Bolan dropped his man with a single bullet to the chest
If it was blood they wanted, the Executioner was ready to provide it. He would teach his enemies a lesson about taking victory for granted. Even if they killed him, survivors of the skirmish would remember, and perhaps take something with them from the carnage when they fled.
He hadnât meant for this to happen, but the choice was made. His foes had called the play, but they would not control the game.
Bolan lined up his weapon on the trail and listened to the hunters, careless in their haste. That racket was another costly error. The only question, now, was whether any of the trackers would survive to learn from their mistakes.
Or whether Bolan would survive to see another day.
Sundarbans Wildlife Park, India
âIâm still not clear exactly why we need an army escort in a game preserve,â Phillip Langley said.
His guide, a thirty-something diplomat named Rajit Singh, concealed any frustration that he may have felt concerning Langleyâs poor retention. Smiling, he replied, âAll wildlife is protected in the Sundarbans, and most particularly tigers, sir. Of course, the law is one thing, and reality is something else entirely, as Iâm sure you know.â
Joyce Langley spoke up from the seat beside her husband, swaying with the rocking motion of their boat as it moved ever deeper into the worldâs largest mangrove swamp. âYou mean that poachers hunt the tigers, even here?â she asked.
âMost certainly, memsahib,â the guide replied. âAnd here most cunningly of all.â
Stomach uneasy, Phillip Langley asked, âWhen do we go ashore?â
âNot long, sir,â Singh assured him. âFifteen minutes, maybe less.â
The heat was even more oppressive here than in Calcutta, where Langley and his wife had spent the previous night in what passed for a four-star hotel, after meeting their guide at the local seat of government. Langleyâs role as special U.S. envoy and a member of the Presidentâs task force on preservation of endangered species had assured Langley the best room in the houseâwhich wasnât saying much.
At least, he reassured himself, it was a far cry from the teeming, reeking slums theyâd seen while driving from the airport to their rendezvous with Rajit Singh. Langley was clueless as to how people survived in squalor so profound and hopeless. Given half a chance, he wouldâve filmed Calcutta in 3-D, bottled its smell and shared the grim experience with everyone who ranted about poverty in the United States.
Compared to the worst of Calcutta, the South Bronx and Cabrini Green looked like a juicy slice of Beverly Hills, 90210. Langley wasnât sure that any of the people heâd seen lying in the streets and gutters had been dead, but on the other hand, living in such conditions made the prospect of a coronary sound like sweet relief.
Now, here they were, sweating beneath a broiling sun, the humidity close to one hundred percent, and his industrial-strength bug repellent was barely holding the king-sized mosquitoes at bay. Theyâd seen some birds that Langley didnât recognize, and several crocodiles that eyed him as if he was a prospective snack.