9 mm or .40?” Bolan asked as Latham jammed the weapon into his shorts.
“It’s a .40 S&W,” Latham replied, grinning. “Remember the Moros.”
Latham reached into the glove compartment again and pulled out a black nylon double magazine carrier, which he stuffed into one of his pockets. Bolan settled back in his seat as his contact pulled the Cherokee onto the road. He didn’t need to ask about the red dot he’d seen dancing in front of the Browning. A laser site. And the ramp in the grip and lack of any exterior wiring on the pistol, meant the laser was one of Crimson Trace’s new models for the Hi-Power. The laser beam shot out the front of the ramp when a button—activated by taking a normal grip on the weapon—was depressed. Wherever the red dot fell, the bullet followed as soon as the trigger was pulled.
Latham drove back to the spot where they had originally planned to meet. But there was still no sign of the CIA man. He turned to Bolan, but before he could speak the big man said, “Let’s go on. We’ll either hook up with him later or we won’t.”
The Texan nodded. “Undercover work never was my specialty,” he said. “But I’ve done some. And if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that you can get delayed. You’re always working on someone else’s timetable.”
“Maybe he’ll have some decent intel when he shows up,” Bolan said.
The two men fell into silence again as the Cherokee bounced over the bumps and cavities in the asphalt. Ahead, the outskirts of Zamboanga appeared and clusters of stilt houses—running from the shoreline well out over the sea above the water—began to sprout.
Latham was the first to speak again. “Hawk told me you weren’t the most talkative guy around,” he said as he twisted the wheel and turned the vehicle onto San Jose Road.
“I talk when I’ve got something to say,” Bolan told him.
“That’s not what I meant,” Latham said as rural Mindanao continued to become more suburban. “What I meant was, Hawk advised me not to ask you a lot of questions about yourself.” He glanced at the Executioner then turned his eyes back to the road. “Like, what your real name is or where you’re from or who you work for.”
Bolan turned sideways in his seat. For a long moment he didn’t answer. The connection between him and Latham had come through T. J. Hawkins of Phoenix Force—one of the counterterrorist teams working out of Stony Man Farm. Hawkins and Latham had been friends as kids growing up in Texas and by chance had become reacquainted when both had been assigned to Delta Force. Hawkins eventually resigned and later joined Phoenix Force. Latham had retired, too, becoming an American ex-patriot on Mindanao to study the martial arts.
Finally the Executioner said, “Did T.J. tell you who he worked for when he called?”
“Nope,” said the man behind the wheel. “Sure didn’t.”
“But you asked?”
“Sure did.”
“Well, I can’t tell you, either,” the Executioner said as he turned back toward the windshield. “Thanks for picking me up. I appreciate it. And while T.J. tells me you were as good as him when you were both with Delta Force—and I could use some backup while I’m here—I’ll understand if you want to bail out. No hard feelings.” He paused a second, then added, “I’m not sure I’d trust someone I just met on a deal like this.”
A look of genuine surprise shot across Latham’s face as they passed a large athletic field set well off the road. “Hawk’s word about you is good enough for me,” he said. “I’m in for the duration—or until you kick me out. To tell the truth, things get a little boring around here after a while. I mean, how long can you bang rattan sticks against each other and stab your training partner with rubber training knives before you’d kind of like to get out and do something else for a while? “He paused, took in a deep breath and let it out again. “Don’t get me wrong. I love what I’m doing. Kali, Arnis, Escrima—the Philippines have the most practical martial arts in the world, you ask me, and the best of the best is right here on Mindanao. But other than that, once you’ve been to Fort Pilar and seen the Yakan Weaving Village, there’s not a whole lot left to do.”
When Bolan didn’t respond, Latham went on.
“Okay, look,” the Texan said, lifting his hat off his head and wiping a hand across his scalp. “Hawk was the best friend I had when I was a kid. I could tell you stories about trouble we got into that would curl your ears.” He stopped, glanced at the Executioner, then amended the statement. “Well, maybe not your ears but most people’s. And Hawk was the best trooper to ever come out of Delta Force, too—don’t listen to him when he tells you I was just as good. I wasn’t. Anyway, one thing you could always count on out of Hawk was getting the truth. Bottom line—if he says you’re okay and I should work with you and not ask questions, that’s good enough for me.”
The Cherokee passed Don Basillio Navarro Street, then turned south on Alvarez. A few minutes later it turned east and entered the city proper. Barely slowing the vehicle, Latham guided them in and out of residential and business areas, past houses, restaurants and bars. The streets were alive with activity. Children played happily in front of houses and older, more sullen youths, gathered on street corners to glower as they passed.
Bolan was reminded that Mindanao’s cities, as well as its hinterland, were hotbeds of crime. Robberies, rapes and murders of both tourists and natives were common, and kidnapping for ransom—especially of Americans—was almost the national sport.
Pablo Lorenzo Street took them to Valderoza and they drove past Fort Pilar, which Latham had mentioned earlier. Bolan recalled that the fort had been founded by the Spaniards in the early seventeenth century, and conquered at various times by the Dutch, Moros, British and even the Japanese during World War II. Finally claimed by the Filipinos themselves, the fort now housed a marine museum and an ethnographic gallery that concentrated on the Badjao—or sea gypsies—who spent most of their lives on houseboats along the Sulu Archipelago.
Just past the fort they turned away from the city. According to the CIA, Subing’s home was in Rio Hondo, a small village—almost a suburb—to the east.
The Jeep topped a rise in the road and in the distance they could see the spiral towers of a village mosque. The Texan snorted humorously and shook his head. “Rio Hondo,” he said. “Sounds like a John Wayne movie, doesn’t it?”
Bolan smiled as they drove toward the village. He had taken a liking to Charlie Latham and appreciated the man’s unique way of viewing life. Latham was a straightforward type and, according to Hawkins, one heck of a fighter both with, and without, weapons. The Executioner hadn’t seen any firsthand proof of it yet but he suspected he’d find out up close and personal before this mission ended. Until then Hawkins’s word—which had given Latham confidence in Bolan—also meant the Executioner could trust the Texan when the going got tough.
The road rose and fell as they neared Rio Hondo and with each rise Bolan caught glimpses of the shoreline and water beyond. Several shallow-draft sailboats—vintas—moved gently back and forth along the coast. In them he could see tiny brown figures casting fishing nets over the sides. He was so occupied when he suddenly heard Latham say, “Uh-oh,” in a calm voice.
The Executioner turned his attention back to the road. They had just rounded a curve and Latham was slamming on the brakes, barely coming to a halt before hitting an ancient, rusting Chevrolet parked in the lane in front of them. Blocking the oncoming lane—and
