Bolan asked once more where the others in the group had gone.
Again the man shook his head.
Bolan's eyes darted around the burned-out village, looking for any sign of Jill Desmond.
Nothing.
She was gone.
Taken.
A coldness grew inside Bolan, a white-hot coldness.
He thought about what would happen to the woman if she remained a VC captive for even a short time.
Then he shifted the M-16 and pressed the hot muzzle against the sweating forehead of the wounded creep.
For the last time, Bolan asked his question.
This time, the guy answered.
"Xan Lung!" he screamed out.
Bolan eased off the pressure of the M-16 threatening to blow the guy's skull to bits. He stood, trying to decide what to do with the man, when the VC made the decision for him.
The VC scrambled as fast as he could toward a fallen machine gun, dragging his shattered leg behind him. He got his hands on the weapon.
Then Bolan's burst from the M-16 ripped the VC apart.
The Executioner was alone in a village of death.
He drew a long breath and let it out slowly. Fatigue tried to claim his body and soul. But he refused to acknowledge it.
Time to get moving.
The nights were never totally quiet.
There were insects and other small creatures moving through the jungle. The sounds of nature went on.
The path Bolan followed was narrow and winding, the bushes around him so thick that only the smallest glimmer of moonlight penetrated.
He moved by instinct most of the time, hurrying along the trail at a soundless jog, the jungle fighter in his element.
He quickly circled the perimeter of the decimated village before leaving it behind, and his first thought was confirmed.
Jill was not among the dead.
The VC had her.
They could make use of a captured American, especially an attractive female journalist.
There would be more than the inevitable rape. They would debase her totally as a woman, as a human being.
Mack Bolan was not going to let the woman die.
He stepped up his pace.
With his rifle at the ready, his combat senses fine tuned to danger in the jungle around him, he hustled along.
The wounded VC back at the village had told him with two words where the others had gone.
Xan Lung.
A village one hour to the north that had already felt the purging touch of the VC. They had taken over the village, constructed a munitions dump there. They abandoned the settlement when the Americans learned of the VC presence and shelled the area.
The village was well off the main "highway."
Bolan headed in that direction, making his own path at first, then following the trail he came across. He was fairly sure that the VC had used the path earlier that night. An occasional vine that had been hacked away from the jungle trail told Bolan that the wounded man had not lied. The VC hadcome this way.
With Jill.
The path was muddy in places. The muck suctioned at his boots. The ever-present stench of decayed vegetation filled his nostrils, making the air thick.
The sound of voices came to his ears.
Bolan slowed.
The voices were low pitched. The source was ahead of him, just off the trail.
He melted into the bush on the same side of the path and stood absolutely still. His alert senses had saved him from walking directly into a security perimeter. He heard two voices, conversing in Vietnamese.
Okay.
If they were lookouts, they weren't very good ones. Deep in the jungle, though, he supposed it was easy for them to get overconfident.
He moved up on them so softly that not even the night creatures were disturbed.
Within moments he was a few feet from the enemy but neither of them had any idea of his presence.
One of the VC laughed at a comment from the other one.
Bolan knew he had to take out both of them almost at the same time to prevent any outcry.
He rushed forward between the two of them. Surprise registered on one of the men's faces, but not for long as Bolan rammed the M-16's butt sideways. There was a cracking sound as skull bone shattered. One VC, dead on his feet, stumbled back, blood spurting from his nose and mouth.
The other man only had time to emit a startled grunt. He started tracking his rifle upward, but the Executioner pivoted in a lightning-fast maneuver and swung the gun stock again. The second VC, his head caved in, dropped lifelessly to the ground alongside his comrade.
Bolan left them there.
A few steps and he was back on the trail.
Where there was one set of guards, there would be another.
Bolan advanced a few meters, then left the trail. The going would be slower, but he was willing to sacrifice a little speed.
Long minutes passed as the nightscorcher made his way through dense clinging undergrowth.
A whiff of cooking came to him, intermingled with the usual smells of this jungle world.
The VC camp at Xan Lung.
Suddenly a guttural voice challenged him.
Bolan dived forward, somersaulting and coming up in a crouch. He spotted the shadowy bulk of a sentry in the darkness and triggered off a round.
The silenced assault rifle chugged.
The figure in the shadows staggered, clutching at its middle, and fell.
Bolan moved to the man's side, knife unsheathed, poised.
The VC was dead, drilled through the heart.
Bolan drew a deep breath.
He moved forward on his belly, leaving the dead sentry behind him.
Another few minutes brought him to his goal.
Bolan huddled in the thick choking growth and peered out into a clearing that was illuminated by a small fire.
There were at least fifteen Vietcong in the camp.
Some of them were drinking, some were gathered around a cooking pot suspended over the fire.
Most of the huts that made up the village of Xan Lung had been destroyed, but a few were still scattered around the clearing.
Dominating the scene was a bombed-out concrete building the abandoned munitions dump. Parts of it had been leveled by American shelling. Sections of the roof had collapsed, but the walls still stood for the most part.
Bolan's eyes flicked from figure to figure down there, checking out everyone.
There was no sign of Jill Desmond.
She was either inside one of the huts or inside the munitions dump.
Or she was dead.
A choked scream from the munitions building gave Bolan his answer.
There were too many of the enemy for a grandstand play to be successful.
Unless it was one hell of a grandstand play.
He circled the camp, encountering no more lookouts. They had to feel secure; this was their territory.
Bolan returned to his original position at the back of the munitions dump.
There were three sentries posted behind the building. They looked none too alert, though, and they were huddled fairly close together. That would help.
The sentries laughed and talked among themselves as they passed around a liquor bottle.
Bolan hoped the noise of their voices would be enough to cover up what happened next.
Bolan raised the M-16.
He squeezed the trigger.
He did not see the bullet zip through the eye of one guard. He was already tracking to the next, firing again.
The second man kicked into a loose death sprawl. He hit the ground a split second after the first.
The third sentry actually got his mouth open to yell as he tried to bring his weapon up into firing position.
Bolan sent a slug sizzling into that open mouth. Flesh and bone erupted out the back of the head.
The three kills had taken seconds.
Bolan waited until he was sure the guards' deaths had gone unnoticed. Then he moved out as silently as a flitting moth.
He slung the M-16 over his shoulder, stepped over the bodies and took a running leap at a low wall of the building.