Survival Reflex. Don Pendleton

else. I’ll catch a shuttle to the airstrip nearest Bones. Don’t tell her when I’m flying.”

      Blancanales frowned. “You figure she’s a sell-out?”

      “Why take chances? If she’s straight, there’s still at least a fifty-fifty chance she’ll be picked up when she gets home. If someone sweats her, I don’t want her spilling my itinerary.”

      “Right,” Blancanales said. And then again, “You’re right.”

      “I’ll need a contact on the other end for various supplies, including hardware. Play it safe and don’t use anyone connected to the Company or NSA.”

      “I know an independent dealer in Belém.”

      “That’s fine, if I can get a charter flight from there to Mato Grosso with no questions asked.”

      “I’ll check it out today,” the Able Team commando promised. “If it doesn’t work, your best bet for a touchdown where you want to go will be Cuiabá. I’ll find somebody there.”

      “Before you cut her loose,” Bolan said, “get the best fix that you can on where Bones has his chop shop. If he’s mobile, try for base coordinates, at least. I’ll GPS it and go solo in the bush.”

      “That’s risky, man.”

      “Hiring a guide is worse. I won’t know who he’s really working for until it hits the fan.”

      “You’re right again. Has anybody ever told you that’s an irritating habit?”

      Bolan smiled. “My childhood aspiration was to be a know-it-all.”

      “And how’s that working for you?”

      “I’m still working on it.”

      Blancanales went somber, then. “I’m having second thoughts about this whole damn thing,” he said.

      “It’s Bones,” Bolan reminded him.

      “I know that, but you’ve got me thinking now. Suppose someone’s already bagged him, squeezed him. Now they’re putting out feelers to see who’ll try a rescue mission. Pick off Santa’s little helpers one by one.”

      “It doesn’t have that feel about it,” Bolan said. “Somebody wants to take out Bones for helping Indians, whatever, why would they go fishing in the States?”

      “Because they can?”

      “It’s thin,” Bolan said, “but I’ll keep an eye peeled, just in case.”

      “It may be too late, once you’re down there.”

      “Maybe not. Let’s see what happens.”

      “The more I think about it,” Blancanales said, “the more I wish I hadn’t called you.”

      “Spilled milk, guy. Just make those calls and let me have the word before you head back down to Baja.”

      “It’ll be a couple hours, give or take.”

      “You’ve got my number.”

      “That’s affirmative. Where will you be?”

      “Around.”

      “Okay. I’ll be in touch.”

      Blancanales lingered on the balcony as Bolan went downstairs. No one was lurking near the rented Chevy, no one peering from the nearby rooms. Behind the wheel, the soldier took time to stop and think about the mission he’d accepted and what it would mean to follow through.

      A friend in trouble, right.

      But he could only help the willing.

      And if Nathan Weiss had asked for help, that made him willing, on the surface. But what kind of help was Weiss expecting?

      Extrication or combat support?

      Bolan had no illusions concerning his ability to make a one-man stand against the whole Brazilian army, even if a friend’s life might be riding on the line. Weiss might be looking for a martyr’s end, but that would never be a part of Bolan’s plan.

      Die fighting if he had to, absolutely.

      But to throw his life away?

      Forget about it.

      He would have a look, as promised, and take it from there. The next step would be up to Bones.

      And Bolan hoped the bones he left behind him in the jungle wouldn’t be his own.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Belém, Brazil

      The first leg of Bolan’s long journey was a two-hour flight from San Diego to Mexico City, with ninety minutes in the airport terminal, waiting to make his connection. He stayed alert from force of habit, even though no one he could think of had any reason to be hunting him in Mexico.

      His enemies in that troubled country were all either dead or in prison, as far as he knew, but it never hurt to be careful. He bought an English-language guidebook for Brazil and started reading it at the departure gate, killing time.

      The authors considered Brazil a Latin miracle of sorts, emerging from military rule to reclaim civilian democracy in the mid-1980s, battling back from a decade of economic crises to stand head and shoulders above its neighbors, national triumph symbolized by five straight victories in World Cup soccer finals. There was only passing mention of the country’s long-time military junta and its brutal violence, countered by rebel insurrection in the cities and the hinterlands. No mention at all of homeless children hunted through the streets by death squads or the covert policy of “relocating” native tribes at any cost.

      Bolan wasn’t surprised by the guidebook’s omissions. Tourist economies thrived on illusion, whether it was Carnivale in Rio, Atlantic City’s neon boardwalk or the Las Vegas Strip. No advertising agent pointed out his client’s warts or called attention to the smell of rot that wafted from behind most glittering facades.

      In Bolan’s personal experience, there was no government on Earth without a dark core of corruption at its heart. No tourist paradise without a nest of vipers in the garden or a school of sharks cruising offshore. No end of problems for a die-hard altruist to tackle in the autumn of his life.

      But why in hell had Nathan Weiss chosen Brazil?

      He was a doctor, and more specifically, a trauma surgeon. Weiss would find trauma to spare in Brazil, but the same could readily be said for New York City, San Francisco, London or Madrid. Unless Shangri-la had been discovered since the last time Bolan watched CNN, there was no shortage of victims anywhere on Earth.

      So, why Brazil?

      It wasn’t for the love of jungle climates. Bolan knew that much from time he’d spent with Weiss in another green hell, on the far side of the world. Bones didn’t often complain, but mosquitoes and tropical germs were among his pet peeves in those days.

      Why seek them out, then, when he could’ve written his own ticket at any stateside hospital and most of those in Europe?

      Pol Blancanales had been clueless on that score, nothing in Weiss’s file from Stony Man to clarify the mystery. Bolan was still puzzling over the problem when they called his flight, and during the four-hour transit to Belém. He skipped the in-flight movie, browsed his guidebook, ate the packaged pseudo-food they set in front of him, but still the question nagged him.

      Why Brazil?

      Whatever the reason, Bones had gotten in too deep, and now he needed help. He’d reached out for The Politician because Blancanales was traceable. If Weiss thought of Bolan at all, these days, he would presumably accept the media reports describing Bolan’s fiery death in New York City. Surgery had altered Bolan’s face more than once, made him unrecognizable if he had passed Weiss on the street.

      And would he recognize the doctor, after