“Art, why don’t you get the rifles and stuff out.”
His partner sat up a little and peered out into the jungle. We were beginning to be able to note some detail among the trees in the coming light, but not much. In some ways, it was worse than not being able to see at all. “You see something, Mick?”
My brother shrugged. “Nah. But we’ve been driving farther and farther into Indian Country here. And I got no clue where Marangan’s takin’ us.”
“The guy gives me the creeps,” Art agreed.
“Yeah. I just hope we can count on his gun if things get hairy,” Micky reminded him. “Anyway, let’s be ready. Just in case.”
Art began rummaging around in the duffels. He checked out the rifles and pistols, and then set Micky’s weapons up front where he could reach them. I set mine down on the floorboards.
“What do you think our chances are?” I asked quietly.
Neither Art nor Micky said anything. Art fiddled with the laser-sighting device on his rifle. Micky drove.
“That good?” I prompted.
Micky took a breath. “If we can get to the location undetected and find out where Yamashita and the girl are, we might have a chance. Sneak in sometime during the night and grab ’em. Then scoot and hope they don’t come pounding down the trail after us.”
“That’s the best plan,” Art confirmed. “Sneak, snatch, and scoot.”
“What if we get spotted?” I asked. “Or we don’t get away clean and they come after us?”
“Not many good options,” Micky admitted. “You move quick and put out as many rounds as possible. Hope for the best.”
It was quiet for a time. The pace of events had been so fast, that I’d been carried along without having too much time to think about what was going to happen when we reached the target. All the preparation, the weapons from Horowitz, had seemed like worst-case scenario stuff. In the end, I’d been banking a great deal on the ability of Cooke and Aguilar and their troopers to pull off a successful raid. Now it was just us.
Art looked at me and grinned slightly. “Don’t think about it too much, Connor. You’ll drive yourself crazy. We’ll do the best we can. Think about it this way: If we don’t get in there, what are Yamashita’s chances of living?”
“Slim to none,” I admitted.
“Right. At least now, he’s got a chance.”
“God help him,” Micky muttered.
At this point, it was really a matter of time and distance. We were going to be cutting it close. We all felt the pressure. The trip into the rugged hills had been slower than estimated. We were jerking the jeep around another hairpin turn as Marangan’s vehicle led us deeper and deeper into the backcountry. By this time, it was fully light, and my body was vibrating with tension. It may have been the pills, but I didn’t think so.
In the
dojo
, the distance between you and your opponent is a carefully calibrated thing. You can see the weapon in someone’s hands. You evaluate their size and fitness to gauge their speed, and you adjust accordingly. Too far away, and neither of you can land a blow. Too close, and you place yourself in danger.
Ma-ai
, combat distance, is something you work to get a feel for, skirting the edge of safety and danger on the basis of what you know of you and of your opponent.
But here, I didn’t have a good feel for any of the elements in the equation. Art was cradling his rifle and both he and Micky had put on their web harnesses with the extra ammo. Their heads moved constantly, scanning the road and the jungle, trying to peer into the shadows. But we were boxed into the jeep and it made us feel like a target as the road narrowed and climbed higher and higher.
We knew what these people were capable of. They had viciously executed two embassy guards. They had proven adept at kidnapping. They had no regard for life. Could they be out there, silently watching as our two vehicles climbed up the road?
In the
dojo
, you can see your opponent’s approach. Here, we could usually keep Marangan and Ueda’s truck in sight, despite the switchbacks, but there were areas where we could barely see beyond the hood of the jeep, the trail had become that narrow and twisted. I picked up my pistol and made sure that the magazine was full, handling it nervously. But it didn’t offer much comfort.
“Make sure the safety’s on and put it in your holster,” Micky said quietly. His usual sarcastic tone was gone. He was reserved and quiet. Matter-of-fact and almost kind. It’s how I knew that we were in danger.
Ahead, the truck’s brake lights flashed and we came to a halt. Marangan and Ueda got out and made their way to us. The Filipino had a map in his hand, all creased and marked up. For once, he looked apprehensive. The reptilian stillness was still there on the surface, but I noticed him surreptitiously scanning the underbrush, as if he, too, sensed that we were being watched. It was eerily quiet with the truck engines off. There was a faint breeze making the leaves rustle high up in the tree canopy. Birds called from deep within the trees.
Ueda spread the contour map open on the hood of the jeep. “We are approximately here,” he indicated, touching the spot with his index finger. He looked up the trail, which ran in a relatively straight line for a hundred yards or so. “The
batikan
says that there is a side trail that branches off on the left-hand side, very near a clearing.” He craned his neck. “I believe I can see the grass of the clearing from here.”
I looked and saw a change in the color of the foliage in a spot along the trail—a splash of lighter green and yellow, which was the overgrowth typical of old, abandoned highland farm plots.
“The side trail is narrow,” Marangan said. “We will take our trucks up as far as we can, but soon we will have to leave the vehicles behind.” He explained that the side trail was so narrow that we would have to pull in toward it, back into the clearing on the other side, and then straighten out to be able to drive straight up it. “It is very rough,” he cautioned. “Go slowly so you do not break an axle.”
We got back into the jeep and crept forward. Marangan’s truck swerved toward the side trail, backed up into the high grasses of the old clearing, then straightened out and jerked up the trail. He was probably going five miles an hour, but you could see the pickup bounce on the uneven track even so.
Micky pulled up cautiously and repeated the maneuver. He inched forward, the motor racing as he worked the standard transmission to keep the jeep’s speed steady, but low. “We do this too long, we’re gonna burn the clutch out,” he murmured.
Marangan’s vehicle bounced to a halt again. Ueda got out and motioned to me.
“The track is rougher than we expected,” he told me. “Marangan says that you should walk in between the trucks, watch us, and guide your brother accordingly.”
I shrugged. “Okay.” We were moving at a snail’s pace and it would be no problem keeping up. Besides, my body was racing, and I didn’t think I could stand any more time cooped up in the jeep.
We started forward again. The foliage was thick along the trail, and what wind there was, was high up in the trees and didn’t reach us. In the time between the monsoons, the weather in the Philippines was generally pleasant, but the humidity of the jungle and the tension made me sweat. I followed Marangan slowly, watching him lurch around rocks, and then waving Micky on with advisory hand signals. My eyes were supposed to be focused on the ground, but they kept darting up into the trees. It was good to be moving, but you could hear a lot more on foot. Deep in the undergrowth, things rustled around. Birds squawked and odd-sounding bugs whirred. On the best of days, it would have given me the creeps. Now, it fed the spiky unease that was slowly spreading along the backs of my arms, up and over my shoulders to the base of my neck. I closed my eyes and rubbed my hands across my face. My skin felt greasy and slack.
Easy
, I thought.
Breathe. Focus
.
The pickup truck negotiated a deep series of ruts and bounced forward. I walked in its wake and cautiously signaled Micky to follow. I heard the squeal of his brakes as Marangan stopped suddenly. I looked up ahead and saw that a tree had fallen, blocking the trail.
End of the line
.
Marangan and Ueda were out of the truck by now, looking at the map. Micky stuck his head out of the jeep window, with the same action I had seen countless grid-locked motorists use on a car-jammed Manhattan street. “What gives?”
Marangan had turned his engine off; I could hear the motor pinging in the quiet.
Quiet
.
I closed my eyes to concentrate. The jungle had gone still. The birds were silent.
“No birds,” I murmured.
Micky was looking quizzically at me.
“No birds,” I said more urgently.
“Wha’?” my brother said.
“The birds,” I said with mounting conviction. “No birds, Mick!” I looked around the sides of the trail, trying to pierce the veil of foliage, to see what hid there. Something
was
there. I could feel it in the same way I could sense the moment when a moving swordsman crossed the invisible line into my attack zone.
I picked up something on the periphery of sight—a shadow flitting between trees. Then another.
I stepped closer toward the jeep. “Get out!” I hissed.
But Micky still wasn’t getting it. What was going on with Marangan and Ueda? Surely they must have sensed something. I cast a glance toward them and, simultaneously, the jungle exploded with fire and noise.
“Go Mick!” I yelled. I saw something crease the jeep’s hood and pieces of dirt and rock fragments jump into the air. My brother slammed the jeep into reverse with a grinding noise and began to jounce backward. I saw the windshield shatter and the jeep rocked back and forth in the narrow confines of the trail in an attempt at throwing off the aim of the ambushers.
I threw myself down into a rut to get out of the line of fire. Ahead of me, Marangan’s truck was being riddled with bullets. I could see the
eskrimador
and Ueda, taking shelter on the far side of the tree that lay across the trail. I fumbled for my pistol, looking for a target.
The firing near me seemed to have slackened. I raised my head again as men began to pour out of the jungle and onto the trail. I was in a bad position and had to roll on my side to get the pistol out. It was too late. An attacker slammed a rifle butt into the side of my head and another kicked the pistol out of my grip. I rolled away from the blow, but the side of my head felt like it was on fire. I got to my knees and someone kicked me hard in the side.
The blood was roaring in my ears, but even so I could hear the increased rate of weapon fire down the track. I tried to lift my head high enough to see. My eyes weren’t focusing too well. I got a glimpse of the jeep, swerving backward down a hairpin turn and out of sight. Men raced after it, pouring bullets down the trail. “Mick,” I grunted thickly.
A man with an RPG on his shoulder ran to the bend in the trail and let fire.
Mick
. The whoosh of the rocket was swallowed up a split second later by the
crump
of the explosion. A moment later, there was a second, larger detonation. Flames bloomed through the trees.
“Mick!” I gasped and tried to crawl down the trail. Someone kicked me again. The force of it lifted me up and turned me over. The shooting had stopped, but down the trail ammunition was cooking off inside the fireball that had been the jeep.
I looked groggily around, part of me sure that this couldn’t be real. I retched into the dirt and tried to get up again. I peered toward the pickup, now riddled with holes. Marangan and Ueda slowly stood up, ringed by armed men.
They only hit me one more time, and just before I slipped down into that dark world where pain closes off everything else, I saw Marangan reach out and, with a feral elegance, cut Ueda’s throat.
The hike beat me up more than my captors did. They put a hood over my head and, while it didn’t block out all the light, I couldn’t see where we were going. I stumbled awkwardly along in their wake, hands bound before me, as they yanked me upslope and around the obstacles that studded the jungle trail.
In the enclosed world of the hood, I could smell the must of old burlap and my own saliva. I was wrapped in shadows and buffeted by unseen things. It was disorienting, but I was glad that they had shut some part of the world away from me; the last thing I could remember was the oily scent from the fire that consumed the jeep and the sickening awareness that my brother and his partner were now part of the flames.
I stumbled, but they urged me forward without respite, dragging me along on my knees as I tried to get to my feet. The going was steep and my arms were stretched out before me. They hadn’t tied them behind my back. It was a break of sorts, since it provided some possibilities for action
. They’re going to regret it
, I promised myself.
I tested my captors cautiously, slowing myself down and pulling back slightly on the tether to see how sensitive they were to slack and tension, how good they would be about anticipating any moves on my part. Whoever was holding the rope had two basic responses to any slowdown: pull and, if that wasn’t effective, pull harder. It’s a classic error, based on the assumption that the person you’re pulling will always pull back and fight by going in the opposite direction of the tug forward. But what if you go with the force of the pull? Then you’ve essentially tricked your opponent into aiding the velocity of your attack. It told me that these guys were not of the same caliber as the men on the video who had fought with the embassy guards.
Maybe there’s some hope yet
, I thought. But then I remembered Micky and Art, imagined the smoldering stick figures that would be left after the fire had burned off, and I felt angry and disgusted with myself for even entertaining the thought.
It’s funny how the organism takes over. No matter what happens, the body fights for survival. Despair doesn’t stop the urge, it just makes us feel guilty about it. But guilt wasn’t a particularly useful emotion right now; it turns energy inward at a time when I needed to be alive to the swirl of elements all around me— people, rocks, even the moist air of the jungle. Despite the hood and the haunting memory of Micky and Art, my path led me on and away from those things. Toward an uncertain end, it was true, but Yamashita had taught me that the measure of a person is, in part, discovered in the manner of the journey. I slogged on, hoping only that my journey would bring me to a place where I could avenge my brother.