Free Whipsaw by Don Pendleton Page A

Bolan whispered, bending close to bring his lips to Marisa's ear.
    "They are trying to figure out how the driver got out of the truck." She looked at him, her face asking him the same question.
    "I had to move him," Bolan explained.
    This time Marisa didn't bother to lean close, choosing instead to trust the air to keep her confidence. "They will be searching both sides of the road soon. You'd better hurry if you want to leave."
    Bolan squeezed her hand. "No. And don't think it's charity. Listen, get on that radio. If they come too much closer, you won't be able to."
    "What are you going to do?"
    "That depends."
    "On what?"
    "On who they are. For all I know, they're the good guys."
    "Trust me, Mr. Belasko, they're not. They are the Philippine equivalent of the Salvadoran death squads."
    "Maybe, maybe not."
    "Damn you, believe whatever you want... I don't care."
    Bolan squeezed her hand again. "The radio." Then he was gone.
    "Be careful," she whispered after him.
    Working his way silently through the trees, Bolan got as close to the ruined truck as he dared. It was still a raging inferno, the blackened metal hulk appearing and disappearing in the very center of an orange cauldron.
    From his vantage point, he spotted seven or eight men standing in a ragged semicircle just beyond the reach of the flames. It would have been a sure thing to hit them. With any luck, he could take them all out with a single burst from the M-16. But until he knew what was what and who was who, he wasn't shooting anyone, especially not in the back.
    The men were talking among themselves in Spanish. His command of the language was a bit rusty, but he understood enough to get the general drift of the conversation. One thing puzzled him, though. Marisa had said there would be ten to twelve men. That left as many as four unaccounted for.
    As if in answer to his question, two more shadows suddenly appeared against the orange backdrop. As they approached the semicircle, the chattering men shut up. One of the two, then, must be their commanding officer.
    "Speak English, damn it," one of the newcomers snapped.
    "That's just like you Americans," the other said. "So tucking parochial. It's laughable that you should be one of the two most powerful countries in the world."
    "Fuck you, Carbajal. When you want our help, you speak English pretty good. Don't go giving me any bullshit about being parochial. So I don't have any Spanish big deal."
    "So, where are the others, Mr. Johnson? If you know so much, tell me that."
    "How the hell should I know? I already told you, they got wind of something. Everything's going to hell. The bastard the police talked to, Belasko, Belaski or whatever it was, must have known something. We almost nailed him in Manila, but he squeaked through. I'm telling you, he had to be in that truck. It's the only way he could have gotten out of Manila."
    "Why is he so important?"
    "If I knew that, I'd be a lot happier myself. All I know is, he was tailing Harding before the shit hit the fan at the airport. He was there when it went down. And now he runs down a tucking rabbit hole and disappears."
    "And you think we should search the jungle in the middle of the night to find this man?"
    "Yeah, I do. And I bet we find the broad with him," the American said.
    "And if we do find him, then what?"
    "Ice the tucker."
    The other man sighed, then turned to the small group of men. In Spanish he ordered them to fan out from the truck and to shoot anything that moved.
    That was all Bolan needed to know. Whatever the hell Marisa was up to, these guys were trouble. Plain and simple. He backed away from the burning truck, its light flickering through the shadows cast by tall trees around him.
    Carefully he made his way toward the spot where he had left Marisa. Behind him he could hear the men beating the undergrowth. They were talking in loud voices to keep their fear at bay. He almost missed her as he moved past, not fifteen feet from where she lay coiled in a