The Iscariot Agenda Read Online Free PDF

the terrorist factions there.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Walker.” 
    “I’ll see you in Hell.”
    “That’s unlikely.” The man placed the point of the pick at the base of Walker’s skull and forced the point upward through the opening of the brain stem and into the brain, killing him.
    As Walker’s body deflated, the man expelling a final breath that cleared his lungs, he soon fell into the gentle repose of death.
    The man, after watching Walker transition from life to death, pressed the button on the cylinder. The pick quickly retreated into the tube faster than the eye could see.
    Placing the weapon into a cargo pocket of his pants, the man removed a red marker, wrote the letter ‘I’ in the circled picture of Walker, and left the photo behind.
    The assassin would be in Maguindanao Province within hours.
     

 
     
     
    CHAPTER FIVE
    Cotabato City , Philippines
     
    Cotabato City in Mindanao is a city of roughly a quarter-million people with a high Muslim population. It is also a city of growing insurgency where al-Qaeda and the Taliban were taking root—the area becoming the ‘New Afghanistan’ of the Pacific Rim.
    Five years ago when The Blackmill Corporation became employed by the Philippine government as a freelance consulting firm from the United States, the government was really hiring high-tech mercenaries to help counteract the spread of revolutionary idealism that was becoming a blight to the small island nation.  And Cotabato City, which bordered the guerilla strongholds thirty kilometers to the south, served as the company’s command post.
    In a small, smoke-filled bar that smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes that did little to mask that stench, War Consultants David Arruti and Sim Grenier sat at a table in the back of the establishment knocking back a few shots of whisky. 
    Although in their forties they remained in good shape, keeping their bodies regimentally fit. Of the two Arruti looked more like the aggressor with a handlebar mustache, shaved head, and powerhouse arms that were exposed from a sleeveless shirt. Sim Grenier, however, looked like the corporate thinker—a man of good dress, even though a huge Rorschach moth of perspiration spread out to meet the overflow from his armpits of a neatly pressed shirt—who always kept his hair nicely coiffed in such high humidity.
    Whenever they banded together they spoke little of the past when they were a part of the Pieces of Eight. Instead, they spoke of the future and about guerilla insurgencies in Mindanao . They often spoke of strategies and counter offensives, as well as the beneficial possibilities their success may bring to the people of the Philippines.
    But little did they speak of the past.
    On the opposite side of the room a male wearing a camouflaged boonie cap sat alone at a table with a glass of water. He appeared to be focused on a Blackberry-type device, punching buttons with a stylus, his surroundings oblivious to him.
    However, he did not go without notice.
    Grenier kept a watchful eye on the man who appeared without concern.
    “Yeah, I saw him too,” said Arruti. “He’s been here for about an hour and he hasn’t taken a sip of his water.”
    “He’s not a part of our units?”
    “No.”
    “So tell me, what is a Caucasian male doing this close to the Mindanao territory knowing full well he could become a target for kidnappers?”
    “Maybe he doesn’t know.”
    “There’s government warnings posted everywhere, especially for travelers.”
    Arruti kicked back a shot of whisky. “Not my problem if people want to be stupid.”
    At a nearby table two Filipinos began to argue in earnest about the outcome of a card game and the pot, about thirty cigarettes. As the yelling subsided, Arruti and Grenier turned and immediately took note that the man was gone. The glass of water was still there, untouched. Beneath the glass was a photo, an 8x10 glossy. 
    They scanned the entire bar, necks craning, turning. The man was gone