been assigned to Delta Force, Charlie Latham had come to the Philippines to further pursue his life-long love affair with the Filipino martial arts. But he had brought a part of Texas with him and the unusual combination of clothing he wore was a pretty good indication of his bifurcated personality. The straw Stetson screamed Texas!, as did the Western belt and buckle. But the Philippines were just too hot for denim jeans and boots, so the rest of his attire consisted of a tank top, khaki cargo shorts and sandals. It was an unusual, eclectic image he projected, he knew, but he didn’t care. He was an unusual man—a mixture of nineteenth-century gunfighter and twenty-first-century soldier with a little bit of Eastern mystic thrown in. He saw no reason his clothes shouldn’t reflect that mix.
Latham’s mind jerked back to the present as Cooper landed expertly on his feet, rolled to his side, then popped back up to a standing position. In his mind, he gave the man an A-plus on landing to go with the high grade he’d already earned in canopy steering. The Texan could see now that, beneath all the equipment, Cooper wore some kind of skintight blacksuit that had to be hotter than his aunt Betty’s salsa. He grinned to himself as he walked forward.
He hoped the man had brought along some cooler rags. Finding anything to fit a guy his size in this land where a man who weighed 130 pounds and stood over 5’ 4” in height was considered a giant wasn’t going to be easy.
Cooper was already gathering up the chute by the time Latham reached him. He shifted the machete to his left hand and extended his right. Before he could speak, the big man turned his way and said, “You’re Charlie Latham?”
Latham nodded as he shook the hand. “And you’re Matt Cooper.” The handshake was firm and confident without being overly hard. Latham was glad of that. He got the feeling that had this guy wanted to, he could have snapped off several of his fingers.
Bolan released his hand and frowned, his eyes scanning the area around and behind the Texan. “Where’s the CIA man?” he asked.
Latham shrugged. “You got me. He hadn’t shown up at your original landing site by the time I saw where you were heading and left.”
Bolan nodded. “Something may have delayed him. We’ll check the spot on the way back.”
“Sounds good to me,” Latham said. He reached to the ground and lifted two of the heavy equipment bags the parachutist had shrugged out of when he’d hit the ground. “Ready to do it?” he asked. “Sounds like it should be fairly easy.”
Bolan hoisted the rest of his gear. “Yeah,” he said. “To be honest, it sounds too easy.” He let the Texan take the lead and followed the man along a recently cut path through the trees. Walking single file as they were wasn’t conducive to conversation and both men lapsed into silence as they dodged branches and vines. Left to his own thoughts, the Executioner found himself questioning certain aspects of the mission once more.
He still hadn’t gotten over the fact that there were parts of the CIA intelligence reports that didn’t make a lot of sense. One of them was how easily Candy Subing could be located. If the man slipped in and out of Zamboanga all the time as the CIA believed, why hadn’t the Filipino search force already grabbed him? Better yet, why hadn’t they put a tail on him and followed him back to where the missionaries were being held? The CIA even had an address for Subing’s uncle. So what, exactly, had this CIA man—Reverte was his name—been doing over the past few weeks? For that matter, where was the man now?
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
