Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton

several inches taller than him and twice as wide.

      “Eu tenho que ver o Senhor Bernier,” Bolan said in passable Portuguese. His smartphone’s translator program was just hitting beta test in the U.S. Army. Bolan was part of the field testing, right here, right now.

      “Ninguém vê o Senhor Bernier,” one of the big men grunted, shaking his head. “No one sees Mr. Bernier.”

      “É urgente. Eu trabalho para o Alarico Nascimento.” Bolan cautiously pulled up his shirt to reveal his smartphone in a holster at his waist, noting the man’s large hand creeping behind his back. The bodyguard on Bolan’s left was backing up his partner while the third man kept watch over the boisterous crowd. These guys were definitely not local muscle for hire—they were professionals.

       When the bodyguard saw the phone, he nodded his massive head once. Bolan speed-dialed a number and handed the phone to the hulk. “Leve isso para o Senhor Bernier.”

       The big man stared at Bolan for a moment, looked suspiciously at the phone, dwarfed in his huge paw, then turned and lumbered into the lot, the two other guards closing ranks behind him. He reached Bernier, who was watching a pair of scantily clad women dance in front of him while texting on his own smartphone.

       The kingpin looked up at his henchman over his round glasses, then followed the other man’s finger as it pointed out Bolan. Frowning, he took the phone and put it to his ear. Bolan watched Bernier stiffen as he heard his lieutenant, Alarico Nascimento, tell him that the bearer of this phone should be trusted implicitly, as he had been sent by Nascimento himself to Bernier. The drug dealer stared at Bolan again, then spoke to his guard and pointed at Bolan, who casually rested his hand on his hip—the better to draw his compact SIG Sauer pistol hidden at the small of his back if needed.

       The big man whispered in his cohort’s ear, then waved Bolan forward. He slipped past the two men, taking the opportunity to look behind him for any sign of the polícia. He thought he caught a glimpse of Giachetto’s face in the crowd, but an exuberant dancer crossed in front of him, cutting off his view. Then Bolan was behind the bodyguard wall, walking to Bernier’s cheap wooden throne.

       “You work for Alarico?” the dealer asked in Portuguese.

       “Yes,” Bolan answered.

       “Why are you here?” Bernier asked.

       “He sent me to warn you—the police are coming, tonight, for you, right now.” All of that was true—Nascimento had been captured by Stony Man operatives while on vacation in Canada and had provided Bolan’s bona fides as part of a witness protection deal.

       Bernier slouched back in his chair and laughed. “The fucking police wouldn’t dare show their faces in the favelas!”

       Bolan held his hand out for his smartphone, which Bernier tossed at him with a sneer. Flicking through the screens, Bolan brought up the photograph he’d taken of the street a few minutes ago and zoomed in on Giachetto’s face. Holding the phone out, he asked, “You recognize this cop?”

       Bernier stiffened when he saw the sergeant’s face. “Shit! That son of a bitch!” He whistled, a sharp blast that brought his bodyguard back. Bernier hissed commands that made the man get on his cell, most likely trying to raise the other security guards in the area. Bolan looked at the front of the lot to see the other men not even bothering to hide their weapons, each one carrying a compact Steyr Tactical Machine Pistol with extended magazine. Bolan kept his expression carefully neutral at the sight, although he realized that the possibility of a slaughter had just increased by a factor of ten. The Steyrs were compact “room brooms,” spitting out 9 mm bullets at 850 rounds per minute. If the police mishandled the arrest, the resulting riot could leave dozens injured or dead.

       Bernier sprang from his chair. “Javiero! Let’s get the fuck outta here! You—” he pointed at Bolan “—you’re coming with us, as well. If this is a double cross, you’ll be the first to die! Get moving!”

       Keeping his hands in plain sight, Bolan walked ahead of Javiero the bodyguard. They were heading toward the back of the lot and a sleek Range Rover with tinted windows when a flurry of gunshots cracked from the crowd.

       “Shit!” Bolan spun to hear the staccato bursts of the Steyrs as they spat death into the crowd. Screams and shouts ensued as the panicked men and woman tried to scatter for cover, running into each other and trampling several in their haste to escape the kill zone.

       “Javiero! Cover me!” Bernier had drawn his own pistol, a chrome-plated Desert Eagle, and was covering Bolan with it. “You’re my insurance.”

       “Whatever you say—but I wouldn’t go out the back—” was all Bolan got to say before Bernier shoved the pistol under his chin.

       “Why? You trying to lead me into a trap so os porcos can arrest me?”

       “No, but the police’ll have that covered, as well.”

       Just then another fusillade of shots sounded from ahead of them, and Bernier’s driver exchanged fire with unseen assailants before driving off in a squeal of tires.

       “Bastard! Aquele cachorro!” Bernier swore as Javiero let loose with his machine pistol, the roar of the compact weapon drowning out the rest of the man’s swearing. He kept the cops under cover while moving to fire from behind the only protection he could find—one of the roasting pigs. Bullets punched through the carcass, spraying juices through the air.

       Several cartridges also tunneled through the meat and into the huge bodyguard, making him sit with a surprised look on his face, his machine pistol slipping from his hand as he died.

      2

      “Merda! Now what?” Bernier stared at his dead guard in shock.

       “This way!” Bolan shoved the Desert Eagle out of the way and yanked the kingpin toward the light green building on their left, which had every window and door boarded up. “Gimme that!” Snatching the large-caliber pistol out of the other man’s hand, he aimed it at a covered window and fired four rounds, blowing one of the wooden slats in two. Yanking the broken pieces away, Bolan was about to enlarge the hole when a machete blade chunked down on the windowsill from inside. Bolan aimed high and fired two more rounds through the wood, making the blade vanish along with pounding feet as the people inside fled from the gunfire.

       Bullets cracked into the mortar wall around them. Bolan pointed the Eagle backward, still angling the barrel up, and emptied the magazine, making everyone in the vicinity duck for cover. “Get inside!” he shouted at Bernier as he smashed out more planks with the butt of the pistol.

       Bernier scrambled through the narrow gap, with Bolan right behind him. The room they found themselves in was dark and small, yet still contained a cube refrigerator, table and shelves against one wall. A doorway opened into more blackness. The room stank of thousands of old meals, sweat and despair.

       Grabbing his charge by the sleeve, Bolan shoved him against the wall next to the door. “Got any spare mags for this?”

       Bernier nodded, handing over two 9-round magazines. Bolan reloaded the large pistol, then drew his own SIG Sauer, readying both as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Outside, the gunfire continued, with the police apparently pinned down. Bolan grimaced at the thought—they might need the military to come get them, but if that was the case, they’d probably be dead before help arrived.

       “Shouldn’t I get my gun back?” Bernier pouted.

       “Not if you wanna get out of here alive,” Bolan said. “Now be quiet.” He listened to the noises inside the building—scurrying feet, hushed whispers. “If these people recognize your voice, tell them you’ll reward them in exchange for assistance out of here.”

       Bernier stepped forward and called into the hallway, rattling off several sentences in rapid Portuguese. There was another conference, then a slight form emerged out of the darkness—a girl about fourteen years old.

       “Come here, child.”