The Iscariot Agenda Read Online Free PDF Page A

without conscience or remorse. 
    “What do you want?”
    The man held the photo close. “Take another look.” 
    Walker noted that he and two others were circled with a red marker. “Yeah . . . So?”
    “The other two, I know they’re working for a private military outfit as consultants here in the Philippines. I need to know where they are. And you’re going to tell me.”
    “You think so, huh? Well, you can just kiss my fat ass. How ‘bout that?”              
    “Where are they, Mr. Walker?”
    “You know something, you little punk? You’re a real tough guy taking on a cripple, you know that? If you took me on in the condition I was in in that photo , you’d be a dead man.”
    “I’m well aware of the Pieces of Eight and I hardly doubt, Mr. Walker, even during your prime, that you’d be able to match my skills as an assassin.”
    “Tough talk coming from a man who’s whole. How about you undo the tape so we can see how well you fare against a cripple not tied down? Or are you too much of a pussy to find out?”
    “Mr. Walker . . . where are they?”
    “And why should I tell you?”
    The man remained tolerant, and then in monotone, “Look at me, Mr. Walker.”  From his cargo pocket he pulled out a silver cylinder and depressed a button. A pick shot out like the blade of a stiletto. Its tip keenly pointed and honed to a razor’s sharpness.
    “Is that supposed to scare me?”
    “No, Mr. Walker, it’s a tool, really—a writing pen, as you will.” 
    “What?”
    The man held the blade over Walker’s naked backside.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Please, Mr. Walker, remain still.” The man set the pick’s tip against Walker’s shoulder blade, the embedded point drawing a bead of crimson. “This will only take a moment.” And then he drew the pick across his back, a neat slice running from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.
    Walker arched his back against the pain, his teeth clenching in protest until the muscles in his jaw worked furiously.
    But he refused to cry out.  
    “Very good, Mr. Walker, a true warrior never shouts out in pain, does he?”
    “Oh, you son-of-a-bitch! Untie me and take me on as a man!”
    The assassin held the photo towards Walker. “Mr. Grenier and Mr. Arruti—tell me where they are.”
    “What do you want with them?”
    “Isn’t it apparent, Mr. Walker? I obviously want to kill them.”
    Walker laughed condescendingly. “Are you out of your mind?”
    The man carefully placed the point of the pick against the center point of the horizontal slash, and drew the sharpened point downward along the spinal column to the small of his back, the drawing cuts forming a perfect T. 
    Walker arched again, his face as red as the blood that coursed from his wounds and onto the table, the veins of his neck sticking out in cords. “YOU . . . BASTARD!”
    “That was close to crying out, Mr. Walker. Not the true sign of a warrior, is it?”
    “Piss off!”
     “Arruti and Grenier, where are they?” 
    Walker laughed.
    “Mr. Walker?”
    His laughter escalated.
    “Very well, then.” The man placed the tip of the pick against the small of Walker’s back and drew a horizontal line, the three slices now forming the letter I.
    Walker’s body tensed against the pain. And then through the set of his clenched teeth, he said, “You want to know where they are?”
    The man waited patiently, the point of the pick stained with red.
    “I’ll tell you. I’ll be glad to tell you . . . And do you want to know why I’ll be glad to tell you?”
    The man held the pick high, the steel cylinder throwing off a mirror polish.
    “Because they’re going to rip you to pieces,” he told him. “It doesn’t matter if they know you’re coming or not. They’ll smell you. They’ll sense you. They’ll feel you . . . And then they’ll kill you.”
    “Where are they?”
    Walker was obviously fading, his voice weakening. “You’ll find them in Maguindanao consulting against