Whipsaw te-144 Read online

  "Look, I..." He stumbled to a halt. It seemed as if he couldn't say anything without tripping all over himself. There was something about her that mystified him. "Funny, isn't it, how much we take power for granted? I mean, we refer to it constantly. We use it interchangeably with privilege as if they were the same thing." She seemed completely unruffled. Her voice was serene, almost narcotized, and nearly hypnotic. "But they aren't the same thing at all. Right now, I have a kind of power that you don't. That makes me privileged, compared to you."

  "How so?"

  "If I say jump, you will ask how high. All because I have the gun."

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  She ignored the implicit disagreement. "But that's not all. It makes us different, having power. It also puts you on the defensive, the same way knowledge does. Knowledge, too, is a kind of power."

  "You think so?"

  "I know it. Take the fact that you really don't know why you're here. Not the truck I don't mean that. I mean Manila. The Philippines. I think maybe that's why I took off your handcuffs. You are a kind of innocent. You're like a child, somehow. Most things are so simple for you, and yet some things are so complex you don't even try to understand them. But you don't care. For you, they amount to the same thing. You see something in black and white, or you don't see it at all. And you don't even realize that."

  Bolan listened to the laboring engine for a while. He could feel it throbbing through the floorboards. From the strain, and the slight imbalance he felt, he assumed they were heading uphill now, and had been for a while. Slowly, perhaps, but certainly.

  Finally he took up the gauntlet. "If you understand so much, why don't you explain things to me? Show me where I am wrong and you are right."

  "You think I can't, don't you?"

  "I don't think anything. Just do it, if you can."

  "All right... let me tell you about your Mr. Charles Harding. How about that for a beginning?"

  "Good a place as any, I suppose."

  "Do you know why he's here, in the Philippines?"

  "No."

  "Is that why you were following him, to find out?"

  "Who said I was following him?"

  "Mr. Belasko, don't try to obscure the obvious. I know what I know. And I know you were following him. I know you came here from Los Angeles, just like Mr. Harding. But, unlike you, I also know why he is here."

  He kept calculating the odds on overpowering the young woman, but they never changed, and he didn't like them. And he was getting interested, in spite of himself.

  "Go on," he said.

  "How much do you know about my country?"

  "Enough."

  "You remember the Huks? Hukbalahap? You don't seem old enough."

  "I know of them, yes."

  "And the New People's Army? You know of them, too?"

  "Yes."

  "You know why they existed, the Huks, the NPA? Because of people like your Mr. Harding."

  "Stop calling him that. He's not "my" Mr. Harding. I don't know who the hell he belongs to, but it sure as hell isn't me."

  "That's the American way, isn't it, Mr. Belasko? Let people be exploited, reap the rewards of that exploitation and disavow its architects. As long as you have two cars and three televisions, who cares about people who have to walk and who have no radio? "Fuck 'em," isn't that the American attitude?"

  "Lady, if there's an attitude around here, it's yours, and I'm sick of it. You don't know jackshit about me. Talk about black and white. If there's a blacker black and a whiter white than the colors you're seeing, I don't know where the hell they might be."

  "Of course, I knew you'd get around to that, sooner or later. The oppressor always blames the oppressed. Resentment is the privilege of the overclass..."

  The truck lurched suddenly, but she pushed on.

  "You always..."

  "Stop it!" Bolan snapped suddenly.

  "You..."

  "I heard something. Be quiet!"

  The truck was leaning perilously, and the growl of the engine gradually disappeared under an increasingly louder thumping, like that of approaching thunder.

  "A flat tire," she said, "nothing to worry about. It happens a lot up here."

  "No, before that. It was sharper. I heard it twice, no more than that."

  "Maybe..." The truck crashed into something, and Bolan was thrown forward, slamming into the front wall. The woman landed on top of him, and one elbow caught him in the temple. He saw a flash of bright light for a second, then felt the throbbing of his head.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked.

  She didn't answer him immediately, and he shook her by one shoulder as he squirmed out from under her. She must have been stunned for a few seconds. But as he extricated himself, he felt the cold, round mouth of the automatic press against the back of his neck.

  "Don't move," she ordered.

  He smelled gasoline and pounded on the front wall of the truck. "We have to get out of here," he said. He beat his fist on the wall, but no one responded. Then, off to his left, he saw the first orange flash. It flickered and vanished, like a serpent's tongue.

  "Fire," he said. "We better get out of the truck. Now!"

  "Don't try to fool me. I may be a woman, but I'm not stupid."

  "Listen, we have to get out of the truck. It's starting to burn. If the fuel tank goes up, we won't have a chance in hell."

  Something changed her mind, maybe the tone of his voice or perhaps she smelled the gasoline or the scorched vegetation wafting into the truck. For the first time since he'd met her, she seemed genuinely frightened. Her voice broke when she said, "It's locked. From the outside."

  8

  Bolan reached for her hand. It trembled in his grasp, but she refused to let go of the pistol.

  "Let go, damn it!" he shouted. "Marisa, we have to get out of here."

  He twisted her arm, and the pistol clattered onto the floor of the truck. He groped for it in the dark, conscious of how little time they had left. The orange glow was already getting brighter. He found the pistol and crawled to the rear of the truck. He was too tall to stand upright, and knelt at the crack between the two doors.

  Running his fingers along the joint between them, he found the bolts holding the latch in place. He fired two quick shots, with the muzzle held nearly flat against the sheet metal. Behind him Marisa screamed.

  Lying on his back, he brought both feet back and slammed them into the door, one on either side of the latch. The doors bowed outward but did not give. He could feel the heat of the flames on his ankles as he pulled them back for another try.

  Again he slammed both feet forward, ramming them like pile drivers into the door. This time one flew open. A wave of superheated air surged into the truck.

  "Marisa, come on," he shouted. In the dull orange glare, he turned to see her cowering in one corner of the truck.

  He stuck the gun in his belt and scrambled toward her. She heard him coming, and shrank even farther into the corner. Without a word he grabbed her under the shoulders and hauled her to her feet. Bending at the waist, he pushed and shoved her toward the open door.

  "Stay right there," he said, dropping to the ground.

  He reached back up for her, grabbed a knee in each hand and pulled. She toppled forward, and he caught her over his left shoulder. She was heavier than she looked, and the impact of her body nearly knocked him over.

  He ran into the trees and set her down.

  "Wait here," he said.

  "Don't leave me," she said. Her voice was emotionless, almost robotic, but he could sense the terror her inflection tried to conceal.

  He sprinted back to the truck and yanked the driver's door open. The driver was slumped forward over the steering wheel. A gaping hole in his skull obscured the left temple. The bullet must have come from the opposite side of the road, Bolan thought as he pulled the driver free. The man was dead, and there was no time for courtesy. He let the body fall to the ground and reached for the second man in the cab.
He, too, had been shot, through and through, also from the right side of the road. The glass of the windshield and the passenger window was a mass of cracks, glittering orange with reflected light.

  As he backed out of the cab, Bolan snatched the passenger's M-16 and a canvas bag jammed down between the bucket seats. When he stepped down from the running board, he started to back away but tripped and fell. Scrambling to his feet, he noticed the flames now beginning to lick at the huge gas tank under the truck. He stumbled back into the trees, ignoring the slender branches slashing at his face and hands.

  He found Marisa right where he'd left her, as if she had grown roots in the rich, loamy soil.

  He dropped to the ground beside her.

  Bolan reached out to pat her knee. "I'm back," he said.

  She said nothing, instead placing a finger to her lips. Thinking she must have heard something, Bolan cocked his head to one side, listening to the jungle.

  The only noise he could hear was the crackle of the flames.

  "What is it," Bolan whispered, "what do you hear?"

  As if in answer, the gas tank on the truck blew, sending a feathery plume of burning fuel high into the air. The trees between him and the truck looked black, as though they had been carved out of coal.

  Marisa flinched at the thunderous explosion.

  "Juan?" she asked. "Pablito?"

  "Dead," Bolan said. "I'm sorry."

  Marisa shook her head. "No, you're not. Don't say it to spare my feelings. They were my friends, but you didn't know them."

  Bolan marveled at the toughness that seemed as much a part of her as the flesh on her bones, the blood in her veins.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "They didn't suffer, if that's what you want to know."

  "Thank you for that, but, no, that's not what I want to know. I want to know what happened."

  "Someone shot them both. From the right side of the road. An ambush."

  "And you saw no one?"

  "No."

  "But they are still here, the ones who murdered Juan and Pablito. They are close by."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know because I just heard them. I know because it is always the same."

  "Many?"

  "Ten or twelve, probably. That is the way it usually goes."

  "Then we have to get the hell out of here. Do you know where we are?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you have to guide me."

  "We have to follow the road. That's the only way I know to guide you."

  "We can't stay on the road. If there's a dozen men out there looking to kill us, we wouldn't stand a chance."

  "We don't have far to go."

  "How can you be sure?"

  She laughed. "I may be frightened, Mr. Belasko, but I'm not stupid. I don't mean to walk in the middle of the road. But if you look closely, you'll realize there is only one road to choose from. Since I know where we were going, I know how to get there. I don't know how far, but it shouldn't be more than three or four miles. It's too bad we don't have Pablito's pack."

  "You mean this?" Bolan placed the canvas bag in her lap.

  She brushed it with her fingertips, then smiled a sad smile. "So, Pablito will help us get there yet. This is his bag." She reached for the buckles holding the bag closed. One at a time, she undid the two straps, then slid her hand in under the canvas flap.

  When she withdrew her hand, she held a small transceiver. She brought the small black box to her lips and kissed it.

  "You see?" she asked. "We can call the others and tell them to come get us."

  "Then we'll have to stay here, near the truck. Otherwise they won't be able to find us." "S?.."

  "You know damn well what I'm talking about. You said yourself there is a dozen men out there. They're looking for us right now. We can't stay here."

  "We have no choice."

  "Maybe you don't, but I do," Bolan snapped.

  "Fine, do whatever you want. At least leave me a gun."

  "Don't do this, Marisa."

  "Do what, Mr. Belasko?"

  "Play on my sympathy."

  "I'm surprised. You don't strike me as a man who would even have sympathy. For anyone. And if you think I am not above manipulating you, you're wrong. Do as you please. But I want to warn you that you can't get out of here without our help."

  "I'll take my chances on that." Marisa held up a hand. "Quiet," she ordered.

  And this time Bolan heard it, too. Voices, too far away to be intelligible, but too dose for comfort. It sounded as if the speakers were arguing.

  "What are they saying?" Bolan whispered, bending close to bring his lips to Marisa's ear.

  "They are trying to figure out how the driver got out of the truck." She looked at him, her face asking him the same question.

  "I had to move him," Bolan explained.

  This time Marisa didn't bother to lean close, choosing instead to trust the air to keep her confidence. "They will be searching both sides of the road soon. You'd better hurry if you want to leave."

  Bolan squeezed her hand. "No. And don't think it's charity. Listen, get on that radio. If they come too much closer, you won't be able to."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "That depends."

  "On what?"

  "On who they are. For all I know, they're the good guys."

  "Trust me, Mr. Belasko, they're not. They are the Philippine equivalent of the Salvadoran death squads."

  "Maybe, maybe not."

  "Damn you, believe whatever you want... I don't care."

  Bolan squeezed her hand again. "The radio." Then he was gone.

  "Be careful," she whispered after him.

  Working his way silently through the trees, Bolan got as close to the ruined truck as he dared. It was still a raging inferno, the blackened metal hulk appearing and disappearing in the very center of an orange cauldron.

  From his vantage point, he spotted seven or eight men standing in a ragged semicircle just beyond the reach of the flames. It would have been a sure thing to hit them. With any luck, he could take them all out with a single burst from the M-16. But until he knew what was what and who was who, he wasn't shooting anyone, especially not in the back.

  The men were talking among themselves in Spanish. His command of the language was a bit rusty, but he understood enough to get the general drift of the conversation. One thing puzzled him, though. Marisa had said there would be ten to twelve men. That left as many as four unaccounted for.

  As if in answer to his question, two more shadows suddenly appeared against the orange backdrop. As they approached the semicircle, the chattering men shut up. One of the two, then, must be their commanding officer.

  "Speak English, damn it," one of the newcomers snapped.

  "That's just like you Americans," the other said. "So tucking parochial. It's laughable that you should be one of the two most powerful countries in the world."

  "Fuck you, Carbajal. When you want our help, you speak English pretty good. Don't go giving me any bullshit about being parochial. So I don't have any Spanish big deal."

  "So, where are the others, Mr. Johnson? If you know so much, tell me that."

  "How the hell should I know? I already told you, they got wind of something. Everything's going to hell. The bastard the police talked to, Belasko, Belaski or whatever it was, must have known something. We almost nailed him in Manila, but he squeaked through. I'm telling you, he had to be in that truck. It's the only way he could have gotten out of Manila."

  "Why is he so important?"

  "If I knew that, I'd be a lot happier myself. All I know is, he was tailing Harding before the shit hit the fan at the airport. He was there when it went down. And now he runs down a tucking rabbit hole and disappears."

  "And you think we should search the jungle in the middle of the night to find this man?"

  "Yeah, I do. And I bet we find the broad with him," the American said.

  "And if we do find him, th
en what?"

  "Ice the tucker."

  The other man sighed, then turned to the small group of men. In Spanish he ordered them to fan out from the truck and to shoot anything that moved.

  That was all Bolan needed to know. Whatever the hell Marisa was up to, these guys were trouble. Plain and simple. He backed away from the burning truck, its light flickering through the shadows cast by tall trees around him.

  Carefully he made his way toward the spot where he had left Marisa. Behind him he could hear the men beating the undergrowth. They were talking in loud voices to keep their fear at bay. He almost missed her as he moved past, not fifteen feet from where she lay coiled in a tight ball, trying to lend in with the floor of the forest or sink to the other side of the shadows.

  Bolan moved back toward the hunters a few feet to interpose himself between Marisa and the searchers. Concealng himself among the fronds of a patch of tall ferns, he roached down and waited.

  He could see one of them moving straight toward him. The others had spread out to the left. Bolan steeled himself as the searcher drew closer. The fronds waved as the man rushed into them from the other side. Bolan waited until he took one more step. As he brushed by him, Bolan snaked an arm around his neck, crushing the windpipe and preventing him from shouting.

  The man tried to breathe, and the gurgle in his throat dribbled away as Bolan exerted still more pressure, bracing his other forearm against the back of his captive's skull. With a sudden jerk, he snapped the neck. Easing up slightly, he felt the head loll to one side, then lowered the lifeless body gently to the ground.

  It had been too damn near a miss. And Marisa was a liability, especially in the jungle. At all costs, they had to get closer to the road.

  9

  Bolan hauled Marisa up the slippery incline, his feet sliding on the damp, rotten leaves. The firing continued behind them, and stray slugs whined through the branches overhead, showering them both with tattered leaves. Just ahead the lip of the incline curved up nearly vertically. From fifty feet, it looked to be about five or six feet high, but it could be more. It was going to be close.

  The nearest of their pursuers was no more than fifty yards behind them. Bolan kept tugging at Marisa's arm, until he thought it would pull out of its socket.