Kitabı oku: «Blood Tide», sayfa 3
The guards dropped their rifles on their slings and began applauding wildly. Mei and Du joined them. There was renewed respect in Du’s eyes. Ming tossed his lily at Bolan’s feet in tribute. “Ah!” He rolled his eyes at Mei, and his smile was ecstatic. “You brought me not just an American, but—” he savored the words like fine wine as he spoke them “—a gunfighter.”
Bolan slid a loaded magazine into his pistol and pressed the slide release home on a fresh round before he holstered it. He had done fancier shooting, often on the field of battle and in the face of oncoming fire. Bolan allowed himself a small smile. Seven plates in one and a half seconds…
Ming sat up in his chair. “Gau, have some of the men light some firecrackers in the street to allay the neighbor’s suspicions.”
The gangster turned back to Bolan. “I believe I know what it is you wish of me, and I believe it would be my pleasure to render you assistance. Give me a week while I send forth my agents. In the mean time,” the gangster said, opening a huge but graceful hand in invitation, “be my guests. I insist.”
Bolan frowned. A week of downtime, and who knew how many more innocent targets would get hit. Ming caught the look and shrugged.
“During that time, it would be my honor to teach you something of the sword.” He smiled enigmatically. “I believe you may have some need of one where you will be going.”
4
Macao
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Ming’s blade hurtled down at Bolan like a gleaming meteor. Sweat dripped from Bolan’s brow as he fought. Ming’s crushed velvet suit of the day was lime green, but he had shoved off his suspenders and fought in his sleeveless T-shirt beneath the southern Chinese sun. Bolan fought stripped to the waist as Ming attacked him, the giant mobster shouting at him all the while like an angry headmaster.
Bolan was bleeding from numerous superficial cuts that could easily have lopped off limbs had Ming wanted. Purple bruises blossomed beneath the skin of Bolan’s cheek and his arms and shoulders where Ming had struck him with the flat of the blade or hit him with the pommel. Bolan ignored his blood dripping on the hot tiles and the sweat stinging his eyes and fought on.
“Cut!” Ming roared.
Chinese martial-arts masters did not encourage their students. They beat on them, literally and figuratively, until they mastered the technique or quit.
Bolan held a two-handed sword. It was barely three feet long, and the massive, curved blade seemed much too short and far too wide. The cord-wrapped handle was one-third as long as the blade and mounted with a thick, rigid, black iron ring at the bottom. Although it was a two-handed sword, Ming forbade Bolan to touch it with his left hand. Once Bolan had picked it up he had found it amazingly well balanced and lightning fast.
“You are forcing it!” Ming shouted. “Use your wrist! Let the blade do the work! Do not chop at me! I am not a goat! This is not a butcher’s stall in the market! Cut!”
Ming’s own broadsword whirled around his wrist, flashing like lightning. “Like this! And this! And this!”
The slender saber whipped up, down and sideways in a dazzling array of cuts. Their swords rang with blow after blow as Bolan barely blocked the incoming barrage.
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Ming said. “I see your left hand yearning to grip the blade for a two-handed blow! I see you have had training in the Japanese sword, and you desire to pull the hilt toward you for the slice! Cut! This is not a kendo dojo! Chinese swords express themselves outwardly! Let your wrist succumb to the curve! Let your weapon’s weight do your work for you!”
Bolan knew intuitively that Ming was right. The few sword fights Bolan had been in and the little formal training he had received in swordsmanship were with the Japanese katana and its smaller, straight cousin, the ninja-to. Those instincts were interfering with the morning’s lesson.
Bolan had to empty his cup before more knowledge could be poured in.
The Executioner let his wrist succumb to the curve of the blade. He stopped defending, and his blade licked out in series of blindingly fast attacks.
“Better!” Ming grinned delightedly as he parried the attacks. “Better!”
The giant gangster counterattacked. They fought back and forth, blades ringing beneath the watchful eyes of Ming’s guards. Ming no longer punished Bolan for his mistakes but let him explore the blade, now that he was using it properly. He grunted corrections, and every time Bolan made a mistake Ming stopped and made him do the move ten times correctly, and then resumed the battle.
Forty-five minutes later the noon sun hammered down on the courtyard.
“Enough!” Ming stepped back. “You will learn nothing more at this point but the mistakes of fatigue.”
Bolan didn’t argue. His arm felt like lead. He had been fatigued two hours ago. At this point he was staggering with exhaustion.
“Now that we have cured you of your samurai impulses…” Ming took Bolan’s sword and walked to a rack loaded with Chinese kung fu weaponry of every description. He picked up a length of bloodred silk ribbon and tied it to the ring in Bolan’s hilt. “Observe.”
Ming slowly swished the blade through the air, the red ribbon twirling behind it like an angry serpent. “The dadao is called the war sword. One reason is that you could issue it to a raw recruit and with little training he could take it in both hands and smite an enemy with some effectiveness. However, in the hands of an adept, the dadao becomes a thing of great subtlety.”
Bolan watched as Ming wove a web of steel with the blade. The ribbon twirled along in its wake like the prop of an Olympic rhythmic gymnast. “The ribbon can be used to distract the enemy…or worse.” Ming suddenly snapped his wrist and the end of the ribbon licked out and whipped against the vase of flowers on the table. The pottery cracked and Bolan realized the end of the ribbon was weighted. Ming let go of the sword as he swung it and caught the silk ribbon by its weighted ends. The gangster dropped low into a spinning crouch. The sword deployed at the end of the ribbon, adding three feet to Ming’s reach. It scythed around at ankle level and sank into the wood of a courtyard beam.
Ming yanked the ribbon, and sword’s hilt leaped back into his hand. “The dadao has endless possibilities.”
Ming nodded at a samurai sword in the rack, and Bolan drew it. Ming motioned for Bolan to attack.
“Now the iron ring pommel,” Ming lectured, “cannot only be used to strike an opponent, but to trap his weapon and disarm him.”
Bolan slashed, and Ming twirled his weapon like a baton. He slapped the pommel ring around the tip of Bolan’s sword and yanked it halfway down the blade. It took all of Bolan’s strength not to have the sword ripped from his grip as Ming twisted and yanked.
Ming grinned as they played tug of war for a moment with the trapped blades, testing each other’s strength. “But should your opponent prove too strong for you to take his weapon away…” Ming roared like a lion and torqued his wrists. The blade of Bolan’s trapped katana snapped in two. “You may destroy it, and then him.”
Ming sighed as he held up the weapon and ran his eyes along the edge. “The dadao is a two-handed sword, but you have discovered that a strong man may easily wield it like a saber in one. Thus, in the morning you shall practice one handed, and then again in the afternoon we shall practice with two hands. There your training on the Japanese katana may be of some assistance to you.”
He handed the blade back to Bolan.
“I thank you, Sifu.” Bolan bowed slightly and used the Chinese honorific for teacher.
“It is my pleasure.” Ming bowed too. He clapped his hands, and two beautiful women appeared in the silk robes and coiffures of medieval Chinese courtesans. “Butterfly, Jade, see to our guest’s injuries.” Ming leered. “See to his every need.”
Butterfly and Jade bowed to Bolan. Beneath their thick lashes, the women’s eyes roved over Bolan’s naked and bloody torso like horse traders presented with a strange and powerful new breed they did not recognize.
“Gau,” Ming called. Gau instantly appeared at Ming’s right hand. “Summon Du, and tell him to bring his butterfly knives.” Ming drew his broadsword once more. “I feel…invigorated.”
Bolan didn’t envy Du. He paused a moment as Jade and Butterfly gently took him by the elbow to lead him back to his chambers. “Sifu?”
“The lesson is over. You may call me Ming. All my friends do.”
Bolan bowed slightly. “May I inquire, my friend, if you have heard from any of your agents since yesterday?”
“Indeed. Three of my men have made inquiries into the matter and reported back already.” Ming clapped his hands. “Ho!”
A hulking, shaven-headed servant Bolan had not seen before came through the curtains behind Ming’s throne. He bore a large carved box and held it out for Bolan, who lifted the lid.
Three severed heads lay nested in the box. They gazed up at him, their faces frozen in the contortion of their final fear and agony.
“I will need to send more men.” Ming smiled his enigmatic smile once more and dropped his eyes to the dadao in Bolan’s hands. “In the meantime, I suggest you practice.”
CIA Safehouse, Macao
BOLAN DRANK SOME TEA. Butterfly and Jade had taken him to his chambers and applied liniment to his bruises and ointments to his cuts. He smelled like a Chinese herbalist shop, but his bruises had subsided and the cuts had been reduced to thin pink lines.
Once they had been assured of his survival, they had been insistent on seeing to Bolan’s other needs, as well. He smiled at the memory and wondered if he’d have any strength left for the evening’s sword lesson. He’d been limp when Du had taken him by rickshaw to the safehouse. Du had been sullen, silent and covered with bruises himself. His knife technique had not been enough to save him from a beating at Ming’s hands.
Bolan checked the time and hit a key on the laptop. Kurtzman’s face appeared on the monitor via satellite link. He cocked his head at Bolan’s salve-smeared body.
“Do I want to ask?”
Bolan thought about Butterfly and Jade. “You might.”
Kurtzman read Bolan’s expression. “Man…you have all the fun.”
Bolan shrugged and drank more tea.
“Well, tell me about Ming, then. I hear he’s quite a character.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Kurtzman looked curious. “And?”
Bolan smiled proudly. “He says my swordsmanship is salvageable.”
Kurtzman blinked. “Well, that’s good news.”
“I think he’s taken a shine to me.”
Kurtzman paused. “That’s a good thing?”
“If we want his cooperation, yes. I get the impression he’s been kind of lonely since the triads pushed him out of Shanghai. He’s been wasting away in exile like fallen royalty. I got his blood moving again. He really seems to be enjoying having a student.”
“That’s all well and good, but where’s the mission payoff?”
“In China, the criminal underworld and the martial arts are deeply intertwined. Both have their code of honor. By taking me on as his student, his code obliges him to help me against my enemies. It’s his plausible excuse to himself and his superiors for getting involved in business he shouldn’t.”
“So what have you learned?”
“So far, not much. Ming apparently got a few nibbles, and his agents promptly got their heads cut off. The interesting thing was that they were spread out. One was in the Philippines, one in Malaysia and one in Java.”
“A real pan-Southeast Asian movement.” Kurtzman chewed his lower lip. “It’s not good, but if it’s a charismatic movement like you suspect—”
“Then I’ll have to find that charismatic head and cut it off,” Bolan finished.
Kurtzman scowled. “That’ll be a neat trick, especially doing it without turning him into a martyr.”
“Yeah.” Bolan considered the fanatical movements he’d fought before. “I’ll just have to do it in a way that doesn’t leave any doubts.”
“First, you’ve got to find him.”
“Speaking of which, where’s Rosario?”
“He’s in Central America. He says he and Calvin can extract and be in Manila in twenty-four hours.”
“Good enough. Tell them I’ll meet them in the Polillo Islands safehouse. That should do for our purposes.”
“What kind of purpose?”
“How’s our young friend doing in custody?”
“According to Manila station, the Philippine military police have stopped just short of rubber hoses and jumper cables, and that was only at the direct request of the station chief.”
“Good, I think in twenty-four hours he’ll be about ready to see a friendly face.”
Kurtzman grimaced. “You’re playing kind of rough with this kid, aren’t you, Striker?”
“That kid boarded a private yacht in the middle of the night, blade in hand, with the intention of beheading every man, woman and child he found, Bear.”
“Well…granted,” Kurtzman replied. “But he was under the influence of drugs, and—”
“Running juramentado is an all-volunteer activity. You sign up. Our boy was excited about the plan and thankful to be a part of it, and that was before the hash, the trance and the ball-binding.” Bolan’s voice went ice cold. “Young, dumb and brainwashed, I’ll grant you. We’ll let him live. But he’s going to make good on what he owes humanity, one way or the other.”
“Yeah.” Kurtzman shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair. “I hear you. So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to fly back to the Philippines and take a meeting with Pol and the kid. Assuming all goes well, I’ll leave Pol to it and come back here to Macao. The last leads we generated came by setting out bait. I figure I might as well try it again while Pol goes to work.”
“The yacht trick again?”
“Yeah, but I’m thinking bigger.”
“Bigger?”
“Ming’s had a few interesting suggestions.”
Kurtzman raised a bemused eyebrow. “I bet he has.”
Bolan ignored the innuendo. “Meantime, I’ve got a job for you, Bear.”
“Oh?” Both of Kurtzman’s eyebrows rose with interest. Aaron Kurtzman was a genuine, certified genius, and when Mack Bolan said “I have a job for you, Bear,” it meant the big guy had a whopper of a challenge for him.
“Yeah, this is a Southeast Asian mission.”
“Yes…” Kurtzman waited for the rub. “And?”
“And I need a Muslim cover.”
Kurtzman stared blankly into the Webcam.
Bolan nodded in empathy. “Work on it.”
5
Polillo Islands, Philippines
“Has he snapped, yet?” Bolan walked up the steps to the beach house. The yellow Piper Super-Cub seaplane lay at anchor in the lagoon. Rosario “Politician” Blancanales’ bull-like figure stood on the veranda holding two cups of coffee in one hand. Bolan could smell it as he mounted the steps.
Stony Man Farm’s psychological warfare expert shook his head. Bolan tossed a manila folder onto the table as both he and Blancanales sank into rattan chairs.
“Not yet,” Blancanales said over his mug, “but he’s just about ready.”
Bolan nodded. “Snapping” was the point in cult deprogramming when the cultist realized he had been deceived by his cult and snapped out of his delusion. “So what’s the hold up?”
“Well, your boy wasn’t exactly wearing saffron robes and handing out flowers at the airport. He’s more than just a true believer. We’re dealing with a genuine holy warrior here, with martyrdom on his mind.”
“So what’s your strategy?”
“Same as always. Force Ali to think. Someone once said thinking is the hardest activity man is capable of, and that’s why so few men do it. People in cults have surrendered their minds. In many respects, their minds are actually turned off.” Blancanales stared intently at the seaplane as it bobbed on the water. “The first time you lay eyes on a person, you can tell if their mind is working or not. As you question them, you can tell exactly how they’ve been programmed. I agree with your initial assessment. It began in prison. Ali was fifteen when he was incarcerated. As you can imagine, a fifteen-year-old boy is in for some very rough times in prison. He hasn’t come out and said it, but I suspect the cultists inside saved him from being punked, which immediately engendered gratitude, and more importantly, trust. The minute a cult gains your trust—” Blancanales snapped his fingers “—they have you. You’re in.”
“And to snap him out of it?” Bolan asked.
“Like I said, this isn’t some rich man’s daughter signing away her trust fund at an ashram. Ali’s a hard case. He came from poverty-stricken parents and grew up on the streets. He went in for robbery and assault, and when the cult sucked him in it gave him instant family, instant support, instant purpose. That’s a tough one to beat.”
Bolan waited. “And?”
“And it’s a matter of language. It’s talking and knowing what to talk about. I’ve started moving his mind around, slowly pushing it with questions. Ali hasn’t just turned his mind off, he’s given it to someone else. He’s been taught that thinking and questioning are wrong. They’re the equivalent of doubting. Thinking is a sin. He’s been told not to think, but to implicitly trust.”
“Our boy is operating on faith.”
“Exactly. As I question him, I watch every move his mind makes. I know where it’s going to go, and when I hit on a point or question that sparks a response, I push it. I stay with it and don’t let him get around it with the lies he’s been told or circular dogma. I drive it home.”
“And then you snap him.”
“Sooner or later.” Blancanales leaned back and sipped his coffee.
“So how’s it been going?”
“Pretty rough on everyone. His first instinct was violence, so we had to restrain him. Even shackled, he made a pretty decent attempt at taking my head off with a standing mule kick. When he realized I wouldn’t let him hurt me, he went sullen and refused to talk at all. That’s par for the course. At that point, I had Calvin treat his injuries and administer him two low doses of sodium Pentothal to loosen his inhibitions. Then Calvin pulled his Black Muslim routine. Once Ali started talking to Calvin as his doctor and a fellow Muslim, Ali’s strategy turned to feigned compliance while looking to escape. That, however, was a strategic mistake on his part.” Blancanales grinned. “Because that got him talking to me.”
Bolan nodded in acknowledgment. “And that is everyone’s downfall.”
“Darn tootin’!” agreed Pol.
“So where is Ali now?”
Blancanales lifted his chin eastward. “Calvin took him for his morning walk on the beach.”
“Is that wise?”
“A growing boy needs his exercise. Besides, this is an island.” Blancanales shrugged. “Ali can’t swim, and he’s shackled. Short of pulling a Man from Atlantis, he’s not going anywhere.”
Bolan smiled wearily through his jet lag. Blancanales was a people person. When it came to getting inside an enemy’s head, he was a genuine “hearts and minds” lubricant. If he thought the boy deserved a walk, Bolan would take his word for it.
“So, you want to meet him?”
“Sure.” Bolan scooped up his folder and followed Blancanales down the back stairs into the jungle. They walked a hundred yards inland through the trees and came to the other side of the island. Blancanales gave him a basic sitrep. “Ali speaks English, Spanish and Tagalog. To him, I’m Dr. Blancanales and a Mindanao native. He knows Calvin is an American but thinks he’s a Muslim doctor. He has no idea who you are, and I doubt he’d recognize you. He sure as hell isn’t expecting you, so you can play it any way you want. You going straight in, or are you working with a cover?”
“Cover.”
“Really? This should be interesting.”
Bolan nodded. He’d given Kurtzman a challenge, and the man had come up with something so crazy it might actually work. “Thanks for the psych profile. Any personal observations?”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, this Ali kid? I like him.”
Bolan frowned.
Blancanales’s dark eyes stared right back at Bolan. “Listen, I know he’s an intelligence asset, but the kid’s got guts. Deep down, there’s a decent human being in there.”
Bolan nodded. His life was going to depend on it. “All right.”
Blancanales gestured through the trees. “There’s the lad now.”
Ali Mohammed Apilado sat slump-shouldered by the water’s edge. He dejectedly watched the sun rise over the Philippine Sea. He wore blaze orange prisoner-of-war garb, and Bolan could see the glint of the shackles and handcuffs that bound him. Twenty yards back, Calvin James leaned against a palm tree. A prayer rug lay near his feet. The lanky black man turned and smiled at Bolan.
“Hey, big guy.”
“Morning, Calvin. How’s the patient today?”
“He’s a bit pouty.” The ex-Navy SEAL shrugged. “I’m giving him some space. I opened the cellar door this morning and then followed him at a respectful distance. He’s just finished with his morning prayers.”
“This is the calm before the storm,” Blancanales said. “Ali’s been getting angrier and angrier. Right now he’s directing it at me. Let’s go say hi.”
Three of the most dangerous men on Earth walked across the sand toward the prisoner. Ali’s prayer rug lay rolled to one side. Blancanales strolled up and smiled in a fatherly fashion. “Buenos dias, amigo.”
Calvin James nodded. “Asalaam aleikum.”
Bolan glanced at the rising sun and smiled down at the young man and wished him good morning in Tagalog.
Ali’s bruises were fading, but his face was still lumped and misshapen from his treatment at the hands of Philippine Intelligence. He ignored Blancanales and Bolan and grunted glumly at James. “Aleiku salaam.”
“Ali?” Blancanales extended a hand toward Bolan. He had modulated his English with a perfect Philippine accent. “I would like you to meet a friend of mine.”
Ali Mohammed Apilado regarded Bolan with grave suspicion.
Bolan bowed slightly. “Asalaam aleikum.”
Ali stiffened in anger but did not respond.
Bolan played the hand that Kurtzman had drawn him. “My name is Makeen al-Boulus. Do you recognize me?”
Ali stared into Bolan’s blue eyes intently but without recognition. Blancanales and James both shot Bolan surprised looks. Bolan held the young man’s gaze and smiled benevolently. “Strange, it was one week ago this morning that you ran juramentado and tried to cut off my head.”
Ali’s jaw dropped.
Bolan knew he’d hit pay dirt. Blancanales folded his arms across his chest, nodding. James grinned his approval. Bolan reached into the manila folder and showed Ali a picture of Marcie Mei. “This is my wife. She is pregnant with my child, yet you and your brothers tried to take her head, as well.”
Ali paled.
Bolan turned a picture of Escotto Clellande like a tarot card of fate. “This was my first mate. A pious man.” The Executioner took the piau from the folder and let the razor-sharp shard of steel fall to stick point first in the sand. Its red fiber tail fluttered in the morning breeze. “He pulled this from his throat as he drowned in his own blood.”
Ali Apilado looked as if he might vomit.
“You are young and devout so much may be forgiven, but can you truly be so ignorant that you would attack the faithful?”
Rage, fear and betrayal rose unstoppably from the young man’s soul. He rolled to his hands and knees and heaved up his guts into the surf.
Bolan spit into the sand. “May God forgive you.”
The Executioner turned and walked away. Blancanales followed, while James knelt and put a consoling hand on Ali’s shoulder.
“Jesus…” Blancanales shook his head as they walked back through the jungle. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re hard core?”
Bolan shrugged as he went past the beachhouse. “Is he snapped?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I need him.”
Blancanales let out a long breath. “Striker, we need to have a talk about recidivism and the need for follow-up rehabilitation after the snap.”
“I’m going fishing with Ming and Marcie.” Bolan kept walking toward his plane. “You have a week.”
Coloane Island, Macao
“BEHOLD!” MING CLAPPED his hands, and his men yanked back the bolts holding the steel container vessel together. The top of the container had been cut off, and the four sides fell away with a tremendous clang to the foredeck of the steamer.
Bolan simply stared.
“Do you like it?” Ming clasped his huge hands together and looked at Bolan expectantly.
“I…” Bolan opened his mouth and closed it.
“I listened with great interest to your story of how you used your yacht as a pirate trap,” Ming gushed, “and the lesson of the British Q-boats in the World War II.”
“I can see that.”
Ming raised a hesitant eyebrow. “You do know how to load and fire a 106 mm recoilless rifle?”
“I do,” Bolan said.
He now had six of them.
Bolan stared at the tiny armored vehicle that squatted on deck. What Bolan was looking at was a former United States Marine Corps Ontos tank destroyer. Ontos was a Greek word that literally meant “thing.” It was an apt description. The tank was barely taller than Bolan, himself. At twelve-and-a-half-feet long and eight-and-a-half-feet wide, it was not a tank so much as a tankette. The most remarkable thing about the Ontos was the steel arm sprouting from each side of the tiny, open turret, each of which held three, externally mounted 106 mm recoilless rifles on stalks.
It looked ridiculous, but undeniably hostile.
Bolan eyed the Ontos critically. It had to be at least fifty years old. The thin steel hull was streaked and pitted with rust. A black welding line ran the circumference of the top hull. Both of its tracks were gone, and it sat chalked in place on its road wheels. However, the guns appeared to be in decent condition. “Does it run?”
“No.” Ming gestured at a tiny man in a stained coverall. “My mechanic, Fung, says the engine is hopelessly corroded.”
Bolan let out a long breath. “The guns will have to be manually traversed.”
“So says Fung,” Ming concurred.
“Where did you, uh…” Bolan shook his head. “Get it?”
“A Vietnamese associate of mine sold it to me a year ago. The Vietnamese army captured it from you Americans long ago. With the engine gone, the Vietnamese had intended on using it as a static field gun. However, moving it to any place of use proved prohibitive, so it languished for decades in a warehouse in Da Nang. I had thought to strip it of its cannons and sell them but…” Ming gazed upon the six barreled monstrosity and sighed. “But I became fond of it.”
Bolan reserved comment. Ming Jinrong was a very complicated man.
“The Viet Cong greatly feared it, you know. When all six barrels were loaded with ‘beehive’ ammunition and fired together, it was said to be able to clear a quarter mile of jungle. The Marines called it the rolling shotgun.
“The problem was that each of the six recoilless rifles were externally mounted on a stalk, which meant that once it was fired someone had to go outside the tank and reload it by hand. However, for a first salvo it was capable of incredible firepower.” Ming paused once again to admire the Ontos.
“Your Q-boat!” Ming spread his arms, encompassing the ancient, rusty steamer and the equally decrepit armored vehicle squatting on the bow. “I have named her Flawless Victory.” He gazed at Bolan expectantly again. “Do you like it?”
Bolan nodded. “I love it.”
“I am so glad.” Ming sighed.
“We have 106 mm shells?” Bolan asked hopefully.
“Oh, we have an assortment.” The gangster glowed. “I have a crew ready and shall give you twenty of my best men. You shall have to train your gun crew at sea.” Ming gazed proudly at what he had wrought. “We sail with the tide.”
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
