Reaching the Jeep Cherokee parked on the side of the road cut Bolan’s thoughts off again as he and Latham tossed the equipment bags into the back. The Executioner shook his head. His mission sounded easy on the surface—capture Candido Subing, interrogate the man concerning both the hostages and the “big strike” the Tigers had planned in the U.S., free the hostages and take whatever action was called for in regard to the American strike.
Bolan found that he was grinding his teeth together as he contemplated the situation. If everything was all that cut and dried, somebody would have already done it.
With the Cherokee’s tailgate still open, Bolan unzipped one of the ballistic nylon bags and pulled out a short-sleeved blue chambray shirt, a pair of khaki cargo pants and a plain white T-shirt. The blacksuit he had worn for the jump came off and the khakis went on. The Executioner felt a hard rectangular lump in one of the hip pockets, a micro-cassette recorder brought along for one simple reason—he didn’t speak or understand any of the languages in the Philippines except English. Tagalog—sometimes referred to as Pilipino—was the major tongue, but there were close to a hundred other languages and dialects used throughout the islands. According to what he’d been told, Latham was fluent in Tagalog and could get by in a couple of the tribal tongues. Reverte was reported to have the same skills. But the Executioner could foresee an eventuality in which something he suspected was important might be said with neither one of them present. If that happened, it would benefit him to be able to record it and have the words translated later.
The white T-shirt came down over Bolan’s head, then he unclipped the TOPS Loner combat-utility knife that had been fastened upside down on his blacksuit. Slipping the thick four-and-one-half-inch blade into a Concealex inside-the-waistband sheath, he fastened it to his belt at the small of his back. In his peripheral vision the Executioner saw Latham’s eyes widen slightly as he slid on the shoulder rig that carried his sound suppressed 9 mm pistol.
The Texan squinted under the sun. “Beretta 92?” he asked.
Bolan adjusted the gun in its holster. “It’s a 93-R.”
“Ah, yeah,” Latham said. “I see the front grip tucked under there now. Three-round-burst selector, right?”
The Executioner nodded, snapping the belt retainers on both sides into place. Under his right armpit the shoulder rig carried a double magazine pouch, also of the form-fitted plastic known as Concealex.
Latham’s eyes got even wider and his mouth dropped open slightly when the Executioner pulled the mammoth .44 Desert Eagle magnum from the same bag. It was already at home in an inside-the-waistband holster of the same space-age plastic.
“Far as I know,” Latham said, “we’re going after a man, not an elephant.”
Bolan chuckled as he stuck the big pistol into his pants and looped the retaining snap around his belt. “You remember the legend of the Model 1911 .45 auto, don’t you?” he asked the Texan.
Latham nodded at the Executioner. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Spanish-American War. Our troops kept shooting the Filipino Moros on Mindanao with their little bitty .38 Colts and the Moros kept coming anyway, cutting us to shreds with bolos, barongs, krises—any blade they could get their hands on. Which led to the development of the bigger, harder-hitting .45 ACP.”
Bolan zipped up his bag, slammed the tailgate door and walked around the Cherokee toward the passenger’s side. “Right,” he said as he got into the vehicle. “And what island are we on?”
“Mindanao,” Latham said.
“And who are we looking for?”
“A Moro-Islamic terrorist named Candido Subing.” Latham slid behind the wheel.
Bolan tapped the big .44 beneath his shirt. “Well, this thing hits even harder than a .45,” he said.
Latham nodded, then reached across the Executioner and opened the glove compartment. “Thanks for reminding me.” He pulled out a cocked-and-locked Browning Hi-Power with a stainless-steel frame, blued slide and what looked like black plastic and rubber grips. As he lifted the weapon and brought it across to his belt, Bolan noticed a small ramp at the top of the grip just behind the trigger guard. And as the gun moved through the air, a tiny red dot raced across the dashboard in front of the barrel.
“That 9 mm or .40?” Bolan asked as Latham jammed the weapon into his shorts.
“It’s a .40 S&W,” Latham replied, grinning. “Remember the Moros.”
Latham reached into the glove compartment again and pulled out a black nylon double magazine carrier, which he stuffed into one of his pockets. Bolan settled back in his seat as his contact pulled the Cherokee onto the road. He didn’t need to ask about the red dot he’d seen dancing in front of the Browning. A laser site. And the ramp in the grip and lack of any exterior wiring on the pistol, meant the laser was one of Crimson Trace’s new models for the Hi-Power. The laser beam shot out the front of the ramp when a button—activated by taking a normal grip on the weapon—was depressed. Wherever the red dot fell, the bullet followed as soon as the trigger was pulled.
Latham drove back to the spot where they had originally planned to meet. But there was still no sign of the CIA man. He turned to Bolan, but before he could speak the big man said, “Let’s go on. We’ll either hook up with him later or we won’t.”
The Texan nodded. “Undercover work never was my specialty,” he said. “But I’ve done some. And if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that you can get delayed. You’re always working on someone else’s timetable.”
“Maybe he’ll have some decent intel when he shows up,” Bolan said.
The two men fell into silence again as the Cherokee bounced over the bumps and cavities in the asphalt. Ahead, the outskirts of Zamboanga appeared and clusters of stilt houses—running from the shoreline well out over the sea above the water—began to sprout.
Latham was the first to speak again. “Hawk told me you weren’t the most talkative guy around,” he said as he twisted the wheel and turned the vehicle onto San Jose Road.
“I talk when I’ve got something to say,” Bolan told him.
“That’s not what I meant,” Latham said as rural Mindanao continued to become more suburban. “What I meant was, Hawk advised me not to ask you a lot of questions about yourself.” He glanced at the Executioner then turned his eyes back to the road. “Like, what your real name is or where you’re from or who you work for.”
Bolan turned sideways in his seat. For a long moment he didn’t answer. The connection between him and Latham had come through T. J. Hawkins of Phoenix Force—one of the counterterrorist teams working out of Stony Man Farm. Hawkins and Latham had been friends as kids growing up in Texas and by chance had become reacquainted when both had been assigned to Delta Force. Hawkins eventually resigned and later joined Phoenix Force. Latham had retired, too, becoming an American ex-patriot on Mindanao to study the martial arts.
Finally the Executioner said, “Did T.J. tell you who he worked for when he called?”
“Nope,” said the man behind the wheel. “Sure didn’t.”
“But you asked?”
“Sure did.”
“Well, I can’t tell you, either,” the Executioner said as he turned back toward the windshield. “Thanks for picking me up. I appreciate it. And while T.J. tells me you were as good as him when you were both with Delta Force—and I could use some backup while I’m here—I’ll understand if you want to bail out. No hard feelings.” He paused a second, then added, “I’m not sure I’d trust someone I just met on a deal like this.”
A look of genuine surprise shot across Latham’s face as they passed a large athletic field set well off the road. “Hawk’s word about you is good enough for me,” he