The taller disciple looked shocked as he translated.
Bolan’s face was stony as he openly scrutinized the men before him. One of the disciples flinched as he met the soldier’s tombstone stare. The big man had come looking for a traitor. It was very clear that he did not consider them above suspicion. The Executioner repeated himself slowly. “How much have you been told?”
The taller disciple cleared his throat. “Only Ki has been—”
“Where is Ki?” Bolan demanded.
“I am here.” A man parted the strings of beads blocking the door. He was short but had almost inhumanly wide shoulders. He was naked save for shorts and sandals. Every muscle in his body stood out in high relief, as did numerous scars, some of which Bolan recognized as bullet and shrapnel wounds. Tattoos crawled along his biceps and shoulders. Both the man’s physique and the way he carried himself were reminiscent of a brutal and battle-hardened Bruce Lee. The two men measured each other. Bolan was relieved that the man did not sport the owl and dragon tattoo.
The man wore round, French military dog tags.
Bolan nodded at him. “Ki.”
“Ki” looked at the sheathed kris and the dog tags on the altar. He then stared long and hard at Bolan’s tattoo. “You served with Pak?”
Bolan threw caution to the wind. “We met in the Pacific. I was in the 5th Foreign Regiment. I spent most of my time at Fantagataufa and a number of the other atolls.”
It was a wild gamble. The 5th Foreign Regiment had been stationed in support of France’s nuclear testing in the South Pacific. Their activities had great political sensitivity, and the regiment had since been dissolved. Their top-secret duties and subsequent disbandment allowed Bolan to make up almost any kind of story. The Achilles’ heel of the ruse was that French-owned atolls were tiny communities. The communities of the legionnaires even tinier. If Ki had served in the same theater, Bolan was toast.
Ki watched Bolan like a hawk as he digested Bolan’s story.
Bolan met his gaze without flinching. “How much have you been told?”
Ki never stopped trying to read Bolan’s eyes. He looked down at the tattoo on Bolan’s arm once more. “I do not know you,” he finally announced. “This will require verification.”
“Of course.” Bolan frowned impatiently but nodded. “I am going to give you a telephone number.” He reached slowly into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small pad and a fountain pen. “Memorize it and destroy it.”
Bolan flipped open the pad and turned the pen over. Suddenly he pressed the pocket clip.
The pen hissed in Bolan’s hand as it shot a stream of pressurized CS tear gas directly into the pandekar’s eyes.
Bolan flicked the notebook into Ki’s face as the pandekar staggered back into his disciples. The blow had no impact but Ki brought his hands up to cover his eyes. Bolan put his thumb on the butt end of the pen and thrust the blunt object into Ki’s esophagus.
Ki’s knees wobbled as he gagged.
Bolan jumped to put Ki between himself and the rest of the disciples. Blades appeared in their hands.
With his free hand, Bolan ripped the dog tags from around Ki’s neck.
The man by the door ripped a rattan stave from the wall, and it blurred about his body like a propeller as he came for Bolan. The Executioner emptied the rest of the gas-pen at the men surrounding the pandekar and broke for freedom as they flinched. Bolan broke sideways and ran at a dead sprint for the eastern wall of the hut. He chose a rusty looking five-foot section of tin siding that had been used to patch a hole in the ancient structure, and hit it like a fullback.
Metal screamed. The rivets holding the siding tore free, and Bolan and the entire section of siding exploded into the night. He rolled in the muck of the alley and came up running.
The disciples boiled out of the hole Bolan had made. They were shouting at the top of their lungs. The soldier could guess what they were yelling to the barrio around them at large.
“Stop him!”
A man rose from a stoop and raised his hands as he stepped into Bolan’s path. The Executioner ripped him off his feet with a forearm shiver without breaking stride.
People were coming out of their houses. The big American did not look back, but he could hear a mob swiftly forming behind him. The road ahead began to fill with alarmed citizens. Bolan drew his pistol as he ran, raised the gun in the air and fired off three quick rounds. The flat snap-snap-snapping of the little pistol cut over the sounds of concern and alarm.
The people ahead of Bolan parted like the Red Sea as he ran among them. But the angry mob behind was undeterred.
There was only one avenue of escape, and that was to run.
Bolan retraced his path. It wasn’t the quickest way out of the quarter, but it was his safest bet. He knew furious phone calls were crisscrossing, trying to arrange solid resistance ahead to cut him off. Bolan held up his gun to deter anyone who appeared before him. His heart hammered in his chest as he used his size and speed to put distance between himself and the ever increasing mob chasing him.
Bolan caught the scent of cayenne pepper as his lungs heaved. He pushed himself into an all out sprint toward the smell. A pair of dark-skinned men looked up in surprise as he charged past them.
Bolan burst into the Creole quarter. He had no friends here, but neither did the Javanese. He raced across a footbridge and tossed his pistol and holster into the canal below. A gun would not help him here. Behind him, he could hear people shouting at one another in a mix of languages. Creoles began coming out of their houses to see what the ruckus was about.
Many of them carried machetes loosely in their hands.
Bolan ducked down a side alley and quickly lost himself in the maze. He slowed to a walk and let his breathing return to normal. He was still in a dangerous part of town, and he did not expect any Creole to protect him out of Christian charity. But the five thousand Dutch guilders he carried in his belt could buy a great deal of indifference, and probably an anonymous ride back to the embassy, as well.
Bolan held up his prize. The dog tags he had taken from Ki glittered dully in the dim light.
It was time to give Kurtzman something to do.
4
Ki clutched his bruised throat as he spoke hoarsely over the phone. “Pak has been compromised.”
The voice on the other end of the line did not sound overly concerned. “How so?”
“They had his dog tags. They followed the trail here. They know he was a legionnaire.”
“Was a legionnaire,” the voice said. “So what?”
Ki’s face tightened with more than the pain in the hollow of his throat. “The man took my dog tags and escaped with them.”
“Well, now, that is an unfortunate turn of events.” The voice paused. “So, just for my edification, this man came in, claiming to be a legionnaire, and then beat up you, the pandekar, your friends, stole your dog tags and ran off into the night with them?”
“Yes.” Ki’s jaws were clenched. “That is about the size of it.”
“Tell me, where did he go? I assume you mounted some sort of pursuit?”
“We did. We chased him for some distance through the streets, but he was lightning fast. His attack at the pandekar’s was sudden and unorthodox. As was his escape. He is obviously some kind of professional.”
“Do you believe he is a legionnaire?” the voice said, this time more in reflection than sarcasm.
Ki