corrupt foreign governments. Maybe the civilians had provided food and shelter for the Vietcong.
This was it.
Her response was automatic.
She reached down on the seat beside her for the tape recorder and camera.
This atrocity would not go unrecorded, unpunished.
This one would see the light of day.
She unfastened the flap of a pack and took out her equipment. Then she took a deep breath and got ready to start down the road again. She would proceed on foot, even though that would be tricky.
Continuing in the jeep would present an easy target. She would be more likely to get shot.
The jungle pressed in close on both sides of the road.
Jill Desmond was about to step down from the jeep when a hand reached out, grabbing her arm.
She screamed into the night.
Jerking around, she saw a face looming at her out of the darkness: flat features, lank black hair, cloth tied around the forehead.
Vietcong.
Reflex took over.
Jill's foot left the brake, slammed the gas pedal. She popped the clutch.
The jeep shot forward.
She was thrown back against the seat.
The VC let go.
The left front wheel of the jeep dipped off the roadway. The lurch threw Jill heavily to the side.
She grabbed for the wheel, straightening herself and the jeep. Her foot was still on the gas. She left it there. Keeping her head down, she drove, her heart pounding wildly.
Somehow the jeep stayed on the road.
She heard firing from behind her.
From the sound of it, there were at least two or three others back there with the man who grabbed her, triggering shots after the fleeing vehicle.
A slug ricocheted off the body of the jeep with a whining spang.
Jill cringed, feeling the first tinge of fear.
She barely made out the bend in the road in time to whip the jeep around it, rather than crash into the culvert dead ahead. Once she negotiated the turn she brought the jeep to a halt.
Her jaw dropped at the scene of carnage spread out before her.
Unimaginable carnage, everywhere she looked.
The hooches of the village were grouped in a rough circle. Beyond them was the thick blackness of jungle night.
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.
