Читать книгу Dragon Key - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Chapter One

Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong, commercial waterfront district

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, watched as four men removed a large wooden crate from a black truck. A fifth man stood guard, holding a pistol with a sound suppressor by his side. Bolan was standing in the shadows perhaps forty feet away, flattened against the edge of an abutment. He could hear the men speaking Farsi. So far Brognola’s intel had panned out: these Iranians were up to something in Hong Kong. The five of them had met with a group of Chinese men, Triads from the looks of them, and exchanged a suitcase for the small black truck. Then both groups had gone their separate ways. It had been a juggling act for Bolan to keep both groups under surveillance, even with an assist from MI6. At this point, the lead British agent, John Crissey, had no choice but to split up his team, sending two of his men to follow the Triads with the suitcase while he and Bolan continued with the Iranians.

Crissey kept in radio contact with his men as he and Bolan trailed the truck through the busy night traffic. When the Iranians suddenly pulled into a back alley, Bolan got out of the car and tailed them on foot. They pulled up beside a parked van facing the opposite direction and Bolan gave Crissey a heads-up.

“Get on the other side of this alley,” Bolan said into his throat mic. “They’ve got another vehicle, a blue van, ready to head out.”

“Righto, Cooper,” the Englishman said. As usual, Bolan was using his Matt Cooper alias. Once again he pondered the wisdom of working with MI6, but this time he’d had little choice. They were the established agency in what was once the British territory of Hong Kong, and according to Hal Brognola, Bolan was the only effective asset in the area. If he was in the neighborhood, a nearby assignment was usually waiting in the wings. But all things considered, Crissey and his guys were turning out to be competent and trustworthy.

The Iranians carried the long crate to the rear of the van. It took all of their focus, and Bolan used the opportunity to sneak closer. The Iranians slid the wooden crate inside and three of them hopped in the back with it. The other two slammed the van’s rear doors. They spoke again and looked back at the small truck they’d gotten from the Triads before going around to the front of the van and getting in. It appeared they were going to abandon the black truck. A good move, just in case the Triad had rigged it with an IED or GPS. The van’s engine rolled over and caught. They were taking off. It would be nicer to follow them to their ultimate destination, but Bolan figured it was time to move, in case they lost the van in the Hong Kong traffic. Bolan keyed his radio and spoke into his throat mic.

“Crissey, target’s getting ready to move. You in position?”

“Affirmative.”

“Let’s hit them now.”

“Agreed. Heading in from the far end.”

That was all Bolan needed to hear. It was risky for the two of them to tackle five men who were no doubt armed, but it was also necessary if the intel Stony Man Farm had received was correct: the Iranians were purportedly buying the guidance system for one of China’s DF-21D anti-ship ballistic missiles. The kind the US designated as a “carrier killer.”

Hal Brognola had been most persuasive. “I don’t need to tell you how worried the Navy is about this one. It’s bad enough that the Chinese have them, but if they’re selling the technology to the Iranians, our ships will be sitting ducks in the Persian Gulf.”

Bolan knew Brognola was right. They couldn’t afford to let that kind of technology fall into the Ayatollah’s hands. Still, from what Bolan knew of the Chinese, the possibility that they’d export their technology to the Muslims seemed dubious.

“Cooper,” Crissey said over the radio. “I’m pulling my vehicle up to block the mouth of the alley. Are you ready?”

“Roger that,” Bolan said, and sprang from the shadows. “Moving in now.”

He was wearing black cargo pants and a BDU shirt that fit loosely enough to hide the shoulder rig with his Beretta 93R. He’d forgone combat boots for a lighter sport tactical boot, which afforded him traction and mobility as well as soundless movement. They also packed a pretty good wallop. Bolan pulled the Beretta out of its holster and increased his pace, centering himself directly behind the windowless van so he’d be less visible in the side mirrors. The van began to accelerate toward the mouth of the alley. Bolan ran faster, nearing an all-out sprint. If Crissey wasn’t in position, or if the Iranians decided to ram the Englishman’s car, things could get dicey.

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.