Fass extended a graceful hand at four men bound men by the prow. Hoja issued an order, and two of the rifleman drew knives and cut the prisoners’ bonds. The four men rose. The first two appeared to be brothers. Both were short and built like kick-boxers and looked to be Thai. The third man was the size of a refrigerator, huge and muscular but running to fat. Hints of Spanish features marked him as a Northern Island Filipino. The fourth man was blade thin with the hawk eyebrows and drooping mustache of a Turkic Chinese.
“The Mahdi has been informed of the situation. We received these four men yesterday. They have failed us, and yet, they expressed the desire to atone,” Fass said.
Mahdi. Bolan took note of the term and was encouraged to know he was on the right trail even if he wasn’t sure where it might lead next. It was a Muslim term. Literally translated it meant “The Expected One.”
“And?” he asked the woman.
Fass gestured toward the beach. “And that is the Island of Trial.”
Bolan understood the situation all too clearly.
“Akram, Al’alim, Guadaloupe and Yaqoob, have failed us. Akram and Al’alim were drunk and gambling when the Mahdi required them. Guadaloupe—” Fass’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the man “—his crimes are too vile to mention. Yaqoob is an opium addict and was absent and could not explain himself. Yet, in the past, each of these men have proved themselves in battle. So it is in battle they must prove themselves worthy to remain among us.”
“Four against one.” Bolan’s joints popped as he rolled his neck and shoulders. It had been three days since he had stood straight. “And should I win?”
The woman’s lips curved in amusement. “Then you shall join us in jihad and do the work of four men.”
“I have already been on jihad.” Bolan let his voice fill with scorn. “Why should I do so again at the behest of a naked-faced whore?”
Fass went white.
“Ah, I remember now.” Bolan smiled. “You mentioned removing my manhood.”
“With pleasure,” Fass agreed. An ugly light kindled in her eyes as her gaze ran down Bolan’s body. The Executioner became very aware of the fact that Fass was mentally disturbed.
Bolan turned an imperious gaze upon his opponents. “Then put my sword in my hand,” he said.
Fass jerked her chin. Hoja came forward with the dadao in his hand. The blade was sheathed, and the leather retaining cord was knotted over the hilt. Bolan knew he would never live to draw it on board the boat. Hoja grinned and nodded as he handed Bolan the Chinese blade. He patted Bolan on the shoulder encouragingly. The soldier grinned and nodded back.
If he had one man in his cheering section, it was best to have it be the captain.
Hoja handed him a small, olive drab, drawstring cotton ditty bag. Inside was a plastic canteen of water and a bundle of sugar-cured, dried beef strips wrapped in newspaper. Bolan looped the bag over his neck and rested his sword across his shoulders. His opponents were each issued a similar ration bag, and Bolan watched with interest as the men were given weapons.
Akram and Al’alim were both handed sheathed kris daggers. The biggest man, Guadaloupe, took up a machete in one hand and a kris in the other. Bolan’s eyes narrowed as Yaqoob accepted a polearm. The wooden shaft was five feet long. One end was tipped with a sharpened spade shaped like an inverted ax. The other end was fixed with a crescent moon of steel. Both ends glinted with razor sharpness. Bolan recognized the weapon from martial-arts demonstrations he’d seen. Ming Jinrong had had a similar polearm in his courtyard weapon rack. It was called a “Monk’s Spade” and was one of the ancient weapons of Shaolin kung fu.
Akram and Al’alim took their long-bladed daggers and spoke to each other in low voices. Guadaloupe was grinning at Bolan like a lifer in San Quentin sizing up a white-collar newbie in prison. Yaqoob ignored Bolan as he carefully inspected the edges of his weapon.
Bolan made a mental note. Yaqoob was trouble.
“When?” Bolan asked.
“Can you swim?” Fess asked in response.
“I can.”
“Then I suggest you do so.”
Bolan slung his sword. A cheer rose from the pirates as he took four strides and dived into the water. The ocean was sweat warm as it closed over him, but he had been in the cramped hold for three days and it felt good to stretch out. The salty water skimmed the stench from him and buoyed him as he swam. Bolan swam the thirty yards in moments, and his feet hit sand. He rose out of the surf and did not look back until he had hit the beach.
Bolan turned.
The four men had clambered into a wooden rowboat gray with age and had begun paddling in his direction. Bolan wondered if that implied some or all of them couldn’t swim. He kicked off his sandals, threw down his provisions and ran back into the surf. Men began shouting as he dived beneath the water. The water was crystal clear, and Bolan stroked cleanly toward the dark silhouette of the rowboat. He rose once for air. The men on the shrimper were all pointing and shouting at him, but no one aimed their rifles in his direction.
Bolan drew the dadao from behind his back. Akram and Al’alim shouted in consternation as Bolan sank beneath the waves. The Executioner swam along the bottom. He judged the depth to be about twelve feet, more than enough for a man to drown but shallow enough for his purpose.
Bolan stopped as the rowboat eclipsed the sun overhead. The men in the rowboat were furiously slapping the water with their paddles hoping to club him when he tried to board. But Bolan didn’t intend to take the rowboat. He planned to sink it. Bolan bent his legs and pushed off hard against the bottom. He erupted upward and holding the two-handed sword like a spear, he shot toward the bottom of the rowboat.
As Bolan closed in, he rammed the sword upward with all of his strength.
The blade punched easily through the thin wood. Bolan inverted himself, putting both feet against the boat for leverage, and wrenched the dadao sideways. The aged planking cracked and split. Bolan ripped the blade free and stroked for the ocean floor. He put his feet against the sand and shot for the surface a second time. The sword blade crashed through the wood and jammed halfway through the keel. Bolan inverted himself with his feet against the bottom of the boat and torqued the two-handed sword. Bubbles blew out his mouth as he grimaced with effort. Oxygen debt began darkening the edges of his vision as he shoved with his feet and heaved against the hilt of his sword.
Cold steel suddenly burned just above Bolan’s left elbow. Blood blossomed into the sea where he’d been hit. Yaqoob was leaning over the side and jigging for Bolan with his Monk’s Spade.
The Executioner roared with effort and ripped his blade free of the rowboat’s bottom. The effort drove Bolan down into the depths as the spade harpooned for him. Bolan heard the crack as the mortally wounded keel snapped under human weight.
Daylight drew a ragged incandescent line across the perforated bottom of the rowboat as its spine broke.
Bolan swam for distance until his lungs screamed and he surfaced. He gasped for air and took stock.
The rowboat had split in two. Akram flailed and screamed in the water. Yaqoob held Al’alim in a headlock and tried to manage his Monk’s Spade as well as the screaming man who seemed bound and determined to drown the both of them. Guadaloupe held on to a broken section of the boat and glared at Bolan.
Akram suddenly dropped beneath the water. Bolan descended as well to see if the Thai was coming for him.
There was no need.
Akram’s kris sank to the sand. The Thai vomited up huge bubbles as he swallowed seawater and inadvertently emptied his lungs. The pirate’s struggles slowed as he sank to the bottom. Sand puffed beneath him as he sat down next to his knife. He looked at the weapon and then looked around. His mouth opened and a single small bubble escaped. Akram relaxed into the embrace of the ocean and stopped moving.
Bolan surfaced.
Yaqoob was slowly but surely dragging Al’alim toward shore. Guadaloupe was dogpaddling toward Bolan with his dagger in
his teeth. Bolan considered trying to finish it there. He was a trained combat swimmer, and even with the awkward dadao he was sure he could take Guadaloupe either above or below the water. Yaqoob was another matter. The Monk’s Spade gave him reach. The man had stopped swimming and was watching Bolan like a hawk even as he controlled Al’alim. Bolan revised his assessment.
Yaqoob was big trouble.
Bolan noticed he was treading water in a growing cloud of his own blood. He was also exhausted. Three days in the shrimp cellar hadn’t done him any favors. Bolan sheathed his sword and stroked for shore. He staggered up through the surf and looked backward.
Guadaloupe was awkwardly treading water and waiting for Yaqoob. Back on the shrimper, men were shouting in half a dozen languages. Bolan stood in the sand with his chest heaving. He didn’t speak any of the languages, but the activity was very clear.
The odds had changed to 3:1.
The wagers were flying back and forth among the pirates.
Bolan scooped up his sandals and the little sack of provisions. He waved to Hoja, and the pirate captain waved back. The Executioner turned bleeding and exhausted for the jungle.
10
A good rock was hard to find.
It was a problem with tiny tropical islands barely above sea level. They were almost all sand and palm trees.
The Executioner eyed his handiwork. Without a suitable missile it would be useless, but the craftsmanship wasn’t bad. He had cut his sword’s sling lengthwise to produce two lengths of cord. It had taken only moments to cut a palm-sized pocket of leather from the footbed of one of his sandals and tie the cords to either end.
Bolan had manufactured a sling.
He preferred his slings around three feet long, the distance from his heart to his left hand. At two and half feet, his makeshift weapon was a little short by Goliath slaying standards, but Bolan supposed it would do for Guadaloupe.
If only he could find a rock.
Bolan’s left arm ached like hell. He had cut his T-shirt into bandages to bind the wound Yaqoob had given him in the water. It had bled through five layers before it had begun to crust over. The Executioner ate half of his dried, sugared beef and drank half of his canteen. Both were salty from his swim. He scanned the sand for stones as he began retreating through the trees.
“Hey! White Boy!” Guadaloupe’s voiced boomed through the jungle in a baritone that would have done Goliath proud. “Come on out! We’ll make it quick! You make us come get you…we have fun, you know?”
Bolan remembered Guadaloupe’s crimes being “too vile to mention” and Fass as her perfectly formed upper lip curled with revulsion. Whatever the big man’s idea of fun was, Bolan was pretty sure he didn’t want any part of it. All three men had obviously been raised in the culture of the blade. Armed with a Chinese two-handed sword, Bolan was not confident in taking any of his hunters, much less all three at the same time.
The Executioner faded back, knowing full well he was running out of island.
A hard rock would be good to find.
Bolan winced and crouched as something jabbed painfully into the arch of his foot. The Executioner squatted on his heels and stared at the treasure he had trodden upon. Three smooth stones the size of hen’s eggs rested half covered in the sand in a loose triangle.
Bolan smiled.
A week of praying five times a day had done him some good.
Two of the rocks were smooth oblongs and nearly perfect projectiles. One was nearly triangular and would provide interesting flight characteristics. Bolan scooped up his stones and unsheathed his sword. He tucked the naked blade under his arm as he loaded one of the round stones into his sling. The Executioner began walking toward his enemies. They weren’t hard to find.
Guadaloupe was being helpful in that regard.
“White Boy!” the giant bellowed. For such a huge man, he moved with simple grace.
Bolan lifted his elbow as he sighted his adversaries. He let his sword fall. The blade half sheathed itself in the sand, the hilt standing ready. Bolan let his loaded sling hang loose by his right leg as he stepped out of the trees.
“You know what I’m going to do to you?” called out the big man. “I’m going to gouge out your eyes.”
The three men were sticking together. They walked in a loose arrow formation through the palms. Guadaloupe strode carelessly at the apex, tapping his machete rhythmically against his calf with each step. He held his kris in his left hand with his thumb on the blade. To his flank, Al’alim walked with his chest thrust out and his kris in one hand and a baton he’d cut of bamboo in the other. Bolan eyed Yaqoob. The Chinese man walked with his Monk’s Spade held in a middle guard position, like a rifleman walking point with his bayonet fixed.
The Executioner stepped into line of sight with Guadaloupe, and the big man froze for a moment and presented a stationary target. They were twenty yards apart, a distance at which Bolan could bust cantaloupes with a sling with monotonous precision. The sling hissed diagonally across Bolan’s body and blurred back around behind his head. He took a lunging step forward like a baseball pitcher, and the leather cracked liked a whip in a brutal side-arm cast as he released.
Guadaloupe’s head snapped back as blood exploded from his brow. Bolan was already reloading as the man fell facedown on the ground like the biblical Goliath.
Al’alim screamed in rage and charged forward, his stick and dagger weaving before him. Bolan’s sling whirled around him and snapped like a rifle shot. True to form the triangular stone arced in flight. Bolan had been going for the head shot. Al’Alim staggered as his collarbone broke.
The Executioner reloaded, stepped into line with Yaqoob and cast. The sling snapped and the shovel blade of the Monk’s Spade rang like a bell as Yaqoob brought it in front of his face and blocked. Al’Alim’s face contorted in insensate rage. His baton fell from the nerveless fingers of his hanging arm, but he continued to scream, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth as he brandished his kris in his good hand.
Bolan drew his sword from the sand.
The Executioner spun like an Olympic hammer thrower as Al’alim closed in. Bolan released the hilt of his sword as Ming had taught him. He seized the end of the silk ribbon unreeling through his hands and dropped to one knee. He turned 360 degrees like the center of his own hurricane of steel. The two-handed sword scythed six inches above the sand at the end of the silk ribbons like a bladed ball and chain.
The Thai shrieked as the dadao sliced both of his legs as it passed. Bolan rose, and the hilt of his flying blade slapped into his outstretched left hand as he completed his turn.
Al’alim hurtled through space trailing blood from his flailing legs. He tumbled and landed on his back, howling.
Bolan took his sword in both hands and planted it like a spike through the Thai’s chest. Al’alim’s arms and legs jerked once as he was pinned to the sand and lay still. Ribs splintered as Bolan put his foot against the dead man’s chest and ripped his blade free.
The Executioner then regarded Yaqoob.
The man had not rushed in. He had slowly circled toward Bolan’s left. His almond eyes measured the Executioner over the gleaming twelve-inch curve of his spade.
Bolan cocked his head. “You’re not one of the Mahdi’s men,” he said in challenge.
Yaqoob stopped and eyed Bolan without blinking.
The Executioner let the point of his sword lower to a less threatening guard. “You’re PRC Special Reconnaissance.”
“People’s Special Armed Police, Anti-Terror Infiltration Unit.” Yaqoob spoke with an English accent. “You’re an American.”
Bolan nodded.
“You had me fooled.” One of the agent’s hawklike brows rose slightly. “Tell me. How did you know?”
“The fight in the water. You handled a five-pound Spade and a drowning man at the same time with the efficiency of a trained combat swimmer.” Bolan shrugged. “An interesting talent for a Ugyur boy from the plains of Xinjiang.”
It wasn’t a huge guess. Yaqoob’s features revealed him for a far-West Chinese, and Xianjang province had one of the largest Muslim populations in China. He had undoubtedly been raised Muslim. Bolan figured Yaqoob was just the sort of man PRC Special Forces would recruit into their antiterrorist, Muslim infiltration units.
The spy was still impressed. “You are good.”
Bolan let his sword drop to his side. “We should work together. Two agents can work better than one, and our governments’ goals are the same. These pirates represent more than just a threat to shipping. They have a larger plan. We should pool our information. Together we stand a better chance of success.”
“An intriguing proposition.” Yaqoob shrugged. “But Hoja and Sujatmi are expecting our heads, or yours, and you have already claimed three.”
“You can say Guadaloupe and Al’alim turned on you. We fought together. We present their heads. Hoja likes me.” Bolan opened his hand. “We can make it work.”
“It is possible it could work.” Yaqoob’s smile spread his drooping mustache. “But I have orders to kill anyone who discovers me. I think presenting your head to the Mahdi will solidify my cover. He likes killers. I think your death will be best. But aspects of your idea have merit. I will make you a deal. Give me whatever information you have, and I will use it to help accomplish the mission.”
Bolan frowned. “Not much of a deal.”
“But it is. Tell me what you know and I will kill you cleanly. Refuse, and I will be forced to cut off your hands and feet and extract the information through interrogation.” Yaqoob smiled without an ounce of warmth. “And while I do not have access to my acupuncture needles, I assure you bamboo slivers, while cruder, are quite efficacious.”
The Executioner looked into the Chinese agent’s eyes and knew the man was speaking from personal experience. Bolan raised his sword into the high guard Ming had taught him.
Yaqoob sighed. “You have made an error. I have trained with the Shaolin Monk’s Spade for ten years, and while your technique was impressive, I can tell by your stances you have had less than two or three years at most with the dadao.”
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