Don Pendleton

by Sabotage (v5)

“Clear,” Delaney said. “But, Cooper, you’d better get back here and look at this!”

  Bolan joined her. The rear doors of the van were open, where they’d been left. Inside the van were dozens and dozens of clear plastic bags full of crystalline powder.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Delaney said. “My God, Cooper, do you realize how much is here?”

  “Crystal meth,” Bolan said.

  They both heard the squealing tires on the level below.

  “No time!” Bolan shouted. He jumped into the back of the van and ran forward to the driver’s seat. Delaney leaped in after, managing to pull the rear doors shut as Bolan turned the key that had been waiting in the ignition. The big van roared to life. The soldier sent it fishtailing backward and around, scraping the concrete barriers on either side of the parking garage.

  The van bounced and sparked as Bolan sent it roaring too quickly down the ramp leading to the next level. When there was nothing to see there, he pushed the pedal even farther to the floor. The monster engine roared, dragging the ungainly cargo van even faster through the depths of the garage. They bottomed out at the enter-and-exit level, spraying a shower of sparks and taking several thousand miles’ worth of wear off the underside of the vehicle.

  They were moving just fast enough to see another vehicle, a Chrysler minivan, flying out the exit to the parking garage. Bolan pressed the accelerator to the floorboards and pursued, the vehicle punching through the metal gate bar as it descended.

  The chase was on.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Delaney fought her way into the passenger seat despite the swerving and bucking of the stolen van. She pulled on her seat belt.

  “Cooper, are you trying to get us killed?”

  “Just hang on,” he told her.

  Traffic was heavy. The Chrysler swerved in and out among the other vehicles, trying desperately to lose its pursuers. Bolan knew he would have to walk a fine line. Push too close, and whoever was in the fleeing minivan might decide to start shooting. While it was unlikely that such resistance would slow Bolan in tailing the other vehicle, it would endanger innocent lives, and that he couldn’t tolerate. So he held back, maintaining just enough distance between himself and the other vehicle so that the enemy driver would feel like he was gaining ground.

  “What are we waiting for?” Delaney asked. It wasn’t a challenge; she was simply curious, knowing enough about pursuits of this type to understand Bolan was applying strategy.

  “We need some combat room,” Bolan said. “When we hit an open stretch, somewhere without a lot of people around, I’ll try to pit them. We’ve got the heavier vehicle. We just need to get up on them before they spray the neighborhood with a lot of unnecessary gunfire.”

  Delaney nodded.

  They kept up the chase for several more minutes. Traffic was getting thinner as they moved away from downtown. It became obvious that the minivan’s driver was heading toward an on-ramp to the nearest multilane highway.

  “Okay,” Bolan said. “Now. On the ramp.”

  “Are you sure this will work?”

  “We’ve got weight on our side,” Bolan said. He floored the accelerator.

  The van shot forward, its big engine roaring in response. The soldier clipped the rear side panel of the minivan as the smaller vehicle began negotiating the curve of the ramp. The maneuver spun the Chrysler around and planted it against the guardrail.

  One man wasted no time, throwing open his door and jumping out, then from the ramp to the road below it. He stumbled from the high drop, but was up again and running, apparently uninjured.

  “Dammit,” Bolan said. He brought the van to a screeching halt on smoking tires and squealing brakes. He pointed. Another man was trying to climb out the open window of the passenger door. The door itself was jammed shut against the concrete butting against the on-ramp.

  “I’ll get him,” Delaney said. She ran for it, Glock drawn.

  The man Bolan chased was full-on sprinting across the multilane highway, trusting to luck or fate to get him through. Bolan poured on the speed, narrowly missing being struck by an eighteen-wheeler as he gave chase. He couldn’t simply shoot the fleeing man; he needed him alive to answer questions, if at all possible.

  Judging the distance, Bolan caught him in a flying tackle. The two men rolled over each other, and when they stopped, Bolan had a knee in the man’s chest and his Beretta in his face.

  “Move and you die!” Bolan said forcefully.

  The Asian in the SCAR uniform began to swear in Mandarin. Bolan knew just enough of the language to recognize it for what it was.

  “English,” he said. He squinted through the cloud of road grit raised as another eighteen-wheeler roared past. The driver honked the truck’s air horn. It was possible he thought Bolan was up to no good and was even now calling the cops. Or he might have been expressing his support for what appeared to be an act of citizen-dispensed justice. Then again he might just have been expressing his disgust at narrowly missing two people rolling around on the shoulder of a major highway. Bolan didn’t know and didn’t care, though it was possible he and Delaney would have local law enforcement on the scene before too long.

  “Die, Yankee,” Bolan’s captive said in heavily accented English.

  “Haven’t heard that one in a while,” Bolan said.

  The man the Executioner presumed to be Chinese stared at him with undisguised hatred. Bolan rolled him over and secured his wrists with plastic riot cuffs from his war bag. Then he pushed him up against the concrete barrier on the side of the road and frisked him. The man was carrying absolutely nothing, not even a gun. His pockets were empty. Very likely, the man had left a gun back in the van.

  “Come on,” Bolan said, dragging the man to his feet. “We’ve got a long walk back.”

  When Bolan and his prisoner finally reached the on-ramp, a marked police car was rolling up. A second was already parked, and the officer was setting out road flares.

  “Did you call them?” Bolan asked his partner, dragging the Chinese prisoner forward.

  “No,” Delaney said. “Somebody else must have. Passing driver or trucker.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Bolan nodded. “What have you got?”

  “Body,” Delaney said. “You’re a bad influence on me, Cooper. I’m racking up quite the body count today.” She pointed. The dead man was still half in, half out of the front passenger window. A snub-nosed revolver lay on the pavement nearby. “He pulled a gun as I approached and took a shot at me. I had no choice.”

  “No,” Bolan said, “you didn’t.” He jerked his chin toward the nearest police officer. “They give you any static?”

  “No,” Delaney said. “I told them it was an FBI matter and showed them my ID. That was enough, for now.”

  “It probably won’t stay that way,” Bolan said. “But one problem at a time. Let’s take this character back to the training center. We can question him there and mop up.”

  “Did you forget the pile of bodies you left behind?” Delaney asked. “That place will be crawling with cops, coroners and detectives, if anyone called in the gunfire.”

  “Yes,” Bolan said, “but that can’t be helped, and my boss spends enough time making nice with the people whose jurisdictions I fight my way through. I want to make sure we haven’t missed anything, and I have enough clout to hang on to the prisoner until we’re done with him.”

  “It’s your show,” Delaney said. “Oh, Cooper, I checked this vehicle.” She pointed to the minivan. “It’s full of meth, too. The sheer quantity of it is amazing. I’ve worked joint drug task forces with the DEA before. This is just an astonishing amount. We’re in regional distributor territory here, not just individual or even organized crime at the dealer level.”

  “Which raises more questions,” Bolan said. “Why would Twain’s mercenary training facility also be moving vast quantities of meth? Is it the source of their funding? And where was this meth headed, if it was being loaded and move
d?”

  “Maybe they were accepting a delivery, rather than making one,” Delaney said. “We don’t know the vans were going to leave with the meth aboard. They might have just been convenient when your boy and mine—” she indicated the dead man “—decided to make a run for it.”

  “Possible,” Bolan said, “but not likely. This quantity of meth would take a year to move in a city this size. I think it’s more likely it was outgoing to some other point in a network. As you said, a distributorship.”

  Delaney sighed. “Nothing’s ever easy, is it, Cooper?”

  “No,” Bolan said. He removed his phone and snapped pictures of the dead man and the prisoner, then transmitted them to the Farm.

  They were able to secure the cops’ permission to leave the scene, after Delaney gave one of the officers her card and assured him the Bureau would take full responsibility. Bolan, even as he overheard that, wasn’t so sure the FBI would be happy to sign on to this mess, but if Delaney wanted to use her influence and her employer to make the mission easier, so much the better.

  The Chinese man became agitated and violent when they tried to put him in the cargo van. Bolan finally struck him on the back of the head with the butt of his Beretta. The dazed man offered little resistance as Bolan rolled him into a rear corner of the van and secured his feet with a plastic zip tie.

  “I really, really want to know what agency you’re really with,” Delaney said, watching him.

  “Yeah?” Bolan grinned. He didn’t rise to the bait.

  They got back to the training center just in time to be stopped at a police cordon. As Bolan had predicted, the locals weren’t happy about the mess inside, but Bolan made good use of his Justice credentials, and Delaney was there to back him up with her FBI identification. Finally the officers in charge allowed Bolan and Delaney to pass with their prisoner. Bolan had Delaney guard the man in an upper-floor conference room while he swept the building, moving from room to room. Apart from gear and demonstration aids that made it obvious the men training here were learning nothing about business and everything about being successful mercenaries and even terrorists, Bolan found nothing of interest and, more important, found no more SCAR personnel lurking. He joined Delaney in the conference room.

  “There’s nothing here,” he said. “At least, nothing I can find quickly. My people haven’t found anything in their computer network, the same one they breached to get us in, or they’d have told me by now. All we have is him.” He nodded to the prisoner.

  The man sat uncomfortably in an office chair, his hands still strapped behind his back. The strap securing his feet had been cut when they pulled him out of the van, to allow him to walk.

  “Are you going to…?”

  “No, but he’ll think I am,” Bolan said quietly. “Follow my lead.”

  Bolan grabbed a folding chair from a stack against the wall, reversed it and sat in front of the prisoner. “We have a problem.”

  “I tell you nothing,” the prisoner said in English.

  “I don’t doubt that,” Bolan said. “But we still have a problem. This facility housed quite a few armed men who had no compunctions about killing two people at the blink of an eye. On top of that, you’re running a significant crystal meth distribution operation. You remember the crystal meth, don’t you? It was in the van you were driving, and in the one you left behind.”

  The prisoner stared balefully but said nothing.

  “It’s clear to me,” Bolan said, “that we’ve happened on something that is rapidly developing.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Now, we’re on a very tight schedule.” He reached for the butt of his holstered Desert Eagle. The rest of the script was fairly standard. He would draw the gun and bluff his way through, making the prisoner believe he was ready to put a bullet through the man’s forehead.

  His secure phone began to vibrate. The pattern was the urgent ring the Farm rarely used. It meant, essentially, “Drop everything and answer now.”

  “Watch him.” Bolan nodded at the prisoner. He stood and walked across the conference room, putting the phone to his ear. “Cooper.” Using his code name would signal that there were others listening to his side of the conversation.

  “Striker,” Price said, “we got an identification from the picture you sent. Your prisoner is Kam Chen, twenty-eight. He’s Chinese special forces. Declared dead two years ago in a training accident outside of Beijing.”

  “Special forces?” Bolan said quietly. “No indication of mercenary work?”

  “None,” Price said. “From what we can tell he was a decorated soldier before his ‘death.’ We want to know what a Chinese special forces operative is doing mixed up with your hired guns in the United States.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Bolan said.

  “Cooper,” Delaney interrupted, calling to him. “There’s a puddle of blood on the floor.”

  Bolan’s head whipped around as he put two and two together. “Delaney! Get back!”

  Kam Chen launched himself from the chair, tackling Delaney and knocking her to the floor. Blood streamed from his wrists; he had worked his way ruthlessly through the riot cuffs. He threw a series of rapid-fire kicks, beating Delaney back and down, doubling her over.

  The Executioner waded into the fray.

  It would have been simplest to shoot the man, but he was still the only link they had to the operation here. Bolan threw a brutal front kick at the man’s midsection, but Kam slipped it easily, bashing Bolan’s leg away with a double forearm block of his own. Bolan pressed the attack, but while he was more powerful, Kam was faster. The Chinese operative managed to grab Bolan’s wrist and apply a wristlock. The Executioner went with it, allowing his adversary to take him to the floor and attempt to wrap one leg around him. As the man was focused on his maneuver, Bolan drew the Boker Applegate combat dagger from his waistband.

  Kam suddenly froze. The wide, double-edged, spear-point blade was pressing against his neck.

  “Now,” Bolan said, “let’s talk. Delaney!”

  “Here,” Delaney said. She was breathing heavily but standing. She had drawn her Glock and was covering Kam.

  “Keep our friend honest while I get him arranged.” Bolan removed a small first-aid kit from his war bag and wrapped the Chinese operative’s bloody wrists. Then he guided the man to the folding metal chair. Double-cuffing each wrist and ankle, Bolan secured the prisoner to the chair. “All right,” he said to Delaney. “Grab me another chair.” He sat on the replacement chair that Delaney brought him, facing the Chinese agent.

  “Cooper here,” he said, raising his phone to his ear once more. “Still with me?”

  “Striker!” Price said, sounding worried. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Bolan said. “I need to know something. Does Kam Chen have a family?”

  There was a pause while Price checked the intelligence file. “Yes, according to this. Parents. Two brothers. A niece and nephew.”

  “Good,” Bolan said. “I’ll be in touch.” He closed the connection and gave Kam a hard look.

  “You work for the Chinese government,” Bolan said. It wasn’t a question.

  Kam glared but still said nothing.

  “We know that you were special forces in China until you were reported dead. Now you’re here, mixed up with Twain’s mercenaries. Care to explain that?”

  “I tell you nothing,” Kam said again.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Bolan stated. He took no particular pride in the threat he was about to make, but it was necessary. “You’ll quite probably die before you tell me anything if I try to force you, but I’m not holding the threat of death over you. I’m threatening you with life.”

  Kam looked at him, confused.

  “How does a big, televised show trial sound to you?” Bolan said. “I can think of a few networks who would love to have an international spy scandal to take some ratings from their competition’s lead story. I know the people in g
overnment who can make that happen. Imagine the reaction of your handlers back in China, Kam, when your face is splashed all over the news. ‘Chinese operative found working with drug runners in American city.’ I bet we could work that into quite the thriller, if we tried. The Chinese government sponsoring traffic in illegal drugs in the United States. Your nation needs the United States and the rest of the West, Kam. Can it really stand another scandal? Let’s run down the public relations list in the last few years. Allegations of human rights violations at the Beijing Olympics, including the quick cover-up of the stabbing death of an American visitor during the Games. The exporting of tainted consumer products. And not so long ago, the holding of an American aircrew as de facto hostages while their high-tech plane was dismantled and reverse-engineered.”

  “You… What do you want?”

  “I want you to tell me where those drugs were going,” Bolan said, “or I’ll have you remanded to federal custody and I’ll make sure everyone in both our nations knows what you were doing here. The shame of being caught would pale in comparison to being the pawn at the center of a political chess game, wouldn’t it? I don’t imagine the people you work for would be too happy about that.”

  “What you offer me?”

  “Tell me about the drugs, and I’ll have you quietly taken into custody. Your people will never know you talked. They’ll probably assume you’re dead. And I won’t insult you by asking you to tell me why a Chinese special forces soldier is working with hired-goon trash in middle America. I know you’ll die before you tell me that. So take the deal. It’s the only one you’ll get.”

  Kam stared at Bolan, then at Delaney. He licked his lips.

  “Think about your family,” Bolan warned.

  “All right.” Kam shook his head. “All right. I tell.”

  Bolan thought he heard Delaney trying and failing to suppress a sigh of relief.

  “Where are the drugs manufactured?”

  “Some here. Some not here. I do not know. Shipments come. We send by van to airfield, then to Houston.”

  “Houston?” Bolan repeated. “The drugs are going to Houston?”