Blood Tide

“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.”