Blood Tide

Ming stamped his foot and the quicksilver blades clanged together in a scissoring attack that could only be intended to behead an opponent.

He lowered his swords and bowed to Bolan.

The guards burst into applause. Bolan and Mei joined them. Bolan knew it was a privilege to observe such a performance, particularly for a westerner. Even Du clapped his hands in open appreciation.

Jinrong sheathed his swords. Gau bore them away as the master sagged back into his chair. He was pale and trembling, and sweat dripped from his temples. He waved a shaky hand at another servant who produced a pipe. The man packed the pipe with a black blob and lit the pipe for his master. The black chunk in the bowl glowed red as Ming drew on the pipe. The huge gangster stopped trembling with the first puff of blue-white smoke, and the fragrant, sweet scent of opium drifted across the courtyard.

“Once…upon a time—” Ming sighed as his breathing returned to normal “—I was something to see. But opium, young men and gambling have left me—” he heaved another sigh “—distracted.”

Mei’s eyes were shining. “Your performance was magnificent.”

“Thank you, my dear. I have always marveled at your skill at Kali, and little Du’s Tiger-Crane is feared throughout the waterfront.” He suddenly turned his eyes on Bolan. “But you, Mr. Cooper? Of what are you a master?”

“I am a master of no acknowledged style.” Bolan shrugged.

Jinrong pursed his lips and puffed on his pipe in disappointment.

“But,” Bolan said, smiling in mock shyness and looking down, “I am proficient at the Seven Triple Bursting technique.”

Ming sat up straight. His brow furrowed at the thought of a technique he did no know. “I demand a demonstration.”

Mei simply stared.

Bolan shrugged again. “I’ll need seven plates.”

Ming spoke some words, and servants scampered. He and his small army of guards looked on keenly as seven of the household servants returned each bearing a plate.

Bolan nodded. “Have them stand in a line to my left, fifty paces back.”

Ming gave orders and the servants lined up along the wall to Bolan’s left and eyed him nervously.

“Tell them to throw the plates in the air across the courtyard, as high as they can, when I say go.”

The master leaned forward with keen interest as he translated the instructions. The tension of the servants grew palpable as they obeyed.

Bolan’s hands dropped loosely to his sides.

Mack Bolan was a master of no martial art, but he was an incredibly lethal man with his bare hands. And, long ago, the Green Berets had made Bolan a master sniper. His War Everlasting had made him the most lethal living exponent of combat sharpshooting on the planet.

“Go!”

The china spun into the air like awkward porcelain dishes.

The servants didn’t have time to cower as the Beretta 93-R cleared leather. A machine pistol was a specialist’s weapon. Most respected firearms’ authorities eschewed them altogether. They were too heavy for a pistol, but much too light for a submachine gun. Their rate of fire made them almost uncontrollable on full-auto. A few gun experts grudgingly opined that they made a good weapon for the point man of an entry team, but that man would require prohibitive amounts of training to make it worthwhile.

Bolan had trained with the 93-R for hundreds of hours and fought with the weapon in his hand for more years than he cared to think about. The smooth rosewood grips had been custom fitted to his hand and the action tuned to oil-on-glass slick perfection. Bolan knew the weapon’s recoil and rapid cycling like old friends.

The Beretta 93-R had become an extension of his will.

Seven plates spun into the air. The white dot front sight of the Beretta whipped toward the farthest and lowest flying plate. Both of Bolan’s eyes were open, bringing the front sight blade and the plate into convergence. His finger caressed the trigger, and the machine pistol cycled in his hand.

Bolan’s speed had left the guards no time to react. They jumped as the pistol spit its first burst and the plate came apart. The spell broke, and they swung their automatic rifles up as Bolan’s second 3-round burst snarled from his gun.

The Executioner ignored the riflemen. He concentrated on the plates as they hit their apogee and began falling back to earth. The front sight of his pistol whipped from target to target without conscious thought. Each time the white dot eclipsed a plate, Bolan squeezed the trigger and the Italian steel snarled off a 3-round burst cycling at just over eighteen rounds per second.

Plate after plate shattered. Bolan grimaced and dropped his aim as he touched off his last burst. The seventh plate shattered less than three feet from the ground. The lead servant in line shrieked as his robes were harmlessly sprayed with bits of ceramic shrapnel.

The Beretta 93-R racked open on a smoking empty chamber.

The seven plates had been shattered in as many heartbeats.

The sudden silence in the courtyard was deafening.

The guards dropped their rifles on their slings and began applauding wildly. Mei and Du joined them. There was renewed respect in Du’s eyes. Ming tossed his lily at Bolan’s feet in tribute. “Ah!” He rolled his eyes at Mei, and his smile was ecstatic. “You brought me not just an American, but—” he savored the words like fine wine as he spoke them “—a gunfighter.”

Bolan slid a loaded magazine into his pistol and pressed the slide release home on a fresh round before he holstered it. He had done fancier shooting, often on the field of battle and in the face of oncoming fire. Bolan allowed himself a small smile. Seven plates in one and a half seconds…

Ming sat up in his chair. “Gau, have some of the men light some firecrackers in the street to allay the neighbor’s suspicions.”

The gangster turned back to Bolan. “I believe I know what it is you wish of me, and I believe it would be my pleasure to render you assistance. Give me a week while I send forth my agents. In the mean time,” the gangster said, opening a huge but graceful hand in invitation, “be my guests. I insist.”

Bolan frowned. A week of downtime, and who knew how many more innocent targets would get hit. Ming caught the look and shrugged.

“During that time, it would be my honor to teach you something of the sword.” He smiled enigmatically. “I believe you may have some need of one where you will be going.”

4

Macao

“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Ming’s blade hurtled down at Bolan like a gleaming meteor. Sweat dripped from Bolan’s brow as he fought. Ming’s crushed velvet suit of the day was lime green, but he had shoved off his suspenders and fought in his sleeveless T-shirt beneath the southern Chinese sun. Bolan fought stripped to the waist as Ming attacked him, the giant mobster shouting at him all the while like an angry headmaster.

Bolan was bleeding from numerous superficial cuts that could easily have lopped off limbs had Ming wanted. Purple bruises blossomed beneath the skin of Bolan’s cheek and his arms and shoulders where Ming had struck him with the flat of the blade or hit him with the pommel. Bolan ignored his blood dripping on the hot tiles and the sweat stinging his eyes and fought on.

“Cut!” Ming roared.

Chinese martial-arts masters did not encourage their students. They beat on them, literally and figuratively, until they mastered the technique or quit.

Bolan held a two-handed sword. It was barely three feet long, and the massive, curved blade seemed much too short and far too wide. The cord-wrapped handle was one-third as long as the blade and mounted with a thick, rigid, black iron ring at the bottom. Although it was a two-handed sword, Ming forbade Bolan to touch it with his left hand. Once Bolan had picked it up he had found it amazingly well balanced and lightning fast.

“You are forcing it!” Ming shouted. “Use your wrist! Let the blade do the work! Do not chop at me! I am not a goat! This is not a butcher’s stall in the market! Cut!”

Ming’s own broadsword whirled around his wrist, flashing like lightning. “Like this! And this! And this!”

The slender saber whipped up, down and sideways in a dazzling array of cuts. Their swords rang with blow after blow as Bolan barely blocked the incoming barrage.

“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Ming said. “I see your left hand yearning to grip the blade for a two-handed blow! I see you have had training in the Japanese sword, and you desire to pull the hilt toward you for the slice! Cut! This is not a kendo dojo! Chinese swords express themselves outwardly! Let your wrist succumb to the curve! Let your weapon’s weight do your work for you!”

Bolan knew intuitively that Ming was right. The few sword fights Bolan had been in and the little formal training he had received in swordsmanship were with the Japanese katana and its smaller, straight cousin, the ninja-to. Those instincts were interfering with the morning’s lesson.

Bolan had to empty his cup before more knowledge could be poured in.

The Executioner let his wrist succumb to the curve of the blade. He stopped defending, and his blade licked out in series of blindingly fast attacks.

“Better!” Ming grinned delightedly as he parried the attacks. “Better!”

The giant gangster counterattacked. They fought back and forth, blades ringing beneath the watchful eyes of Ming’s guards. Ming no longer punished Bolan for his mistakes but let him explore the blade, now that he was using it properly. He grunted corrections, and every time Bolan made a mistake Ming stopped and made him do the move ten times correctly, and then resumed the battle.

Forty-five minutes later the noon sun hammered down on the courtyard.

“Enough!” Ming stepped back. “You will learn nothing more at this point but the mistakes of fatigue.”

Bolan didn’t argue. His arm felt like lead. He had been fatigued two hours ago. At this point he was staggering with exhaustion.

“Now that we have cured you of your samurai impulses…” Ming took Bolan’s sword and walked to a rack loaded with Chinese kung fu weaponry of every description. He picked up a length of bloodred silk ribbon and tied it to the ring in Bolan’s hilt. “Observe.”

Ming slowly swished the blade through the air, the red ribbon twirling behind it like an angry serpent. “The dadao is called the war sword. One reason is that you could issue it to a raw recruit and with little training he could take it in both hands and smite an enemy with some effectiveness. However, in the hands of an adept, the dadao becomes a thing of great subtlety.”

Bolan watched as Ming wove a web of steel with the blade. The ribbon twirled along in its wake like the prop of an Olympic rhythmic gymnast. “The ribbon can be used to distract the enemy…or worse.” Ming suddenly snapped his wrist and the end of the ribbon licked out and whipped against the vase of flowers on the table. The pottery cracked and Bolan realized the end of the ribbon was weighted. Ming let go of the sword as he swung it and caught the silk ribbon by its weighted ends. The gangster dropped low into a spinning crouch. The sword deployed at the end of the ribbon, adding three feet to Ming’s reach. It scythed around at ankle level and sank into the wood of a courtyard beam.

Ming yanked the ribbon, and sword’s hilt leaped back into his hand. “The dadao has endless possibilities.”

Ming nodded at a samurai sword in the rack, and Bolan drew it. Ming motioned for Bolan to attack.

“Now the iron ring pommel,” Ming lectured, “cannot only be used to strike an opponent, but to trap his weapon and disarm him.”

Bolan slashed, and Ming twirled his weapon like a baton. He slapped the pommel ring around the tip of Bolan’s sword and yanked it halfway down the blade. It took all of Bolan’s strength not to have the sword ripped from his grip as Ming twisted and yanked.

Ming grinned as they played tug of war for a moment with the trapped blades, testing each other’s strength. “But should your opponent prove too strong for you to take his weapon away…” Ming roared like a lion and torqued his wrists. The blade of Bolan’s trapped katana snapped in two. “You may destroy it, and then him.”

Ming sighed as he held up the weapon and ran his eyes along the edge. “The dadao is a two-handed sword, but you have discovered that a strong man may easily wield it like a saber in one. Thus, in the morning you shall practice one handed, and then again in the afternoon we shall practice with two hands. There your training on the Japanese katana may be of some assistance to you.”

He handed the blade back to Bolan.

“I thank you, Sifu.” Bolan bowed slightly and used the Chinese honorific for teacher.

“It is my pleasure.” Ming bowed too. He clapped his hands, and two beautiful women appeared in the silk robes and coiffures of medieval Chinese courtesans. “Butterfly, Jade, see to our guest’s injuries.” Ming leered. “See to his every need.”

Butterfly and Jade bowed to Bolan. Beneath their thick lashes, the women’s eyes roved over Bolan’s naked and bloody torso like horse traders presented with a strange and powerful new breed they did not recognize.

“Gau,” Ming called. Gau instantly appeared at Ming’s right hand. “Summon Du, and tell him to bring his butterfly knives.” Ming drew his broadsword once more. “I feel…invigorated.”

Bolan didn’t envy Du. He paused a moment as Jade and Butterfly gently took him by the elbow to lead him back to his chambers. “Sifu?”

“The lesson is over. You may call me Ming. All my friends do.”

Bolan bowed slightly. “May I inquire, my friend, if you have heard from any of your agents since yesterday?”

“Indeed. Three of my men have made inquiries into the matter and reported back already.” Ming clapped his hands. “Ho!”

A hulking, shaven-headed servant Bolan had not seen before came through the curtains behind Ming’s throne. He bore a large carved box and held it out for Bolan, who lifted the lid.

Three severed heads lay nested in the box. They gazed up at him, their faces frozen in the contortion of their final fear and agony.

“I will need to send more men.” Ming smiled his enigmatic smile once more and dropped his eyes to the dadao in Bolan’s hands. “In the meantime, I suggest you practice.”

CIA Safehouse, Macao

BOLAN DRANK SOME TEA. Butterfly and Jade had taken him to his chambers and applied liniment to his bruises and ointments to his cuts. He smelled like a Chinese herbalist shop, but his bruises had subsided and the cuts had been reduced to thin pink lines.

Once they had been assured of his survival, they had been insistent on seeing to Bolan’s other needs, as well. He smiled at the memory and wondered if he’d have any strength left for the evening’s sword lesson. He’d been limp when Du had taken him by rickshaw to the safehouse. Du had been sullen, silent and covered with bruises himself. His knife technique had not been enough to save him from a beating at Ming’s hands.

Bolan checked the time and hit a key on the laptop. Kurtzman’s face appeared on the monitor via satellite link. He cocked his head at Bolan’s salve-smeared body.

“Do I want to ask?”

Bolan thought about Butterfly and Jade. “You might.”

Kurtzman read Bolan’s expression. “Man…you have all the fun.”

Bolan shrugged and drank more tea.

“Well, tell me about Ming, then. I hear he’s quite a character.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Kurtzman looked curious. “And?”

Bolan smiled proudly. “He says my swordsmanship is salvageable.”

Kurtzman blinked. “Well, that’s good news.”

“I think he’s taken a shine to me.”

Kurtzman paused. “That’s a good thing?”

“If we want his cooperation, yes. I get the impression he’s been kind of lonely since the triads pushed him out of Shanghai. He’s been wasting away in exile like fallen royalty. I got his blood moving again. He really seems to be enjoying having a student.”

“That’s all well and good, but where’s the mission payoff?”

“In China, the criminal underworld and the martial arts are deeply intertwined. Both have their code of honor. By taking me on as his student, his code obliges him to help me against my enemies. It’s his plausible excuse to himself and his superiors for getting involved in business he shouldn’t.”

“So what have you learned?”

“So far, not much. Ming apparently got a few nibbles, and his agents promptly got their heads cut off. The interesting thing was that they were spread out. One was in the Philippines, one in Malaysia and one in Java.”

“A real pan-Southeast Asian movement.” Kurtzman chewed his lower lip. “It’s not good, but if it’s a charismatic movement like you suspect—”

“Then I’ll have to find that charismatic head and cut it off,” Bolan finished.

Kurtzman scowled. “That’ll be a neat trick, especially doing it without turning him into a martyr.”

“Yeah.” Bolan considered the fanatical movements he’d fought before. “I’ll just have to do it in a way that doesn’t leave any doubts.”

“First, you’ve got to find him.”

“Speaking of which, where’s Rosario?”

“He’s in Central America. He says he and Calvin can extract and be in Manila in twenty-four hours.”

“Good enough. Tell them I’ll meet them in the Polillo Islands safehouse. That should do for our purposes.”

“What kind of purpose?”

“How’s our young friend doing in custody?”

“According to Manila station, the Philippine military police have stopped just short of rubber hoses and jumper cables, and that was only at the direct request of the station chief.”

“Good, I think in twenty-four hours he’ll be about ready to see a friendly face.”

Kurtzman grimaced. “You’re playing kind of rough with this kid, aren’t you, Striker?”

“That kid boarded a private yacht in the middle of the night, blade in hand, with the intention of beheading every man, woman and child he found, Bear.”

“Well…granted,” Kurtzman replied. “But he was under the influence of drugs, and—”

“Running juramentado is an all-volunteer activity. You sign up. Our boy was excited about the plan and thankful to be a part of it, and that was before the hash, the trance and the ball-binding.” Bolan’s voice went ice cold. “Young, dumb and brainwashed, I’ll grant you. We’ll let him live. But he’s going to make good on what he owes humanity, one way or the other.”

“Yeah.” Kurtzman shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair. “I hear you. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to fly back to the Philippines and take a meeting with Pol and the kid. Assuming all goes well, I’ll leave Pol to it and come back here to Macao. The last leads we generated came by setting out bait. I figure I might as well try it again while Pol goes to work.”

“The yacht trick again?”

“Yeah, but I’m thinking bigger.”

“Bigger?”

“Ming’s had a few interesting suggestions.”

Kurtzman raised a bemused eyebrow. “I bet he has.”

Bolan ignored the innuendo. “Meantime, I’ve got a job for you, Bear.”

“Oh?” Both of Kurtzman’s eyebrows rose with interest. Aaron Kurtzman was a genuine, certified genius, and when Mack Bolan said “I have a job for you, Bear,” it meant the big guy had a whopper of a challenge for him.

“Yeah, this is a Southeast Asian mission.”

“Yes…” Kurtzman waited for the rub. “And?”

“And I need a Muslim cover.”

Kurtzman stared blankly into the Webcam.

Bolan nodded in empathy. “Work on it.”

5

Polillo Islands, Philippines

“Has he snapped, yet?” Bolan walked up the steps to the beach house. The yellow Piper Super-Cub seaplane lay at anchor in the lagoon. Rosario “Politician” Blancanales’ bull-like figure stood on the veranda holding two cups of coffee in one hand. Bolan could smell it as he mounted the steps.

Stony Man Farm’s psychological warfare expert shook his head. Bolan tossed a manila folder onto the table as both he and Blancanales sank into rattan chairs.

“Not yet,” Blancanales said over his mug, “but he’s just about ready.”

Bolan nodded. “Snapping” was the point in cult deprogramming when the cultist realized he had been deceived by his cult and snapped out of his delusion. “So what’s the hold up?”

“Well, your boy wasn’t exactly wearing saffron robes and handing out flowers at the airport. He’s more than just a true believer. We’re dealing with a genuine holy warrior here, with martyrdom on his mind.”

“So what’s your strategy?”

“Same as always. Force Ali to think. Someone once said thinking is the hardest activity man is capable of, and that’s why so few men do it. People in cults have surrendered their minds. In many respects, their minds are actually turned off.” Blancanales stared intently at the seaplane as it bobbed on the water. “The first time you lay eyes on a person, you can tell if their mind is working or not. As you question them, you can tell exactly how they’ve been programmed. I agree with your initial assessment. It began in prison. Ali was fifteen when he was incarcerated. As you can imagine, a fifteen-year-old boy is in for some very rough times in prison. He hasn’t come out and said it, but I suspect the cultists inside saved him from being punked, which immediately engendered gratitude, and more importantly, trust. The minute a cult gains your trust—” Blancanales snapped his fingers “—they have you. You’re in.”

“And to snap him out of it?” Bolan asked.

“Like I said, this isn’t some rich man’s daughter signing away her trust fund at an ashram. Ali’s a hard case. He came from poverty-stricken parents and grew up on the streets. He went in for robbery and assault, and when the cult sucked him in it gave him instant family, instant support, instant purpose. That’s a tough one to beat.”

Bolan waited. “And?”

“And it’s a matter of language. It’s talking and knowing what to talk about. I’ve started moving his mind around, slowly pushing it with questions. Ali hasn’t just turned his mind off, he’s given it to someone else. He’s been taught that thinking and questioning are wrong. They’re the equivalent of doubting. Thinking is a sin. He’s been told not to think, but to implicitly trust.”

“Our boy is operating on faith.”

“Exactly. As I question him, I watch every move his mind makes. I know where it’s going to go, and when I hit on a point or question that sparks a response, I push it. I stay with it and don’t let him get around it with the lies he’s been told or circular dogma. I drive it home.”

“And then you snap him.”

“Sooner or later.” Blancanales leaned back and sipped his coffee.

“So how’s it been going?”

“Pretty rough on everyone. His first instinct was violence, so we had to restrain him. Even shackled, he made a pretty decent attempt at taking my head off with a standing mule kick. When he realized I wouldn’t let him hurt me, he went sullen and refused to talk at all. That’s par for the course. At that point, I had Calvin treat his injuries and administer him two low doses of sodium Pentothal to loosen his inhibitions. Then Calvin pulled his Black Muslim routine. Once Ali started talking to Calvin as his doctor and a fellow Muslim, Ali’s strategy turned to feigned compliance while looking to escape. That, however, was a strategic mistake on his part.” Blancanales grinned. “Because that got him talking to me.”

Bolan nodded in acknowledgment. “And that is everyone’s downfall.”

“Darn tootin’!” agreed Pol.

“So where is Ali now?”

Blancanales lifted his chin eastward. “Calvin took him for his morning walk on the beach.”

“Is that wise?”

“A growing boy needs his exercise. Besides, this is an island.” Blancanales shrugged. “Ali can’t swim, and he’s shackled. Short of pulling a Man from Atlantis, he’s not going anywhere.”

Bolan smiled wearily through his jet lag. Blancanales was a people person. When it came to getting inside an enemy’s head, he was a genuine “hearts and minds” lubricant. If he thought the boy deserved a walk, Bolan would take his word for it.