Survival Reflex

“Hell on Earth and Eden, all rolled into one.”

So far, it wasn’t Mack Bolan’s notion of a holiday.

It felt like coming home.

Bolan had grown up in a jungle, spilled blood there and earned the nickname that would follow him through his life, even beyond his early grave. That jungle was located on the far side of the world, but all of them were more or less the same. The predators and prey varied by continent, but it was still survival of the fittest in a world where no quarter was asked or granted.

The one rule carved in stone was kill or be killed. The Executioner knew that rule by heart. Forest primeval. He knew that it would eat him alive, given half a chance.

And somewhere in the midst of it was Nathan Weiss.

Other titles available in this series:

Hellground

Inferno

Ambush

Blood Strike

Killpoint

Vendetta

Stalk Line

Omega Game

Shock Tactic

Showdown

Precision Kill

Jungle Law

Dead Center

Tooth and Claw

Thermal Strike

Day of the Vulture

Flames of Wrath

High Aggression

Code of Bushido

Terror Spin

Judgment in Stone

Rage for Justice

Rebels and Hostiles

Ultimate Game

Blood Feud

Renegade Force

Retribution

Initiation

Cloud of Death

Termination Point

Hellfire Strike

Code of Conflict

Vengeance

Executive Action

Killsport

Conflagration

Storm Front

War Season

Evil Alliance

Scorched Earth

Deception

Destiny’s Hour

Power of the Lance

A Dying Evil

Deep Treachery

War Load

Sworn Enemies

Dark Truth

Breakaway

Blood and Sand

Caged

Sleepers

Strike and Retrieve

Age of War

Line of Control

Breached

Retaliation

Pressure Point

Silent Running

Stolen Arrows

Zero Option

Predator Paradise

Circle of Deception

Devil’s Bargain

False Front

Lethal Tribute

Season of Slaughter

Point of Betrayal

Ballistic Force

Renegade

Survival Reflex

Mack Bolan®

Don Pendleton

That man travels the longest journey who undertakes it in search of a sincere friend.

—Ali ibn-abi-Talib

(Seventh century)

Between friends there is no need for justice

—Aristotle

We all need justice sometimes, and the best test of friendship is a trial by fire.

—Mack Bolan

To all suffering victims in Iraq

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Mato Grosso State, Brazil

The battle never really ends. It’s true that guns stop firing, smoke clears from the field and politicians mutter through negotiations in the name of statesmanship—but what about those who fight and bleed?

Who tends the ragged wounds and clips the severed arteries? Who stitches or removes the ravaged organs? Who sets shattered bones and searches for new skin to cover burns?

I do, the surgeon answered silently. For all the good it does.

One truth Nathan Weiss had learned in years of military practice dogged his thoughts through every waking hour and in nightmares: no wound ever truly healed.

Bones mended. Torn flesh produced scar tissue. Spilled blood could be replaced. Some organs were expendable.

But what about the soul?

How did a man really recover after he’d been shot, stabbed, tortured, set on fire or blasted with explosives? Even if he learned to walk again without a cane or limp, if he could show a more or less unblemished visage to the world, what was going on inside?

What did he wish, hope, dream, regret?

How did he claim the life he had before?

Weiss couldn’t answer that one, and he’d long since given up on trying. Elbow-deep in blood again, he concentrated on the open body that demanded his attention at the moment. It was male, peppered with shrapnel wounds that seemed almost innocuous from the outside, but which wreaked havoc with the vital parts inside.

“Do something, please,” he said, “about these goddamned flies.”

His two assistants blinked at each other, each raising a bloody hand to point accusingly. They didn’t speak, but the expressive eyes above their surgical masks said everything the surgeon needed to hear.

“I’m sorry, never mind,” he told them. “Please, just keep them from the wounds.”

Heads bobbed in unison. They could do that, at least.

Flies were a part of working in the field, along with ants and roaches, the occasional pit viper, leaky tents and wheezing generators that could fail at any time and plunge the operating tent into lethal darkness with the job unfinished.

Just another day at the office.

The young man before him had suffered wounds to both kidneys, but one of them could probably be saved. The spleen was gone, which meant that the young man—assuming he survived the night—would have some difficulty fighting off infections in the years to come. His perforated stomach had been sutured and its spillage cleared away. Two feet of shredded small intestine had been excised, the remainder spliced. A deep wound to the prostate might or might not leave him impotent.

But none of that would kill the young man.

In the operation’s second bloody hour now, Weiss had moved on to things that took a bit more time. Two surgeons might’ve finished up the job by now, but he was on his own, as usual. There were no shortcuts, no Get Out of the OR Free cards in this life-or-death game.

He was the only surgeon in the area—or, anyway, the only one who’d work on battle wounds without a hotline heads-up to the same men who’d inflicted them.

And so he did it all, with two assistants who were learning as they went, eye-rolling when the blood flowed freely, grimacing as charnel odors filtered through their masks.

“Forehead, someone, please,” he requested. “I’ve got my hands full.”

One of his helpers found a sponge and moved around the table, careful not to block the surgeon’s field of vision as he dabbed sweat from the tan expanse of forehead.

“Thanks,” Weiss said. “Let’s clean this up and close.”

TEAM PANTHER WAS on schedule, closing on the target with determination borne of knowledge that there might not be another chance. They had already missed the target twice during the past six months. A third failure was bound to have unpleasant repercussions.

Following his point man down a muddy jungle trail, Team Panther’s leader thought, Strike three. You’re out.

A third miss wouldn’t cost his life, but it would be embarrassing. He’d lose prestige and likely be passed over on the next attempt. He might be shuffled to some post in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do but slap mosquitoes and type his resignation on a rusty portable.

An air strike might’ve done the trick more swiftly and effectively, but killing from the sky was not always reliable. The air force had no “smart” bombs in their inventory, and they could’ve strafed the jungle all day long without scoring a verified hit on the target.

So much for high technology.

When wet work was required, it still came down to men who weren’t afraid of dirtying their hands.

Behind their leader and the point man, moving through the rain forest in single file, two dozen soldiers focused single-mindedly upon their goal. It helped distract them from the swarms of biting insects, mud that tried to pull their boots off, lukewarm rain that fell just long enough to soak them to the skin then waited for their camouflage fatigues to nearly dry before it started up again.

The nagging irritations made them anxious for a fight.

Eager to kill.

They were the best at what they did, these men. Team Panther had a reputation to defend, which had been sullied by their failed attempts to burn the target in October and December. Now they had another chance, and every member of the team had sworn a blood oath to succeed this time.

The leader checked his compact GPS unit. Assuming that their information was correct, they had another half mile left to go, dense jungle all the way.

WEISS’S FIFTH PATIENT had once been fairly handsome, if his eyes and brow were any indication, but the bullets that had ripped into his cheek and jaw had spoiled his face forever. It was something of a miracle they hadn’t killed him on the spot, in fact, but there was grim determination in those eyes, before the morphine blessed him with oblivion.

Why do you bother? asked the small voice in his head. Why heal them, so that they can maim and kill?

Because somebody had to do it.

And Weiss wasn’t altogether sure that they were wrong.

Shouting outside the operating tent distracted him, but he recovered so quickly his aides never noticed. Split-second hesitation on the scalpel stroke, but when he made the cut it was deep, clean and sure.

A runner burst into the tent and stopped short on the threshold, gaping at the deconstructed form in front of him.

Shifting to half-baked Portuguese, Weiss told the newcomer, “You’re risking this man’s life by coming in here. Turn around and leave.”

The interloper stood his ground, though he was trembling as he said, “They’re coming, Doctor.”

“Who is they? More casualties?”

“The enemy.”

That made the surgeon pause. He glanced up at his two assistants, found them staring back at him, and swiveled toward the messenger. “How long?”

“Perhaps a quarter of an hour.”

“That’s too soon. I still have work to do.”

He knew the words were nonsense, even as he spoke. The surgeon’s enemies wouldn’t withdraw until he finished with his patients. They had come to stop him, after all. If they could finish off the job they’d started with the wounded, it would just be icing on the cake.

“What should we do?” the messenger inquired.

“Get ready to evacuate. And buy some time.”

“We’ll try,” he said, and fled the tent. Weiss wondered whether he had sent the messenger to meet his death.

Too late to think about that now.

He had a short while left to finish with the patient on his operating table. Enough time, anyway, to close the last incision, though he couldn’t manage any of the fine work needed to reduce scarring.

All wasted effort if the patient couldn’t be evacuated safely in the time that still remained to him. There’d be no mercy from the enemy when they arrived. They’d come in killing and be quick about it this time, trying to make sure no one escaped.

Weiss glanced back toward the corner of his makeshift operating room that served as sleeping quarters when he wasn’t carving flesh. Jungle fatigues lay folded there, and resting on the bundle of his hiking clothes, an Uru submachine gun.

Kill or cure.

This day, perhaps, he’d do a bit of both.

TEAM PANTHER’S leader listened to the terse report from his point man. The target lay five hundred yards ahead, though still invisible from where they stood, surrounded on all sides by looming trees and dangling vines like ropes in a gymnasium.

“How many did you see?” the leader asked.

His scout considered it, a moment dragging as he did the mental census. “Six or seven men with weapons, sir,” the point man said at last. “They carry others in and out of tents.”

“And did you count the tents?”

“One big, three small, sir. Also, they have an open space covered by tarp on poles, with men laid out on stretchers. And a generator near the big tent.”

“Is that everything? No vehicles?”

The point man stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “There is no road, sir.”

“None on this side that we know about. Answer the question.”

Sulking, the soldier said, “No, sir. No vehicles.”

Team Panther’s leader did the calculations swiftly. Six or seven armed and able-bodied men against his twenty-five. The wounded would present no difficulty. They were enemies, presumed guilty of crimes against the state, condemned by their own treasonous behavior. He would leave them where he found them, after making sure they didn’t live to fight another day.

And he would have the one who’d managed to elude him for so long, making a mockery of each attempt to capture him.

This time, the leader told himself, I will succeed.

He’d be a hero back at headquarters, or at the very least erase the black marks placed beside his name the last two times he’d led teams through the jungle, searching for the man his enemies referred to simply as O Médico.

The Doctor.

One who gave them hope when they should have none, who restored the broken bones and ravaged flesh of terrorists, enabling them to spread more carnage and imperil everything Team Panther’s men were dedicated to defend.

This day it would end.

They would eliminate O Médico once and for all. If he surrendered, they would take him back for trial and the inevitable prison cell. If he resisted…well, Team Panther would be forced to remedy the state’s misguided abolition of capital punishment.

Either way, the doctor was finished. He’d already seen his last patient.

He simply didn’t know it yet.

Team Panther’s leader fired a rifle shot into the air above the smoking tent and shouted to his hidden troops, “Attack! Attack!”

THE SPOOK SAT at his desk, chain-smoking while he studied maps and photographs, sitreps and transcripts of interrogations. He was looking for a bright spot, but it stubbornly eluded him.

The telephone beside his elbow was an enemy, a traitor. For the past six months it had refused to transmit anything except bad news from sources in the field and criticism from his boss. Each time it rang, these days—as it was ringing now—the spook experienced the urge to rip its cord out of the wall and drop the damned thing in his wastebasket.

Instead he lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Downey.”

“It’s me.”

He recognized the caller’s voice. It was a gift that served him well, despite accents. The caller was a valued asset, though he hadn’t been performing well of late. In fact, he’d left a fair amount to be desired.

“I need good news,” the spook advised. And from the silence on the far end of the line, he knew there would be none forthcoming. “All right, then. How bad?”

“We missed again.”

“When you say missed…”

“My people found the place, all right. Just where you promised it would be. A scout saw people in the camp, guerrillas, some of them on stretchers.”

“So?”

“We still aren’t sure what happened. By the time he came back with the main force and they had the camp surrounded, there was no one there.”

The spook reached for another cancer stick. “You tipped them off somehow,” he said accusingly.

“We’re looking into it.”

“Fat lot of good that does.” He smoked and fumed.

“It’s worse,” the caller said.

“Worse than another empty bag? All right, tell me.”

“The team took casualties. One man dead, another six or seven injured.”

“How the hell? You said there was nobody there.”

“Some kind of booby trap, or maybe just an accident. We’re—”

“Looking into it, I know. This isn’t what we talked about at all. You understand that, right? This doesn’t just reflect on you.”

“Of course, you’ll blame me all the same,” the caller answered back, showing some attitude.

“I call ’em like I see ’em,” the spook said. “You said yourself, the intel I provided led your hunters to the target. They saw people in the camp, for Christ’s sake! Now you see ’em, now you don’t. What kind of crazy shit is that? You want to say it’s my fault that your people can’t throw down on targets standing right in front of them?”

“I will find out what happened.”

“Beautiful. And what about the mark?”

“We’ll have to try again.”

“Just like that, is it? Let my fingers do the walking through the goddamned business pages, maybe. See what they’ve got listed under traitor comma dirty fucking.”

“You have contacts,” the caller replied. “We have contacts.”

“And they’ve told us where to look for him three times. How many strikes are you entitled to, I wonder?”

“Strikes?” The caller was confused now.

“Never mind. Forget about it. I’ll put on my thinking cap again and see if I can find another angle. In the meantime, it’s your job to make sure that the latest screwup does not go public under any circumstances. Are we clear?”

“I hear you.”

“Right. But are you listening?”

“I’ll handle it.”

“I hope so, for your own sake.”

And for mine, the spook thought as he dropped the telephone receiver back into its cradle. Once again he felt the urge to rip, discard, destroy.

Instead he lit a fresh smoke from the one he’d had clenched between his teeth and waited for the nicotine to work its magic on his jangling nerves.

Spilled milk, he thought. No use crying about it.

What he needed now, and goddamned soon, was some spilled blood to solve his problem. One more chance, if he was very lucky, and he didn’t dare waste it.

But what was left?

He needed specialists.

And with that thought in mind, he reached for the hated telephone.

CHAPTER TWO

San Diego, California

Mack Bolan took his time on Harbor Drive, westbound, checking his rearview mirror frequently. He hadn’t been in San Diego for a while, no reason anybody should be looking for him here, but vigilance was the price of survival. The first time Bolan let his guard drop, taking personal security for granted, it was safe to bet that negligence would turn and bite him where it hurt.

No tails so far.

His progress in the rented Chevrolet was leisurely enough that other motorists were glad to pass him, but he wasn’t driving slow enough to risk a ticket for obstructing traffic. Just the right speed, Bolan thought, for someone seeking a specific address in an unfamiliar neighborhood.

The address in question belonged to a block of professional offices, one of those buildings designed to resemble a twenty-first-century bunker. It was bronze and brown, metal and stone, with windows that reflected sunlight in a painful glare across the nearby lanes of traffic. In short, it was an eyesore, but the ritzy kind that advertised the affluence of those who had their offices within.

He wheeled into the parking lot and checked the rearview mirror once more, just to play it safe. Nobody followed him, none of the other drivers slowed to track his progress as they passed.

Now all he had to think about was what might be inside the ugly building, waiting for him.

Theoretically, it was a friend he hadn’t seen in better than a year. The contact had been clean, secure on Bolan’s end, no glitches to excite suspicion. Still, he was alive this day because he always took that extra step, preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.

The parking lot was only half full at this hour, approaching lunchtime, and he found a space within a short sprint of the revolving glass door. No one was loitering outside, but tinted windows wouldn’t let him scan the lobby from his vehicle.

Twelve minutes left.

He didn’t have the hinky feeling that an ambush often prompted, small hairs bristling on his nape, but Bolan didn’t live by premonitions. Instinct, training and experience all went together in the mix, occasionally seasoned by audacity.

Do it or split, he thought.

He didn’t need to check the pistol slung beneath his left armpit in fast-draw leather—fifteen cartridges in the Beretta’s magazine and one more in the chamber—so he simply had to squeeze the double-action trigger. Two spare magazines in pouches underneath his right arm gave him forty-six chances to kill any assailants who might try to jump him at the meet.

Relaxed? No way.

Frightened? Not even close.

He locked the car and left it, crossed the sidewalk, stepped into the maw of the revolving door. This was the first chance for an enemy to take him. Shooters waiting in the lobby could unload on him while he was sandwiched between panes of glass, most likely take him down before he could retaliate. It didn’t happen, though, and in another moment he was standing in the lobby, bathed in frosty air-conditioning.

There was an information desk to Bolan’s left, manned by a senior citizen. Off to his right, a wall directory served those who didn’t want the human touch. Bolan ignored them both, sweeping the empty lobby as he moved directly to the dual elevators.

Bolan didn’t need to check the floor or office numbers. They had been supplied, and he’d memorized them, end of story. Now he simply had to hope there would be no nasty surprises waiting for him on the seventh floor.

The smooth and solitary ride lasted no more than ninety seconds, but it gave him ample time to think about the call that had surprised him, coming out of nowhere with a plea for help. The caller was a man whose martial prowess nearly rivaled Bolan’s, one who rarely bluffed and never folded if he had a prayer of staying in the game.

They hadn’t talked details, an indication that the caller was concerned about security, despite precautions taken when he made the link-up. The arrangement of their meeting was another warning sign, behind closed doors, using the office of a lawyer Bolan didn’t know from Adam.

Hinky? Not so far.

Cautious? Believe it.

Bolan’s circle of devoted friends was small and dwindling over time. It was the nature of his life and his profession that attachments came with price tags. Sudden death or worse lay waiting for the careless. He had more friends in the ground than standing on it, and the trend would always run that way.

It was a law of nature in the hellgrounds where he lived.

Bolan had no suspicion that the caller might betray his trust. It was unthinkable. That didn’t mean, however, that some rude third party couldn’t find a way to horn in on the meet. Technology was only one short step behind imagination, these days, and he couldn’t discount pure bad luck.

There was a chance, however minuscule, that Bolan’s contact might be followed to the meet, or that a leak inside the lawyer’s office might produce a most unwelcome welcoming committee. Bolan doubted it, but it was possible, and that meant he would have to be on full alert throughout the interaction.

SOP, in other words.

Another normal day in Bolan’s life.

He felt the elevator slowing into its approach and stepped back from the door, to the left side. A straight-on spray of bullets when the door slid open wouldn’t take him, though he’d have to watch for ricochets.

Jacket unbuttoned for swift access to his pistol, Bolan stood and waited with his hand almost inside the jacket, feeling like a caricature of Napoleon. The elevator settled and its door hissed open to reveal an empty corridor.

A small sign on the facing wall directed Bolan to his right. He moved along the hall with long strides, radiating confidence and capability. He had no audience, but they were qualities the tall man couldn’t hide. He might not stand out in a crowd on any given street corner, but when push came to shove he was the leader of the pack.

Make that lone wolf, most of the time.

But not today.

His destination was a door like every other on the floor, with a bronze plate that gave a number and the lawyer’s name. The knob turned in his hand and Bolan stepped into a small but suitably luxurious reception room.

Four empty chairs faced an unattended desk. No sign of a receptionist or anybody else.

He didn’t need to check his watch. A stylish wall clock told him he was right on time.

Bolan was running down a short list of his options when a door behind the vacant desk swung open to reveal a smiling face.

“I’m glad you found the place okay,” Rosario “The Politician” Blancanales said.

BLANCANALES HAD EARNED the “Politician” nickname in another life, a tribute to his skill at soothing fear and agitation among Asian villagers whose lives and homes were threatened daily by the ever-shifting tides of war. He had been part of Bolan’s Special Forces A-team, one of several thrown together in the hellfire moment who had forged lifelong alliances.

One of the few who somehow managed to survive.

“I guess the staff is out to lunch,” Bolan remarked as they shook hands.

“We have an hour to ourselves. Friend of a friend, you know?”

He didn’t bother running down the details of a family in peril, spared against all odds, with gratitude that reached beyond the limits of a long lunch on a busy afternoon. Pol knew that Bolan didn’t need the details, didn’t really care how they had come to find themselves alone in an attorney’s office on the seventh floor of a building he’d never visited before this day and wouldn’t see again.

“He sweeps the place, I guess?” Bolan asked, thinking of security.

“I swept it, coming in. It’s clean.”

“Okay.”

“You want to talk out here or use the inner sanctum?”

“This is fine.”

Bolan took one of the four matching chairs. Blancanales noticed that he didn’t touch the arm rests with his hands. It was a small precaution, probably unnecessary since his law-enforcement files across the country had been closed and marked “Deceased,” but playing safe was second nature to the Executioner.

“I’m glad you had some time,” Blancanales said, easing into it.

“No sweat,” Bolan replied. “What’s going on?”

“I caught a squeal the other day, through Toni.”

Toni Blancanales was the Politician’s sister. She was also CEO of Team Able Investigations, a private security firm Rosario Blancanales had launched years ago with another war buddy, electronics wizard Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz, to make ends meet in peacetime. Now that Pol and Gadgets operated more or less full-time for Hal Brognola and Stony Man Farm—the same covert nerve center that fielded Bolan for various do-or-die assignments—Toni ran the show and rarely needed her big brother’s help.

“Why that route?” Bolan inquired.

“Long distance. A long time out of touch.”

“A mutual acquaintance?” Bolan asked him, frowning.

“You remember Bones.”

Blancanales didn’t phrase it as a question. There was nothing wrong with Bolan’s memory, and he saw instant recognition in the warrior’s eyes.

The nickname came from “sawbones,” as in “doctor”—or from Star Trek, same damned thing. In their Special Forces days together there’d been many medics, too many M.A.S.H. units, but only one Bones.

“Nate Weiss,” Bolan said.

Blancanales nodded. Make it Captain Nathan Weiss, M.D. A wizard with a scalpel, long on empathy for patients, short on tolerance when military red tape hampered his attempts to care for sick and wounded soldiers. Thinking back, Blancanales could remember Weiss cutting and stitching under fire, while Bolan’s team faced down the enemy, one of their own guys on the table leaking life.

The frown was still on Bolan’s face. “I haven’t thought about him in…”

“About a hundred years?”

“Seems like it. How’d he track you down?”

“It wasn’t him, exactly.”

“Oh?”

“An intermediary. Bones gave her my last name and remembered that I came from San Diego. No real hope of getting through, I guess, but Toni’s in the book. She caught a break.”

“And ‘she’ is…?”

“Marta Enriquez. She knew some jungle stories that could only come from Bones. It feels legit.”

“So what’s the squeal?”

“Long story short, the way she laid it down, he’s in Brazil, running some kind of floating hospital for anyone who needs him in the bush. Somewhere along the way, he started stepping on official toes.”

“How’s that?”

It was Blancanales’s turn to frown. “She claimed it has to do with Indians. The Amazon is one huge place, as you well know. We hear a lot about the forest being cut and burned for shopping malls, whatever, but the fact is, they’ve got tribes down there no white man’s ever seen. Some others sit on land the government and certain multinationals are anxious to ‘improve’ and put a few more millions in their pockets. When the honchos in Brasilia want a stubborn tribe to move, it can get Wild West messy. I’ve seen some of that, up close and personal.”

“But you have doubts about her story,” Bolan interjected, going to the heart of it.

“Let’s say I have some reservations, pun intended.”

“Why?”

“You know the history. They’ve had civilian government for only twenty years or so. Before that, it was hard-core juntas all the way. Some wouldn’t mind a switch back to the bad old days. You’ve got guerrillas in the backcountry, fighting for one thing or another, and banditos everywhere you turn. I wasn’t kidding when I mentioned the Wild West. Jivaro headhunters, covert Indian wars—Bones could be into damn near anything.”

“And someone’s hunting him?” Another cut, right to the heart.

“Sounds like it, yeah.”

“Whatever it is, he can’t turn to the law.”

“The way it was explained to me,” Blancanales said, “that’s not an option.”

“So, either the government is hunting him or it doesn’t mind someone else doing the dirty work.”

“I’d say that sums it up.”

“It’s not like Bones to ask for help.”

“Unless he really needs it, no.”

“I’m guessing, since you called, that Able Team can’t take it on,” Bolan said.