Blood Tide. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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