Whipsaw te-144

by Don Pendleton

  "Anyone there? What's going on?" He called more loudly this time, but still got no answer.

  Bolan raced back to the front door, grabbed the bars and pulled. He propped himself against the door with his feet and put his entire weight behind the pull.

  His muscles strained as he tried to use himself as a lever to pry the bars free. Twice he lifted himself off the ground and slammed his heels into the door, but the bars held.

  He couldn't see the lock on the inside and didn't want to wake the entire camp, but he had to do something. What ever was happening inside was dreadful that much he suspected. Pounding his fist against the door, he heard it echo hollowly from inside, followed by a faint sound like a snicker. He called, and again he heard the snicker, like a kid laughing behind his hands when he's put one over on the teacher.

  Bolan slammed a fist into the door in his anger, but it refused to budge. Feeling along the door's edge, he realised the design was less than perfect. The hinges, mounted with the pins facing out, were accessible. Using the butt of the AutoMag, Bolan rapped on the top pin. It resisted at first, then started to slide free, a quarter inch at a time.

  Hearing footsteps, Bolan turned to see the sentry rushing toward him, rifle at an angle across his chest.

  "What's going on?" the sentry asked.

  "You tell me," Bolan said.

  From inside, there was a sudden hiss, and the stench of burning flesh wafted through the open bars.

  "Give me that," Bolan snapped, indicating the survival knife sheathed on the sentry's hip. The man looked puzzled, but Bolan ignored the look and snatched the knife from its sheath. Dropping to one knee, he pried the lower pin loose enough to get the fat edge of the blade under it. Using it like a crowbar, Bolan worked the knife up, slid it farther along, lifted again, then placed the fat edge flat against the pin, just under its head. He tugged up, and the pin shot free. He repeated the process on the second hinge, then snapped the already loosened pin out of the top hinge.

  Again he grabbed the bars and pulled. This time, pivoting on the latch, the door swung open. Bolan pushed it aside, where it hung at a crazy angle. He stepped through the door into a wash of orange light. In one corner McRae sat on a chair, his eyes a little glazed, a bottle of Scotch in his lap.

  On a table next to him, the open flame of a kerosene lamp flickered in an occasional draft. A survival knife projected from the wall behind McRae. It started to tilt downward slowly, then dropped with a faint ping as it stuck into the floor point-first. An elaborate ivory inlay in the handle caught fragments of light and splashed them on the floor in tiny pools.

  "What's going on here?" Bolan demanded.

  McRae chuckled. "Just cooking up a little trouble for the NPA," he said.

  Bolan looked at the three prisoners, who lay motionlessly huddled next to the wall like bundles of rags. He dropped to his knees beside the nearest prisoner. He shook the young man, but knew already that it was pointless. The skin was cold to the touch. The shirt felt sticky to his touch, and he leaned forward to find it soaked with blood.

  He rolled the kid over, and noticed a series of ragged, blackedged burns on his cheeks, like steps running up from the jawbone and stopping just under the right eye.

  Bolan took the kid's jaw in his hands and turned the head to look at the other cheek. A similar pattern, like some bizarre tribal marking, lined that cheek also. A knotted rag bulged behind the kid's teeth. That would explain the strangled cries.

  Bolan stared in disbelief and deep rage tightened his jaw.

  Quickly he checked the second prisoner. That one, too, choked on a knotted rag. The burn marks were on his chest, where the shirt had been sliced up the middle. Darkening blood from a gaping throat wound concealed half of the burns.

  Just to confirm what he already knew, Bolan examined the third boy and found what he'd expected. Bolan turned to stare at McRae, and there was a deadly calm on his face.

  "You'll be sorry you did this."

  "Hey, man, I got to know what they know. I got responsibilities. Man won't talk, you got to make him."

  "Responsibilities?" Bolan shouted as he threw himself across the hut. McRae tried to avoid the charge, but man aged only to slip off the chair and land in a heap on the floor beside it.

  Bolan grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him to his feet. He swung his fist into the man's midsection. McRae doubled over and flew backward into the wall. As Bolan was reaching for him, McRae swung an arm up and chuckled.

  "Uh-huh. Just hold it." He held an ugly Colt.45. Behind the gun, his face split in a triumphant grin. "Tut, tut, big boy, you just tucked up. I knew you would."

  Bolan made a slight move, and McRae moved the automatic back and forth. Using one hand to hold himself erect, he ratcheted himself up the wall with his hips, dropped into the chair again, then called out.

  "Take Mr. Belasko's gun, Juanito."

  Bolan looked at the sentry, who was still staring at the three crumpled bodies against the wall.

  "Juanito? I'm waiting... Do it, or I'll blow your fucking brains all over the wall."

  Juanito looked at Bolan as if asking for his approval. Bolan said nothing. The guard stepped close and wrapped his fingers around the butt of Bolan's pistol, then backed away.

  "You watch him now, Juanito, you hear me?" McRae knelt down to retrieve the chains that were locked around the dead bodies.

  When the chain was free, McRae got to his feet and moved past Bolan, keeping his distance.

  Slipping up behind Juanito, he darted forward, swinging his Colt in a vicious arc. The blow caught Bolan over the right ear, and he went down hard.

  McRae kicked him in the small of the back, then snapped the chains around Bolan's ankles and secured it through the bolts. He slipped a pair of handcuffs from a pants pocket and clicked them shut, pinning Bolan's arms behind his back.

  He towered above his captive. "You won't be going anywhere," he snarled. "Cause I got somebody wants to talk to you, but after he does, I'm gonna decorate you some." McRae looked at Juanito. "I'll be back later." Then, pointing to the three corpses, he said, "In the meantime, put out the garbage."

  17

  By nightfall of the following day, Bolan began to wonder. The day had dragged on, and he'd kept watching for McRae to come. Hot, wet air, thick as steam, had choked Bolan as he tried to formulate a plan. The camp had fallen strangely silent in the late afternoon. As it continued to grow darker, the silence grew deeper. Finally he heard a key in the lock.

  Bolan crouched in the corner. The key continued to grind in the lock as he steeled himself. Clenching his fists, he stared at the door, balancing on the balls of his feet. He heard the latch fall away and slap against the wooden frame. Then the hinges squeaked, and the small block of dim, barred grey was replaced by a tall oblong just as grey and featureless.

  Bolan gathered the chains in a loose coil, muming them as best he could and giving himself all the slack he could find. If everything worked, he would be able to come within five feet of the door. It was just a matter of timing. He had already started toward the opening when the outline of a figure detached itself from the grey mass. Bolan held himself back, but the figure heard something and hissed sharply. The head turned, and Bolan recognised Marisa.

  She raised one hand and called, "Psst. Mr. Belasko..."

  "Here," he called in a low voice just as a second shadow blocked the doorway.

  He thought for a second she had set him up, but Carlos ducked inside and pulled the door closed.

  "Hurry, Senora Colgan," he whispered.

  Marisa slithered over to Bolan's side, and he heard the tiny sound of a small key against case-hardened steel. The lock on his shackles opened, and he eased the chain to the ground. Then she grabbed his arm, as he presented his cuffed hands. When the cuffs snapped open, he felt confused.

  "What's going on?" Bolan asked.

  "No time for questions. Here, put these on." She handed him a shapeless bundle. But even in the darkness, his fingers recogn
ised the butt of the AutoMag. He slipped the sling over his shoulders, then unfolded the Beretta's harness and shrugged it on, as well.

  "Ready?" Carlos asked.

  "All set," Bolan said. "Where to?"

  "Come..." It was all Marisa said, but there was a new quality to her voice. She seemed uncertain, as if something had happened to tilt her world out of kilter.

  Bolan took her hand and moved to the door. She kept close to him, as though she could find some reassurance. Carlos stepped through first, darting into the shadows. Bolan went out and followed Carlos around the corner and into the darkness alongside the hut. Overhead the stars sparkled and something opaque swerved like a drunken kite, then vanished into the trees.

  He nearly knocked Carlos down as he swept around the second corner. Carlos held a finger to his lips and waved for Bolan to follow suit, then sprinted into the bush. Bolan plunged after him, tugging Marisa more firmly, half hauling her through the tangled growth. Carlos used the trees as a shield as he circled behind the full length of the compound then halted on the edge of a small clearing.

  Bolan saw the jeep squatting there in the darkness. An M60 machine gun was mounted in the rear. Now Bolan took the lead. He dashed into the open and swiftly helped Marisa into the passenger seat. Carlos scrambled behind the wheel as Bolan climbed over the tail and knelt beside the M60.

  Carlos turned the key, and the engine sputtered for a second before catching. Marisa got up from the seat, her hands groping for the side of the jeep as Carlos floored it. She lurched to one side. Bolan thought for a moment she had fallen. Momentarily stunned, he realized she was trying to climb out.

  "No, no, no," she said, her voice beginning to break as it climbed in pitch and volume. "I can't. I can't leave."

  Bolan snaked an arm around her waist and hauled her back. He plopped her firmly into the seat as Carlos swung out of the clearing and bounced through a thin stand of trees.

  The jeep rattled through a trench, rose at a steep angle as its left wheels climbed along the length of a fallen tree, then fell with a sickening jolt as it slid off.

  Marisa still struggled to pull free of Bolan's grasp, but her writhing gradually stopped. She slumped forward, her head on her chest, and her shoulders shook. Carlos reached over to pat her, then withdrew his hand as the jeep started to fight against him again.

  A moment later they were free. The jeep bounced through another ditch and gained the road. Bolan looked behind, but everything seemed as dark and quiet as before. Carlos settled down and let the engine drop from a full-throated roar to a steady rumble. He kept looking over his shoulder as if he couldn't believe they hadn't been followed.

  Marisa continued to collapse in on herself. She seemed to shrink in the seat as though dissolving in her own tears. Bolan kept one hand on her shoulder to provide her with reassuring human contact.

  They drove without headlights, Carlos leaning forward now to see the road as well as he could. The yellow beige of the clay surface looked like a washed-out brown under the starlight. It snaked ahead of them, but the jeep held steady and Carlos began to relax a little. Four or five miles from the camp, Bolan tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Pull over," he said.

  Carlos turned to look at him as if he'd just been asked to do the impossible. He glanced at Marisa, but she was still lost in herself. She either hadn't heard Bolan's command or didn't care enough to object. Carlos shrugged, threw the transmission into neutral and coasted until he found a small open area off the left side of the road. The jeep rolled to a halt as branches began to scrape at its undercarriage.

  "Now," Bolan said, "what's going on?"

  Carlos shrugged again. "We had to leave, senor."

  "Why?"

  Carlos looked at Marisa again. Clearly he was waiting to see if she'd object to an answer. When she didn't say anything, he sighed.

  "Senor McRae..."

  "What about him?"

  "Senora Colgan... she heard him talking."

  "Spit it out, Carlos. What did she hear?"

  "He was talking about you, senor. And he said... he was going to kill you, just like he did the boys. Only slower."

  Bolan nodded. That figured. But why had Marisa intervened? And where had Colgan been while that had been going on?

  "And Senora Colgan objected, is that it?"

  "Si, senor, and Senor Colgan, too. He objected, too."

  "And what did McRae do?"

  "Nothing, senior. He left, that's all I know."

  "Where did he go?"

  "I don't know."

  "Did anyone leave with him?"

  "Si, senor. Three or four, maybe more. But I don't know where they went."

  "Does anyone else know? Any of the other men?"

  "I don't know, senor. I don't know anything more than I just told you."

  Marisa stirred in her seat, and Bolan thought she was going to say something, but she just curled up and continued to shake. It was a noiseless tremor. Her whole body quivered as if she were inhabited by a silent motor.

  "What about Senor Colgan? Where is he?"

  "He went after Senor McRae..."

  "Alone?"

  "With two men. He took guns and he went. He didn't say when he would be back."

  "Why did he go after McRae?"

  Carlos shrugged and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  Marisa unwound slowly, like a flower blooming in stopaction photography. She turned to Bolan but said nothing at first. In the darkness Bolan couldn't see her face very well, and he was grateful.

  After swallowing hard, she started to speak hesitantly. "He accidentally found out something about McRae," she said. Her voice was cold, remote as the moon. "I don't know what it was."

  "Didn't he say anything?"

  "He was in a rage. Whatever it was, it must have been terrible. He said McRae was a traitor, that he had betrayed him and that he had to be stopped."

  "Stopped from what?"

  "I don't know."

  "Did he say where McRae had gone? Anything that would tell us where to look?"

  "We can't do that. McRae will kill you. He has several men with him. I don't know how many, but he was probably going to meet up with others. Who knows how many they could be? What can we do?"

  "We can try to find your husband. He's not safe with McRae."

  "McRae wouldn't dare hurt him. Thomas is frightful when he's angry, but he's not afraid of anyone or anything."

  Bolan bent close to her, looking into her eyes intently. "Marisa, stop lying. If you know anything, you better tell me now."

  She wrenched her head away. "There is nothing to tell."

  "Your husband's life is at stake. He's gone after Harding, hasn't he? He knows where to find the man. And that's where McRae went, too, isn't it?"

  "No!"

  "Tell me!"

  "I don't know, damn you, I don't know."

  She jumped from the jeep and started to run. Within a half dozen steps, her feet became entangled in a vine, and she fell heavily. Bolan raced to her, but she kicked at him and rolled on her back. He caught one hand, then the other.

  "Leave me alone."

  "I just can't do that."

  "It's your fault. All your fault. If you hadn't come here, none of this would have happened."

  "I didn't come of my own free will. You know that, and you know why. That's more than I know. Now tell me what I want to know. Come on, Marisa, there's no time."

  "He... he found out that McRae was working with the Leyte Brigade. They were going to attack the NPA camp we visited the other day. McRae was using Thomas, sabotaging everything he tried to do. Learning the location of NPA camps and passing them along to Harding."

  "And what about Cordero? What do you know about him?"

  "Nothing. He was here once, that's all."

  "What do you know about Harding's plans to terrorise Manila?"

  "Only that... Thomas said maybe something like that would happen. He was arguing with McRae and I over heard th
em. But it was a while ago, before Thomas learned what he later found. He, Thomas... It's got nothing to do with him. That's Harding."

  "What else?"

  "That's it, I swear..."

  Bolan stared at her, struck dumb. He looked at Carlos, and thought of the three monkeys.

  He knew which one he was.

  18

  Bolan leaned against the front fender of the jeep.

  Behind him, Marisa and Carlos conversed in hoarse whispers. She had asked for a chance to talk to Carlos alone, and Bolan, hopeful that she would see just how limited her options were, had agreed.

  The sounds of the night began to change as the sky started to brighten. The night creatures gradually settled into their burrows or found places to sleep high in the canopy. It was too early yet for the day shift, but it wouldn't be long. The whispers lost their intensity behind him, and Bolan sensed that Marisa had come to some agreement with Carlos. What it might be, he would soon find out.

  The deep blue-black velvet turned milky gray, like a charcoal wash. The stars died away one by one, and the horizon began to sharpen; a white line, tinged with red, like a taut wire stretched from peak to peak along the Sierra Madre range. It looked as if the ocean had burst into flame and a tidal wave of molten color were sweeping across the trackless Pacific.

  Then, so suddenly he couldn't believe it could be so silent, the sun appeared, a brilliant red mound in the east, and the sky caught fire. Far to the east, wispy red clouds, like huge pennants fluttering in impossibly slow motion, turned pink and bleached before his eyes.

  He heard Marisa's soft approach. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Belasko," she whispered, "you're right."

  He turned to her with a sober look.

  "We have to hurry, Senor Belasko," Carlos said, climbing into the jeep. When Bolan and Marisa climbed in, he started the engine.

  Bolan sat on the jump seat beside the M-60.