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  “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 shot
gun.

  “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.”

  6

  South China Sea

  Bolan fought Marcie Mei on the stern deck of the Flawless Victory. The tiny woman fought with a two-and-a-half-foot kris in one hand and a twelve-inch blade in the other. Ming Jinrong stood by the bridge, straddle-stanced and arms akimbo like a judging Buddha. He held a rattan stick like a rod of correction in his right hand. Every mistake Bolan made was pointed out with the baton and punctuated with a blow for emphasis. Ming had invited Bolan to resist correction if he felt so motivated.

  Bolan took the blows and learned.

  Ming had decided that facing a kung fu master would not help Bolan where he was going. Now that he had a grudgingly admitted “feeble grasp of the basics,” Bolan needed more practical opponents. Mei and Du had been called off the bench. Ming had ordered the woman to “pink” Bolan with her blades when he left himself open, but not to cut him too badly. As a result, Bolan was lumped and bleeding again.

  However, Bolan’s swordsmanship with the dadao was rapidly improving.

  They had been at sea for three days, and Ming’s soldiers and crew without current duties attended the sparring sessions with the avidness of ancient Romans attending the gladiatorial games.

  Wagers were flying from stem to stern.

  Bolan was larger, stronger, faster. But Mei?

  She was tricky.

  Bolan knew he was quite good, but a feeble grasp of dadao basics wouldn’t be enough to save him. Mei’s father had been an accomplished fighter on the island of Mindoro, and he had wanted a boy. A kris had been shoved in his diminutive daughter’s hand at age five.

  The Mouse had pinked Bolan twice and was moving in for the kill.

  “Ting!” Ming threw his baton down between them to halt the action. The triad lord leaned down as the Flawless Victory’s first mate spoke in his ear.

  Mei lowered her blades and raised a disappointed eyebrow at Bolan. “Your bacon just got saved, buddy.”

  Bolan didn’t bother denying it. He sheathed his sword as Ming beckoned. “What’s up?” he asked.

  Ming’s eyes were alight with excitement. “We can expect company tonight, Mr. Cooper.”

  “What kind of company?”

  “Well, according to registry, this boat is officially loaded with palm oil headed for Australia. However, in certain circles I let it slip that I am transferring some of my fortune and that this boat is actually carrying a million dollars’ worth of gold ingots and one hundred kilos of opium.”

  Bolan nodded. “Is it?”

  Ming smiled. “What good is a trap that does not smell of fresh bait?”

  “Are we expecting the company I want?”

  “Alas, not. Your true quarry continues to elude me.” Ming shrugged. “However, I have found that if you cannot find your enemy, then find his enemy. These people you seek are poaching. They are stepping on established toes and making things hot for everyone. They are making people angry. Perhaps those people know something.”

  Bolan agreed. It was sound logic. “So we’re going to get hit by a different pirate group?”

  “Indeed.”

  The Executioner considered the nature of piracy in the South Seas. “Speedboats before dawn?”

  “A veritable armada.” Ming sighed happily.

  “Who?”

  Ming draped himself across his massive chair. “Why, none other than the Pirate King of the South China Sea.”

  Bolan had done a lot of recent research on Southeast Asian piracy. “Rustam Megawatti?” he asked.

  “Indeed.” Ming looked impressed.

  Bolan shook his head. They had attracted some serious attention. “The Megawatt, himself?”

  “So it would seem.” Ming laid a massive hand ruefully upon his breast. “And I fear he is no friend of mine.”

  “Tell me what you know about him.”

  “He is owned by the Red League, who in turn have paid the old men in Beijing handsomely for his…what was the word the English pirates of old used?” Ming pursed his lips as he savored the term. “Letters of mark and reprisal. Megawatti has official sanction from the Chinese authorities to commit acts of piracy in the China Sea as he long as he kicks profit back up the line.”

  Bolan regarded his sword master frankly. Ming was already on the outs with the Red League. “You’re treading dangerous ground,” Bolan said in warning.

  “I thrive upon danger.” Ming looked at Bolan, his expression all seriousness. “Indeed, I have languished from the lack of it.”

  Bolan shrugged. Ming Jinrong was an interesting man, he thought and then turned to business. “When?”

  “Somewhat past midnight I believe we shall be tested.” Ming ran an appreciative eye over Bolan’s battered physique. “I suggest you take a nap.”

  It was a good suggestion.

  Bolan went below. He and Du shared a small steel cube with two cots and a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The crew’s quarters of the ancient steamer were dilapidated, but Ming’s servants had scrubbed them clean. Bolan’s weapons and gear took up a quarter of the cell. He had folded his cot and spread his bedding on the floor. The Executioner staunched his bleeding, stripped and sacked out on top of his blankets.

  BOLAN STRAPPED HIS pistols to his thighs and his sword over his right shoulder. He scooped up his Farm-modified carbine and he made his way to the bridge. The room was clustered with men carrying automatic rifles. Ming and his men were all dressed for combat in khaki coveralls and red head scarves. His men all carried M-16 rifles and a bladed weapon of one sort or another. Ming, himself, stood among his men with his broadswords strapped in an X behind his back, and a pair of Chinese Type 80 machine pistols hung from his hips like a gunfighter.

  “Ah!” He looked up as Bolan came in and handed him a red scarf. “For identification.”

  The Executioner tied the red silk bandanna around his head. He suspected he and Ming’s forces looked more like pirates than the approaching pirates did. “Where’s my gun crew?”

  Fung and his four men marched in on cue. They looked from Ming to Bolan expectantly. They were well drilled. They had fired the four inert training rounds in Ming’s stock and knew how to load, reload and traverse the turret.

  Live firing at night was going to be exciting to say the least.

  Du and Mei trotted in armed to the teeth. The woman was wearing a black raid suit, armor and carrying her carbine. Du had a shotgun across his shoulders, and both fighters were wearing red scarves.

  “Du, Fung.” Bolan jerked his head toward the stern as he put on his headset. “You’re with me.”

  The Executioner and his artillery team marched out onto the deck. Bolan climbed the rope ladder, lowered himself into the open container vessel and dropped on top of the Ontos. All six rifles were loaded, three with high-explosive and three with beehive rounds. Bolan squeezed his frame into the tiny commander-gunner’s position in the turret and clicked on his radio. “I’m in position.”

  “Affirmative, Cooper.” Ming was clearly excited. “My sources tell me we can expect a large attacking force. They know I am heavily armed wherever
I go, and my spies tell me the Red League considers this an ideal opportunity to finally wash their hands of me.”

  “How large?” Bolan asked.

  “Perhaps six to ten boatloads of Megawatti’s men. Heavily armed with automatic weapons and rocket propelled grenades.”

  Bolan glanced around his gun emplacement. The frontal armor of the Ontos was one inch of armored steel and of no protective value at all against an antitank weapon. “How soon?”

  “My sources say our enemies departed the islands an hour ago.”

  “So they should be right on top of us.”

  “Almost certainly, they—” Bolan could hear shouting in the background. “They are upon us!”

  Bolan raised his voice to parade ground decibels. “Du!”

  The bolts holding the container vessels shrieked as they were pulled. Illumination flares burst into incandescence overhead. The sides wobbled and fell open like a corrugated steel flower and hit the deck clanging like thunder. The ship’s lights blazed on, and Du, Fung and the artillery team scampered into place. Bolan could see a dozen speedboats approaching across the bow. Automatic rifles strobed at the Flawless Victory as Megawatti’s forces came on.

  “Left! Twenty degrees!” Bolan’s voice boomed.

  The Vietnamese had cut through the turret so that it could be rotated 360 degrees. Without the engine, the turret had to be turned manually. Fung and his team grabbed the sides of the turret and heaved. Fung had greased the crudely welded track, but the turret still screeched as the men heaved themselves against the ancient metal behemoth.

  “Stop!” Du shouted, and the turret stopped turning.

  The pirates were coming straight on. Bolan tilted his guns. “Aiming!” He squeezed his trigger, and the spotting rifle on top of his top-right recoilless weapon fired. The tracer round streaked through the night and impacted the prow of the lead boat. Bolan pressed the electrical trigger of the main weapon. “Firing!”

  Du, Fung and the team covered their ears and cringed against the armored sides of the Ontos.

  The principle behind the recoilless rifle was simple and based on one of Newton’s basic laws of physics. Every action had an equal and opposite reaction. Recoilless rifle shells were perforated at the bottom. When the rifle fired, approximately four-fifths of the propellant gas blasted backward through vents in the breech while the remaining gas sent the cannon shell flying forward. The two forces canceled each other out, making a weapon that had no recoil and could used on very light mounts. But it also meant the weapon spewed fire out of both ends like a two-headed dragon.