Don Pendleton - False Front

The words coming through the trees were discernable now and Bolan wished he could understand the language. What he did note, however, was one very distinct voice. One of the men spoke with a high, wheezing delivery as if he suffered from asthma or had some similar problem with his lungs.

Almost as soon as the voices had grown loud enough to hear, they began to decrease again. The men were moving past them now, slowly leaving audible range as they walked on toward the stilt houses and the sea. Their footsteps faded out first, then the words were gone again, too.

Latham looked at the Executioner. “They’re looking for us, all right,” he said. “Seems everybody in town wonders about the car.”

“Could you tell how many there were?” Bolan asked.

Latham shrugged. “Three. Maybe four. One guy has trouble breathing.”

“So I noticed,” the Executioner said. “What else did you pick up?”

“Somebody—I don’t think it was one of them—saw us drive into town yesterday.” Latham had been holding his machete over his head, preparing to swing it when the first sounds of the search party had reached their ears. Now, realizing he still had the big blade frozen in the air he lowered it to his side with a short chuckle.

“That all?”

“All I could make out. Keep in mind I was getting all this in bits and pieces and I’ve added a little conjecture of my own. The conversation had been going on a long time, and we just caught some part in the middle.”

The Executioner stared into the wall of green in front of him. Their situation was changing rapidly and his strategy would have to change with it. First, not only did they stand out among the natives of Mindanao, they were now being actively sought. Second, the Buick was burned. Even if the searchers had left no one to watch the car, and he and Latham could get to it without being seen, the vehicle was useless. It would be readily recognized regardless of where they went.

The Executioner took a deep breath and made a battlefield decision. They would hide out in the jungle the rest of the day, then stake out Mario Subing’s house one more night. He was now more determined than ever that if the terrorist leader didn’t show up, it would be time for another approach. But again, the only other avenue he could think of was to snatch Mario and take him some place for interrogation. He still didn’t like that idea one bit. It would no doubt involve at least some amount of pain on the old man’s part and even the thought of extricating information from an old man was repugnant to the Executioner.

“Well,” Latham whispered, cutting into the Executioner’s thought.

Bolan looked at him and saw the man staring at his forehead.

“As my mama used to say, ‘I can see the wheels a-turnin’ behind them frown wrinkles.’ When they quit, let me know what we’re going to do next, okay?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his can of chewing tobacco. This time, however, he reached in with his fingers, grabbed a pinch and stuck it under his lip.

The Executioner looked around him and saw that with a couple more machete chops he could open up a large enough area in which to lie down. His big blade flashed twice, then he dropped to his knees before rolling onto his side.

“I take it that means it’s nap time,” Latham said, cutting an area out for himself behind the Executioner. “Hope it’s a little longer this time.” He swung the machete forward side-armed, embedding it into the soft trunk of a tree and leaving it there.

Through half-closed eyelids, Bolan saw the man kneel, then lean forward on his stomach, bending his arm to use as a pillow on the side of his face. Moments later he was asleep.

AT FIRST Bolan thought he was dreaming. Then, as he suddenly snapped wide awake, he realized the voices were real. And at the same time, he realized they were the same voices he and Latham had heard from the jungle path earlier in the day.

He glanced at his watch. It had been less than two hours since they had dropped to the ground. He looked down at Latham, still sleeping peacefully. The Executioner considered wakening him, then just as quickly discarded the idea. Not only was there no sense in it, it could create a problem for what he was about to do.

Rising to a sitting position, Bolan pulled a small spiral notebook and pen from his pocket. Quickly he scribbled the words “Back soon. Stay here.” on the top page, then quietly tore it from the book. Working Latham’s machete out of the tree, he placed the note atop a bare patch of damp earth on the ground, then drove the tip of the machete through it to hold it in place.

A second later he disappeared into the trees toward the more traveled pathway.

Bolan moved quickly but quietly, his senses on full alert. He had seen the fatigue beginning to build in Charlie Latham even before their first nap the night before. But there was another reason he hadn’t brought the Texan along with him now. While Latham had proved to be smart, quick and deadly as a fighter, his jungle skills had been less than perfect. It was clear that what T.J. had said about the man was true—he had come to the Philippines for the martial arts training available, not the jungle. Latham had made far more noise than Bolan had liked during their earlier trip from the mosque to the stilt houses. It hadn’t mattered then; no one had been looking for them.

Now, it did matter. Someone was looking for them. And the Executioner wasn’t going to take the chance that a sudden cough or sneeze, or a footstep on a snapping dry branch might give them away.

The voices grew louder as Bolan neared the path. He slowed, staring at the ground before each step, taking shallow silent breaths, his ears cocked for any sign that he might have been heard. In addition to seeing and hearing, the Executioner took full advantage of his other senses, as well.

And most of all that sixth sense men such as he developed that some called instinct.

It took him close to five minutes to cover the fifty feet between where Latham slept and the jungle path. But when he reached the open area, he could still hear the voices as they made their way along the trail. Dropping down behind a cluster of tangled vegetation three feet from the path, the Executioner pulled the tiny microcassette recorder from his pants, plugged in the directional mike and extended it through the leaves as far as he dared.

The voices grew louder. But none of the words made sense to the Executioner. He lay perfectly still, the lactic acid building in his outstretched arm, pleading with his brain to let him lower it.

Through the thick undergrowth Bolan watched as four men—three armed with machetes, the third carrying a pinute bolo short sword—strolled toward him. Their ongoing conversation met his ears, including the wheezing words of a man with asthma. It was obvious the group was no longer making even a halfhearted attempt to keep their voices down, which they had made earlier in the day.

Bolan let a grin creep over his face. They had walked this pathway once and not come across the strangers. They were tired of the search now and assumed that if they hadn’t encountered anyone going toward the stilt houses, they wouldn’t encounter anyone on the way back, either.

All of which worked in the Executioner’s favor.

Bolan kept the mike pointed at the pathway as the men walked past. He continued to hold it in place until he could no longer hear their voices. Slowly he rose from his hiding spot, then stopped.

Should he follow the men on down the path back to the mosque? To get close enough on the path to record their words, he would have to take the chance of them spotting him. And if they did, they were likely to attack. The machetes and bolo had not been carried just for show.