False Front. Don Pendleton
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toward the Buick, the driver got out, walked to the sidewalk and handed the taller man a key ring.
“Pull in behind them,” the Executioner said.
Latham followed orders as Bolan studied the man who had just driven up. Actually, calling him a man was stretching the term if not a complete misnomer. He was well under five feet tall and looked to be around thirteen. The taller man took the keys and slapped him on the back with his free hand. The child who had driven the Buick beamed as if he’d just become the new president of the Philippines.
“Well, there’s a rough one to figure out,” Latham said as he halted the Cherokee ten feet behind the Buick.
Bolan chuckled as he opened his door. Car theft was as common as kidnapping on Mindanao with older boys often using the younger ones to actually perpetrate the crimes. Just as in the United States, the younger the criminal, the more likely he would get a light sentence or get off altogether, if caught. Now, as the Executioner stepped out and up onto the curb he saw the tall man, the driver, and half a dozen other Filipino youths turn his way.
Although smiles appeared on many of the faces, the young men didn’t look happy. Their expressions were more like what could be expected on the face of a wolf upon spying a particularly large sheep.
Bolan could hear low chatter among the men as he walked forward. Here and there, he heard a snicker as some of the younger ones pointed at him and spoke. Behind him, the Executioner heard Latham exit the Cherokee, the Texan’s sandals flapping on the pavement with each step he took.
“Normally I’d say stopping to chat with these guys wasn’t the smartest idea in the world,” came the Texas drawl behind the Executioner. “Of course, it’s all in your point of view, I guess. Compared to what we just finished doing, it pretty much pales by comparison.”
The voices were clear now but in a dialect unfamiliar to the Executioner. Stopping five feet from the man in the checkered shirt, Bolan turned to Latham as the Texan fell in at his side. “You understand them?” he asked.
Latham shook his head. “They’re Samal,” he said. “One of the indigenous Manobo tribes. Got their own dialect.”
“They speak Tagalog, too?” Bolan asked.
“I’d imagine,” Latham said. He pulled out his can of tobacco, opened it, snaked his tongue inside then stuffed the can back in his pocket. With a smile on his face, he looked at the young men in front of him and spit out a fast mouthful of the national language. Bolan caught only the word “Pilipino.”
The man in the checkered shirt smirked, shrugged and held out his hands, palms up. The rest of the Filipino gang-bangers laughed.
“I asked him to switch languages. He’s acting like he doesn’t understand me,” Latham said.
“But he does,” Bolan said.
“Hell, yes, he does. He’s just got to screw with us a little to save face in front of his boys.” He sighed quietly. “It’s all part of the game.” Pausing again, he turned slightly toward Bolan. “You do realize that they won’t be able to resist trying to rob a couple of Yanks like us, don’t you?”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Bolan said.
“Yeah, well….” Latham chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, what do you want me to tell them next?”
Bolan looked the tall leader in the eye and grinned. “Tell him we’d like to trade cars with him. The Cherokee for the Buick he just stole.”
“Oh, that’ll go over big, I’m sure.” Latham cut loose with another flurry of undecipherable words.
The man in the checkered shirt leaned to the side and looked at the bullet holes in the Cherokee. When he answered this time, he did so in Tagalog. Whatever he said brought riots of laughter from the others.
Bolan glanced to his side.
“It’s a little hard to translate directly,” Latham said. “But, loosely, he said the Cherokee has more holes in it than your father’s prophylactic must have had.”
The Executioner chuckled politely. But he was quickly growing weary of this whole game. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a large roll of paper money. “Tell him we’ll throw in a few extra pesos to cover the holes.”
The eyes of the tall leader fell on the money and his smile turned predatory again. Still staring at the Executioner’s hand, he spoke again, pointing to the alley behind him.
“Do I need to translate that?” Latham asked. “He wants to go—”
“He wants to do the deal in the alley.” Bolan shoved the money back into his pocket. “Tell him that’s fine.”
Latham spoke, then waved his hand toward the alley. The tall leader and the others fell in around Bolan and Latham, escorting them toward the dark opening between the buildings. The dialogue between the young men went back to the Samal dialect and with it came the return of the snickering. In the shadowy light from the overhead streetlight, Bolan could see that each and every one of them believed they had just met the two stupidest Americans who had ever been born. Now, they were leading the sheep to slaughter.
The Executioner walked calmly on as the tall man in the checkered shirt reached out with his left arm and took Bolan’s, much as one might do to help an old lady across the street. He seemed to have no perception whatsoever that he has herding not a sheep but a sheepdog.
Twenty feet into the alley, the group halted. Dim light filtered in from the sidewalk and high above them on the roof to Bolan’s right a spotlight brightened the barred-and-locked back door to the building. Still holding the Executioner’s arm with one hand, a flash of silver suddenly appeared in the gang leader’s other hand. What little light was available seemed to be drawn directly to the object, which sparkled brightly as it began to swing through the air accompanied by a series of clicks and snaps.
Bolan would have recognized the sounds even if he hadn’t seen the knife. Although it had originated in the Philippine Islands, the balisong had become a worldwide weapon and various versions were now manufactured all over the planet. He was about to reach out to grab the gang leader’s wrist when the man suddenly dropped his arm and stepped back.
The balisong began to dance through the air, making circles, squares and cutting figure eights. The man holding the knife stepped under the spotlight in front of the alley door. Amid a chorus of oohs and ahs of awe and delight from his young minions, he continued to open and close the wings of the butterfly knife.
“Want to just shoot ’em?” Latham whispered. “Of course it’d be sad to see so much worthless talent go to waste.”
Bolan ignored him, watching silently as the leader finally finished, clamped the handles together in his fist and holding the balisong threateningly out in front of him.
“Does this mean the show’s over?” Bolan asked.
He was a little surprised when the man in the checkered shirt nodded. “Unless you would like to become part of it,” he said in overly dramatic, heavily accented English. The wolverine grin had returned to his face and, standing beneath the spotlight, he actually looked more like an actor on stage than a man with a knife in the middle of a robbery.
“Excellent grammar,” Latham chimed in. “And here I was wasting all that time translating.”
“We will take the money and both cars,” said the man in the checkered shirt. “If you are lucky, we will let you two leave with your lives.” He opened and closed the balisong one final time for effect. “Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do you?”
“Oh, man,” Latham said. One hand shot up to his face to cover his eyes. “This is getting really embarrassing now.” He turned to Bolan. “Everybody in the Philippines loves movies, but they get them pretty late.”
Bolan had had enough of the whole Bruce-Lee-Dirty-Harry show. With one smooth movement he swept the