Don Pendleton - False Front

“You aren’t a Tiger. Who are you working for?”

An evil smile curled the lips of the man on the ground. “You will never know,” he spit.

“What have you got planned for America?” Bolan asked. He could see that the man’s time was growing short. He’d bleed out in a few minutes. “What’s Subing going to pull off in the States?”

“That…I will…you,” the dying terrorist said, “because you…will never find him in time.” He paused, then breathed out one faint and final word. “Nuke.”

Charlie Latham looked at Bolan. “Oh, hell.”

Deadfall

Onslaught

Battle Force

Rampage

Takedown

Death’s Head

Hellground

Inferno

Ambush

Blood Strike

Killpoint

Vendetta

Stalk Line

Omega Game

Shock Tactic

Showdown

Precision Kill

Jungle Law

Dead Center

Tooth and Claw

Thermal Strike

Day of the Vulture

Flames of Wrath

High Aggression

Code of Bushido

Terror Spin

Judgment in Stone

Rage for Justice

Rebels and Hostiles

Ultimate Game

Blood Feud

Renegade Force

Retribution

Initiation

Cloud of Death

Termination Point

Hellfire Strike

Code of Conflict

Vengeance

Executive Action

Killsport

Conflagration

Storm Front

War Season

Evil Alliance

Scorched Earth

Deception

Destiny’s Hour

Power of the Lance

A Dying Evil

Deep Treachery

War Load

Sworn Enemies

Dark Truth

Breakaway

Blood and Sand

Caged

Sleepers

Strike and Retrieve

Age of War

Line of Control

Breached

Retaliation

Pressure Point

Silent Running

Stolen Arrows

Zero Option

Predator Paradise

Circle of Deception

Devil’s Bargain

False Front

Don Pendleton

Whatever deceives seems to exercise a kind of magical enchantment.

—Plato,

The Republic, III, c.350 B.C.

There are two kinds of evil in this world—the kind that’s planned, reveled in and enjoyed, and the kind to which men who are otherwise good fall prey during weak moments. Many have been the victim of the latter. My mission is to obliterate the former.

—Mack Bolan

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The smell was what he noticed first, a blend of old and new. At one time there had been cattle in the building and the scent of manure still lingered. Hay had been stored in the second-floor loft but it had molded away, leaving only its stench.

The scents of rotted wood and unwashed human bodies, however, were current. Old and new, the numerous odors combined to produce a smell far more nauseating than any one could have generated by itself and, as he stepped into the barn, the foul mixture hit Candido Subing like a baseball bat between the eyes.

Subing stopped just inside the door. One odor was separate from the others and seemed to rise alone above them. And it filled the air like a hanging corpse.

Fear.

Subing had caught the man following him off guard with his sudden stop and his fellow freedom fighter slammed into his back, the hard lens of the video camera the man carried cracking into his spine. Subing sent an angry glance over his shoulder, then turned his attention back to the six hostages huddled in the corner farthest from the door of the barn. Four men and two women were seated in the mud, their backs against the wall. Their hands were bound in front of them by a rope that traveled around their waists before dropping to secure their ankles. Makeshift hoods, which had once held grain for the animals who had inhabited the barn, covered each prisoner from the top of the head to the shoulders.

Subing felt his face twist into a sneer. The people beneath the hoods were worse than mere infidels. They were Christian missionaries, sent from the Great Satan America to infiltrate the Philippines and to snatch his people from the one true god, Allah, and his prophet.

Subing waded through the muddy floor to the cowering figures. He had no need to remove the hoods to know what lay in each prisoner’s eyes. Terror in some. Acceptance of their fate in others. But at least some hope still left in most of them.

And outright defiance in one.

Subing stopped in front of the seated captives. He had seen their faces earlier in the day when the hoods had been removed. As soon as their eyes had adjusted to the unaccustomed light, one of the women and two of the men had wept. Two other missionaries—a husband and wife—had closed their eyes and he’d seen their lips move silently as they’d offered up some infidel prayer. But none had dared to meet his eyes. At least, none but one. And that man still mocked him. Subing stared at that man now, his eyes filled with hatred.

Before he killed them—and he would kill them all, regardless of whether or not the Filipino and American authorities agreed to the demands he had put forth to them—he would force them each to denounce their false savior. He continued to stare at the hood over the face of the defiant one.

He would denounce his false doctrine this very day.

Subing narrowed his eyes, savoring this moment. The man who defied him sat between the two women. Worden was his name. The Reverend James A. Worden.

Subing waved the cameraman to his position in front of the hostages and the man began to unfold the legs of his tripod. Like the other hostages, Worden had been given many opportunities to renounce his false religion and embrace Islam. But he had refused and his refusal had kept the other, weaker-willed missionaries stalwart in their own faith. Two of the men, he suspected, would have denounced Jesus Christ as their savior had it not been for Worden’s strength. The husband and wife he couldn’t be sure about. They appeared to have some personal strength of their own. But at least their refusals had come fearfully, which meant that time might eventually wear them down. Worden, on the other hand, refused to convert with apparent joy in his heart. And as Subing stared at the ragged, mud-encrusted clothes and equally filthy hood that enshrouded the recalcitrant man, he knew that beneath the cloth James A. Worden was still smiling the same smile he always had on his face when his hood came off. And that knowledge infuriated him.

Candido Subing’s hand fell to the barong sheathed in the carved wooden scabbard at his side. In his mind he saw himself draw the short sword and bring its razor-edge down across the back of James Worden’s neck. Would he finally see fear in the American’s eyes as his head left his body and rolled across the ground? Would he see pain? Horror?

He didn’t know. But he was about to find out.

Subing sloshed his black combat boots two more steps forward in the mud and halted between the hostages and the video camera. The prisoners shifted uncomfortably, sensing his presence near them. Standing guard were ten of his fellow Tigers. He moved a step closer to the group, then turned his attention toward Reynaldo Taboada. The man was a new-comer to the Tigers, but he showed potential. Catching the man’s eye, he said, “Remove the hoods.”