Slayground. Don Pendleton

rhythm was out of sync, an effect created by chance, and revealing that there were two people, one in pursuit of the other. Judging from the lack of urgency, he presumed that whoever was being tracked was unaware that he had someone on his tail.

      Bolan drew back into the plentiful cover, unsheathing the TEKNA. The less sound he made, the better.

      He waited only a few moments before the first footsteps were close enough for their maker to be revealed by the parting of the undergrowth: a woman, unarmed, with a rucksack on her shoulder. She was splattered with mud and looked far from happy. She was wearing shorts, and one leg showed a number of scrapes and cuts, presumably from a fall, but not deep enough to make her limp.

      It wasn’t Elena Anders. For a moment, Bolan wondered if he’d struck it lucky, but a second look quashed that hope. Whoever this woman was, however, one thing was certain: the Seven Stars didn’t like her snooping around. She yelled in fright a fraction of a second before the tree in front of her was splintered and pulped by a heavy-duty shell. The deadened cough of the rifle told the soldier that the tracker had a clear sight of the woman, but was maybe not the best shot. Good. That gave him a chance to save her—whoever she was—and to halt her pursuer.

      The woman was flat on the ground, sobbing and paralyzed with fear. The undergrowth around her kept her shielded to an extent. For the moment, her assailant likely couldn’t see her.

      Problem was, Bolan couldn’t see him, either. Or hear him. The soldier scanned the thick covering before him, but detected no movement. He needed to get the woman out of the line of fire and draw the shooter into the open.

      He slipped the TEKNA back into its sheath and pulled the HK from its holster, setting it to single shot and staring into the foliage. From the damage on the tree, he could narrow down the area the bullet had come from. More than one shot would attract undue attention from the amusement park occupants. The shooter had a rifle, and a three-shot burst would betray another presence. Bolan needed to place this as close as he could estimate....

      The woman yelped in fear again as he loosed a shot. It crashed through the undergrowth and took a chunk out of a tree. There was no sound to betray the presence of the gunman, and for a moment Bolan thought the ploy had failed. But then a shadowy figure stepped out of cover and shot again, this time in the soldier’s direction. Bolan stood firm, knowing that he was hidden and that the rifleman was firing blindly. The shot smashed through the branches above him, high and wide. He stood his ground, keeping out of view while he took a sighting. Now he knew where he was firing.

      He sent another single shot into the shadows, where his quarry had retreated. The woman remained where she was, crying gently and muttering to herself between sobs.

      Bolan watched intently as the round disappeared into the undergrowth. There was little indication of whether or not it had struck home. He waited, listening for any signs of movement. The woman was starting to crawl across the ground. If she got to her feet she would become a target again, and that was the last thing Bolan wanted.

      Who was she? If he could get her away from here, she might be able to share some intel on the cult.

      To his right, Bolan noticed a ripple in the bushes. The last shot had not taken his man, but had been close enough to make him change positions. He was obviously trying to get a better view of the area where Bolan was secreted, but this brought the gunman closer to the woman’s position—too close for the soldier to risk it.

      He slipped the HK back into the holster and palmed the TEKNA. Picking his way through the undergrowth, he ran parallel to the path of his intended target, who was easily traceable by the rippling trail he left in his wake. Bolan, on the other hand, was able to move silently without betraying his position. He crossed in front of his prey so that he could circle around and take him from the opposite side, where he would least expect an attack.

      In position, Bolan waited for the man to blunder past him. He crashed through the undergrowth within a few yards of where Bolan stood. The shooter was young, no older than his early twenties, and appeared nervous, his eyes staring wildly and his mouth clenched in a rictus of fear. He held the rifle downward, but both hands gripped it tightly enough to make the skin whiten at the knuckles. He was hyped up, and the slightest provocation could make him fire wildly.

      The soldier didn’t want stray shells flying around—not with the woman so close to them.

      He let the man pass, and then slipped into his wake. Bolan took two steps to catch up, then snaked one arm around the man’s throat, pulling him backward, while the other arm punched up, driving the knife into the shooter’s kidneys. Bolan’s tight squeeze on his throat strangled any cry for help, or of pain. He twisted the knife before pulling it out and stabbing the man again, this time slipping the TEKNA under the ribs and angling up. He felt the man slump against him, and braced himself for the full deadweight. He extracted the knife and stepped away, letting the enemy fall to the dirt, his eyes staring sightlessly, blood bubbling from his mouth.

      Bolan took the rifle from the dead man and slung it over his shoulder. He wiped the TEKNA on the guy’s shirt and sheathed it before taking stock of his surroundings.

      There was no sign that anyone else had been patrolling the swamp with the rifleman. The only sounds Bolan could pick out, other than wildlife, were the sobbing and muttering of the woman.

      He needed to find out who she was and what had brought her here. But first it was imperative that they get back on the road. There was no knowing how long it would be before the dead man was missed, and Bolan intended to be a long way from here when anyone from the Seven Stars came looking.