This had been a peaceful place once.
But no more.
All the huts were ablaze. Villagers ran around in frenzied shocked, scared confusion. Smoke and gunfire filled the air.
Jill saw an old man stumble out of one of the flaming huts. He was on fire.
Watching in numb horror, Jill saw a young woman race through the night with her baby clutched to her chest. The fire cast a red glow over her terrified face. The mother's face disappeared in a spray of blood. She had run into a bullet. The baby dropped shrieking from her arms, into a puddle of mud.
The villagers were being driven from their homes like stampeding cattle by the torches of soldiers. The civilians were being systematically slaughtered.
Then she saw the black pajamalike "uniforms." Not ARVN. Not soldiers, as Jill had thought.
Vietcong.
She saw at least two dozen VC firing into the village. Sometimes they shot to kill, sometimes only to disable. Then they would finish the job with the long knives they carried. The firelight glinted on the hacking, bloody blades.
A VC toting a machine gun raked fire across a fleeing knot of civilians, stitching them, shredding flesh, pulping bone. Bodies erupted gore.
Jill Desmond was sick.
Deep-down sick. Far past the vomiting stage.
A tiny moan escaped her throat.
It was stilled by the cold touch of metal that suddenly pressed against her temple.
"Do not move," a heavily accented voice growled close to her ear.
Jill did what the voice told her. She remained still except for the trembling that she could not control, spasming up from her gut.
The man holding the pistol moved around to her side. In the reflected glow of the village's destruction, she could see him.
The face was lean, skin pulled taut over high cheekbones. Dark eyes glittered with the light of madness. No. Not madness.
Savagery.
He wore a crude uniform and was evidently the leader of this group of VC who had surrounded the jeep. His eyes took in every detail of the news woman.
A razorlike smile slit his face.
"American," he said softly, the comment almost lost in the clamor of gunfire and screams from the village. "Very good."
The Cong leader stepped back and motioned curtly with a pistol. Two of his men stepped toward the jeep.
Jill shrank from them. Her mouth moved.
"No," she whispered. "Oh, God, no"
They grabbed her arms, yanking her from the jeep.
She screamed in pain. Her cries were ignored.
Thirty seconds later, the jeep stood deserted in the road.
The VC vanished into the jungle with their captive.
Bolan ignored his weariness.
This was his first tour of duty in Vietnam, his first experience with war, but he had already learned to push himself beyond the natural limits of endurance. His life depended on it.
He was still in camou fatigues, but he had traded his sniper rifle for an M-16 equipped with noise-and-flash suppressor. A .45 automatic nestled in leather on his hip. Grenades were clipped onto the belt around his waist. A long double-edged knife was sheathed behind the .45.
He moved on foot along the road, traveling at a good clip. He was a moving shadow, nothing more. He knew that he could cover ground almost as fast as the jeep. He reckoned the disrepair would slow Jill Desmond's progress.
This way was quieter.
He heard the gunfire to the north. He stopped. He listened.
It could be a firefight between VC and American forces, but the young combat specialist doubted that. The VC had "liberated" lots of French and American weapons over the years.
Bolan launched into a jog again.
A few minutes later he reached Three Click Fork.
The firing to the north had died down.
Bolan hesitated only a fraction of a heartbeat, then headed in that direction.
Everything was quiet to the south. He eliminated that possibility.
Bolan had to follow his instincts.
They told him that Jill Desmond had turned north. That she was right in the middle of that trouble up ahead.
God help her.
Before he had gone very far, he spotted the glow of the fire through gaps in the trees, growing brighter as he advanced.
Running directly into hell.
He saw the deserted jeep.
Bolan went into the brush at the side of the road in a rolling dive, came up with the muzzle of the M-16 lined up on the vehicle. His finger rested on the trigger, ready to send death down that road at the first sign of danger.
After a long moment he let out his breath again.
There was no movement around the jeep.
Bolan came out of his crouch and hurried on to the vehicle.
He drew up beside the jeepand stared past it at images out of a lunatic's nightmare.
Destruction was everywhere.
What had been a peaceful village hours ago, when Able Team had passed through on their way home, was a blood-drenched hellground. Corpses everywhere. Corpses of every age, both sexes.
Sporadic firing broke out. A few VC darted around the flaming ruins of the huts, finishing off the survivors of the massacre.
A mop-up party.
A larger force had done this and had left.
Jill Desmond wanted to learn the truth about the war.
There was no better place.
The Executioner got to work.
One of the villagers, a man whose legs had been shattered by bullets, lay on the ground, pleading for mercy from the black-clad VC who loomed over him. The VC's grinning face became a devilish mask in the glow of the firelight as he lifted his knife, ready to chop.
His head exploded in a shower of blood and gray matter. He pitched backward in a death sprawl.
Bolan tracked right, squeezing off another round.
Another of the bastards went spinning into oblivion as a slug punched open his head.
Two more VC went down before the others realized someone in the shadows was sniping at them. The ones still alive cast about frantically for some sign of the wraith-like, silent sniper.
Shouting in anger, one of the VC peppered the nearby jungle with rounds from his machine gun. He was kicked backward an instant later by a burst that splattered through his neck.
Another threw a grenade into the trees.
Bolan was on the move and out of range by the time it exploded. The Executioner dropped the grenade thrower with another short burst from the M-16. He slammed another clip into the assault rifle and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
He stayed on the perimeter of the village, always on the move, pausing every few feet to deliver death to another of these vermin who preyed on their own countrymen.
He had to take one of them alive, so he could find out where the others had taken Jill Desmond.
He snapped off another shot. A running Cong flopped to the ground. Bolan scanned the area.
There had to be at least one more VC around here. There had to be.
Bolan moved out from the tree line.
In the darkness he heard the snap of a twig to his left.
He slipped to the side as automatic-weapon fire ripped through the space where he had just been.
The muzzle-flash came from near one of the burning huts.
Bolan put a round through the ambusher's chest and another through his thigh. The VC fell, weapon spinning away. He sprawled on the ground thrashing and screaming in pain.
He was still alive.
Bolan stepped forward.
The wounded VC fumbled for a grenade.
Bolan's booted foot lashed out and broke the man's wrist. The grenade bounced away harmlessly, pin intact.
Bolan pressed the muzzle of the M-16 against the guy's chest.
"I hope to hell you speak English."
The Cong's eyes were wide, filled with terror. But he did not respond.
Bolan switched to Vietnamese. His fair command of the language got his point across.
The guy twisted his head back and forth in response to Bolan's question. The fear grew stronger. So did the pain as shock wore off. Blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. His breathing was harsh, ragged.