Bolan fired the Beretta twice, aiming low and letting the recoil climb the muzzle up as six rounds spit out, speeding toward du Toit. Bolan’s rounds flew wide as du Toit’s own shots tore into the turf two steps behind the Executioner. With each stride Bolan’s feet jarred into the mud and falling rain slashed at his face, forcing him to squint against its force.
Behind du Toit, Bolan saw the scrambling mercenaries heading for cover, some helping their wounded comrades, others simply throwing themselves into mud puddles in an effort to escape the flying lead. Bolan triggered two more bursts, but du Toit was already scrambling and the falling rain obscured the Executioner’s aim.
Bolan reached the corner of the terminal and raced around it. Mud splashed up his pant legs as he ran along the front of the building. Through the windows he saw the few remaining civilians, clerks and customers, rushing toward the back observation window that opened out to the landing strips.
Out of sight of du Toit, Bolan continued sprinting down the length of the terminal. He came up to du Toit’s Land Rover and pumped two bursts into the vehicle, puncturing the radiator and front passenger-side tire. Bolan risked a glance behind him as he neared the rear of the vehicle.
Du Toit came around the corner low, his pistols leading the way. Bolan twisted into a side shuffling gait and lowered the Beretta to his waist before triggering a quick blast at the crouching mercenary. The shots scored the side of the building, knocking chips of masonry flying and forcing du Toit to duck back around the sharp corner.
Bolan scurried behind the back of the Land Rover and went to one knee. Filthy water soaked the material of his jeans, chilling him unexpectedly. He took the Beretta into two hands and drew a bead on the edge of the terminal.
Du Toit did a quick sneak and peek around the edge of the building after changing his elevation in an attempt to try to throw off Bolan’s aim. A gust of wind blew stinging drops of rain into the big American’s face. He triggered the Beretta, missing du Toit but forcing him to duck back around the building edge once again.
Bolan popped to his feet, weapon held in front of him, and shuffled toward the corner of the building opposite du Toit. He fired the Beretta tight against the line of the terminal front wall to keep du Toit’s head down, then turned and sprinted the last few yards for the edge of the building.
Twisting in midstride, Bolan muscled himself around the corner of the terminal. He put his head down and ran for the tail of the Cessna even as he heard Grimaldi revving the engines to a feverish pitch of mechanical intensity. Bolan hit the danger area between the cover of the building and the safety of the airplane at a dead sprint. He pumped his arms and raced flat out toward Grimaldi’s aircraft.
Bolan risked a look over his shoulder as he ran and saw confused mercenaries fanning out for cover on the edge of the airport landing strips. Stony Man intel had discovered du Toit was holding off armament until his crew was in-country in order to facilitate quick hop times between intervening nations as the Super Puma flew into Banfora. Bolan had still been fearful that the men might have chosen to arm themselves with at least pistols in spite of du Toit’s orders.
This appeared not to be the case. As Bolan raced toward Grimaldi and the waiting Cessna, he heard a burst of fire and knew du Toit had doubled back around the terminal’s far corner. He realized he was lucky to have gotten even as much of a lead as he’d pulled off so far. He felt like cursing the rain and wind that had hampered his aim but held back as he knew it had hampered du Toit’s aim, as well.
He caught a glimpse of a limp arm hanging out of the door of the helicopter. He saw two men covered with blood lying unmoving and facedown in the muck. Past them Bolan saw wounded men being helped by other mercenaries toward the edge of the airfield. He had hurt the South Africans. Not as bad as he’d hoped, but hurt them still.
There was a twin barking of pistols and, despite the wind, Bolan felt the shock wave as du Toit’s rounds tore past him.
Bolan spun as he ran, sliding in the mud and throwing himself flat into the wet earth. He stretched out his pistol and fired back toward the terminal where du Toit knelt by the corner, his back to Bolan’s original observation and ambush hide among the acacia trees. Du Toit fired again, and Bolan heard the rounds strike the fuselage of Grimaldi’s plane, dimpling the airframe.
Bolan returned fire, squeezing off a careful burst. The girl stood on the ground between Bolan and du Toit. She simply stood unmoving in the rain as both men tried to fire around her. Bolan forced himself to look away and to concentrate on du Toit, but the girl’s eyes tracked him like lasers.
On his feet again, Bolan pulled his shot to the left of the girl, still trying to throw off du Toit’s aim. He whirled and raced for the plane. Bolan heard du Toit’s guns go off again and ahead of him Grimaldi started the plane rolling.
Bolan shoved the Beretta into his shoulder sling and reached out for the rope ladder Grimaldi had kicked over the lip of the aircraft door. He grabbed hold with first one strong hand and then the other. He could no longer hear du Toit’s firing over the plane’s racing engines. Grimaldi saw that he was on the ladder, and Bolan felt the plane pick up speed as he clung to the dangling rope structure.
Bolan hauled himself up the ladder as the Cessna began to sprint down the muddy landing strip. He looked back and saw du Toit racing after him, both pistols blazing in the rain. The girl stood still, only her head moving as she tracked the fleeing plane’s progress.
The Executioner reached the top of the ladder as Grimaldi pulled the nose of the plane airborne. The Executioner tumbled inside and yanked the ladder in after himself. He stood in the doorway and looked down as the airfield disappeared beneath him. The rain was falling too hard for him to see clearly, and he was soaked to the bone with it. Angry at the missed opportunity, Bolan grabbed the door and slammed it shut.
“Saragossa had better damn well be worth this,” he muttered.
8
Du Toit lowered his pistols and watched the plane taking off into the storm.
Rain beat into his upturned face, and he fairly shook with the energy required to suppress his anger. He turned and looked at the girl before spitting on the ground, then he examined his helicopter, his beloved Super Puma.
The cargo bay was a slaughterhouse. Du Toit turned away, disgusted. His stomach was twisted in knots. Not again, he thought. He stalked away from the carnage of the ambush toward the terminal building. Bile was sour in his mouth.
A few years earlier du Toit had been part of a small mercenary force headed for Malabo, Equatorial Guinea, to initiate a coup. Instead, the mercenaries were taken at an airport in Zimbabwe while onboard their Boeing 727, awaiting the loading of weapons and equipment.
Du Toit had spent eighteen months incarcerated in Chikurubi Prison, where high tides frequently submerged the first floor with filthy water. He would die before he would go back to another African prison.
As du Toit walked, he grabbed his sat phone and punched in numbers.
“This is du Toit,” he said when the other end was picked up. “We’ve had a snag,” he stated.
Du Toit went on to tell his contact what had occurred, using curt, clipped tones.
“Tell the principal that an intelligence intercept must have happened on their end. If it had been an African or UN based leak it would have been a regiment of Burkina police who stopped us. A single operator using tight coordination air support? That’s Western capabilities only. There isn’t a military or secret service on this whole continent capable of this, besides us or our associates. You tell him he screwed it. Double the price, and tell him to get me operational funds to the bank in Ouagadougou immediately.”
Du Toit stopped and turned, holding the sat phone to his ear. The girl had started to wander in his direction, a blank indifferent look on her face.