The rest of Bolan’s gear included military camouflage fatigues, the tiger-stripe pattern, manufactured in Taiwan and stripped of any labels that could trace them to specific points of origin. His boots were British military surplus, while his helmet bore the painted-over label of a manufacturer whose products were available worldwide.
His weapons had apparently been chosen from a paramilitary grab bag. They included a Steyr AUG assault rifle manufactured in Austria, adopted for use by armies and police forces around the world. The AUG was well known for its rugged construction and top-notch accuracy, its compact bullpup design, factory-standard optical sight and clear plastic magazines that let a shooter size up his load at a glance. Bolan’s sidearm was a Beretta Model 92, its muzzle threaded to accept the sound suppressor he carried in a camo fanny pack. His cutting tool was a Swiss-made survival knife with an eight-inch, razor-sharp blade, its spine serrated to double as a saw at need.
The rest of Bolan’s kit came down to rations and canteens, a cell phone with satellite feed, a compact GPS navigating system and a good old-fashioned compass in case the global positioning satellite gear took a hit at some point. His entrenching tool, flashlight and first-aid kit seemed antiquated by comparison, like items plucked from a museum.
When he was satisfied that nothing had been overlooked or left to chance, Bolan moved forward to the cockpit. Grimaldi glanced back when he was halfway there and raised his voice above the rush of wind to ask, “You sure about this, Sarge?”
“I’m sure,” Bolan replied. He crouched beside the empty second seat, too bulky with his parachutes and pack to make the fit.
“Because if anything goes wrong down there,” Grimaldi said, “you’re in a world of hurt. That’s Africa down there. If you trust the folks at CNN, a lot of it still isn’t all that civilized.”
“Worse than New Jersey?” Bolan asked. “The South Side of Chicago?”
“Very funny.” From his tone, Grimaldi clearly didn’t think so. “All I’m saying is, your sat phone may connect you to the outside world, if it decides to work down there, but even so, it’s still the outside world. You’ve got no backup, no support from anyone official, no supply line.”
“I’ve got you,” Bolan reminded him.
“And I’ll be waiting,” the pilot assured him. “But my point is, even if you call and catch me sitting in the cockpit with my finger on the starter, it’ll be an hour minimum before I’m in position for a pickup. Plus, with the restriction on armed aircraft, I can’t give you anything resembling decent air support.”
“Just be there for the lift. That’s all I ask,” Bolan replied.
Grimaldi shifted gears. “And what about this kid you’re picking up?”
“He’s twenty-two.”
“That’s still a kid to me,” Grimaldi said. “Suppose he doesn’t want to play the game?”
“I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse,” Bolan said.
Grimaldi frowned. “I mean to say, he’s here by choice. Correct?”
“In theory, anyway,” Bolan said.
“So he’s made his bed. He may not want to leave it.”
“I’ll convince him.”
Bolan didn’t need to check the hypodermic syringes in their high-impact plastic case, secure in a pouch on his web belt, but he raised a hand to cup them anyway. The kid, as Jack called him, would be coming out whether he liked it or not.
Whatever happened after that was up to someone else.
Grimaldi gave it one last try. “Listen,” he said, “I know where this is coming from, but don’t you think—”
“We’re here,” Bolan said, cutting off the last-minute debate. “I’m doing it. That’s all.”
“Okay. You’ve got my cell and pager set on speed-dial, right?”
“Right after Pizza Hut and Girls Gone Wild,” said Bolan.
“Jeez,” Grimaldi said, “I’m dropping a comedian. Who knew?”
“I needed something for my spare time,” Bolan said.
“Uh-huh.” Grimaldi checked his instruments, glanced at his watch, and said, “We’re almost there. You’d better assume the position.”
“Right.” Rising, Bolan briefly placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Stay frosty,” he said.
“It’s always frosty at this altitude. I’ll see you soon.”
Turning from the cockpit, Bolan made his way back to the open door, halfway along the Cessna’s fuselage.
“WE’VE GOT a quarter mile,” Grimaldi shouted back to Bolan in the Cessna’s open doorway, waiting for the quick thumbs-up.
Whatever was about to happen, it was out of Jack Grimaldi’s hands. He could abort the mission, turn the plane around and violate his old friend’s trust beyond repair, but that option had never seriously crossed his mind.
He was the flyboy; Bolan was the soldier.
He delivered Bolan, and the Executioner delivered where it counted, on the ground.
Grimaldi understood the impetus behind their mission, recognized the urgent strength of loyalty that rose beyond mere friendship to a more exalted level. Still, their small handful of allies was behind them now, and half a world away. The broad Atlantic Ocean separated Bolan and Grimaldi from the support team at Stony Man Farm. Whatever happened on the ground below, Bolan would have to cope with it alone.
And recognizing that, Grimaldi thought, what else was new?
From what Grimaldi knew, Bolan had been a kind of one-man army all his fighting life, from combat sniper service with the Green Berets, through his solo war against the Mafia at home, and in most of the Stony Man missions he’d handled since joining the government team. From boot camp to the present day, Bolan had been unique: a great team player who could nonetheless proceed alone if there was no team left to field.
Most often, in the blood-and-thunder world he occupied, Mack Bolan was the team. Grimaldi simply had the privilege, from time to time, of making sure that Bolan didn’t miss the kickoff.
“Ready!” he shouted in the rush of chilling wind. The drop zone was below them, waiting.
“Ready!” Bolan answered without hesitation.
And when Grimaldi glanced toward the Cessna’s vacant hatch again, he was alone.
THE WIND HIT Bolan like a tidal wave and swept him back along the Cessna’s fuselage, even as he began to fall through space. He plummeted headfirst toward Earth, arms tight against his sides, a hurtling projectile of flesh and bone.
Although he was accelerating by the second, answering the call of gravity, he also felt a lulling sense of peace, deceptive, as if he had been a feather drifting on an errant summer breeze. The jungle canopy below didn’t appear to rush at Bolan, hastening to crush him. Rather, from his vantage point, it seemed to be forever out of reach, a vista seen through plate glass on the far side of a massive room.
Bolan had done enough high altitude, low opening jumps in his time to recognize the illusion for what it was, and to dismiss it from his mind. HALO drops were designed for maximum maneuverability and stealth. The jumper guided himself with pure body language for the first eight thousand feet or so, waiting to pull the rip cord when it counted, minimizing exposure to watchers on the ground.
The jungle helped him there, of course. For spotters to observe his parachute, they’d have to be at treetop level—no