Lethal Risk

Footsteps crunched on the shattered glass from the window and Carstairs looked out to see a pair of wing tips standing next to the wrecked sedan.

Sets of combat boots appeared next to the shoes and a face leaned down to look in at him in surprise. “The American is still alive.”

“Kill him and collect the others,” came a curt reply. “Make it look like the car accident did it.”

The man looking in on him produced a pistol and turned it around so he was holding it by the barrel. Trapped and unable to move, Edward Carstairs watched as, without a word, the Chinese soldier began crawling toward him, pistol held at the ready to bash his skull in.

CHAPTER ONE

“Well, it just goes to show that you can always trust the State Department to take what should be a simple extraction job and screw up the entire thing.”

Mission controller Barbara Price stared at Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, for a long moment before shaking her head. “Coming down a bit hard on State, aren’t you, Hal? It’s one thing to dodge the local police, or even the ministry. It’s another thing to go up against the Chinese military—”

The gruff man sitting across from her snatched the chewed-to-death cigar from his mouth and used it like a big, brown exclamation point as he interrupted her. “Whenever an officer of the United States government is performing his duty in what is perceived as a foreign environment, which by nature should be considered potentially hostile, all necessary precautions must be taken to ensure his safety as well as the safety of those he comes into contact with.”

Brognola stuck the remains of the unlit cigar back into a corner of his mouth. “Above all, the embassy should not send out just one man to collect the family of the biggest potential defector since Tretyakov! Now it’s turned into the largest screwup since Wang Lijun!”

“The hero police chief of Chonqing City, who was also investigated for the organ transplant facility he founded—”

“Organ transplant facility, my ass,” Brognola interrupted again. “Those butchers are harvesting the insides of political prisoners like the Falun Gong and selling them to the highest bidder. They conveniently get rid of their ‘protestors’ once and for all, and make a tidy profit to boot. Wang tried to buy his way into the US with a trove of documents implicating several high-ranking Chinese officials. Supposedly, although we were never able to confirm this, those documents were instrumental in taking down power politician Bo Xilai. And when State gets the chance to pull in someone who’d make Wang’s knowledge look like peanuts, they bungle the whole thing from the start. Now he’s in the wind and nobody knows where the family went! Balcius will be lucky to keep his job after all this. Not to mention we have to go in and somehow clean up this unholy mess.”

“Well, we’re good at that,” Price reminded him.

“I know, I know. But Striker’s going to have to stay so far under the radar on this one he might as well tunnel into Beijing. We can’t afford to let this spiral into an international incident. We’re just lucky the Chinese also want to keep this as quiet as we do. The black eye on relations between the two countries would take years to fade.”

Price looked down at her tablet, hiding a smile. She didn’t blame Brognola for his irascible attitude. As the Farm’s liaison to the President and a head honcho at the Justice Department, the big Fed had to wade into the alphabet soup that was Washington, DC, on a daily basis to try to glean whatever useful intel he could from the multitude of often-bickering departments on the Hill.

“What’s Striker’s ETA?”

“We sent him the Priority One message—” Price consulted her watch “—nine minutes ago. I’m sure Cowboy and he are double-timing it back.” She referred to John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s premier weaponsmith.

As if in confirmation of her statement, her tablet pinged with a message from Akira Tokaido, a top hacker and member of the Farm’s cyber team.

Striker inbound. Coming your way in 10 seconds.

“He’s on his way here right now,” she confirmed, making sure her presentation was ready.

They both looked up as Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, strode into the War Room carrying a ceramic mug. “Barbara. Hal,” he said, greeting each of them with a nod.

As he slid into a high-backed leather chair, Bolan blew on the mug of steaming coffee and sipped it cautiously, grimacing as he swallowed. “Just when I thought I was used to Bear’s brew, he changes it up on me.” He glanced at Brognola with a raised eyebrow. “Sure you don’t want a cup, Hal? It’ll take the edge off.”

“Bear” was Aaron Kurtzman, who was as good with making Stony Man’s computers do everything but sit up and dance as he was bad at brewing remotely drinkable coffee.

“Yeah, that and ten years off my life.” Brognola had already pulled out the other indispensable aid he was never without, a roll of antacid tablets, and thumbed a pair into his mouth. “Keep that damn cup as far away from me as possible. The smell’s bad enough. I’d hate to have to actually drink it.”

Despite the potentially top-secret materials they were about to discuss, Price watched the two men sparring with an internal grin. Between them, Bolan and Brognola had carried the fight for justice and freedom to all four corners of the globe, and knew each other better than any person alive. Even she wasn’t privy to all parts of their relationship, which was fine by her. Some things were best left alone.

“Barbara, why don’t you fill Striker in on the mess we’ve found ourselves in, courtesy of those jackasses over at State?”

Barely resisting rolling her eyes, Price exchanged an it’s-gonna-be-one-of-those-days glances with Bolan as she started her program deck.

On the large flat-screen monitor at the end of the room, a man’s face appeared in a candid shot taken as he was walking down a busy street. He was Chinese, dressed in an expensive suit, and had the look of someone who appeared at ease on the surface but carrying a heavy internal load.

“Three months ago, a midlevel employee at our US Embassy in Beijing was approached by a man claiming to work at the highest levels of the Chinese government,” Price began. “He wanted to defect to the United States with his family, and was willing to provide a vast amount of information on everything China is involved in, from their military plans for the rest of South Asia and beyond, to top-secret economic programs being executed around the world.”

Bolan frowned. “Almost seems too good to be true. Who is he?”

“Zhang Liao. A career politician, his family’s made its fortune at the top of the Chinese government for the past four generations,” Price replied. “The Liao family has showed a particular aptitude for reading the political winds and shifting with them. No member has ever been caught in a scandal or punished as part of a change in the government. They even survived the incident in Tiananmen Square with their reputation intact, when most of the rest of the government suffered from the fallout.”

“So why the sudden change of heart?” Bolan asked.

“Liao said that he feared the course the current government was taking would lead inexorably to war, whether that be with Taiwan, or any of a half-dozen other countries, over the Spratly Islands, or the recent dustup with Vietnam over territorial waters, or even Japan, which has been flexing its military muscle recently, most likely to avoid the appearance of weakness. He even brought up the possibility of a military plan that could eventually bring in the other superpowers. He didn’t divulge any more details, but said he could provide proof that China was taking steps to expand its influence and power over the other countries in the region and beyond.”

“No kidding.” Brognola grunted. “The buildup of the Chinese military on the Indian border has the Indians alternately rattling sabers one minute while selling them trade goods the next. And the Chinese are practically buying Africa wholesale as it is, pouring billions into power grid and other infrastructure projects and dams in the interior. Those poor nations who think they’re getting a great deal right now don’t understand the bill that will come due afterward. The Chinese are masters of the long game—they don’t do anything without factoring in the ramifications years from now.”

While Bolan listened to Brognola, his eyes hadn’t left the picture of Liao’s face. “I assume standard verification and cross-referencing protocols were followed?”

“To the letter. Everything he starting feeding us to prove his bona-fides checked out,” Price said. “He gave us advance intel on troop movements for a buildup near Tibet pending a new crackdown on independence seekers there, and was also able to give us their previously unseen action plan for Taiwan, which involves them taking control of the country within the next decade.”

“Not much of a surprise there,” Bolan replied. “Any half-decent analyst could sift what we already know and come up with the same conclusion.”

“Yeah, but predicting’s one thing. Proof is something else entirely,” Brognola said. “This guy could give us enough intel to blunt or at least slow the intended Chi-Com advance across Asia for the next couple of decades.”

The corner of Bolan’s mouth quirked up at the old reference to the Chinese Communist Party. “Okay, so where is he?”

“He’s missing,” Price stated. “Although State claims they followed every protocol and procedure by the book—” Price couldn’t resist glancing at Brognola to see if he was going to chime in, but he held his peace “—the scheduled attempt to take him into US custody and begin the asylum process never got started. He was supposed to lose any government watchers and enter our embassy secretly three days ago. He never showed.”

“Are we sure that State didn’t just get cold feet again, like they did with Wang Lijun?” Bolan asked. “As I recall, the US turned down his asylum request because the government didn’t want to embarrass the Chinese so close to their VP’s visit to the States. Isn’t it possible this is along those same lines, and now State’s just covering its ass?”

“I could go along with that, if what I’m about to tell you hadn’t happened two nights ago,” Brognola said around his unlit cigar. “With typical State ham-fistedness, they sent one guy out to pick up his family.”

An American face appeared on the screen with vitals listed next to it. “Edward Carstairs. Good man, ex-Army, smart as hell, 99th percentile on his AFQT, but new to the region,” the big Fed continued. “The suits thought he’d be perfect, since he wasn’t known to anyone there yet. He made the pickup of Liao’s family—the embassy got a verified text from his phone, and also traced it to Liao’s home address two nights ago, but they never made it back.”

Price brought up the next slide, showing a totaled sedan that had been T-boned with a vengeance. “The official story is that the car was in an accident—which fits at first glance. Except the usual driver of the car was missing and hasn’t been seen anywhere since. Carstairs’s body was the only one found at the scene, although hairs and fiber samples showed there were at least two other people in the car with him.”

Bolan’s gaze had narrowed at the news. “How did he die?”

“Our embassy sent out a press release stating that he died in a car accident,” Price replied. “Forensic autopsy showed he suffered multiple blunt force traumas to the head, causing a cerebral edema that ultimately killed him.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Bruises on his hands and arms showed that he attempted to defend himself during the assault.”

“The bastards beat him to death,” Bolan said.

“I’m afraid so,” Price confirmed. “The whereabouts of Liao’s family is currently unknown.”

“And what are we supposed to do about it?”

“Officially, nothing, of course—even for us,” Brognola said then took a deep breath. “Unofficially, the President wants one man to go in, locate Liao’s family and him and get them all out of the country.”

“One person?”

Brognola nodded. “That’s right. But wait, it gets better. Although the White House has classified Liao a Priority One target, I’ve been ordered not to give you any backup or even support while you’re in-country. The potential risk of trace-back to assets in the US, or to any in-place assets is deemed too high, so you’ll be completely on your own. No extraction if the op gets blown and no aid if you get caught. I raised as much holy hell as I could, but the Man is holding firm.

“You have to be false flagged, in case you’re caught, so the blowback will be aimed at another country. Given your knowledge of the language, I think we’ll have to go Russian, maybe even Georgian. An operative tasked with getting to Liao before the US does.”

Bolan snorted. “That cover won’t hold up to a sneeze. There’s no way the Georgians would be able to penetrate Chinese intelligence that deeply. Assuming that we’re going forward, we’d best make this come straight down from Moscow. At the very least, if it did get exposed, it might make the President feel a little more paranoid about his neighbor to the east, and vice versa.”

“Of course, you’re going to do your damnedest not to get caught.”

“As always,” Bolan replied. “Besides, I’ve heard enough about Chinese prisons that I have no desire to see what one looks like up close.” He watched as Price and Brognola exchanged glances. “What?”

“Well, regardless of whether you want to or not, you’re heading into a Chinese prison anyway.” The mission controller flipped to another slide. “We’ve located Liao—inside Qincheng Prison.”

Bolan stared at the overhead satellite view of the prison built with cooperation from the Soviets during the 1950s. “Well, at least they won’t suspect anyone trying to break into the place.”

“Yes, that may be your only advantage,” Price said. “Bear and Akira are working up an infiltration plan as we speak. They’ll work this mission exclusively.”

“Well, then, there isn’t much else to say, is there?”

Bolan put both hands on the table and started to rise, but caught Brognola’s troubled look. “If you chomp that cigar any harder, Hal, you’ll end up eating half of it. What’s on your mind?”

To her surprise, Price saw something very rare—a hesitant reply from Hal Brognola. “Striker, you can always refuse this mission. We’ve done a lot over the years, you and me. Pounded a lot of ground, kicked in a lot of doors.”

“And did a lot of good along the way, too,” Bolan reminded him.

The big Fed nodded. “I know, I know. And normally, I’d be the first person backing you wherever you needed to go to complete the mission. I get it, and I get the risks you and the others take every time you’re in the field. But this one…” He spread his hands helplessly. “I just have a bad feeling about it. You’re sticking your head right into the dragon’s maw, and all by your lonesome, too. Shit, I don’t even think the embassy can help you if you get in a jam over there. You can say no.”

“Hal, you know I wouldn’t refuse a mission the President thinks is important. And if the intelligence this man can deliver gives us the edge in dealing with the Chinese —and can prevent them from starting a war in the region—then it’s worth the risk,” Bolan replied. “I’ve executed enough missions with minimal equipment going in before. Besides, it’s Beijing. I’m sure there’s a thriving black market that will supply me with everything I need at only modestly exorbitant prices.”

“Be that as it may, Striker, this whole thing is starting to stink to me. We should consider the possibility that this is a trap, that this Liao could be a double-agent dangled in front of the US in the hope of catching us in the act.”

“Hal—” Bolan regarded the big Fed soberly for a moment “—I go into just about every foreign country thinking someone’s gunning for me, because usually someone is. But the day I let that stop me from doing what we think is right is the day I hang it up for good.”

“All right, I’ve said my piece.” Brognola turned to Price. “Do you have anything to add?”

The Farm’s mission controller cleared her throat. “Given the potential difficulties of you not having access to your usual assets in the field, I’ve taken the liberty of working up a mission profile that would at least have you working with someone over there that could ease your way. He would have to travel as a tourist and rendezvous with you in the city itself—”

“If you’re going to say John Trent’s name, forget it,” Bolan interrupted her. “He almost got killed in one of Stony Man’s ops. I’m not saying he wouldn’t help, but it’s pretty clear to me that the President would pitch a fit if he even got a whiff of a civilian being involved. It wouldn’t matter anyway. This one’s too big for John, and that’s not a slight. It’s going to have to be me—and me alone—going in.”

Price grinned as part of Brognola’s tortured cigar hit the conference table.

“Don’t worry, Hal. I’ll be back before you know it. The good news in all this is that they have no idea I’m coming. If Liao is already in custody, they probably think the matter’s over already. You’d be surprised at how much I can get done in those circumstances. Just make sure that cover jacket is airtight. The last thing we need is anyone in China getting even a hint that there’s a US operative in their midst.”

Price slid a flash drive across the table to him. “This contains all of the data that Bear and Akira have been able to find so far. It’s a thirteen-hour flight from DC to Moscow, where you’ll officially launch from, so hopefully they’ll be able to ascertain where Liao’s family is being held in that time. Do you have any questions?”

“Just one,” the Executioner replied. “When do I leave?”

CHAPTER TWO

Zhang Liao’s eyes fluttered open and he blinked at the soft white light shining down on him from the ceiling.

Turning his face away from the glow, he licked his dry lips and tried to swallow through a parched throat. His mouth also tasted sour and fuzzy, as though he’d been asleep for a long time. His head was pounding and slow, too, as if he’d just tied several on at the bar before going home. Liao didn’t drink, however—a rarity among Chinese. He preferred to keep his mind sharp to navigate the intricate corridors of power and deals within deals he had been trained to handle since he was a teenager.

So, if he hadn’t had anything to drink…what had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was leaving his office for what would have been the last time…

The embassy!

He was supposed to be going to the US Embassy to defect, but something had happened on the way… He had been jostled by a stranger, and that was the last thing he could remember.

Reaching up to touch his forehead as he tried to recall what had happened to him, Liao got another surprise upon seeing his bare arm, which was usually dressed in an English-cut, button-down Oxford shirt. His eyes widened in surprise when he looked down to realize he was now dressed in a paper-thin hospital gown.

His gaze traveled the rest of the room, taking in the metal-framed hospital bed he was laying on, the sterile, bare walls surrounding him, the door that appeared to lead to a small washroom, the safety-wired glass window with drawn curtains, and the security-locked, handleless door that was keeping him from leaving. Instinctively he sucked in a breath of the slightly metallic-tasting air as he realized that wherever he was, he was a prisoner.

He looked down to the left at a cheap pressboard nightstand next to his bed, and right, where a wheeled tray sat with what looked like a call button on it. With cold fear starting to swirl in the pit of his stomach, Liao tested his legs and found that they worked just fine. Swinging them over the side, he got up, steadied himself as a wave of dizziness crashed over him, and walked to the washroom.

Everything in here was either stainless steel—like the toilet and sink, which were both bolted to the wall—or plastic, like the water cup, which was so flimsy it couldn’t be used for anything other than its intended purpose. Liao drank two cups of flat, warm water, and washed his mouth out with another cupful. He splashed some water on his face, feeling somewhat refreshed at the wet sensation, then dried himself with the small rough-cotton cloth sitting on the side of the sink.

With nothing left to do, he returned to the bed and sat. Spotting the window again, he got up and walked over to it, moving the blinds aside just enough to peek out.

As he’d feared, it didn’t show the outdoors. Instead it looked out onto a drab hallway, where men and women in drab-colored scrubs bustled back and forth down the corridor. One additional thing that he knew most hospitals didn’t have: the armed guard standing outside his door.

What is this place? he wondered. Where am I?

Just then the door clicked and swung inward, making him scoot back toward the bed. A man in a doctor’s white coat and dark maroon scrubs walked in, followed by the armed guard he had seen outside his room. The doctor, carrying a computer tablet under his arm, was probably a decade younger than him, his black hair already receding from his forehead buzzed short so he didn’t have to worry about it. The guard was even younger, maybe midtwenties and, from what Liao could see, in excellent physical shape. He was also well armed, with a holstered black pistol on the belt at his waist and a stubby submachine gun hanging from a strap over his shoulder. He stood stiffly just inside the door and never took his eyes off Liao.

“Mr. Liao, so good to see you awake!” the doctor said in Cantonese, forcing Liao to focus on him. “I hope you have been comfortable during your stay.”

Liao frowned at the man’s seemingly easy manner. “Who are you? Where am I? What is going on here?” He rose from the bed as he asked the last question, making the guard step forward.

Without turning, the doctor raised his hand, gesturing for the guard stop in his tracks.

His expression sobered and he motioned for Liao to sit.

“Very well. You wish answers, and there is no reason to keep them from you. I am Dr. Chen Xu, head of surgery here at the Guaw Li transplant facility. You are Zhang Liao, a government employee turned traitor and attempted defector. Instead of holding a trial, which could prove very embarrassing to the government, they have delivered you to me.”

“What?” Liao’s heart sank. “There must be some mistake,” he said, his brow creasing in confusion.

The doctor smiled. “Oh, no. If you are brought here, then there was a very good reason. But do not worry about trying to contact anyone. This facility has been built over the past decade at great cost and secrecy, to avoid public embarrassments like what has happened with other facilities of the same type.”

“And what is to happen now?” Liao asked, even though he had a terrifying feeling he knew the answer.

Xu consulted his tablet, flicking through screens with his finger. “Well, we still have to run a few tests to get a sense of just how healthy you are—your blood work came back with excellent results, by the way.” He looked down at Liao and all trace of human warmth or compassion was gone from his demeanor. “And once those are completed to our satisfaction, we will sedate you and harvest as many of your internal organs as possible.”

Liao stared at the doctor for a long moment. He’d heard what the man said, but it was as if his brain refused to comprehend the words. His mouth opened and closed as he struggled to come to terms with what was going on. “But…you can’t…what about my family?”

Xu checked his watch, as casually as if making sure he wasn’t running behind in his appointments. “By now, they are no doubt in the hands of the Ministry of State Security. But do not worry, Mr. Liao, you will provide a far greater service to your country and its people in death than you ever did in life.”