Lethal Risk

He turned and began walking to the door, temporarily blocking the guard’s view of the prisoner.

Blind, unreasoning rage suddenly filled Liao. If what the doctor had said was true—if his family was captured, and him slated to die, with no one possibly knowing where he was and what had happened to him—then he might as well take at least one of them with him.

Liao launched himself off the bed at the doctor’s back. He leaped on the doctor and bore him to the floor, his clutching fingers seeking the other man’s neck. If he could just get his hands around the smug bastard’s throat—

Blinding white stars exploded in his vision and Liao blinked them away, only to find himself lying on the floor, clutching his head. The guard stood over him, his pistol aimed at his face.

“Stop! Do not fire!” Xu said as he picked himself up and straightened his disheveled lab coat. “I do not hold your actions against you, Mr. Liao. In your circumstances, I cannot be sure I would not have reacted in much the same way to this news. I am sure that, given a choice, you would not have wanted it to end this way. However, sometimes we do not have a choice in what happens to us.

“Double the guard on this room, and no one is to attend to him alone,” the doctor said to the guard as he left.

Pistol still aimed at Liao’s face, the guard slowly walked backward to the door and exited, leaving the man bruised, sore and very much alone.

For the next several hours all he did was lie on the floor and weep softly.

CHAPTER THREE

Forty-one hours after the briefing at Stony Man Farm, Mack Bolan sat in the back of a fifty-year-old, olive-drab military truck among a load of crated, bright green melons as it jounced along narrow mountain roads toward the outskirts of Beijing.

Unlike most insertions, this one had been much more difficult. There had to be absolutely no trace back to any US military involvement, which scratched most of the usual methods, such as a HALO drop into the boonies. There was no way the United States was going to risk sending an aircraft into Chinese airspace—it would most likely bring their air force and army down on him.

A commercial flight had been out of the question, as well. Even with an airtight cover, once he began moving through Beijing, any police attention would quickly trace him back to his entry into the country. Even if he had taken a trip through Europe, they would have backtracked him to the United States.

In the end Bolan had hopped on a commercial airliner to Moscow, changed his identity there and then caught a local flight to Irkutsk International Airport, in the middle of Russia. From there, he had taken a dizzying array of transportation modes—including a two-hundred-mile cab ride and a six-hour stretch in the back of a horse-drawn wagon—before reaching Beijing. He’d crossed Mongolia entirely; every time his Russian passport had seen him through.

Bolan had been careful to keep any answers to questions short and to the point. He didn’t have a native Russian accent, and didn’t want to give any customs officers a reason to suspect he was anything more than he was pretending to be: an ordinary Russian businessman traveling to the east.

It wasn’t the most perfect—or direct—plan, but it had gotten him here. Stiff from the many hours of sitting on things from a too short metal bench seat to a wooden wagon bed, he took a moment to stretch, careful not to dislodge any of the harvest surrounding him. Running on about ten hours of sleep total, he was still feeling pretty decent.

Bolan took a deep breath, feeling oddly naked at the moment and even more oddly free. The President had been so paranoid that he hadn’t allowed him any of his usual devices to maintain contact with Stony Man. Since he was in one of the largest cities on Earth, he would have to purchase off-the-shelf items to use for communication. What he did have, in a concealed belt around his waist, was Chinese yuan, and plenty of them. Buying most of his gear wouldn’t be a problem. Using it to find four needles in a gigantic haystack containing more than twenty-two million pieces of hay—that was going to be a problem.

And then, springing them out of wherever they were being held—another problem. Nothing exactly insurmountable, but definitely a challenge. And one Bolan was absolutely up for.

In fact, he felt as disconnected to the rest of the world as possible at the moment, a ghost floating through landscapes and small towns and villages, with no primary base of operations, no backup…and little to no options if he was captured. It was a strangely heady feeling, relying primarily on his skills and wits to sustain him.

The truck slowed and a fist thumped against the back of the cab. That was the driver’s signal—relayed through guessing and pantomime—for Bolan to climb up on top of the old 4x4, as they would be coming to a checkpoint soon. When the driver had stopped for Bolan, who had been walking at the side of the road after hitching a ride with three half-stoned college students on a driving tour through Asia, he’d blinked at Bolan’s attempt to tell his story—a stuck traveler trying to get to Beijing—and paid far more attention to the fistful of money Bolan had held out. He had scrutinized the Executioner carefully, then nodded as he fired off another burst of incomprehensible Mandarin. After a few minutes Bolan had gathered that he wasn’t supposed to have any passengers, so he would have to climb on top when the time came, which was now.

The soldier stood, careful to balance himself against the rocking truck, and headed to the open back. As he did, he wondered idly where the farmer had gotten hold of a battered and patched deuce-and-a-half.

Probably cut a deal with someone unloading surplus military hardware after Vietnam, he thought. Climbing onto the tailgate, he steadied himself against the side for a moment, then reached up and grabbed the flapping canvas roof. He pulled himself up and threw a leg over, then rolled on top, careful to situate himself between two of the metal framing ribs that gave the covering its shape. Lying down would also conceal him from any guards on the ground. Pulling out a knockoff Chicago Cubs baseball cap, he jammed it onto his head, counting on the brim to help conceal his face from security cameras.

The canvas was sun-faded and worn, but held his weight without difficulty. The truck lumbered on for a few more miles, with Bolan enjoying the spring sunlight after almost two days of being cooped up in cramped airplane seats and huddled on narrow benches. He was hungry, too—the last time he’d eaten was about twelve hours ago—and looked forward to getting a bite once they reached the city proper.

As they got closer to Beijing, Bolan noticed the smell first—a thick, acrid odor indicating they had reached the edge of the pollution zone around the city. The surrounding landscape was beginning to change from the foothills that had slowly fallen away from the mountains to the north to long sections of plains interspersed with rolling hills. Signs of habitation were becoming more common as well, with small clusters of single-room homes next to gardens or fields.

The farmer had let Bolan know that he’d be stopping on the outskirts of the city, far from its center. Given how sprawling Beijing was, Bolan knew he was at least an hour from the main city, perhaps two or more. He hoped he’d be able to find a ride into the neighborhood he needed to reach. A Caucasian hitchhiking along the road would definitely attract the wrong kind of attention.

With a grinding of worn gears and a belch of black smoke as the farmer downshifted, the truck began slowing. Bolan risked lifting his head just enough to see what they were approaching. He caught the glimpse of a large, metal-roofed, open pavilion that stretched across the entire highway, with a narrow, long building on one side. It was manned not by the standard police, but by what looked like camouflage-clad soldiers carrying assault rifles.

Damn! Bolan dropped back down, wondering if somehow the military was already on to him. The reams of data Kurtzman and Tokaido had provided had said nothing about the military manning city checkpoints.

The truck was about two hundred yards from the checkpoint and pulling into a line. Bolan gauged the height of the roof as he kept an eye on vehicles being inspected before they were allowed to move ahead. He couldn’t get caught here, before his mission had even really started.

His hope that they were doing a cursory inspection was dashed when a panel truck’s roof and underbody was checked with mirrors on poles. The next few minutes passed agonizingly slowly. There were only two positives to the situation. The first was that the soldiers seemed inclined to stay under the shade of the metal roof. The second was that most cars were content to pass the large truck and move through one of the other faster-moving lanes. Bolan divided his attention between the guards ahead and the traffic behind him. It wouldn’t do to be spotted by several civilians on their way to work.

By now the roofed structure loomed large in his vision; they would be driving under it in the next few minutes. Bolan wondered if the old farmer was sweating as much as he was at the moment, and what he would say if they detected the stowaway atop his vehicle. He wasn’t going to let that happen if he could avoid it, however.

He saw cameras mounted at the corners of the building and cursed. They appeared to be aimed below him, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe I should have stayed inside with the melons, he thought, although the odds of escaping detection there were nonexistent—the guards were doing a thorough job of checking larger vehicles.

By now he was only a few yards away from the roof, which had at least a three-foot gap between the truck’s roof and the bottom of the building’s roof. He was going to have to jump up and swing himself onto it as fast as he could. Any slip-up or hesitation and his mission would be over before it ever really began.

Rising to his hands and knees, Bolan positioned his feet on the nearest metal strut and cast a glance behind him to make sure that no one was watching the truck roof. Five yards…four…three…two… Now!

In one fluid movement he exploded up in a perfectly timed leap. Catching the edge of the roof, he kicked his leg over, rolled onto it and over toward the center. The entire action had taken maybe two seconds.

When he was a few yards in, Bolan flattened himself against the hot metal and listened for any shouts of alarm or honking horns. When he heard no alerts that he had been detected, he rose to a crouch and carefully crept to the other side, listening for the deuce-and-a-half’s diesel engine, laboring at idle underneath him.

The truck inspection seemed to take forever, and Bolan kept glanced back, expecting a shout as a uniformed soldier popped up to arrest him. No one came, however, and eventually he heard the truck’s gears grind as it lurched into motion. Now came the second problem—getting back onto its roof without attracting attention. Ideally, the guards would be facing the incoming traffic, and the other drivers would be more concerned with the soldiers than watching for the unusual sight of a man dropping from the pavilion roof onto an ancient military truck.

The old vehicle pulled out from under the roof and Bolan jumped as soon as he saw the cargo roof. He landed with a bounce, and tried to keep himself as flat as possible, splaying his body as the truck drove away from the checkpoint.

That was too close of an escape, and way too far from my objective, he thought as the skyscrapers of Beijing gradually became visible through the haze of pollution. I’m going to have to disembark and find less conspicuous transportation.

He began looking for a good spot to get off the truck and head into the suburbs.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Jesus H…” Hal Brognola tilted his head back and let the breath he’d been holding out in a long, steady stream. “Nearly scratched the whole op before it even started. That would have been embarrassing as hell.”

Just because the US government had forbidden Stony Man from assisting its man on the ground didn’t mean they weren’t going to keep an eye on him. Using a network of satellites orbiting the globe, the Farm could pinpoint Bolan’s exact location within a five-minute window. The satellite imagery was so crystal clear that they could read magazine print over someone’s shoulder if they had to.

Stony Man Farm had some of the most advanced technology in the world, including specialized computers used to advance weapons the likes of which the US military could only dream about, and yet all of that was worthless because of the parameters of their current mission.

Brognola and Price were standing in the Computer Room behind Aaron Kurtzman and Akira Tokaido, members of Stony Man’s top-notch cyber team. Kurtzman, a burly, bearded man confined to a wheelchair, had a no-nonsense attitude that could rival Brognola’s on a bad day. Tokaido was a laid-back twenty-something Japanese American who lived and breathed the twenty-first-century computing systems he worked with. They could do things with a computer that Price and Brognola could only dream about. But right now, they couldn’t do the one thing the mission controller desperately wanted to happen—somehow reach out through the monitors and wireless signals and burst transmissions to help Mack Bolan.

That was one of the worst things about being the mission controller: having to sit there, safe and sound, in a comfortable room in the United States and watch good men risk their lives fighting against the very worst kind of evil, whether it be terrorists, dictators or even the countless spying eyes of an entire nation’s government, as was happening right in front of her.

And the worst part was that if something went wrong, there wasn’t much Price could do about it. Sure, she could bring in reinforcements—usually—but that didn’t take away the agony of waiting and wondering if they were going to come out alive this time.

And the mingled anticipation and dread of knowing that the next time, they might not. While Price was an expert at weighing the risks and rewards of any given mission, the fact remained that although she didn’t look as if she was ever reacting to any of the various Stony Man operations around the world, the truth was that they always affected her, from the moment they began until the moment they ended.

But she was a professional, and the men who undertook missions for Stony Man were counting on her to do her job, which she took a lot of pride in doing very well. And she would be damned if she let them down even once—even if she had been specifically ordered not to assist.

Right now her lips were pressed tightly together and her arms folded across her chest as she watched Bolan evade the armed guards at the city checkpoint. “And why didn’t we know about these increased security measures?”

Tokaido brought up a two-week-old news article on his thirty-five-inch monitor. “Because there are no accompanying pictures with the data. The article simply stated that specially trained police officers had been assigned to the checkpoints around Beijing. We had no idea they were sending the equivalent of Chinese SWAT team members to stand around and check cars.”

Price nodded, although she would have made someone’s head roll if this had been a critical mistake. It sounded as though there simply hadn’t been a reason to follow up on a relatively innocuous bit of intel. Once again, she was reminded of the hazards of accepting things at face value, particularly when an item in question was on the other side of the world.

“This is flat-out ridiculous, Hal,” she said. “There must be something more we can do from here.”

As she spoke, Price noticed Kurtzman and Tokaido exchange a swift glance before returning their attentions to their stations.

“And that would be what?” Brognola popped two antacid tablets. “I can’t even joke about packing someone inside his suitcase, because he didn’t take one. When I say our hands are tied, our hands are tied.”

The two cyber wizards glanced at each other again and Price sighed. “What? If either one of you has anything pertinent to add to this conversation, now’s the time.”

Tokaido swept back his long hair before replying. “Well, China is one of the most heavily surveilled nations on Earth—”

“Yeah, behind only the US and maybe England,” Kurtzman added.

“Regardless, it is technically feasible to hack their systems and search for a particular face or build. It would even be possible to track said target’s movements throughout the city, allowing us to keep an eye on his movements and interactions.”

“Great, so we can see him get caught by the MSS or the military. There must be something more we can give him from here,” Price said. “Chinese hackers are battering at our firewalls every day. Surely you guys can do more than just get us a look through some cameras?”

Again the two men exchanged glances, then Kurtzman pushed his wheelchair back from his station and turned to face her. “Are you sure you want to continue down this path, Barb? We all know what the orders from Washington stated. So, what exactly would you like us to do?”

Price stared at the bearded computer genius for a few seconds, evaluating him and his question. It sounded as though he was trying to get her to drop it, but he was regarding her with a frank, open stare. She was pretty sure she knew what he was asking, but she had to kick the decision upstairs—in this case, to the man in the rumpled shirt standing next to her, before she could find out.

“Hal?”

He regarded her with a gimlet stare. “You’re the mission controller, Barb. How do you want to proceed?”

“We’re already providing data assistance as the situation develops. I want Bear and Akira to provide whatever mission-critical assistance they can to Striker without being detected.” She waited to see if either Brognola or Kurtzman had picked up on the discrepancy in the two sentences.

“Given the mission parameters, are we providing standard electronic antidetection?” Kurtzman asked. He was referring to the standard erasure that happened during stealth and infiltration missions, where the Stony Man cyber team removed all evidence that their operatives had been on site—altering vehicle logs, looping or deleting surveillance camera footage, deleting fingerprints on file or mug shots where necessary.

That was the lifeline Price needed. She grabbed it. “Yes, especially on this mission. Of course, you both will need to balance that aspect of this op with the mission-critical assistance.”

Kurtzman nodded, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. “Of course we will.”

Brognola held his gaze on Price a few seconds longer, then swiveled his head to look at Kurtzman and Tokaido. “You both heard the lady.”

The computer genius nodded once. “Understood. Now, if you’ll both excuse us—” he wheeled around to face his glowing bank of monitors “—we have work to do.”

“You will, of course, update us on the mission’s status as appropriate?” the big Fed asked.

“Of course. We always do,” Kurtzman replied without looking at him.

“Come on, let’s leave them to their work.” Price turned and headed toward the door, pausing there to make sure he was following her.

Outside, Brognola made sure to close the door to the Computer Room before turning to her. “Did what I think just happened in there happen?”

“That depends. And if you’d prefer to not get an answer you may not like, I’d suggest you not ask the question leading to it.”

“Barbara, you know I’m not against bending the rules when I think the circumstances warrant it.”

“And I can’t think of a better time for that to happen than right now,” she replied. “Aaron gave me the opening I needed to direct them to assist Striker without blowback. He also just gave us plausible deniability if we ever needed it.”

“You realize that if either of those two get caught sneaking around China’s computers, by the book we’d be forced to hang them out to dry, right?”

Price nodded. “Yes. But I don’t see that happening. First, Aaron and Akira are unmatched when it comes to breaking into enemy computer systems, no matter what country. And second, there is no way in hell I would let either of those two men go down as having done something perceived as illegal on my watch. I’ll fight for them every step of the way, if it ever comes to that.”

“Good, then we’re on the same page in that regard.” The big Fed glanced at the closed door a few feet away. “Not that I don’t appreciate what the guys are doing, but they didn’t have to go all cloak-and-dagger on us.”

“That’s what I love about this team, Hal. Everyone helps in the way they think is best.” Price smiled. “Come on. I’ll make us some decent coffee in the farmhouse. It’ll help distract me until the next update.”

“Agreed.” Brognola fell into step beside her as they headed down the hall. “You worried about Striker out there?”

“Yes,” was all she said.

Every time he leaves…

CHAPTER FIVE

Who knew it’d be so damn hard to find a car outside Beijing?

Bolan had put a couple of miles between himself and the checkpoint, staying off the main roads and avoiding anyone he saw coming his way. More than once that had necessitated ducking into the lightly wooded area near the smaller road he was traveling. One time he’d had to drop to his stomach in some tall grass as a trio of giggling girls dressed in what looked like school uniforms walked by a few yards away.

But the farther he got from the countryside, the closer he got to the more populated suburbs—and the harder it was to locate a suitable vehicle to steal. In the country, the only vehicles available were tractors and bicycles. In this area it wasn’t that there weren’t any around, it was just that vehicles were all under lock and key, kept in some kind of building, whether that was a cinder-block garage or a makeshift shack of tin panels.

While Bolan wasn’t worried about breaking into a place to steal a car, he wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible about it. It was hard enough being a six-foot-three-inch man in a country where the average height was five-seven. Add that he was a Caucasian, and it meant that any sighting of him doing anything illegal would be the kind of thing that would definitely stick in the minds of the locals.

The countryside had grown quiet again and Bolan resumed his approach toward a cluster of houses in the near distance. With luck, he could find something here to take him into the city.

The houses were simple, one-story structures with white walls and red-tiled roofs. A moped was parked outside the front doors of several homes. Keeping his head down and his cap brim low on his face, Bolan surreptitiously checked the driveways and lawns of each house as he passed.

A door slamming made him tense and he ducked behind a tree while casting around for the source of the noise. On the next block, a man in a short-sleeved shirt and black tie, and carrying a briefcase, trotted out of the largest house in the area—it had a small second story on it—and headed for his car, a medium-size, well-used sedan. Bolan looked closer and saw that the trunk was ajar, held shut by a length of white cord. Wherever the man was headed, it had to be somewhere more populated, where Bolan could acquire better transportation.

A shout sounded from the doorway and he looked back to see a heavily pregnant woman in a house coat holding what looked like a sheaf of papers in her hand. The man ran back to the doorway and snatched the papers, getting into a brief discussion with his wife, Bolan surmised. But his attention wasn’t entirely focused on them—he was moving toward the car.

The lightly forested grassy area he was creeping through ended in a small green hedge that led almost up to the back end of the sedan. With the couple still talking about something, the soldier crept along the hedge to the trunk, reaching it as the couple’s voices got louder. The rope securing the broken trunk was tied in a simple square knot. Bolan untied it in a few seconds. Now came the tricky part—opening it wide enough to get inside without attracting the couple’s attention. He carefully eased it open just enough for him to squeeze inside, folding himself around the small, bald spare tire and thanking the Universe that this guy didn’t keep his trunk full of crap.