DRAGON’S LAIR

When an American operative is jailed, Mack Bolan must finish the agent’s mission to smuggle a Chinese activist and his family out of the country. But getting the dissident away alive becomes a logistical nightmare for Bolan and the two inexperienced CIA agents assisting him. Not only are the Chinese authorities on their tail, but the activist insists on retrieving a stolen flash drive in Shanghai.

The memory key contains sensitive information belonging to a renegade general. As determined to recover the data as the dissident is, the general has hired a legendary assassin famous for eliminating anyone who gets in his way. In a battle where only one champion can survive, Bolan may have met his match. But the Executioner is used to fighting against overwhelming odds and has something much more important on his side—justice.

“Do you have any weapons?”

Huang pulled back his jacket, exposing a Walther PPK .380.

“I’ve got one, too.” Kelly began to dig through her handbag.

Bolan glanced at his watch. It was 16:25. They had a few more hours until Grimaldi’s flight was scheduled to land. “Let’s go check out the prison. I want to see what we’re dealing with.”

Huang and Kelly exchanged a look. Bolan sensed they were holding something back. He stared at Huang. “What else do you want to tell me?”

Huang glanced at the woman again, licked his lips, then said, “When Wayne and I were talking to Han, he refused to go with us. He insisted he has to stay in China until he gets some issues resolved. He just wants to make sure his family is safe.”

“He’s not worried about his impending arrest?”

Huang shrugged. “He said he had some kind of...insurance policy.”

Dragon Key

Don Pendleton

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

—Benjamin Franklin,

Poor Richard’s Almanack

Nothing is more dangerous than someone whose ugly secrets are about to be revealed. But once the truth comes out, it’s time for justice.

—Mack Bolan

THE

LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quote

Legend

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Copyright

Prologue

Hong Kong, warehouse district

It was a matter of honor, the Praying Mantis thought as he moved in the semidarkness of the alley. That was how Mr. Chen, his master, had described this mission to him. Honor and tradition... Two things that were very important to the Triad, and thus to the Mantis, as well.

Duty is preceded by honor, he thought.

He dragged his left foot and leaned heavily on a long walking stick. Just another Hong Kong beggar out for a night’s work, going through garbage cans and asking for handouts. The long overcoat felt cumbersome, but it was a necessary disguise. He mimicked a limp as he drew nearer to the rear entrance of the warehouse, closer to the two guards who stood there in their casual contempt. They were young Chinese, cocky and full of themselves. Chong should have chosen better. They both wore finely tailored navy suits with black silk ties and sunglasses, even though it was close to midnight and the sun would not shine again for hours. For these two it was all about the image. Chinese gangsters trying to emulate what they saw in some John Woo movie. All image and no substance. The Mantis flexed his abdominal muscles in anticipation, but he doubted these two would present much of a problem. Vanity was not a desirable quality in an enforcer or bodyguard. Sunglasses at night.

It doesn’t matter, the Mantis thought. The sun will never shine upon them again.

He stepped closer, leaning on the long stick, still dragging his left foot, his face streaked like a tiger with black camo paint.

“Can you spare some change for a poor, old, crippled man?” he said in a distorted voice, imbuing the Mandarin with a rural twang. He let his lips creep into a smile as he moved within striking distance, holding out his cupped palm.

The closest one twisted his mouth into a snarl as he stepped out from the doorway and cocked back his hand, ready to deliver a harsh blow to the old beggar.

“Get out of here, you peasant son-of-a—”

The Mantis thrust the fingers of his cupped hand upward into the soft area at the base of the guard’s neck. As the man made a gurgling sound and stumbled to the side, the Mantis pivoted to the left, bringing the stick upward with three consecutive blows, striking the second guard’s groin, abdomen and throat. The Mantis pivoted again, this time to the right, using a spinning back kick. The heel of his right foot smashed into the first guard’s face and the man crumpled. The second guard was on his knees, struggling to reach under the lapel of his finely tailored suit when the Mantis delivered a lightning-quick blow—a palm strike to the side of the man’s head—sending his temple crashing into the sharp edges of the brick doorway. He collapsed to the ground, as well.

After assuring himself that both men were dead, the Mantis dragged the bodies behind a pair of garbage cans and quickly went through their pockets. He removed a pistol from each and a radio from the second man. The Mantis dropped the weapons into the pockets of his overcoat and held the radio in his hand as he went back to the door. It was unlocked.

He slipped into the dark interior and divested himself of the heavy overcoat and stick. It would be close quarters from this point onward. Underneath the overcoat he wore his customary working clothes: a black jumpsuit made of soft, double-knit fabric that allowed for his high kicks and quick movements. Over the jumpsuit was a leather vest equipped with several slit-like pockets, each pocket containing a special weapon. The Mantis had heard that in olden times, a Triad enforcer’s vest would be lined with finely wrought iron mesh. Despite his affinity for tradition, this vest was lined with Kevlar. As he stood in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust, he thought about taking the guns but decided to leave them. This was, after all, a matter of honor. The traditional ways should dominate.

The Mantis stepped forward, the soles of his shoes making virtually no sound as he moved over the solid concrete floor. The warehouse was fully stocked with barrels of rice, but devoid of workers. He imagined Chong had paid off any security guards so the meeting could continue unobstructed. Chong was thorough, but like most traitors, not thorough enough. Following the five of them from the docks had been almost too easy.

He heard their voices now.... Low, guttural sounds interspersed with laughter. Several men were talking, more concerned with money than vigilance. The Mantis moved soundlessly down an aisle with metal barrels stacked on either side.

The voices grew louder. More laughing. One of them was Chong. The Mantis was sure of it. At the corner he paused and flattened against the barrels, tilting his head slightly so he could glance down the aisle. A man stood at the other end, perhaps ten meters away, his silhouette in a position of alertness, holding a submachine gun.

The Mantis smiled. This guard, too, was wearing sunglasses.

Moving behind the wall of barrels, the Mantis flicked the outside pocket of the vest and felt the sharpened edge of a throwing dart. This guard was a large man, probably chosen for intimidation rather than his skill, but size did not always matter. The Mantis cocked his arm and closed his eyes for a moment of concentration.

He opened his eyes, stepped to his left using a smooth, fluid movement and threw the dart. A split second later the guard’s head jerked back, the jagged edge of the throwing dart protruding from the opaque lens over his left eye. His hand started up toward his head but stopped. His mouth sagged open, dribbling a trail of blood. As the big guard began to fall forward, the Mantis covered the distance between them and caught the man before he hit the floor. With a quick finger jab to the man’s throat, the Mantis made sure the guard would not recover. The guard made a short choking sound, a death rattle, and was silent. The Mantis laid him onto the cold concrete floor and removed the machine gun from the dead man’s hands. It was an HK MP5. A fine weapon, but he set it aside.

“Make them suffer for their treachery,” Master Chen had said. “Make an example of them.”

The Mantis peered around the edge of the stacked barrels. One more guard stood perhaps fifteen meters away, holding another MP5. A portable light had been set up in the middle of a clear section of the floor. Chong and another man sat in the bright circle of light at a small folding table piled with stacks of money. This second man wore tiny oval glasses as his fingers worked nimbly over an abacus. Leo Kim, Mr. Chen’s personal accountant in Hong Kong. This was an unexpected development. Two traitors would die tonight.

The Mantis removed another dart then scanned the surroundings. Nothing moved in the shadows of the warehouse. The two men’s voices, their laughter, their squeals of delight as they counted the money, floated from the table like joyful butterflies.

This guard should be the last one, the Mantis thought. Kim would be too scared to bring any associates. He was a mouse, feeding on the crumbs left by others.

The Mantis traced his thumb over the sharpened point of the dart, the finely honed edge grating softly against each minute ridgeline. He breathed in and out, listening, melting into the darkness and shadows, watching, waiting...

Something flickered on the other side of the room. A man, another guard, stood in the shadows. He stepped forward and the Mantis appraised him: well muscled, dark clothing and no sunglasses decorating his pockmarked face. This one was obviously in charge. The boss guard. He raised a portable radio to his mouth and asked, “Deng, do you see anything?”

The Mantis stepped back. Perhaps it would be prudent to use one of the guns after all. This new guard was obviously more competent than the others. Kim must have brought him along, just in case. The mouse bringing a cat to keep him safe. The irony was obvious. This bastard would probably just as soon cut Kim’s throat and steal his money as protect him.

The room grew silent. No one had responded. The boss guard spoke into the radio again. “Deng, you idiot, where the hell are you?”

The seconds ticked by with no answer.

The Mantis thought again about picking up the submachine gun. But his master’s honor was at stake. Mr. Chen was not his sifu, but Chen had taken him in from the streets, raised him, taught him the way of the Triad and the code of the warrior and had made sure he had the best schooling in all manners of martial combat.

The Mantis took out another dart.

The boss guard reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stainless steel, semiauto Norinco Type 54 pistol as he stepped into the circle of light and toward the other guard, who was now gripping his submachine gun with both hands.

The Norinco’s shiny finish gleamed in the harsh light. The Mantis liked shiny things.

“See if everything’s all right,” the boss guard said. “Find out why they aren’t answering. And take off those damn sunglasses.”

The other guard nodded and turned, his dominant hand pulling the glasses off. As he did so, the Mantis stepped forward and threw the first dart. The guard’s hand froze in front of his face, still holding the glasses, the end of the dart protruding from his right eye socket. He sunk to his knees and fell forward, his face smacking against the concrete.

The boss guard raised his pistol, but it was too late. The second dart was already on its way, striking him in the neck, just below his jawbone. He twisted and reached for the dart, firing off a few quick but random shots.

The Mantis burst forward, taking three long, running steps and jumping in the air. He sailed past Kim and clipped Chong with a flying kick. Landing on the other side of the table, the Mantis delivered a three-kick combination to the gurgling boss guard. The last roundhouse kick smacked against the man’s throat, driving the dart in deeper and sending him toppling backward. The Mantis glanced at the two traitors. Chong was shaking his head, trying to clear it. Kim, the mouse, just sat there holding his hands in front of his face, which held an image of frozen horror. Shifting on the balls of his feet, the Mantis delivered three successive back-fist blows to Chong’s face, and then he swept a knife-hand back and smashed Kim’s nose, sending his glasses askew and knocking him to the ground.

The Mantis flicked his hand to another pocket of the vest and withdrew a folding knife. A butterfly, or balisong, as the Filipinos called it. It was not a Chinese weapon, but it was one of the Mantis’s favorites. He’d grown up watching Hong Kong actors manipulate the handles and blades in martial arts movies, and had adopted the knife as his own.

Flipping the balisong open with one hand, he whirled and stepped over the boss guard’s supine body. The man appeared to be dead, but the Mantis slashed his throat just to be sure.

Chong was on all fours, groaning and trying to get to his feet. The Mantis stepped back and sent a quick, thrusting front kick to the side of Chong’s head. He collapsed. The traitor appeared to be unconscious as the Mantis checked him for weapons and found a small, silver-colored .380 in his jacket pocket. The Mantis recognized the gun. Chen had given it to Chong when he’d first joined the Triad.

I will return it to the master, the Mantis thought.

Dropping Chong’s limp form, the Mantis reached down and grabbed the front of Kim’s shirt, pulling the accountant toward him.

“You had Mr. Chen’s trust,” the Mantis said, twisting the shirt so it choked off Kim’s air supply. “He will not be pleased when he hears of your betrayal.”

“I did not know,” Kim said, his voice creaking between gasps.

The Mantis cast a quick glance at the stacks of money, the open briefcases and the abacus. “You didn’t know...”

Kim nodded rapidly, his head bobbling up and down like a toy doll on a spring.

“So you brought your abacus to count roaches in this warehouse?” the Mantis said. He pulled the accountant closer. “You have betrayed my master, and you’ve offended me with your puerile lies.” He put the point of his knife to the accountant’s neck. “You deserve to die slowly for your treachery, but luck has favored you tonight, old man.”

Kim blinked and his lips twisted into something resembling a hopeful smile.

“You’ll spare me?” he asked. His eyes glowed with a sudden hopefulness.

The Mantis stared back. “No, you will die quickly instead of slowly.” He plunged the blade into the softness of Kim’s neck, watching the expression of hope fall away, accompanied by the fading light in the other man’s eyes.

The Mantis dropped the accountant and turned to Chong, who had regained consciousness but was still on the floor. He looked upward with an expression of terror, then his mouth twitched slightly.

“Lee Son Shin?” Chong said. “Is that you?”

The Mantis said nothing.

“Lee, it’s me. Chong Se Hu.” He flashed a nervous smile.

The Mantis remained silent.

“Help me,” Chong said. “Please. Let me go.”

The Mantis did not move.

“Please, Lee.” Chong managed to sit up, get to his hands and knees. “We’re friends. Like brothers.”

“Brothers do not disgrace themselves for a bowl of rice,” the Mantis said. “Stay on your knees.”

Chong’s face twisted into a grimace. His eyes stared up at the Mantis, then his lips parted in a sly smile. “You’re angry, aren’t you? I don’t blame you. But look.” He managed to steady himself and gestured toward the stacks of money. “There’s enough there for both of us. Enough to start over, in another place. We can both be rich men. No more taking orders, risking our lives. A chance to start over. For Son Yin, as well.”

The Mantis glared down at him. “Do not mention her name.”

Chong looked up, his eyes widening. “Don’t you see?”

“I see a traitor,” the Mantis said. “One who must be punished.”

“Lee, no. Please. No.” Chong bowed his head. “I beg you.”

Tears rolled down the other man’s cheeks.

“How much did they pay you?” the Mantis asked. “The Iranians.”

Chong shook his head. “More than you can imagine. Take the money, Lee. Take it all, but please, let me live. We’re friends.”

The Mantis watched Chong grovel, remembering their shared childhood in Beijing. The long journey together... After his parents died, the Mantis, his sister and Chong had sneaked onto train after train until they’d arrived in Hong Kong. They’d lived on the streets before Master Chen had found them. Chong had been the first one Chen had discovered and assisted, then Chong had opened the door for Lee. But now none of that was important. All that mattered was duty and honor.

“Do not disgrace yourself further,” the Mantis said. “Show me your fidelity.”

Chong, the tears still streaming down his face, raised his left hand, curving his little finger under and extending the other three in a gesture indicating loyalty. The Mantis watched the traitor, letting the gravity of his betrayal, and the knowledge of what was to come, settle over him like a shroud.

“Please, Lee,” Chong said. “At least make it quick.”

The Mantis watched the blade gleaming in the artificial light a few seconds more, and then grabbed the three extended fingers with his left hand.

“I will,” he said, and squeezed the handles of the balisong tightly.

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.

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?

The past week had been a disaster. The deal with the Iranians, the stolen payoff money, the missing guidance system and, most of all, the loss of his personal flash drive, the dragon key. His whole life, as well as his future, was on that device. It contained all the bank account numbers and passwords to his secret accounts in Hong Kong and Zurich, the special accounts his brother-in-law, Yoon, had set up for him. The accounts that assured he would be richer than he ever imagined when he eventually left the PLA, and China, for good.

He silently cursed the woman who’d stolen it from him, and his own stupidity for being so drunk and infatuated with her red-haired beauty that he hadn’t immediately caught the substitution. But she had been so very talented, and the copy was so exact...

The fingers of his right hand momentarily went to the chain around his neck, the chain that always held the flash drive, disguised as a dragon’s head. Now it held the ersatz dragon key—the one the Russian had substituted. How had she known about it, much less taken the real one and replaced it with an exact duplicate?

Although the device was protected with a password, there was a slight possibility that someone might eventually breach the code. The Politburo Standing Committee would certainly have people who could do it. So would the Americans. He wondered which would be worse. The Americans would no doubt blackmail him, but the Committee would publically rend him limb from limb.

“General,” a soft voice said.

Wong looked around, but saw no one except the pretty Chinese girl smiling at him on the opposite side of the nearest obelisk. He could barely hear her above the cacophony of the milling crowd.

“General,” the girl said again.

Wong squinted at her and raised an eyebrow.

“The man you seek awaits inside the Hall of Eternal Harmony.”

She had to be one of Chen’s girls, Wong thought. He took another moment to appraise her. Her dark hair was long and fell like a curtain over part of her face. It was a pretty face, and although she wore pants and a loose-fitting shirt, Wong could tell her figure was excellent. The old, fat Triad leader liked to send young, fetching creatures to do his bidding. The general had no doubt she could most likely slice a man’s throat as soon as seduce him. He tugged the corner of his mouth into a slight smile, nodded to her and went to meet Chen. An interior meeting was eminently preferable to outside, where the prying eyes of the Committee could be hiding among the throngs of tourists.

He strode through the gate, bypassing a line of people at the ticket booth. A guard saw him and immediately came to attention as Wong walked past. Inside, the Forbidden City was divided into a complex of beautiful courtyards and ceremonial halls.

Wong stopped at the entrance to the Hall of Eternal Harmony and shook a cigarette out of his pack. He lighted it and drew deeply as he glanced around. The girl who had whispered to him was walking about thirty meters behind with two men, both dressed in loose-fitting jackets. Obviously they were Chen’s security team. He never went anywhere without one, and Wong could hardly blame him.

The son of a whore is cautious and thorough, he thought.

Wong took a few more drags on the cigarette, waiting for Chen’s trio to get nearer. When they were about five meters away, Wong crushed the butt under his shoe. The security team would no doubt keep any intruding eyes—and cameras—away from the meeting. He smiled slightly at the girl as the three grew closer, then Wong went into the courtyard. She was indeed a rare beauty.

He walked past a fountain with two stone dragons flanked by tigers. The tigers, his zodiac animal, buoyed his spirits slightly. Chen, Wong knew, had been born under the sign of the rat, which meant he was skilled at survival, subterfuge and gathering money.

Wong passed by a series of trellises replete with winding stems of blossoms and caught sight of Chen, who was sitting on a bench in front of a row of cypress trees, holding a flower.

He looked more like someone’s benevolent grandfather than the merciless leader of the Sun Yang Triad, the largest and most powerful of the Chinese crime gangs. Chen had survived the Cultural Revolution, a forced exile in Hong Kong, the internal power struggles of the Triad and innumerable attempts on his life. But then again, he was a rat, and rats were nothing if not resourceful.

Chen’s mouth flickered into a smile, and he bowed his head slightly as Wong approached. Wong did the same and sat on the opposite end of the bench. They were close enough to hear each other’s words, but they wouldn’t look like acquaintances.

They sat in silence for perhaps half a minute. Wong was growing impatient when Chen finally broke the silence. “Is it not miraculous, the way the leaves turn toward the sunlight? Do you ever wonder if they can feel the warmth?” Chen laughed softly, his chuckle sounding like the flow of water over pebbles in a brook.

Wong had little time for the riddles of horticulture. “Have you found out anything?”

Chen’s laugh came again, but this time it reminded Wong of an erosive leak down a wall. Wong’s face twisted into an expression of displeasure as he turned toward the Triad boss.

“I asked if you had found anything.”

Chen turned his head so they were now face-to-face. “Of course I have, Comrade General.”

He turned back, folded his hands over his belly and sat there like a smiling Buddha.

“Chen, I don’t have time for your games. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

Chen continued to sit in silence, a peaceful smile gracing his lips as he twirled the flower in his hand. Just as Wong felt himself ready to explode, the other man spoke. “Do not worry. As the farmer plows the earth, its destruction lays the seeds for a new beginning.”

Another damn riddle. Wong made no attempt to hide his growing anger. “Damn you. Are you going to tell me or not?”

The older man’s smile did not alter. He raised an eyebrow and stared at the general for several seconds more. “Did they not teach you the value of patience in the military academy?”

Wong felt like wringing the old bastard’s neck. He shot a look at the guards—the two males facing outward, the female watching them. Wong considered the risk of giving Chen a hard slap, but the bodyguards would be on him in seconds, general or not. Thus, he refrained and snorted in disgust. “We shouldn’t be wasting time here. Someone might see us together.”

“Did I not say all was well?” Chen said. “My favorite disciple, Lee Son Yin, has watchful eyes. We are safe.”

“What about my money?”

“It has been recovered. It will soon be in my hands.” He paused. “And will be deposited in your special account, when the time comes.”

“And the dragon key?” Wong asked, trying not to sound too eager. Without the flash drive no deposits or withdrawals could be made.

“Some matters are more quickly resolved than others.”

So Chen didn’t have it. Wong swallowed hard and thought about this. “Do you know who arranged the theft? Who paid that woman?”

“I have my number one man working toward this discovery,” Chen said. “And its resolution.”

For a moment Wong wondered if Chen himself was behind the theft. The Triads controlled everything, including the prostitution rings, and had been arranging his Hong Kong liaisons for the past several years. But this was the first time something like this had happened. Surely, if Chen had planned a betrayal, he would have acted before this. Or would he?

“And the missile guidance system,” Wong said. “What about that?”

Chen sighed. “It is in the possession of the British and the Americans.”

“Americans?” Wong said. “We’ve just captured an American. A spy. He is being interrogated now.”

Chen nodded. “A fact of which I am well aware.”

Wong blew out a long breath and reached for his cigarettes. After sticking one between his lips and holding the lighter to it, he turned back to Chen. “What did you find out from that Russian whore?”

“In life, there is sometimes a certain unavoidable unpleasantness. Learn to dismiss it, as the water in the pond rolls off the back of the swimming duck.”

More platitudes, Wong thought. “Did she tell you who paid her to steal the dragon key?”

“She gave us the name,” Chen said.

Wong felt more than ever like lashing out, knocking the old fool to the ground, but he knew better. “Who?” he asked. “I’ll track him down and kill him myself.”

“That is not advisable.”

“What? Why not?”

Chen smelled the blossom. “Is it not a shame that our country’s recent economic progress has so poisoned our air, our land, our water?”

Wong was at the end of his patience. “I asked you a question. Who is he?”

When Chen did not answer immediately, Wong emitted a growl. “I’m waiting. And no more damn riddles, understand?”

Chen smiled and put his palms together in a prayer-like gesture, cupping the blossom in between. “I have offended you, and for that I am truly sorry. But as I said before, a wise man must not lose sight of his goal, lest he act with impetuousness.”

Wong drew deeply on the cigarette. What was Chen getting at?

As if he could sense the unasked question, Chen said, “The man who engineered the theft is familiar to you.”

Wong blew twin plumes of smoke out his nostrils. “His name. Give me his damn name. I’ll get it out of him.”

Chen’s smile did not lose its beatific grace. He shook his head fractionally. “Once again, remember that patience is the supreme virtue. It should first be considered that if something happens to this man, the dragon key could be lost forever, or delivered into the wrong hands.”

“I promise not to act with rashness,” Wong said. “But I need to know who he is. I need to know the name of the man who holds the knife to my balls.”

“As well you should,” Chen said. “Just give me your word you will take no action without first obtaining clearance from me.”

Chen held the ultimate trump card, but Wong still needed to formulate his own plan, just in case the Triad boss betrayed him. “I give you my word as an officer and general of the People’s Liberation Army.”

The smile vanished and Chen’s dark eyes shot toward him, staring from beneath their heavy lids.

“I repeat, the man who betrayed you must not yet be contacted or harmed,” he said. “Do you understand me?”

The Triad leader’s tone left no question as to who was in command. It was not a request. Wong suddenly realized that up until now Chen had been toying with him, allowing him to believe he was in charge. Now it was brutally apparent that the Triad boss controlled Wong’s fate. The general had little choice but to acquiesce.

“Yes,” Wong said. “He will not be contacted or harmed without your approval.”

Chen’s face softened into a smile. “Excellent. When men strive to overcome adversity, they must not work at cross-purposes.”

Wong was sick of the aphorisms, but he held his tongue for the time being.

“The man has been a thorn in your side,” Chen said. “And a problem for the Standing Committee, as well.”

Wong furrowed his brow in concentration, then suddenly he knew. “Han Son Chu?”

Chen smiled and nodded. “You see, oftentimes the answer you seek lies within your own knowledge.”

Han Son Chu, Wong thought. Sammo Han to the Western press. But how did he trace me to that Russian whore? And how did he know about the dragon key? Wong did some mental calculations. The time frame did fit. The one-armed bastard must have followed him to Hong Kong and somehow bribed the whore to steal it. No matter. Han was under house detention. It would be simple to grab him and reobtain the dragon key.

“Is this blossom not beautiful?” Chen held the flower toward Wong. “But just as the rose on the vine is lovely, one must be careful to avoid the accompanying thorns.”

Another riddle, Wong thought. He took one last drag on his cigarette and ground it under the sole of his shoe.

“The Committee is getting ready to move against Han as we speak,” Wong said. “He’s already under house detention, but if he’s arrested and brought to trial for his disruptive activities, he could bring up my indiscretions in a public forum. And then our involvement will surely come to light. We’re both on the line here.”

Chen nodded. “But even the Committee would not move in such drastic fashion at this time,” he said. “The world press is swarming Beijing, and reporters are following the American movie star who is seeking an audience with Han. The last thing the Committee would want is for China to lose face on the world stage.”

Wong nodded. “This gives us time to confront the bastard privately. Get the dragon key back before they initiate a complete arrest.”

Chen shook his head. “Regrettably, there is more. The American spy you mentioned...”

Wong frowned. “What about him?”

“He is being held at Song Jing Prison, is he not?”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

Chen’s smile returned, as placid as ever. “I have my sources.”

Wong’s frown deepened. Was there nothing this old bastard didn’t know?

Chen waited a beat and continued, “The interrogation of the American has yielded a bit of information concerning Han. He is getting ready to defect.”

“That one-armed son of a whore,” Wong said. “I’ll take pleasure in watching him die slowly.”

“Most assuredly. But let us assume Han anticipated his arrest. Would he not keep the device in a secret place? Would he not make arrangements to release it to a confederate if he dies prior to its recovery? We must fully consider this risk, should it fall into the wrong hands.”

Like those of the Standing Committee, Wong thought.

“Thus,” Chen said, “we must move with circumspection.”

This did nothing to ease the growing tension in Wong’s gut.

“Do you understand?” Chen asked.

“Yes.” Wong took another cigarette out of his pack. “What do you want me to do?”

Chen smiled at his acquiescence. “For the moment you can do nothing but stand and await my further instructions. But do not despair. I have a plan in mind, but it will require your assistance.” He heard Chen’s soft chuckle again. “As I said, be patient and trust in me. It shall all be resolved in an expeditious manner, Comrade General. Trust in your humble servant.”

Humble servant. The old liar. Wong forced himself to nod in agreement, and then he lit his cigarette.

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