Jacob Strom tipped his hat back on his head and pushed himself upright from the hood of the jeep as the three men came out of the airport arrivals level. He studied each of them as they made their way toward him, acknowledging the fact that when he put a team together they were consummate professionals—and these three were among the best. The tallest of the group grasped Jacob's arm and pumped his hand vigorously.

"Strom, good to see life hasn't slowed you down." Damon Pike was tall, blonde and muscular. Permanent squint lines about faded blue eyes that had seen their share of sun on desert sands and other areas of operation.

"It would take more than life, my friend." He turned to one of the men he didn't know. This was not expected. Replacements without notice gave him grave doubts.

"Who is this man, Damon? Where is Gonzales?"

"Rick Haver. I've used Rick on many assignments, Jacob, and I vouch for him one hundred percent." Rick stuck out a hand. "Gonzales took a few rounds in a police shoot-out right after you spoke with him; he won't be available for some time."

Strom was still holding the man's hand while he studied his eyes. After a moment, he nodded and turned to the third member of the team who was busy lighting a cigarillo.

"They haven't killed you yet I see, Garvey."

The man blew out a dirty cloud of smoke and smiled nastily. "You mean these things or somebody?" His greasy hair jutted from the Yankee baseball cap, and he poked at it with short, stubby fingers.

"Either, you old reprobate." They hugged and slapped one another's backs, then Strom ordered the stuff into the jeep so they could get started.

The jeep left Manila and followed the highway south toward Mindanao. Strom had arranged for air transportation at a small, private air service that boasted two Twin Otters and a Bell ranger helicopter. A transfer of cash ensured that there would be no record of his flight. Strom used the drive to fill the others in on what he discovered on his own before flying to the Philippines and since arriving.

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Walter Gervais lay on his bed in the rooming house, his skin burning, his head aching and the pain of the relentless cancer winning the battle against the painkillers he devoured like peanuts. When another man showed up asking about Chad Kent, he had suspected that the sudden interest was not for his health but for information on the treasure. He resisted giving away too much for as long as he could, but the man held no interest for his condition and proceeded to extract what he wanted to know with methods that increased his pain ten-fold. Walter surrendered, telling all he knew.

Strom smiled, confident that he had everything of importance then with methodical attention, he screwed the silencer onto his gun and watched as Walter's eyes grew wide and then flat, knowing his pain was finally going to end. Two quick shots into the head, and Strom tossed the blanket up over Walter's face. He left the rooming house and went straight to the bar where earlier he had spotted the man watching Walter's room. He sat down beside him and, in the darkness of the room, slid a blade deep into the man's side and up into his heart, leaving him slumped like a drunk on the bar stool, as he left unnoticed; Strom hated loose ends.

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The jeep left the highway and bounced onto a dirt track that vanished in among stunted bushes and rocky terrain, eventually opening onto a rough field of short scrub grass. A battered Quonset hut stood in partial shade of a clump of trees on the far side of the field, and next to it Strom could see the helicopter he had hired. A couple of men in coveralls were crunched over the engine of one of the Otters and noisy music was playing from a portable radio propped on the wing.

Strom wheeled the jeep into the skimpy shade and the team piled out, grabbing their gear and immediately heading for the chopper. A man barged out of the hut and ran toward them, and Strom slowed as he caught up.

"Sir? Can I help?"

"I'm Haggard. I rented your chopper for a few days."

"Oh yes, Mr. Haggard. Very good. You paid cash in advance." He nodded and clapped his hands together. "All I need to know is where you—"

Strom produced a fistful of bills and shoved them into the man's waving hand. "My business. Right?"

The man was counting the money, eyes bugging out. "Ah yes, Mr. Haggard. Your business. Have a very good flight."

"I will." He did a quick walk around the chopper, checked the fuel and satisfied himself it was air ready, then climbed aboard with his men.

"Where are we headed, Strom?" Damon asked, from his co-pilot seat.

"I learned, from the source I mentioned..." His grin was evil. "The original base camp was at the coordinates I've marked on that map." He pointed to the clipboard on the console between them. "I doubt we can land right there but we should be able to get fairly close."

"What about this other group you mentioned?"

"Gretta Lawrence is an agent for CONGA, and I am dearly looking forward to meeting her." His laugh matched his earlier grin.

"And the other guys, Gravestone's people?"

"Gravestone, yeah. Jenner thinks he's fielded a team as well. Now Gravestone went up against Lawrence, in Mexico, about four years ago and came away bleeding. You remember Claude Degeer?"

"I knew of him. Cruel bastard," Rick said. "Made every job a bloody massacre."

"Yeah. Well, Gretta Lawrence put paid to old Claude down there." He went on to describe the legend that arose from that mission, and the men all exchanged cautious glances.

"Doesn't sound like somebody we should underestimate; she sounds like a right tough broad." Damon observed.

"It's a legend. Only one or two people are still around that could verify the story. Actually," Strom chuckled. "One of them might even be on Gravestone's team. Vincent Crocadero."

Garvey blurted a sneezing laugh. "Crocadero! Are you jokin'? The guy's a friggin' klutz!"

"He is, but he's also made his bones many times over so don't be fooled." Strom pointed to an area on the slope of the mountain. "There's a plateau just the other side of that slope. We'll fly as close as possible but we might still have a few miles to hike."

Nobody complained and they all turned their attention to the landscape, their new home for the next several days.

                                                           ><><><><

Arny leaned his back against one tree and braced his foot against another to keep from sliding back down into the ravine they had just climbed. Pete was standing with his back against a smaller tree, looking up the hill with a pallid face. Arny didn't think Pete got much exercise. Gretta, on the other hand, was staring down at both of them with amused disdain. She hefted her pack and announced that she was going to the top and would wait for them there.

When the two men reached the summit, she immediately waved for them to get down; the tree line on the plateau was only a few hundred yards away.

"I didn't think we'd be this close," She said, as the two men crawled alongside her.

"Have you seen anyone?"

"No, but they could sure see us if we were walking across there." She opened her map and flattened it on the ground. "Problem now, is I can't be sure where we are in relation to the base. Our information coordinates all stem from there. I can only guess now that we had to change course."

"What about him, I thought he was our guide?"

"He uh- he tells me he's never really been here before, he just knew about the area from the stories... I guess there was a communication conflict."

Arny stared in disbelief. "You mean we let this kid bring us all the way up here and he doesn't even know where he's going?"

Pete wiped his neck with a cloth and smiled sheepishly. "I hear many stories about the fighting up here."

"Marvellous." Arny flopped on his back and stared up at the stark sky. "Now what?"

"The mission hasn't changed," Gretta said brightly. "Just the circumstances." She dug her binoculars out of her pack and made another careful, visual pass over the trees. "Obviously our mysterious friends have similar information, so if I can spot them we can assume we are right on target."

"Or we are the bloody target." Arny shot a killer look at the giggling Pete and was rewarded with an embarrassed cough.

"I think our best bet is to hunker down here for the night, see if they give themselves away in the dark, and make a plan for tomorrow." She put her things away and pointed back the way they came. "We should be able to manage for one night. We can heat our food on the Sterno cans."

"Tell me about this wonderful plan before I concentrate on a sumptuous banquet of, Stereo-heated, food."

"As soon as it's dark enough, you and Pete can sneak over to the trees for a better look and if—"

"Are you nuts? Me and Pete!"

"Arny, get a grip. I was joking. Actually, it's what I plan to do, so just relax and don't be such a baby."

Pete giggled again and Arny bared his teeth.

"You know, when we're out here 'in the field', you are really not very nice to me, Gretta, and it kinda pisses me off."

"Well when we are 'in the field', Arny, it's hard to be nice to somebody who has nothing but negative thoughts twenty-four seven." She felt badly for speaking out so harshly and tried to soften the remark with a smile and a pat on the arm. "But then it wouldn't be as interesting for me if you weren't here."

"Yeah, right."

"Let's not argue, let's make up our camp for the night."