How many left? The night prevented Bolan from determining a number, as the tents had back in camp. Presumably, he’d know that he’d run out of adversaries when their muzzle-flashes were eradicated and their slugs weren’t swarming in the air like angry hornets.
Off to his left, the woman chose her targets carefully, conserving ammunition. Bolan gave her points for keeping her composure under fire, and wished he had more magazines to feed whatever kind of handgun she had taken from the pirate who’d been grilling her. No way to help that now, but he could always let her have his USP if they were stuck in place much longer.
It would be better, though, if he could break the stalemate soon, wipe out his enemies or send any survivors running back to camp, wounded and terrified.
With that in mind, Bolan unclipped one of his frag grenades and pulled its pin. It was an Austrian Arges HG 86 fragmentation grenade—the “Mini 86,” weighing roughly six ounces but packing the same lethal punch as a larger grenade. Bolan pitched the bomb overhand, toward the spot where half a dozen weapons winked and clattered at him from the shadows, then ducked back to dodge the blast.
Its thunderclap was trailed by cries of pain, perhaps three voices, which told him the rest had been silenced. For good? Maybe not. But the blast had discouraged six snipers from peppering Bolan’s location with full-auto fire, reducing the odds ranged against him.
The Executioner palmed a second grenade while the first’s echo rang in his ears. He yanked the pin and side-armed the lethal egg toward another group of shooters, this time on his left. Another air-burst, spraying shrapnel at his enemies from overhead, and more guns stuttered into deathly silence.
It was time to go among them.
Bolan rose from cover and advanced into the killing ground.
* * *
TIONG KRISHNAN HUDDLED tight against a looming banyan tree and wished that he was somewhere else on the planet other than where he lay cringing and trembling, a heartbeat from hell. Around him, men were cursing, screaming, firing weapons at an enemy who seemed invisible, yet capable of striking them from darkness, wreaking havoc in the ranks.
He nearly panicked when a third grenade exploded, shrapnel hammering his banyan tree like hatchet blows. He nearly wet himself from fear, but clenched his muscles with a force of will, biting his lower lip until it bled. Sweat welded Krishnan’s palms to his VB Berapi SMG, but he had yet to fire a shot in the engagement that was slaughtering his men.
How many shooters had been waiting for them on the border of the mangrove swamp? Krishnan had made no effort to count muzzle-flashes in the split second before he dropped and wriggled under cover, shouting imprecations to his men.
How many of his people still survived? From the return fire they were laying down, he guessed that at least half the men he’d followed out of camp were either dead, wounded or afraid to join the fight. An awful toll, and if some of the stunned survivors chose to slip away, evaporate into the darkness, who could blame them?
Khoo Kay Sundaram, for one. And he would blame their leader first, before he got around to punishing the small fry. Krishnan would be first to suffer on a list of charges that included losing an important prisoner, failing to guard against a raid upon his camp and leading—well, pursuing—his men into a disastrous ambush. There could only be one punishment for such malfeasance, but the manner of his death would be determined at his trial.
If he was still alive. If Sundaram could find him.
Realistically, he knew that there were many places in the world where Sundaram possessed no agents. Sadly, most of those were places where Krishnan himself would stand out to the dullest of inhabitants as strange. An alien. Still, any kind of life was better than the long and agonizing death that Sundaram might plot for him, considering the loss of life—and face—occasioned by his failure.
Time to run, then, if he meant to get away in the confusion. Screwing up the remnants of his courage, Krishnan bolted from the cover of his banyan tree just as another frag grenade exploded. Lifted by the shock wave, riddled by a score of fragments, he touched down with force enough to empty out his lungs and found he couldn’t draw another breath.
So this is what it’s like, he thought.
* * *
AFTER THE FOURTH GRENADE exploded, eerie quiet fell over the battlefield. Bolan didn’t assume that all his enemies were dead, or even wounded. That required examination, confirmation, and he didn’t feel like leaving active shooters at his back while he was trying to escape.
He gestured for the woman to remain in place. Whether she covered him was immaterial. He’d seen enough of her in action to be fairly confident she wouldn’t shoot him in the back—at least, not by accident. It might have been a smart move to disarm her, but he’d trusted her this far and hadn’t been let down. If nothing else, her hatred of the pirates who had caged and tortured her should keep him safe until they’d had a chance to talk.
Bolan began to work the field, pausing beside the bodies of his fallen adversaries, striking with the silent trench knife where he found a sign of life that might prove threatening. For those already obviously at death’s door, he left them there to make the crossing in their own good time, first shifting any weapons well beyond their reach.
Of those he visited, only two men were strong enough to offer much resistance. One clutched at the knife as it descended, trembling hands intent on keeping it away from him, so Bolan drew his USP left-handed, thrust it underneath the straining pirate’s chin and took him out that way.
The other, it appeared, hadn’t been touched by either bullets or the shrapnel from grenades. Perhaps he had been stunned to immobility, or only terrified, but as the Executioner approached him he jumped up, clutching an AK-47, squeezing off a hasty burst that churned the soil in front of him. Before he could correct his aim, a double-tap from Bolan’s sidearm dropped him sprawling on his back.
All done.
“It’s clear,” he told the woman. “If we’re leaving, we should go.”
She rose, looking around the swamp. “Go where?” she asked.
“Through there,” he told her, pointing. “To the cove. I have a boat.”
“And then the mainland?”
“That’s my destination,” Bolan said. “But if you’d rather stay on Tioman—”
“No!” she blurted emphatically. “I’ll come with you, at least as far as land.”
“Beats jumping in the water when we’re halfway there,” he answered, brushing past her, moving on a beeline toward the spot where he had left the Zodiac.
Splashing up beside him in the dark, the woman said, “It’s later, yes? For talking?”
“If we keep it down,” Bolan replied. “To hear if anyone’s coming along behind us.”
Lowering her voice to whisper level, she inquired, “Who sent you after me?”
“Nobody,” Bolan said.
She blinked at that. “I don’t understand.”
“I came for them,” he said, thumb cocked over his shoulder toward the killing ground they’d left behind. “You just happened to be there.”
“You didn’t come to rescue me?” He couldn’t tell if she was angry now or on the verge of tears.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m glad it worked out, though.”
She muttered something in her native language that he thought had to be a curse.
“As long as we’re together and you know my name,” he said, “do you mind sharing yours?”
“It’s Maia Lee,” she answered. Then, almost defiantly, she added, “I’m an agent of the Chinese Ministry of State Security.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Johor Bahru, Peninsular Malaysia
Khoo Kay Sundaram replaced the satellite phone on his desk top with exaggerated care. It was an exercise he sometimes practiced, claiming self-control when he was ove
rcome by blinding, homicidal rage. It helped him, he believed, to lead his men effectively—cool-headed in a crisis, though they all knew that his urge toward mayhem lingered just below the surface, ready to explode.
The news he had received was bad, and absolutely unexpected. A survivor of his garrison on Tioman Island had called in a panic, barely coherent until Sundaram calmed him with a promise that no punishment would be forthcoming. This time, he assured the caller—one Meor Noor, a name he didn’t recognize—there would be no execution of the messenger.
By fits and starts, the story came. A stranger had appeared in camp, had freed the Chinese woman Syarif Hairuman was questioning, attempting to discern the reason for her interest in Sundaram’s brotherhood of buccaneers. At last report, she had spilled nothing, but he’d trusted Hairuman to crack her. Now, the sneaking bitch was gone, along with her savior—described as “a tall man with guns”—and the bulk of Sundaram’s unit on Tioman Island.
According to the caller, Hairuman was dead. So was his second-in-command, Tiong Krishnan, and nearly all of the thirty-odd pirates whom they had commanded. Killed by a stranger—or several, if he believed Meor Noor—and by the woman herself.
Sundaram wasn’t sure what it meant, except that he’d been dealt an unexpected and embarrassing defeat. It wouldn’t please the big men who had hired him for the most important job of his career to date, and while he’d carried out that task successfully, part of the deal was making sure that no one traced the stolen merchandise through Sundaram to his employers. Failing to do that meant failure and disgrace across the board.
And probably, he thought, the end of life itself.
Sundaram was an accomplished thief and killer, but he knew when he was overmatched. It was a risk inherent when he dealt with leaders of the Chinese triads, but the money they had offered him was irresistible. He had considered every possibility of danger when he took their money and the job attached to it, convinced that he could pull it off. And so he had...up to a point.
The merchandise had been secured, the worst part put behind him with a stroke of daring and—why not admit it?—genius on his part. The men who’d hired him had received their cargo at the time and place appointed for delivery. They had been satisfied. Had paid in full.
But now...
A Chinese agent sniffing around Sundaram so soon after completion of his special task could only mean a breach in security. How and where the breach occurred were questions that remained unanswered, since the woman had escaped. Perhaps the leak had come from someone in the triad, but the leaders of that syndicate would certainly deny it. Without proof of some negligence on their part, Sundaram would bear the stigma of incompetence—or worse, deliberate betrayal.
Either one could put a price tag on his head, and there would be no shortage of contractors eager to collect the bounty. Some would kill him for the pleasure of it, or to settle an old score. Money would simply make the mission that much more attractive.
Khoo Kay Sundaram had no illusions about waging war against the triads and surviving. He had, what? Two hundred men at his disposal on a good day, while official estimates of triad membership ranged upward through the tens of thousands. They were everywhere, from Hong Kong and the Chinese mainland to Great Britain, Canada and the United States. To cross them was a suicidal act, and simply pleading that he hadn’t crossed them wouldn’t save his life.
What Sundaram required was proof, the vanished Chinese agent, preferably, still alive and talking. Or the stranger who had plucked her from Syarif Hairuman’s clutches before he could force her to speak. Either might save him, if he found them soon enough.
But first, Sundaram had to be the bearer of bad news in his own right. He had to report his failure to Beijing, before the men who had employed him heard it elsewhere and surmised that he was keeping secrets from them.
That would never do.
Dreading the next few moments, Sundaram retrieved the sat phone, tapped in a number and waited while it rang through at the other end, three thousand miles away.
South China Sea
BOLAN MADE the best time he could manage, heading back from Tioman to the Malaysian mainland. Watching out for other craft along the way, particularly any boats that might pursue them from the island, he was still able to question Maia Lee.
“Do you mind my asking what you’re doing in Malaysia with a gang of pirates?”
“I’m aware you saved my life,” she said, “but still, my work is classified.”
“Why blow your cover, then, and tell me who you work for?” Bolan asked.
She frowned at that. “Perhaps I was afraid you’d think I was some prostitute they picked up to amuse themselves.”
“You asking me, or telling me? And either way, why would it matter to you what I thought?”
“You seem...most capable,” she said. “If we speak honestly, until the day that I was kidnapped, I did not believe that I was making any progress on my task.”
“Rough way to find out you were wrong,” Bolan said. “When we get ashore, I’ll try to find a doctor who—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Maia interrupted him. “My injuries are superficial. They were just beginning serious interrogation when you came, and...”
Bolan listened to her voice trail off, wondered how much he could afford to say. Considering the circumstances, he supposed there wasn’t much to lose.
“All right,” he said. “My job is classified, the same as yours, but here’s the bottom line. Your country’s lost a pair of missiles. Mine’s afraid that we might be the target for whoever has them now, or plans to buy them from the hijackers. If you’re working on something else, I’ll drop you off ashore and wish you luck. But if we’re on the same page—”
“Yes,” she almost blurted out. “We are, as you say, on the same page.”
“Right, then,” Bolan said. “And both of us had information pointing us to Tioman.”
“Not quite,” Maia Lee replied. “I was investigating pirates in Johor Bahru, headquarters for the so-called brotherhood controlled by Khoo Kay Sundaram.”
“I know the name,” Bolan said, thinking back to Brognola’s initial briefing and the CD he had scanned at Stony Man. “Top pirate in these parts.”
“This week, at least,” Maia replied. “He is the prime suspect. Before I could locate him, though, I was abducted. I believe that I alerted them with questions, then was too eager to meet with a supposed informant. Careless. Stupid.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up,” he said. “That’s someone else’s job.”
“And they were fairly thorough.”
“About that doctor...”
“No. I won’t let them delay me any longer,” Maia said.
“You know best. What was the next move that you had in mind?”
“It’s still the same,” she said. “Find Sundaram and question him.”
“That works for me,” Bolan replied. “Between us, I imagine we can scare him up.”
“I had three possible addresses when I reached Johor Bahru,” she said. “Two of them yielded nothing. I was caught before I had a chance to check the third.”
“Sounds like the place to start,” he said. “One thing you ought to know, before we start. I’m not a prosecutor or policeman. I don’t gather evidence. I don’t take prisoners unless it serves a purpose.”
“I’ve seen what you do,” Maia said with a small half smile. “My service is not squeamish, as a rule.”
“And what about the missiles?” Bolan asked her.
“If they cannot be retrieved,” she said, “then they must be destroyed.”
“Same page,” Bolan confirmed. “I think we’re good to go.”
Jakarta, Indonesia
JIN AU-YO WAS just considering the possibility of sleep when his chief bodyguard, Ma Mingxia, appr
oached him deferentially with news of an incoming phone call.
“Who?” Jin asked.
“Sundaram, sir.”
The hour told Jin it could only be bad news. “I’ll take it.”
Ma produced a cordless phone and handed it to Jin. “Line one, sir,” he said, then left the room on silent feet.
Jin waited for the door to close, then took the line off Hold and spoke his first lie of the long-distance exchange. “My friend.”
“I apologize for the disturbance,” Khoo Kay Sundaram replied. “If you were sleeping—”
“No. Proceed with your most urgent news, by all means.”
A silent moment passed. Jin pictured Sundaram racking his brain in search of something positive to lead with. At last he said, “The merchandise is still intact.”
“I hope so,” Jin replied. “It would be most disturbing, otherwise. But since efficiency is what I pay you for, I doubt you’ve called me at this hour to confirm the status quo.”
“No, sir. There have indeed been difficulties, but I wanted you to know—”
“Explain these difficulties.”
“I informed you that a spy was captured by my men. Chinese. A woman.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Well...tonight, before they could complete interrogation, she was rescued by a stranger. Unidentified. A soldier with a painted face.”
“A painted face?”
“For camouflage, sir.”
“Ah, yes. I see. You say a soldier.”
“Deadly,” Sundaram replied. “He killed most of my men on Tioman. Sir, that’s an island located—”
“I don’t care where it is,” Jin said, cutting him off. “You’ve lost the spy and all your men?”
“Not all. On Tioman only. Say thirty, more or less.”
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