The Executioner.

TIGER STALK.

By Don Pendleton.

Mack Bolan looked up at the dark rain clouds that would soon obscure the moon. He guessed that the humidity was above ninety percent, and even the whistling of the nocturnal birds sounded weak in the moisture-drenched night air.

The big American accepted the discomfort as part of the mission. At least the unceasing rain that was part of the monsoon season hadn't yet arrived. He kept reminding himself that the weather in Sri Lanka was no different than that of most of Southeast Asia.

Night had brought no relief from the humidity.

Bolan could feel the one-piece blacksuit he wore clinging to his sweat-soaked body. The black combat cosmetics that covered every inch of his hands and face, right up to the edge of his thick, dark hair, had become runny from the sultry heat.

As a precaution he had stripped off the fatigues he'd worn and stored them in the large canvas carryall he had brought with him. The blacksuit he'd worn under them would make his six-foot-odd frame less visible to any hostiles who might be waiting to attack him.

There was something imposing about the sight of the Executioner in his blacksuit. It was as if he were the agent of death. For many he had been.

The big American had waited almost an hour for the appearance of the contact who was supposed to meet and drive him to Colombo. He wondered if the woman had been intercepted, and if so, by whom?

The first group that came to mind was the Tamil terrorists who called themselves the Liberation Tigers.

Along with the half dozen other dissident ethnic bands who wreaked havoc on the inhabitants, the Tamil terrorists had kept the island nation in a state of war for more than a decade.

Sri Lanka was a country at war with itself, and Bolan knew that no matter who won, everybody lost.

Bolan had come to rescue John Vu. An American of East Indian heritage, skilled at resolving deep-seated issues, he had been accepted as an arbitrator by most parties. But early in the peace process, John Vu had vanished.

The soldier checked his wrist.w.a.tch. Enough time had pa.s.sed for any adversaries to search the forest in which he waited and draw him in!combat.

Although it appeared that no one had shown up, every nerve in his body set off an alarm that told him he had company. The Executioner couldn't be sure exactly how many, but he was sure they weren't friendlies, and they were waiting for the right moment to attack.

How did they know he was coming and where he would be landing? There was no time to figure that out now. He had to get ready for them.

He checked his artillery: a Beretta 93-R fitted with a sound suppressor sat snugly in a rigid leather shoulder holster; a powerful.44 Magnum Desert Eagle was sheathed in leather at his hip; slung across his right shoulder was a silenced 9 mm Uzi submachine gun; a thin leather sheath strapped to his left forearm had a razor-sharp Applegate-Fairbairn combat knife.

The combat vest he wore contained an ample supply of clips for the Uzi and the pistols. In addition, four M-40 delayed-fuse fragmentation grenades hung from his web belt.

A large canvas carryall at his feet contained more gear, including extra clips for the Uzi, as well as for the Beretta and the Desert Eagle.

Additionally, a 5.56 mm M-16 A-2 a.s.sault rifle, fitted with an M-203 single-shot grenade launcher, lay beside a small radio transceiver to send messages to the fishing boat waiting in a port in India just across the Palk Strait. An a.s.sortment of M-40 and 40 mm fragmentation and incendiary grenades, C-4 plastic explosive, miniaturized detonators, trip triggers and timers, and three compact missile-launching LAW 80's completed the portable armory.

As extensive as his a.r.s.enal was, the Executioner had learned from experience that on a mission there was no such thing as being over-equipped.

Glancing back at the string of small islets the locals called Adam's Bridge, which connected Sri Lanka and India, he could still see the faint outline of the vessel that had transported him into the area. The captain was a mercenary, asking no questions, but ready to ship cargo, legal or illegal, between India and Sri Lanka. He would be waiting for Bolan's radio signal for a pickup when the mission was completed. That was what he had been paid to do. More cash would change hands when his part was completed.

The only hitch in the escape plan would be the Executioner's death.

Then, Bolan knew, it wouldn't matter much where the mercenary sailor waited or fled.

On the crossing from India the crew had studied him carefully, wondering who the big American was, what was in the bag he had brought aboard and why he was sneaking in to Sri Lanka.

The captain, a Tamil from the city of Madras in southeastern India, had tried to engage him in conversation.

"A beautiful country, Sri Lanka. The British called it Ceylon, and while they ruled it, Sri Lanka grew the finest tea in the world." He laughed. "You know the English and their cup of tea. Sri Lanka is the closest thing to paradise on this planet." Bolan had remained silent. His mind was focused on the mission.

"You probably knew that," the captain continued.

"But did you know the Arab traders who landed there called it Serendib, from which the English word serendipity comes?" Bolan had turned to the captain. "Not much serendipity with the Sinhalese and Tamils trying to kill each other." His blunt comment had ended the captain's attempts at communication.

The Executioner wasn't there to discuss climate or history. He was there to find and rescue a man named John Vu.

The soldier's thoughts were interrupted by the rustling of leaves around him. For a split second he thought it was the evening breeze or a nocturnal animal.

Perhaps it was a roving band of Veddas. There were still pockets of the aboriginal inhabitants of Sri Lanka struggling to survive in isolated corners of the jungle. Angry with the presence of all invaders and still violent, the Veddas were best left alone.

Tightening his grip on the silenced Uzi SMG in his right hand, the big American scoured the nearby area, searching for signs of life. He spotted two shadows detaching themselves from a shadowy stand of teak trees.

The pair of figures tried to use the jungle brush as a blind while they crouched and worked their way past the banyan tree the soldier was using for cover.

The first of the slender shadows sprinted for the bushes on Bolan's left.

The big American could make out the shape of the machete the small man clenched in his handsa"and the 7.62 mm AK-47 slung over a shoulder.

Bolan slipped the Applegate-Fairbairn combat knife from its leather sheath, waited patiently until the figure came close, then moved behind a thick stand of foliage. As the attacker moved past him, the soldier clamped a hand over his mouth.

The knife made no sound as it carved a b.l.o.o.d.y grin across the slender terrorist's throat. Easing the now-still form to the ground, Bolan heard the faintest hint of a noise behind him. Whipping the Beretta from its harness, he spun and loosed a pair of 9 mm rounds that drilled through the second guerrilla's sternum, ruptured one of his lungs and exploded the heart muscle.

Only a short grunt of pain and a small geyser of blood from severed blood vessels announced the end of his life.

The Executioner was in no mood to play cat and mouse with the enemy force hidden in the jungle around him.

He didn't know how many there were or where they were hiding.

It was time to flush them.

Moving behind a boulder, Bolan unclipped an M-40 frag grenade from the combat webbing, pulled the pin and lobbed the bomb into the bushes in front of him. Flattening himself against the ground, he could hear the explosion and the shrieks of the dying and wounded as burning shards of metal tore into his hidden a.s.sailants.

Tossing a second grenade to his left, Bolan waited for the slivers of burning metal to shred human tissue, then rose and ran twenty yards to his left.

Except for the cries of pain echoing behind him, there was no hint of movement.

The Executioner waited patiently, making sure none of the attackers was watching for him to expose himself. Suddenly the jungle exploded with fury.

Automatic weapons opened up from all sides, rounds tearing into the trees and bushes but miraculously missing him.

A slight movement on Bolan's left drew his attention. Two men in fatigues raced into the open s.p.a.ce in front of him. He stood and waited for his adversaries to get closer, then hosed the duo with half the rounds in the Uzi's clip. The slugs ripped into the throat of the closer man, nearly severing his head from his body, while the second clutched his midsection, trying to stop his exposed intestines from oozing onto the ground.

As if realizing the effort was futile, the attacker pulled his hands away from his ruptured body and pointed his AK-47 at where Bolan had been standing.

In one last, desperate effort, he jammed his finger against the trigger and emptied the clip. The force of the recoil shoved him backward. He fell to the ground and lay there, his blood soaking into the vegetation beneath him.

Battle-wise, the soldier had moved after he had fired his weapon so the slugs from the enemy gunner tore holes into the nearby vegetation.

Bolan wasn't sure who had sent the hit squad, but he knew this wasn't the time to worry about it. Right now he had to find out if there were any of the guerrillas still alive.

He reached into the canvas bag, pulled out a pair of flares, triggered them, then launched them into the air. The area was momentarily bathed with artificial light.

Four shadows ran into the dense underbrush. Weighing his options, the warrior reached into his carryall and dug out a frag grenade. Pulling the pin, Bolan lobbed the bomb into the midst of the four terrorists.

Two terrorists bore the brunt of the shrapnel and crashed to the ground, taken out of play. Cries of agony pierced the quiet night. The Executioner waited until one of his a.s.sailants staggered out of the deep brush.

Clenching his Kalashnikov rifle, the Tamil attacker fired wildly, then turned the gun on himself and cored a 7.62 mm hole in his skull.

Now the Executioner knew what kind of adversaries he faced. They weren't good combat soldiers, but were so dedicated to whatever cause they served that they would kill themselves rather than risk capture and its betrayal.

The soldier scouted the foliage surrounding him, searching for any signs of the fourth shadow. He could see none, but some sixth sense warned him he wasn't alone. He moved forward and triggered his Uzi, aiming at the low bush, but there were no cries of pain, no hint of life.

The sudden sound of a gunshot made Bolan turn.

A guerrilla lay on the ground, what was left of his face covered by a mask of blood and torn tissue. His limp hands held an AK-47.

A young woman stood over the corpse, holding a .45 Colt Commander in her left hand. She stared at the body, then lifted her head and looked at the Executioner.

"You missed one, Mr. Belasko," she said calmly.

The woman was of Indian descent. Her eyes were cla.s.sically almond-shaped, but the clothes she wore were modern and utilitarian: jeans and a denim work shirt.

She looked to be in her twenties, though Bolan suspected she was older than that.

The only thing about her he was sure of was that she wasn't an amateur.

The way she handled the Colt and her lack of emotion when she looked at the body were telltale characteristics of a professional.

Bolan looked at the gun in the woman's hand.

It wasn't aimed at him. He lowered the Uzi gripped in his hand.

"Who are you?" "Madi Kirbal, a member of the Indian emba.s.sy staff in Colombo." She handed him a small leather folder, containing an ID card with her photo.

Bolan studied it. It was her picture. He knew ID cards could be forged, but a gut feeling told him this one wasn't. She was the contact he was supposed to meet.

Kirbal held out her right hand. Bolan shook it, then got down to business. "I was told my contact was a woman, but that's all." "I was given your name. Or at least the name you would be using on this mission, and that's all I was told.

Except to give you whatever a.s.sistance I could." Hal Brognola, Bolan's contact at the Justice Department, had said the woman worked part-time for the American government. The soldier a.s.sumed she was getting paid one way or another for meeting him.

Bolan looked at the bodies strewed around the area. "Tamil Tigers?" She glanced down at the still-bleeding body on the ground.

"I doubt they were Tigers. If they had been Liberation Tigers, you would not be alive." "I thought the Tigers were the main terrorist group." "There are other groups, like the Eelam People's Revolutionary Front," the woman replied.

"They are Communist led. Of course, they don't go to the bathroom without first checking with their masters in China." The conversation was interrupted by a loud whooshing sound.

Bolan shoved the woman to the ground and threw himself over her.

"Keep your head down," he ordered.

The whining sound traveled past them, and the projectile landed in a grove of banyan trees.

The woman started to get up, but Bolan pushed her down again.

"What are you-?" "Stay down!" The jungle behind shook with the force of an explosion.

Chunks of timber and branches were propelled in every direction by the concussion. Flames began to consume the trees and the brush.

The Executioner watched as the woman got to her feet. "Any injuries?" Staring in horror at the flaming inferno, the woman replied, "No, I don't think so. How did you know?" "I've heard the sound before. A fragmentation grenade was launched from a combo launcher-a.s.sault rifle." "So not all of them were dead," Kirbal observed.

"Wait here," Bolan said in a low voice as he hauled the.44 Magnum Desert Eagle from its leather holster. "They soon will be." "The grenade must have killed the American and the woman," the hard-faced guerrilla told his three companions.

"And a lot of the jungle," one of the terrorists commented. "We better tell Colonel Chen that we do not need grenades loaded with so much explosive.

The American and the woman could have been killed with a less powerful bomb." "Perhaps, Kawi. But let us proceed thinking they are still alive," a second fighter suggested.

The third, a young man barely out of his teens, looked puzzled. "What do we do now?" "Wait." "For what?" "Our leader should be here soon. She was delayed in the city of Chilaw for a party meeting." "Not me," the fourth man said arrogantly. "If they are alive, they are badly injured. We are four. They are only two. I say we finish them off.

If need be, I will go by myself." Reluctantly the other three gave in and gathered their weapons.

"We will search for them in two teams," Kawi said.

The others nodded, then paired up and moved cautiously into the forest.

Mack Bolan worked his way through the jungle, trying to keep the sounds of his movement to a minimum.

He placed each foot carefully as he searched for the pocket of adversaries responsible for the attack.

His eyes had become adjusted to the darkness. He could make out and avoid obstacles on the ground.

Jungle-warfare experience had sharpened his hearing.

Focusing his ears to go beyond the calls of the night birds, the animal coughs and cackling, he listened for sounds of human enemies.

Hushed whispers beyond the stand of teak trees made him stop for a moment. He couldn't make out the words, as his knowledge of the Tamil language was limited. But within minutes he had determined how many guerrillas waited on the other side of the tall hardwood trees. There were two of them, armed, he a.s.sumed, with automatic weapons and machetes, if he based the information on the fighters he had already taken out.

Shouldering the M-16 A-2, he eased the Desert Eagle into his right hand.

Silence was no longer a consideration. Only death wasa"his, or the two guerrillas".