The upshot of Mbarga’s grilling was that he knew nothing more of Quinn than when he’d started. Did the young man have a special friend inside the village, either male or female? Master Gaborone himself controlled the coupling of his congregants, selecting mates based on criteria known to himself alone. Even the married people, though, were segregated into dorms by gender, granted conjugal relations at the master’s pleasure, once per month on average.
Of course, that didn’t stop some villagers from falling prey to whimsies of the flesh. Mbarga and his men caught them from time to time, rutting like animals inside a storage shed or in the forest, passion honed to razor sharpness by the danger of discovery. In such cases, Mbarga took names for Master Gaborone, and punishments were devised to fit the crime. Public humiliation was a common penalty, sometimes accompanied by corporal punishment.
And wayward girls were marked. The master liked to counsel them himself.
In fact, the young American named Quinn appeared to have no contacts of that kind within the village—which meant none at all, since he was never sent outside Obike on his own. It seemed unlikely, then, that passion would’ve led to fire setting, and since he’d fled alone, it couldn’t be supposed that he’d eloped.
Mbarga still had more questions than answers when he carried his final report to the master, but at least one thing was settled. He knew where the white man had gone. More precisely, he knew how Patrick Quinn had left the village, though his destination still remained obscure.
He found the master standing with their foreign guests, and approached cautiously from fear of interrupting some important conversation. They had business to discuss, Mbarga knew, and it was not his place to meddle in such things.
“Nico, what news?” the master asked as he approached.
“Master, the white man is no longer in Obike, but I found the point where he departed from the village, heading south.”
“Toward Brazzaville?” Gaborone asked.
“Master, the city is two hundred miles away.”
“I know that!”
“My apologies, Master.”
“You must go after him and bring him back at once.”
“Of course, Master.”
“A hunting party, is it?” the Colombian asked. “That sounds like fun. I’ll join you.”
The Arab standing to his left immediately looked suspicious. “I will also go,” he said.
“You wish to interrupt negotiations?” Gaborone seemed more amused than curious.
“Why not?” the Colombian asked. “It won’t take long.”
“By all means, then, enjoy yourselves,” Gaborone said. “But be aware of dangers in the jungle. Trust in Nico’s judgment if you value life and limb. And, Nico?”
“Yes, Master?”
“I want the boy alive.”
“WHO ARE YOU?” Patrick Quinn demanded when his eyes swam into focus on the stranger’s face in front of him.
“A friend,” Bolan replied, not altogether sure if that was true.
“I don’t think so,” the youth challenged. He tried to rise, but weakness and the residue of drugs still coursing through his system dropped him back against the tree trunk. “I was with my friends,” he said, “before you grabbed me. You kidnapped me from Obike!”
Bolan didn’t have the time or inclination to debate the point. “That’s one way you could see it.”
“It’s the true way. But you didn’t knock me out,” Quinn said. He raised a slow hand to his neck, feeling the sore spot there. “What did you—? Did you drug me?”
“Nothing heavy,” Bolan lied. “We didn’t have the luxury of sitting down to tea and chatting. It was touch and go, you might say.”
“You’re a fool for choosing me,” Quinn told him. “I suppose you’ve heard my family’s rich, but guess what? They’ve disowned me. I don’t have a penny to my name, and they won’t pay whatever ransom you’re expecting.” Quinn produced a woozy smile. “You’re out of luck.”
“It’s not a ransom snatch,” Bolan replied, and watched the humor vanish from his young companion’s face, supplanted by confusion and a healthy dose of fear.
“You don’t want money?”
“No.”
“Then why…?”
Apparently, Quinn’s mind was clear enough to think of several possibilities. The first one he came up with was a stretch, but it caused him to tremble, even though he tried to hide it.
“No ransom. That means you’re working for the enemy!”
“I told you, I’m a friend.”
“You would say that, of course. You’re lying! Master Gaborone has warned us. But you’re making a mistake.”
“How’s that?” Bolan asked.
“I don’t have the information that you’re looking for. Whatever you came after, I can’t help you. I’m nobody, just a flunky in the village.”
Bolan frowned. “I thought you all were equal in the master’s sight?”
“Well, yes, but…See, that proves it! You’ve been studying the Process. That makes you—”
“A friend of Val Querente,” Bolan interrupted him. “Do you remember her, or is your brain really as messed up as it sounds?”
“Val sent you?” Quinn considered it, then shook his head. “I don’t believe it. No, you’re lying. It’s impossible. How could she—”
“Care enough to go the extra mile and help you?” Bolan shrugged. “Beats me. I only work here. Now, if you can make your legs work—”
“Wait! You think I’m going somewhere with you?”
“One way or another, that’s exactly what I think.”
“Well, guess again. You took me by surprise the first time, with your needle or whatever, but I see you now. I won’t go quietly.”
Bolan leaned closer, let the muzzle of his Steyr AUG rest lightly on Quinn’s left kneecap. “I’ve carried you this far,” he said, “and I can carry you to the LZ. You don’t need kneecaps to ride piggyback, and consciousness is strictly optional.”
Quinn didn’t seem to register the threat. “LZ? What’s that?” he asked.
“Your exit from the Process. Will you walk, or not?”
Quinn struggled to his feet, using the tree trunk for support. “Val wouldn’t do this,” he insisted. “I explained to her about my faith. I grant you that she wasn’t happy, but she understands.”
“You can discuss it with her soon,” Bolan said.
“This is a mistake,” Quinn said.
“It wouldn’t be my first,” the Executioner replied. Then he pointed through the trees and said, “That way.”
GABORONE WATCHED as the hunting party vanished into jungle gloom, a tracker leading Nico and four of his men, Camacho and Sharif surrounded in the middle of the group. He craned his neck and tried to find the sky above the forest canopy, where daylight glimmered on the sea of leaves.
How long before nightfall?
Some hours yet, and maybe time enough for Mbarga’s team to overtake the fugitive American.