majority of the dancing, singing, drinking crowd around him.

       Fortunately, even his loud shirt was positively subdued compared to the riot of color and sound surrounding him. Remixed bossa nova music blared from speakers on every block, the pulsating beat driving men and women, all dressed in bright costumes, to dance wildly all around him. Bolan could even understand the frenetic activity—celebrate life this day, because any one of the partygoers around him could be dead tomorrow. It wasn’t a philosophy he subscribed to—whenever possible, he preferred to be the one holding the gun.

       Although he tried to stick close to the sides of buildings, occasionally knots of partiers would sweep him into the maelstrom that was the nonstop street party. So far, besides spotting several hired guns positioned throughout the revelers, Bolan hadn’t seen a concentrated force yet—he figured that was coming soon, and he was right.

       A vacant lot had been taken over to install Bernier as the king of festivities. Swarthy, black-haired and handsome, he presided over the party with a casual bored air of the slumming kingpin. One thing Bolan had to give him credit for was the number of pigs roasting in pits around the lot. The rich smell of the roasting pork overlaid the strong smell of cheap cologne, sweat and filth that permeated the street. At least the attendees’ll eat well this night, Bolan thought. Assuming they survive the next few minutes.

       A flash of movement across the street attracted his predator senses and Bolan glanced over to see a brief altercation already being broken up by several people. It was enough, however, for him to spot a familiar-looking face, topped by a shock of black hair with a distinctive streak of white.

      Davi Giachetto—the police are here? Although annoyed, Bolan wasn’t surprised that his own source had made sure the local brass had shown up. He got paid twice, and there was a better-than-even chance that one or both of the parties using the information would be killed in the ensuing firefight, leaving him in the clear. It was actually pretty clever. Bolan made a mental note to himself that if he ever saw that snitch again, he’d be sure to remind him how much he didn’t like being sold out.

       But that was then—now, he had to prevent a potential bloodbath. Bolan had nothing against the short, tireless Brazilian cop. Sergeant Giachetto had cojones the size of soccer balls to even come down here in the first place. He had to know that if he was made, he’d be dead before he got to the end of the block.

       But just because Bolan liked the man didn’t mean he trusted him. After all, what better way to eliminate a competitor in crime than to bribe a cop to arrest the man, then have him shot while “resisting arrest” or “attempting to escape.” Although he was usually on the side of the badges, Bolan had run into his share of bent police officers in the past and always approached every one he met with the same amount of caution and skepticism until he was sure of their loyalty.

       Raising his smartphone, he took a picture of the street’s festivities, making sure to catch the officer in the shot. As he did, Bolan ran another casual sweep of the narrow avenue, revising his assessment of the posted security. Even as he watched, three of them had already been neutralized and replaced with Giachetto’s men. Slick, he thought, pushing his way to the front of the empty lot, which was guarded by three men several inches taller than him and twice as wide.

      “Eu tenho que ver o Senhor Bernier,” Bolan said in passable Portuguese. His smartphone’s