Whipsaw (9 page)

Carlos pushed the jeep along in second gear.

Over the roaring engine, Bolan could barely hear himself think. He watched the forest on either side of the road, wondering just how perverse Colgan was prepared to be. He wanted to ask the man about Cordero. A sneaking suspicion crept across the back of his skull that Colgan knew more about Harding than he was letting on. And, by extension, that would mean he knew something about Cordero.

Whenever he closed his eyes, Bolan would see the bloody horror that had been made of Frank Henson. Somebody was going to pay for that, and Bolan was dangerously close to not giving a damn who. He would love to take Harding down, then nail Cordero to a tree and send it through a sawmill. But somehow that seemed too easy. It was almost too primitive. The temptation to respond to terror with action more terrible still was seductive, almost as tantalising as two fingers of Scotch in a clean glass would be to an alcoholic.

Revenge was a drug, and Bolan had succumbed more than once in his life. He was no vengeance junkie, but there was a balance of terror that had nothing to do with nuclear weapons. It had to do with the ways in which human beings were prepared to rend the flesh of their fellows, or split open their bones and smile with the blood running down their chins like cannibals at a feast.

And in the end, it was always the helpless who suffered, who fell before the terrorist's onslaught like wheat to the thresher. It was old women, like those buried in the mound Colgan had shown him. It was children, too young to defend themselves from flies, let alone madmen with automatic rifles. It was the old men whose legs were too frail to walk in the fields, let alone run from the helicopters.

Maybe Colgan was right, Bolan thought.

Maybe death could be held at arm's length only by those who were prepared to inflict it on another.

But it seemed, not realism as Colgan characterised it, but anarchism. It was an invitation to every man on the planet to join in combat against every other man. In such a case, there were no winners, just people who hadn't yet lost.

Up ahead a cloud of parrots exploded, distracting Bolan for a moment. He stared at the trees below the horde of colorful birds. Why had they risen up so suddenly, he wondered. Then a glint caught his eye, lower down, among the trees.

It flashed once, then again. He shielded his eyes with one hand, then rapped Carlos on the shoulder. The young driver turned, and Bolan jabbed a finger toward the trees. "There's someone in there," he yelled.

Carlos leaned back, and Bolan repeated the warning. This time the driver heard him. He stomped on the pedal, then lifted into third as he gained speed. As they drew near the place where the birds had been, Bolan stared in among the trees. The flash hadn't recurred, but he was convinced someone lay hidden there.

Then, just ahead of them, a huge spout of earth rose straight up, as if a leafless tree had suddenly sprouted fully grown from the earth. As clods of dirt rained down around them, Carlos struggled with the wheel, trying to avoid a gaping hole in the road.

Bolan knew what an exploding mine looked like. He also knew what one could do to a jeep.

"Back it up, Carlos," he urged.

Colgan turned, as though in a daze, his features suddenly slack. The blue eyes were almost grey and seemed sunken into the skull as if they were retreating. His lips split wide open in a gruesome smile. He hefted his M-16 and jerked the fire control lever onto full-auto.

"Time for a little lesson in realism, Mr. Belasko," he shouted.

Bolan dropped to one knee and fired a short burst from his own rifle. The limitless jungle swallowed the deadly hail as easily as the ocean swallows a few drops of rain. A brief echo of the burst quickly died, and Carlos fought the wheel as the jeep ground its gears and finally allowed him to shift into reverse.

A second mine went off, sending another column of dark earth high into the air. It narrowly missed the jeep, and the concussion slammed into Bolan's body like an invisible fist. The thunderclap made his ears ring.

So far there had been no gunfire from the trees, but it wouldn't be long in coming. As the jeep wove crazily from side to side, Bolan thanked his stars they had been able to avoid the first mine. The plan obviously had been to immobilize them. Whoever was hidden in the dense undergrowth had been hasty, detonating the mine in front instead of behind the jeep.

They had blown it and had given their intended target a fighting chance.

Instead of panicking, Carlos used his head, backed off the roadway and slammed the tail of the jeep in between two trees. He jumped down, leaving the engine running. Bolan dove over the side just as the first wave of fire broke over the jeep.

Colgan ducked below the dash, then crawled out backward, keeping the jeep between him and the hidden gunmen.

"Can you raise McRae?" Bolan whispered.

Carlos bobbed his head eagerly.

"Do it."

"No," Colgan said, "not yet. We don't need any help."

"We will. And by then, it might be too late."

Carlos watched the two older men. He wanted to call for help, but he didn't want to risk offending Colgan. He seemed in thrall to the doctor, as if under his spell.

"Give me the damn radio," Bolan growled, grabbing for the small transceiver clutched in Carlos's hand. The shiny black box fell to the ground, and Carlos snatched at it, but Bolan was too quick.

"You win." Colgan sighed. "Give it to Carlos. He'll do it."

Carlos reached out to take the small radio and flashed a grateful smile as soon as Colgan had turned away. Bolan crawled toward the front end of the jeep and lay flat on the ground. He slid under the bumper and used the barrel of his M-16 to push away a clump of fern leaves. The firing from the ambush had stopped, and the jungle was quiet except for a nervous whisper as Carlos tried to raise McRae on the radio.

"How much ammunition do you have?" Bolan asked, backing out from under the jeep.

"Three magazines," Colgan said. "And there might be a couple more in the jeep. There's usually a bag under the seat." Colgan got to one knee alongside the passenger seat and cut loose with a short burst.

"Save it," Bolan barked. "We're outgunned, and you can bet your last dollar they've got plenty of bullets."

"Most of them can't shoot worth a damn," Colgan retorted.

"You don't even know who they are."

"Like hell I don't. It's a bunch of NPA bullies. Sure as I'm sitting here, that's who they are."

"How can you be certain?"

"I've been here a lot longer than you. And if I learned one thing, it's that the NPA couldn't shoot dead fish in a small barrel. If that had been some of Harding's chums in the Brigade, we'd already be small pieces of meat dripping off the leaves on either side of the road. Those guys are well trained. They know how to shoot and they shoot to kill. If they're going to mine the road, they're going to blow the shit out of something. Bang for the buck is something they understand. But the emphasis is on buck. There is no fiscal irresponsibility with those boys. Hell, they're just like Republicans." Colgan laughed, and it turned into a maniacal wheeze. His lungs emptied, and he lost control of himself for several seconds.

Carlos crawled up behind Bolan. "Senor McRae is coming," he said. "Ten minutes."

Bolan moved to a position behind the front wheel, then peered over the hood. Two men advanced along the side of the road through the tall grass. Bolan brought his rifle up to rest on the hood. A burst of fire ripped out of the trees and shattered the windshield. Bolan ducked below the jeep as glass clattered onto the hood and cascaded down over the fenders. Hunks of glass fell into his collar, and small slivers stuck to his neck.

He shook his head, and more splinters rained out of his hair and glued themselves to his sweaty forehead.

Bolan lay on the ground and crawled into the trees behind the jeep. Using the blocky tail of the vehicle to screen himself from the two point men, he knelt among the trees. Drawing a bead with the M-16, he clicked the fire control onto single shot. Every shell was precious.

The front man was getting careless, and Bolan held his breath, waiting for a clear shot. The man wore a white headband, and Bolan could see it bobbing just below the tips of the tall blades. He fired once, and the man froze, the headband hovering in one spot like an uncertain hummingbird.

Bolan zeroed in on the headband. He squeezed again. The M-16 cracked, and the headband disappeared. He heard a shout, and a flurry of activity in the grass told him he'd found his mark. Bolan held steady, waiting to see what the second man would do. It was difficult to be certain, but from the fractured glimpses he'd caught, the second man looked quite young.

Sliding down into the brush, Bolan started to cut an angle among the trees. If he could get closer, maybe even slide in behind them, he might be able to put a lid on things before they pulled themselves together enough to make a concerted assault.

The ground was damp, and the leaf mulch silent under his feet. The remaining pointman had stopped shouting, and Bolan couldn't tell whether the man had held his position, fallen back or come on ahead. He checked the spot every few seconds, but the angle kept changing and he was no longer sure of the exact location.

Another burst ripped at the jeep, and Bolan watched the sparks fly from the hood. A loud bang signaled a blown tire, and the jeep hunched to one side. Somebody fired back, probably Colgan, and the two positions traded short bursts for several seconds. Colgan was on semiauto, and he had a heavy finger. Bolan hoped he didn't use all his ammo before McRae got there.

Something cracked off to the right, and Bolan froze for a second, then sank down into the undergrowth. A clump of flowers trembled unnaturally, and he held his breath.

He'd almost missed them.

Two men, flat as snakes, slithered over the leaves, pressing themselves under the bushes, just barely brushing a branch here and there. So slowly that he felt as if it would take him forever, Bolan brought his rifle around. Just as he was in position, one of the men, a scarecrow in khaki T-shirt and fatigue pants, sprang up. Bolan noticed the grenade as he squeezed the trigger.

He hit the deck just as the scarecrow pitched over to one side. He heard a scream, and the scarecrow's partner started to run. Tangled in some sort of vine, he tripped and fell.

Bolan covered his head, and the grenade went off with a dull crump, like a firecracker in a big barrel.

Bolan darted through the brush, his rifle ready.

The scarecrow lay on his side. Without looking too closely, Bolan knew the man was dead. The bullet hole in his chest was nothing compared to the chopped liver his back had become. Twenty feet away the second man, his feet still snarled in the tenacious vine, lay on his face. Several shrapnel wounds peppered his back. Bolan dropped to one knee and rolled him over.

He was no more than a kid. His eyes stared at Bolan, big as golf balls. His mouth moved awkwardly, and Bolan bent to hear, but there was no sound and the mouth slowly closed. The eyes glazed over as one hand shot out and grabbed Bolan by the wrist. The kid squeezed, and Bolan made no attempt to pull away.

With a soft "oohhh," the mouth moved one last time, the eyes started to glaze over and the hand fell away.

Bolan reached out to close the staring eyes with his thumb.

Up the road an intermittent roar drifted through the trees, growing louder and more consistent. Bolan got to his feet and stepped over the tangle of vines, then cocked an ear. The roar had settled into a steady droning now. It had to be McRae's jeep, Bolan thought as he moved deeper into the trees, finishing the curve and starting back in behind the hidden gunmen.

He wondered how many there were. It occurred to him that he might be walking into the middle of a sizable patrol. But something about their tactics made him doubt it. If there had been a large group, they would not have wasted time on subtlety. They would have charged headlong, relying on numbers to make the difference.

As he headed back in the direction of the road, Bolan could hear whispering voices somewhere ahead among the trees. He moved another twenty feet in, then positioned himself behind a thick-bunked rubber tree. He still heard the voices, but he hadn't seen a thing. It was brighter ahead as the growth thinned out and then was broken altogether by the road. The sound of the oncoming jeep had vanished. If it was McRae, he would be with Colgan. If it wasn't, there should have been gunfire.

With a shrug Bolan started firing into the shrubbery. A startled shout kicked off a flurry among the leaves. Bolan waited for return fire, but heard nothing but the rush of bodies headlong through the foliage. He fired twice more, then plunged after the fleeing men. They had the edge, and he knew, even as he struggled, that they were pulling away from him.

Bolan eased up and headed out into the road. He could see Colgan, Carlos and McRae huddled between two jeeps. McRae was waving his arms vehemently as Bolan broke into awn.

The three young prisoners cowered in a corner of the room. McRae shoved one of them with the heel of his hand, knocking the frail kid back into the wall.

"No need for that," Bolan said.

"You butt out," McRae snapped, turning to give the big guy yet one more appraising look. "You're a guest here. Guests mind their own business."

"There's no need to be so rough. He's just a kid."

"The kid was carrying an AK. He'd cut your heart out and eat it. So tuck off."

Colgan stood by silently. The tall man had folded his arms across his chest, and Bolan watched the fingers of one hand patting an elbow. Colgan looked as if he were in an empty room. If he were aware of anything going on around him, it left him uninterested.

"Okay, Carlos," McRae said, "chain these little bastards to the wall while I figure out what to do with them."

Colgan turned suddenly and strode toward the door. Bolan followed him. He grabbed the tall man by the arm and spun him around.

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

"We've taken prisoners. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And?.."

"And nothing, Mr. Belasko. That's Mr. McRae's department. I don't interfere."

"What usually happens?"

"Ask him..." Colgan turned away. He paused for the slightest of moments, balanced on the balls of his feet, then walked across the compound to his hut.

Bolan heard the sharp sound of skin on skin, then a moan. He dashed back into the prison hut.

One of the prisoners was down on his knees. Even in the dim light, Bolan could see the angry welt just beginning to swell under the kid's left eye.

The kid looked at Bolan. For a second there was a glimmer of contact, as if the kid were trying to tell him something or asking for help. But the glimmer quickly faded, and the kid turned a baleful glare McRae's way. McRae raised his hand again, and Bolan stepped forward, grabbing the raised hand and bending it back against the wrist.

"That's enough, McRae."

"You mother..." McRae ducked under and spun around, releasing the pressure on his wrist. He dropped into a crouch and bulled toward the big guy.

Bolan let McRae throw a couple of wild punches, neatly sidestepping each one, then landed a sharp left just under McRae's right eye.

McRae stumbled backward, tripping over the kneeling prisoner.

In a flash the kid was on him, trying to wrap his chains around McRae's throat. He missed twice, then butted McRae with his head. This time he succeeded in getting a loop of chain around the larger man's neck. He started to pull it tight, and McRae scrambled to get his fingers in between the bulky links and the flesh of his neck.

The kid was wiry and he was furious. McRae thrashed around on the dirt floor, trying to throw the kid off him, but he was losing control. His eyes started to bulge, and Bolan saw the skin on either side of the chain start to turn bright white. He looked at Carlos, but Carlos either didn't know what to do or had, unconsciously perhaps, chosen sides.

Bolan reached down and hauled the kid to his feet. McRae, still wrapped in the chains, came with him. Bolan grabbed the kid's right arm and jerked it away from the chains. McRae spun free, then lay on the floor, gasping, as the kid searched Bolan's face for some indication whether he had made a mistake or not.

Bolan already knew the answer. McRae was not going to forget this. Not in two lifetimes. He lay there gagging and cursing, his breath coming in quick, sharp gasps. He braced himself with one hand. The other chafed the skin on his neck, now neatly encircled by a bright red impression of the chain.

Each link was clearly and deeply etched.

McRae struggled to his feet, still cursing. He turned on Bolan. "Don't think I'm going to thank you, you son of a bitch. If you hadn't stuck your nose in, this wouldn't have happened in the first place."

"Just make sure it doesn't happen again," Bolan hissed. "Next time I'll let him finish."

Bolan left the prison hut. He heard steps and whirled, but it was only Carlos.

"You have made a bad enemy, senor," Carlos whispered.

Before Bolan could respond, Carlos was in full stride. A moment later he disappeared into his own hut. Bolan crossed the open space slowly, rubbing one hand thoughtfully against a two-day growth of whiskers. Something was dreadfully wrong, and he just couldn't get a fix on it. It was right under his nose, but Colgan was so bizarre that all the usual indications meant something other than he was used to.

It was like trying to read a favorite fairy tale translated into an alien language.

He had to get a handle on the place, and on Colgan, before he could even begin to take the next step. He would need Colgan to get to Harding, but he couldn't stand by and watch McRae's vicious behavior. Marisa seemed like the only way to get to Colgan.

Bolan walked to his hut and sat in the doorway, watching the door of the prison hut.

McRae came out a few seconds later, glanced at Bolan, then disappeared into his own hut. It was nearly noon. One by one, men started drifting from their huts to the mess hall.

A few of them glanced curiously in Bolan's direction, but none of them so much as raised a hand in greeting. Each man carried his automatic rifle slung over his shoulder.

When Marisa and Colgan appeared, Bolan stood and walked across the clearing to meet them.

Colgan looked at him curiously but said nothing. Bolan said hello, and Marisa tilted her head slightly before responding.

"You must be hungry, Mr. Belasko."

"Why?"

"Dealing with Mr. McRae always makes me hungry. I assume you and I are alike."

"All you think so?"

"All yes, I do."

"I don't..."

"Why's that?"

"Because I wouldn't put up with him. The man is a time bomb just waiting for somebody to set him off."

"He's an enthusiast," Colgan cut in. "He is a passionate man. You of all people should be able to understand that."

"Passion? Not really. Not that kind, anyway."

"What kind do you understand?" Marisa smiled while she waited for his answer. "Or should I guess?"

"You'd better guess," Bolan answered.

"Mr. Belasko has a passion for justice, Marisa." Colgan smiled distantly. "He fancies himself some sort of guardian angel."

"What are you going to do with the prisoners, Colgan?"

"Ah, I've struck a nerve, I see. I didn't realise my characterization was so close to the mark."

"What's the answer?"

"It's no concern of yours."

"I'm making it my concern."

"Very noble of you. But Mr. McRae is an old hand. He knows how to handle such things."

Changing tacks, Bolan hesitated for just a second. "Do you know where Charles Harding is?"

"No."

"Do you know where his headquarters is?"

"I'm sure not. Why, do you wish to change sides?"

"I'm not on any side to begin with."

"Oh, but you are. Whether you wish it or not."

"I have to get to Harding."

"Tell me why."

"I think you already know."

"Do you, now? And just what is it I know?"

"Stop playing games. You carry on like some mystical pharaoh. You're no less a petty autocrat than Harding is."

Marisa placed a hand on Colgan's arm.

"That's not fair, Mr. Belasko. My husband is trying to help these people, my people. He didn't come here to impose his will on them."

"Like Harding, you mean?"

"Yes, like Harding. And like you."

"I'm not trying to impose my will on anyone. But Charles Harding has to be stopped. And, just in case you didn't notice, those three kids in that hut are your people, too. Not mine, not Harding's or McRae's. Not even your husband's, Marisa. They're your people. And you stand around and watch while an animal like McRae brutalises them. What's he going to do with them?"

"I have no idea."

"You better get one, lady. You better get one, before it's too late."

"And I suppose you'll clap on your white hat and ride out of the hills to save the world, then ride off into the sunset. Is that it, Belasko? Is that what you have in mind? By God, I misjudged you. You're a fucking hero, that's what you are," Colgan said, turning his back. "But this country already has enough heroes."

"And what the hell are you?" Bolan challenged. "What's your scenario for the next fifty years?"

"Don't bait me. You'll be sorry."

"That's exactly how I'd expect a tyrant to react. Don't disagree, don't have an opinion, don't challenge my wisdom, my authority."

"You're here by my sufferance. I think you ought to remember that."

"Is that the good doctor speaking? The Philippine answer to Albert Schweitzer? Sufferance? Where the hell do you get off talking to anyone about sufferance? You're not a god, Colgan. You're not even a good doctor. You tolerate an animal like McRae, let him tyrannize helpless prisoners, and you fancy yourself a benefactor, a savior. Is that what you suffer from, Colgan? Do you have a messiah complex?"

Colgan smiled. "Very good, Mr. Belasko. The accused becomes the prosecutor. But you can't wriggle off the hook that easily. It's not simple life is not simple."

"But you know its secrets, don't you Colgan? You're above it all, up there on Olympus. But you know something? I think the thin air has addled your brain. I think you're losing touch with reality and have become part of the problem. I know it. And so does Marisa."

She recoiled from the challenge as if he had slapped her. She turned away and nearly fell as she reached back toward her hut. Colgan took a deep breath.

"I don't know what you're up to, but I want you out of here."

"But you brought me here, Colgan. Don't you remember?"

"Well, I was wrong. You're not what I thought. You're a mistake, Belasko. A walking anachronism. You don't belong here."

"Neither do you, Colgan."

"Get out, damn you!"

"I'm not leaving. Not until you tell me where I can find Charles Harding. And Juan Rizal Cordero." Bolan was pleased to see Colgan flinch. "So, the name rings a bell, does it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I never heard of the man."

"The hell you didn't. You know where he is, where they both are. And you're going to tell me, or I'll beat it out of you." He stepped toward the taller man and grabbed him by the front of the shirt. Bolan knew he was treading on very thin ice, but he was frustrated. Too many blind alleys. Too much bullshit. Lots of heat and now he wanted some light, damn it. He started to shake Colgan, twisting his grip on the shirt as Colgan tried to pull himself free.

The click of an automatic rifle brought him to his senses. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw Carlos, his rifle in hand, shaking his head.

"Let him go, senor."

"Why, Carlos? Why do you stay here? What do you see in this man?"

"He is a good man, senor. He cares for my people, for my country."

"He cares only for himself, Carlos. And for the power he has over you."

"He has no power, senor. I can leave anytime I choose. Now, let him go. Please."

Bolan shoved Colgan backward as he let go of the shirt. But the doctor was a lot sturdier than he looked. He staggered a step or two but didn't fall.

"You leave tomorrow morning, Belasko," Colgan said. He turned on his heel and walked away.

Bolan looked at Carlos, shaking his head.

"You're making a big mistake, Carlos. The man's insane. He'll drag you down with him if you let him. And make no mistake, he's going to take a fall. A bad one."

"No, senor. You're wrong."

"I hope so, for your sake."