Dragon Key

Then the red flashes of brake lights glowed ahead and the van began to slow down. Bolan flipped the selector to auto as he got within two feet of the back of the van. Reaching out, he grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, raising the Beretta at the same time. The door popped open, but the van jerked to a stop, sending the Executioner slamming against the rear door. The impact felt like a body blow from a wrecking ball. Bolan fell to the ground, rolling to minimize the impact. Just as he came to a stop, he glanced toward the van. Bolan could see the illumination from a pair of headlights. Crissey had pulled his damn car front first into the alley. Tactically, it wasn’t a bad move, if you were in the car. The engine block would provide the maximum ballistic cover from any gunfire emanating from the van, and it would certainly be more difficult for the van to knock the car out of the way, but the flip side was that Bolan’s position was now lit up like a Hong Kong business district. And there was nowhere to go on either side.

The right rear door opened a crack and the barrel of an SKS rifle emerged. The muzzle flash burst like an exploding star as Bolan rolled away from the rounds bouncing off the pavement. He aimed the Beretta at the solid top of the door, approximating where he thought the assailant’s upper body might be, and fired off three quick bursts. Luckily he’d loaded this magazine with armor-piercing bullets.

Neat round holes perforated the door in a semicircular pattern. Seconds later the rifle dropped to the ground, followed by a slumping body.

One down and three to go, Bolan thought. He wanted at least one of the Iranians alive.

As the van began backing up, the left rear door opened and the barrel of another SKS poked out.

Alive—only if possible, Bolan thought, and began rolling again.

The van’s front wheels twisted, and it veered toward him, its side striking the wall of the building next to Bolan. The rifle began spitting a deadly stream of bullets, but the rounds went wide as the vehicle abraded the brick wall.

No place to hide now. Bolan sprang to his feet, firing off another burst from his Beretta. He began running. If he could get back to the small truck the Iranians had abandoned he might be able to avoid getting run over or crushed.

Or shot, he thought as another staccato burst sounded behind him. He extended his arm back to fire another burst, buying a few seconds respite.

But the van was right behind him, maybe ten feet away now, sending out a shower of sparks as it scraped against the stone wall.

Five feet.

Three.

Just as he thought it was over, the top of the van collided with a protruding section of bricks, sending out a shower of debris like pellets in a hailstorm. The van careened left, then cut right again, giving Bolan a chance to slip into a shadowy recess along the wall. He flattened against the cold bricks and the van barreled past him, its right-side mirror snapping off as it caught the edge of the alcove. Bolan waited a second more, then brought the Beretta up and fired as the front of the vehicle came into view. A series of bullet holes dappled the windshield and the driver jerked backward. The van slowed. Bolan acquired a sight picture on the front passenger and fired another three-round burst. That man slumped forward and the van decelerated, slowing to a stop.

Bolan rushed to the front of the vehicle and suddenly felt a round zoom by him. He saw movement inside the van but no muzzle flash. It had come from behind him.

Crissey.

Bolan glanced back and saw the Englishman holding a Walther PPS in his left hand and practically covering his face with his right.

“Hold your fire,” Bolan yelled, hoping Crissey could hear him.

The Executioner saw two men moving inside the back of the van. One had a rifle and the other a pistol. Bolan fired another three-round burst through the pockmarked windshield and darted to the side. He reached into the pocket of his BDU shirt and pulled out a stun grenade. Hooking the round pin on the edge of the protruding bumper, Bolan pulled the pin out and rose up, smashing the driver’s-side window with his Beretta.

A round zoomed past him, this time from inside the van.

“Crissey,” Bolan yelled, “now would be a good time to shoot.”

The Englishman rose up and fired off a volley of several rounds. Bolan tossed the grenade through the broken window and ducked down. Four seconds later the inside of the van exploded with smoke and light, accompanied by a concussive blast. Bolan moved to the rear of the vehicle and tore open the back door. The interior was filled with a cloud of smoke and the acrid smell of burned gunpowder. The last two Iranians squirmed on the floor next to the crate. Bolan grabbed the first one by the ankle and pulled him out of the van. He dropped to the ground.

Crissey was next to Bolan now, and the Executioner told him to check and secure the prisoner. Then Bolan reached for the second man’s twitching feet, but the Iranian responded with a kick. The man sat up holding a pistol with an elongated barrel, pointing it directly at Crissey. Bolan fired a round into the Iranian’s forehead, and he slumped to the floor. The Executioner stitched the man with another quick burst and pulled his body from the back of the vehicle.

“Thanks,” Crissey said. He flashed an expression somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “And I’m sorry about that near miss when you popped up before.”

“Forget it,” Bolan said, moving his head slightly, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. “You got that guy cuffed?”

“Righto.”

Bolan glanced down and saw a thin strip of plastic securing the Iranian’s wrists. Taking out another, wider flex cuff, Bolan stooped down and crisscrossed a second band over the first. He then did a quick but thorough search of the man’s pockets and body and lifted the prone Iranian back into the rear of the van. The distant, alternating blast of police sirens echoed in the night.

Bolan scooped the weapons out of the van and tossed them on the ground.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, slamming the rear doors. “Unless you want to stick around and answer twenty questions for the police.”

Crissey smiled and began trotting back toward his car. Bolan moved to the front of the van, pulled out the last two bodies and threw them into the alley. He did a quick survey of the scene. There were enough bodies, weapons and expended rounds to keep the police busy for a while. The thing to do now was vacate the area and hope no one noticed all the bullet holes in the van.

“I say,” Crissey said, pausing at the side of his vehicle. “Shouldn’t we at least move those chaps off to the side?”

“Not unless you want to do it with an audience,” Bolan said, slipping behind the wheel. The interior was slick with blood, but he had no time to clean it off. Instead he cocked his feet back and kicked the corners of the damaged windshield. The glass cracked and bulged, then separated from the frame, coming out in one piece. Instead of dropping it to the ground, Bolan pulled the glass back inside and set it in the rear section. There was no sense in leaving a clue as to what type of vehicle they might be driving or what condition it was in. “I’ll follow you to your embassy, then we can see what we’ve got.”

“Righto.” Crissey grinned. “And don’t forget we drive on the proper side of the roadway here in Hong Kong. The left side.”

“I’ll do my best to remember,” Bolan said. “Hopefully none of the cops will stop me for driving without a windshield.”

Crissey looked around at the four bodies and scattered weapons.

“Perhaps,” he said, “they’ll be a bit busy sorting this one out.”

* * *

THE MANTIS HAD finished stuffing the money into a makeshift sack he’d fashioned from the overcoat. He was calling Master Chen when he heard the sound. The slight creak of the rear door being opened. Another of Chong’s hired assassins?

“Your voice hesitates,” Master Chen said. “Is something wrong?”

“Trouble,” the Mantis whispered. “I will meet your men at the rendezvous point.”

He terminated the call and slipped the cell phone back into his pocket as he dropped the package and melted into the shadows to survey the scene. He didn’t have to wait long. Two men emerged from the corridor and into the circle of light, their arms extended and holding small, semiautomatic pistols. One of the pistols had a shiny, chrome-like finish, sparkling like a jewel in the garish light.

“Hello,” the first one said. “Look at those chaps.”

English, the Mantis thought. MI6? Regardless, they were both careless men with not long to live.

“Looks like there’s been a bit of a row,” the second added. He moved toward the bundled overcoat and kicked it. “We’d better look into this.”

“Right,” the first one said. “But let’s back off and call for assistance. We need to clear this place and that’s going to be a bit of a chore.”

The last thing the Mantis needed was a squad of British agents nosing around. The discovery of the bodies was both inevitable and desirable—the price of betrayal had to be shown—just not at this time. He felt in his vest for another dart. He would only need one. He gripped it tightly in his right hand. One of the Brits holstered his gun and took out a cell phone. The other stood holding his weapon down by his leg, the bright slide once again reflecting the overhead lighting. The Englishman squatted down next to the bundled overcoat and began untying it.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said.

“Better to wait on that,” his partner replied. The Mantis threw his first dart. It caught the man in the throat. He dropped the cell phone and grabbed at his neck. The other one quickly whirled, extending his pistol as he rose to a crouch. The Mantis was already running forward, leaping upward, his right leg cocked back. At the apex of his leap he snapped his foot outward, catching the second agent under the jaw. The man’s head jerked up and back, then his whole body bobbled drunkenly as he collapsed onto his stomach. The Mantis landed on the man’s back, using the edge of his foot in a downward stomp to assure that the neck was indeed broken. Satisfied that it was, he whirled, caught the staggering first man with an arcing hook kick. This one fell as if he’d been poleaxed.

The Mantis retrieved his dart, wiped the blood on the dead man’s jacket and replaced the dart in his vest. The shiny Walther PPS lay a few inches from the second agent’s fingers. The Mantis picked it up. Some fancy English letters, TNT, were engraved on the slide. He would give Chong’s .380 to the master, but why not take something for himself? It would make a nice souvenir. He pocketed the pistol, grabbed the bundled overcoat and took out his cell phone.

Master Chen answered after the first ring. “All is well?”

“All is well,” the Mantis said.

“It grieves me that you encountered unexpected trouble.”

“It was nothing,” the Mantis said as he surveyed the scene with satisfaction, “that I could not handle.”

* * *

BY THE TIME they got close to the British embassy, Bolan’s eyes were stinging from driving the truck with no windshield. His cell phone rang and he glanced at the screen: Crissey.

“Turn left at the next corner, will you?” the Englishman said. “I’ve got a couple blokes standing by with a truck so none of our omnipresent embassy watchers see us bringing that wretched van inside.”

Bolan watched as Crissey’s car made the quick left turn. Pulling in after him, Bolan found himself on a semidark side street. Ahead he saw a parked truck with Chinese lettering on the side and an open back end. He parked next to the truck and got out. Three men rushed over to the van and began removing the crate. He gave them a hand, and in about sixty seconds they had it transferred to the new truck. They took the trussed-up prisoner next. The man was still unconscious but would hopefully awaken and give them some good intel. If not, Bolan was sure Stony Man could put the guy on ice somewhere.

Crissey had been standing a few feet away holding his cell phone to his ear. He turned to the three new men. “Would one of you be so kind as to dump the van down the way?” he said. “And do take our friend and his little package to the designated drop point at your leisure.”

The other men nodded and hurried away.

Bolan watched as the truck with the prisoner and the crate drove off down the street, followed by the damaged van. He figured the Brits were perfectly capable of getting whatever was in the crate to a safe location for further review as well as interrogating the prisoner. The Agency could tag up with them later and decide if the Iranians had bought the real deal or not.

Bolan looked at Crissey, who still stood holding his cell phone with a worried expression on his face. “What’s up?”

Crissey heaved a sigh. “We’ve lost contact with two of my men—the ones who followed the Chinese with the briefcase.” He bit his lower lip. “They haven’t called in and I can’t seem to raise them.”

“Let’s go find them,” Bolan said, heading for the Englishman’s car.

Crissey nodded and hurried to the driver’s side. As Crissey drove to the warehouse district where they’d left the other two agents, Bolan felt his satellite phone vibrate. He took it out, glanced at the screen and answered the call with “Don’t you ever sleep?”

Brognola’s deep chuckle came from the other side of the world. “Hell, it’s zero-eight-fifteen here. Time for my midmorning snack while I get ready to watch Let’s Make a Deal.”

“Why don’t I like the sound of that?” Bolan asked.

“You must be psychic.” Brognola’s laugh came through clear as a bell. “I need to run something by you, but how did the mission go?”

Just then Crissey pulled past the empty car the two MI6 agents had been driving.

“Hal, hold on,” Bolan said. He reached for his Beretta with his other hand.

No one else was in sight. Crissey swung the car into the alleyway and proceeded slowly down the narrow route.

“Striker, you still there?” Brognola asked.

The headlights shone over a pair of legs extending out from behind a row of garbage cans.

“Bloody hell,” Crissey said.

“Let me call you back,” Bolan said into the phone.

Chapter Two

It was almost four in the morning by the time Bolan and Crissey transported the two dead agents, Thomas Norris Trent and Peter J. Helmsworth, back to the British Embassy. Searching and clearing the rest of the warehouse had been tedious, but necessary, as well as erasing any trace that MI6 had been involved. Not finding Trent’s weapon had drawn the process out further, and finally the threat of a nascent sun forced them to abandon their search. They left the rest of the mess for the Hong Kong police. When they finally sat down in a small room next to the embassy cafeteria, neither man had much appetite, but both needed a cup of strong coffee. They’d been up for more than twenty-four hours straight. The Brit was holding up pretty well, Bolan observed, maintaining a bit of the traditional stiff upper lip, but the Executioner could tell the man was deeply affected by the deaths.

“Did you know those men well?” he asked, taking a sip from his mug.

Crissey nodded. “Tom Trent and I have been here on assignment for the past year and a half. Before that we did a tour in Afghanistan.” He forced a smile and dumped some more sugar into his cup. “After that one, we thought coming here would be a bit of a vacation.”

Bolan said nothing. He knew that dropping your guard on any assignment, no matter how benign it looked, could be a fatal error. “At least they’ll be buried in home soil.”

Crissey nodded again. “I do wish we could have found Trent’s pistol. I would have liked his father to have it. It was a stainless steel Walther PPS. Quite the good gun. Had TNT engraved on the slide in fancy script.” Crissey smiled wistfully. “His initials. Made quite a joke of it.”

“Think his killer took it?” Bolan asked.

Crissey shrugged. “Most likely, but perhaps that’s preferable to the Chinese finding it and being able to trace it back to us.” His brow furrowed. “Trent was no neophyte. He knew his stuff.”

Bolan considered this. Trent had apparently had his neck broken. There was also a large dark spot on the right side of the dead man’s jaw, although Bolan hadn’t taken the time to examine it closely. At least it appeared Trent’s death had been quick—no needless suffering.

Bolan drank some more coffee and stood. “I have to make a call.”

“Certainly,” Crissey said, also standing. “I’d better check in myself.” He showed Bolan to an adjacent room and left.

Bolan punched in the digits of Hal Brognola’s number on the satellite phone. He answered on the second ring, sounding as gruff as ever. “About damn time you called back. What, you enjoying the Hong Kong nightlife, or something?”

“Not hardly,” Bolan said. “I was helping our friends at MI6 clean up a little mess. They lost a couple guys.”

“Oh,” Brognola said. “Sorry to hear that.” He waited a beat, then asked, “You get the package?”

“The Brits are giving it a once-over now, along with a prisoner.”

Brognola grunted an approval. “One of the buyers?”

“Affirmative,” Bolan said. “And he speaks Farsi.”

Brognola swore. “That’s not good. If the Chinese are exporting technology to Iran it could mean big trouble.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think the Chinese government’s involved. If they were, I doubt they’d be using a channel like the Triads.”

“True,” Brognola said. “But it no doubt points to some high level corruption in the PLA.”

Bolan had considered that possibility, as well. Corruption was rampant in China, especially in the government. Having access to the guidance system for an advanced missile would mean somebody who was pretty high up the food chain was complicit.

“Anyway,” Brognola said, clearing his throat. “I’m glad you intercepted it. Good work. So how you doing?”

Bolan smiled in spite of his fatigue. The sound of Brognola shifting gears meant the other shoe was about to drop. “I could use a couple hours’ sleep, but what have you got?”

Brognola laughed, but it sounded forced. “Can’t put nothing over on you, can I?” He cleared his throat again. “Since you got that one about wrapped up, you feel up to another mission?”

Bolan paused as he felt exhaustion seeping through him.

Brognola seemed to take his hesitation as reticence. “I mean, since you’re in the neighborhood and all.”

“Can the Mr. Rogers imitation. What’ve you got?”

Brognola sighed. “You ever hear of a Chinese dissident called Han, Son Chu, aka Sammo Han?”

“Sammo Han,” Bolan said. “Isn’t he that one-armed lawyer?”

“Lawyer, activist, blogging sensation and darling of the free press.”

“Free press?” Bolan said with a chuckle. “In China?”

“The world press, as well. Anyway, he was placed under house arrest two days ago.” Brognola paused and then emitted what sounded like a grunt of pain or pleasure. Bolan imagined him taking a long sip of some of Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman’s god-awful coffee. Bolan drank some of his own coffee and found it weak by comparison.

“Anyway, seems that Sammo Han’s not only a celebrity on the world stage, he’s also valuable to the USA. But word is, the People’s Standing Committee is set to charge him with sedition, lock him up and throw away the key.”

“After they give him a fair trial, you mean.”

“If he even gets to a trial. Most likely he’ll be conveniently killed trying to resist arrest. That Agency team was sent to do an emergency evac from Beijing for him and his family.”

Which was why, Bolan thought, they had no one to follow up on the Iranian/Triad deal, and I had to fill in. “This Sammo Han must have some very valuable intel.”

“Well,” Brognola continued, “everything was set until the team leader, Wayne Tressman, got pinched. He’s in a Chinese prison in Song Jing. Just outside the capital.”

Bolan frowned and thought about the unpleasant prospects of an American intelligence officer being in the custody of the Chinese.

“Any progress through diplomatic channels?”

“So far, the Chinese aren’t even acknowledging that they have him,” Brognola said. “The rest of the team’s still in place, but they’re kind of green and they haven’t made a move yet. I need somebody I can count on to go there and give me a sitrep. Interested?”

Bolan blew out a slow breath. “We talking about a jail break?”

“If the diplomats fail.”

Bolan sighed. “When do they ever succeed?”

Brognola barked another laugh. Two forced laughs in a single conversation. This was getting serious.

“All right,” Bolan said. “When do I leave for Beijing?”

“Aaron’s got you on a flight leaving in four hours.”

“Pretty sure I was going to say yes, weren’t you?”

Brognola snorted. “Let’s just say I had a real strong hunch.”

“Yeah, well if you get any new hunches about the Powerball jackpot,” Bolan said, “buy an extra ticket for me.”

“Hey, that’s not all.”

“You’ve got more good news?”

“Sure do,” Brognola said. “I’ve got help on the way.”

“Who?”

“Grimaldi.”

“Jack?” It was Bolan’s turn to chuckle. “I thought you said you were sending help? Talk about importing a bull into a China shop.”

“Well, he won’t get there for a while. He’s traveling commercial.”

“I pity the pilots.”

“So do I,” Brognola said. “You two will be there as sports journalists covering the World Asia Track and Field Games, not to mention that boxing match a couple of days later. The Chinese world champion is making his professional debut in Shanghai. That should give you guys the run of the place, not to mention a chance to see the fight.”

“Well, for the record,” Bolan said, “I’d settle for a couple cold ones in front of a big flat screen in Vegas.”

Brognola barked a final laugh before his voice took on a more serious tone. “Hey, Striker.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for never letting me down.”

Beijing

GENERAL WONG SU TONG of the People’s Liberation Army stepped out of the jeep and told the underling to wait for him. He was perhaps one block from the entrance to the Forbidden City. The general carried himself with his customary military bearing, proud of the image he projected: a well-built man with the aplomb and power of a professional solider. He worked hard to maintain his sleek, iron physique—despite being in his early fifties—and kept his hair dyed jet-black. A solemn yet serene expression was on his face, even though the icy fingers of incipient and nagging panic were pinching their way up and down his spine.

He hated these subterfuges, these clandestine meetings that Chen insisted upon, but he also understood their necessity. Wong was no stranger to treachery. He knew full well that despite his exalted position in the Central Military Committee, spies were watching his every move. Several members of the all-powerful Standing Committee, who smiled to his face, would love to stick a knife between his ribs if the opportunity presented itself. And if they ever found evidence of his covert dealings, those knives would appear quickly. If he were caught, if his secret dealings with the Triads and his hidden assets were discovered, Wong would be arrested immediately. And no doubt his trial would be both expedient and lethal.

He walked briskly past the throngs of tourists and made his way to the whispering wall. More tourists, some Americans or Europeans, but mostly Chinese, strolled by. No one dared look him in the eye. A group of soldiers passed and saluted. Wong suddenly regretted he hadn’t changed to civilian clothes. His uniform made him stand out like a tiger in a marketplace. But time was of the essence. He paused under the entranceway to the Forbidden City, underneath the massive banner of Mao, and glanced around again. No sign of Chen.

Where was the son of a whore?