Lethal Risk

by Don Pendleton

  “Fell off a truck, eh?” he asked, receiving three stone-faced stares in return.

  So much for breaking the ice, he said to himself as he reassembled the submachine gun and turned to the magazines and ammunition for it. He was expecting some sort of power play at any moment—like the “wrong” magazines had be included with the Type 79, and it would cost more to get the “right” ones. But everything was here. There was even the lock pick set they had also requested inside. For black market arms dealers, these guys were playing straight up—so far.

  “It is also acceptable,” he said, zipping the second bag closed. “I have the rest of your payment here, as well.”

  The woman blinked in surprise, then exchanged glances with the two men. “You actually brought the money with you?”

  Bolan shrugged as he rose, keeping his hands in plain sight. “I’m in a hurry.” Keeping his right hand out, he reached under his shirt and undid a bulging, nylon waist pouch and handed it to the woman. She unzipped it and riffled through the contents, rapidly counting under her breath. The price had been extortionate—one hundred thousand yuan, half up front, the other half on delivery. Stony Man hadn’t tried to negotiate. It was either this or have the Executioner walk around unarmed as he tried to accomplish his mission.

  She finished her count and nodded. “Enjoy your bags.”

  Bolan was reaching for the two black bags when he heard raised voices on the landing outside. The two men immediately reached under their jackets as one cracked the door open and looked out.

  Meanwhile, the woman had slid over to him and was holding the stun gun against his skin. “What is going on? Are you trying to double-cross us?”

  Before Bolan could answer, four muffled thuds sounded from outside the door, and the two men both stumbled backward, clutching their bleeding stomachs.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Akira Tokaido yawned as he stretched his arms over his head, trying vainly to crack his vertebrae. Reaching for his most recent soda, he found that the plastic bottle had only a few drops at the bottom.

  He stood and stretched his aching muscles some more, grateful that Kurtzman wasn’t there breathing down his neck as he had been for the past five hours. While his boss had watched Bolan enter the building where the arms deal was going down, Tokaido had been tasked with locating the Liao family. Ever since then, he had been running through every permutation he could think of to figure out where they were.

  And, so far, he had come up empty. The scant file they’d managed to assemble gave him very little to go on, although he had been surprised to learn that the wife had been a fairly famous model before trading that life in for the burbs, kids and a white picket fence. Normal tracking modes—license plates or cell phones—were useless, as her phone had been found with the crashed car, and Zhang Liao’s BMW was still in its parking space at the government building where he worked. Hacking the Ministry of State Security’s files had proved fruitless, as well—there was no trace of any information on the Liaos, indicating they either kept that sensitive information on an unconnected system or on hard copy.

  Above his head on a large monitor, a loop of the attempted extraction played over and over. The young hacker had watched the feed until he knew it by heart. Even now his eyes strayed to it in time to see Mrs. Liao hustling her children off to the car behind Carstairs.

  He’d run a very specialized program along the route the car had taken into the city and, working outward from where the smashed car had been found, trying to sift through the gigabytes of accumulated data from the hundreds of cameras in the area, searching for any sighting of the Liao family, but so far it had come up with nothing. He knew the chances of actually uncovering anything were on par with his winning the lottery, but he had kept the program trying, hoping for a second’s glimpse that could help him figure out where they might have been taken.

  Massaging his temples, Tokaido tried to think of anything he might have missed. He had access to the neighborhood cameras, as well as the security system to the Liao family’s home. With nothing else to go on, he brought up the other feeds, running them forward at double speed, and just stared at the pictures of a wealthy Chinese family going about its day, coming and going, eating dinner, swimming in their pool. Playing electronic games—

  Wait a minute… Tokaido leaned forward to pause the feed that showed the family clustered around their small pool. The husband and boy were goofing around in the water, whacking each other with water noodles while the mother watched them in between keeping an eye on their gas grill. But the computer hacker’s gaze was drawn to the small game controller, complete with miniscreen, that the girl was absorbed in.

  Sitting, he froze the picture and zoomed in on her. As he suspected, it was a wireless console with the capability to play games over the internet, no matter where she was.

  Tokaido’s fingers flew over his split keyboard as he hacked into Chinese telecom services to locate the Liaos’ internet accounts. Three minutes later he was looking at their information and had everything he needed to trace the IP address of anything in their house. The computer was offline—no big surprise there, since they had seen operatives from the MSS carrying them out of the house—but the game console had been overlooked…and that was what the girl was playing in the video. What’s more, it was still powered up.

  Sending up a silent thanks to the powers-that-be in the universe regarding kids and their insatiable hunger for games and distraction, Tokaido began tracing the signal through the maze of various networks that intertwined in Beijing. Between the competing companies resorting to less-than-legal means to block or slow their competition, the stifling government, ready to leap in at a moment’s notice to eradicate the slightest whisper of dissent and the myriad unlawful networks that sprang up on a daily, even hourly, basis, even Tokaido was hard-pressed to track the lone signal through the labyrinthine cyberspace that was China’s internet. Add to it that he wasn’t even supposed to be doing any of this in the first place, and for the first time in a long time, he felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he pulled out every trick he knew to stay on the trail of his target.

  However, after several false trails, and evading dozens of enemy hacks on his signal—counterattacking would have been like sending up a red flag shouting, “Here I am!”—Tokaido was 90 percent sure he had located the girl. He leaned back in his chair and stared with weary satisfaction at the sleek high-rise where the signal was coming from. True to form, she wasn’t using the network in the penthouse where she was staying—there were multiple unprotected wireless signals nearby that she was able to piggyback on.

  Her captors probably just thought the controller was a self-contained game. And if she was there, he bet that her mom and brother were, as well. A few more keystrokes and the young hacker had pinpointed the floor and room she was in. But for how long…?

  The acrid odor of Kurtzman’s fresh cup of coffee alerted Tokaido that his boss had entered the room. “I trust you’ve come up with something concrete about the Liaos since I’ve been gone.”

  “Yeah, I have.” The young man barely kept the triumphant smile off his face as he ran down how he had located the family, pointing at the address, building level and room the daughter was in. “If they were taken there since the abduction, I think the chances are fairly small that the ministry will move them any time soon,” he ventured. “As far as they know, they snatched the family clean, and no one is looking for them—that they know of.”

  Kurtzman grunted and sipped his coffee. “What, are you looking to moonlight as a security analyst now?”

  “No, it just seems likely that they’ll be there until the MSS has gotten what they want from the family, or they have outlived their usefulness.”

  “Assuming you’re correct, the problem is that we don’t know what, if anything, they’ve told their captors, or how much longer the MSS is going to hold them before transferring them elsewhere.”

  Kurtzman spun his chair toward the door. “
I’ll go let Barbara and Hal know we’ve found the family. You start on getting us eyes and ears inside, as well as work up an entry plan for Striker and an extraction plan for him and the three targets.”

  “Already on it,” Tokaido said, turning back to his computer as Kurtzman started to leave the room.

  He paused. “Any recent updates from Striker?”

  “No. He entered the arms meet about ten minutes ago, and there’s no security system inside, so we’re blind right now. He’s also turned off his phone. But I’m expecting a ping from him any minute, and will let you know when it arrives.”

  “Okay. Good work, Akira.” Kurtzman wheeled away, leaving the younger man in relative peace and quiet again. Donning his earbuds, he accessed his favorite artist, letting the steady, driving beat accompany him as he delved deeper into his work.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Taking advantage of the surprise caused by the two tong members getting shot, Bolan swept the stun gun up and away fast enough to avoid getting zapped. Drawing his hand back down, he stripped the nonlethal weapon from the woman’s hand while standing and grabbing the bottle of baijiu off the table just as a gunman burst into the room, nearly tripping on one of his victims who had crumpled in front of the doorway.

  Dropping a smoking plastic bottle with its end blown out, the newcomer glanced down for a moment to disentangle his legs. Bolan didn’t need half that time. He swung the full bottle in a roundhouse arc, smashing it into the shooter’s temple in an explosion of glass and rice liquor. The hardcase staggered across the room and dropped in a tangled heap against the far bench.

  The woman wasn’t stupid—she went for the smoking pistol that had fallen from his hand. Bolan gave her points for bravery even as he stepped over and hit the stun gun’s trigger while pressing it between her shoulder blades. One three-second blast later, she was flat on the floor, moaning softly, but still moving her arms and legs.

  “Stay down, and you’ll stay alive,” Bolan said as he kicked the gunman’s pistol—a Beretta 92S—far enough away from her fingers to pick it up himself.

  Now armed, Bolan tucked the stun gun into a side pocket of the submachine-gun bag while covering the doorway with the Beretta pistol. Outside, he could hear shouts, screams and the sounds of panicked movement, but no one else seemed to be coming inside—at least not yet.

  At the moment he couldn’t be sure if he had just gotten made, or if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and had gotten caught in a fight between two rival gangs, but all he cared about was getting out and away with his cargo and himself in one piece.

  The two injured tong members were still alive, and he took a moment to strip them of their pistols—an ancient, slab-sided .45 semi-auto that might have been from World War II, and a 9 mm Glock 17. He tucked the .45 into his waistband and tossed the Glock into the bag, then slung both bags over opposite shoulders, so one armament bag rested on each hip.

  Stepping across the bodies on the floor, Bolan stood to the left of the doorway and checked the stairwell for more shooters. He didn’t see anyone there, but shouts and screams from the lower level indicated more trouble. The only good thing so far was that he didn’t hear any gunshots. Easing up to the edge of the doorway, he peeked out to the left, checking the rest of the hallway. A flash of movement alerted him to danger, and he pulled back as three shots sounded in the hall and splinters sprayed from the doorjamb as a bullet sliced through it.

  He crouched. Taking a quick breath, he pivoted on the balls of his feet and swung himself out the door just enough to get target acquisition on the shooter. The gunman was waiting for him, but shot high, the bullets streaking over Bolan’s head to drill into the staircase wall. His answering fire was dead-on, however; the three bullets hit the man’s abdomen and chest, killing him instantly. He fell against the doorjamb and slid to the floor, his shirt a mass of dark red.

  Immediately, Bolan stood and advanced, keeping his back to the rooms on the far side of the hallway so he could keep an eye on both sides of the corridor. As he thought, there was a door at the end of the hallway that he figured led to the third floor or attic space. From there, he should be able to find a way to the roof.

  He was about to start down the corridor when he heard a blood-curdling scream followed by several men shouting from downstairs. The screaming continued until an even louder voice shouted and the person became quiet. Even though they were all shouting in Mandarin, Bolan had been in far too many similar situations to not know what was going on.

  Gritting his teeth at the delay, he crept outside and toward the staircase, stopping just before the landing so he could peek out to see what was happening.

  As he’d figured, the lower level was a panicked nightmare. The last of the patrons were shoving their way out the door while several men squared off in the middle of the deserted barroom floor. One of them had an arm around a whimpering woman’s throat, holding a pistol to her head while he shouted at the four men who had backed him up against the bar but couldn’t make a move with the guy threatening to blow her head off.

  Drawing the Beretta, Bolan calculated the shot at about twenty meters—technically within the pistol’s range, but he also knew it didn’t take much to send a bullet wildly off course. Hollywood’s action heroes making crazy pistol shots at impossible ranges were just that—crazy and impossible. This one, however, was possible…for a very skilled shooter.

  Lucky for the hostage, Bolan was that skilled.

  Lining up his sights on top of the man’s forehead, he took a deep breath and, just before the exhale, squeezed the trigger.

  The crack of the pistol shot made everyone below him jump as the hostage-taker slumped over, blood spurting from his cored forehead. Even from where he was, Bolan saw brain and bone matter splattered across the bar. The unhurt woman ran to the nearest man, and that was all he needed to see before pulling back and heading down the hallway toward the door at the end.

  The Executioner was only a step away when he heard the whir of another pocket door opening behind him. Leading with the pistol, he turned in time to see the muzzle of a gun lining up on him. He immediately swept forward, using his hands on his own pistol to knock the other gun out of the way as he bulled into the shooter, using his greater size to force the man to retreat.

  The back of the other gunman’s legs hit the low table, and he fell onto it, still clutching his pistol. Before Bolan could line up a shot, the gunner tried to bring his pistol into target acquisition.

  Again Bolan lashed out with his gun hand, knocking his adversary’s aim off just as he squeezed the trigger. This close, the report was deafening and the muzzle-flash was like a flash-bang grenade exploding off to his left side. Before the guy could recover, Bolan slammed the butt of his pistol into the man’s nose, flattening it into his face. The would-be killer screamed and clapped both hands to his pulped face, any interest in shooting Bolan long gone. Just to make sure, the soldier rammed him between the eyes with his pistol butt, then stripped the unconscious Chinese thug of his gun, a true 9 mm Walther PPK.

  By now his bags were getting heavy with all of his new ordnance, and Bolan could also hear the singsong cadence of Chinese police cars as they approached. It was definitely time to go.

  Stepping to the door, Bolan peeked out again but saw only empty hallway in both directions. As he stepped into the hallway, a man leaped out from the stairway, screaming and firing a huge chromed revolver in his general direction.

  Although every instinct told him to leap for cover, Bolan fell forward instead, extending the pistol in front of him as he did to snap-shoot three times at the crazed gunman. Even while falling, his aim was such that the three bullets punched into the man’s chest and lower abdomen, dropping him to the floor in bloody agony.

  Getting back up, Bolan glanced around at the large holes the slugs had left in the walls around him. Turning to the door, he found the lock mechanism had also been mangled by a stray bullet. The doorknob now hung off the face plate. Bolan ri
pped off the knob and worked the mechanism through the hole, managing to open the door even as the first wave of shouting police entered the building through the main entrance below.

  As he’d hoped, the door led to a narrow room that ran the width of the upper floor. Crammed inside was a bank of recording equipment tied to cameras mounted to cover each room. Apparently the gang that owned this club wasn’t above engaging in a bit of blackmail alongside their sex and guns trade.

  Quickly locating the camera that would have covered his room, Bolan was relieved to find it was turned off. Just to be safe, he located the main computer that housed the digital files, ripped it loose of its wires and shoved it into the pistol bag.

  As he’d also figured, there was a bolt-hole escape ladder in the corner that was shaking, as if it had just been used. The old wooden ladder led both up and down. Bolan looked down first and saw movement below. Looking up, he saw no one heading toward the roof. Sticking his pistol into his waistband next to the .45, he quickly began to ascend.

  With the two bags, it was a tight fit, and more than once he had to stop and wiggle a corner of the bag free from where it had snagged on a piece of wood or nail. The ladder itself wasn’t very stable, creaking and trembling under his weight.

  After climbing several yards, Bolan spied a trapdoor. He pushed on it, but it seemed to be stuck. Looping his leg between the rungs, he shoved up with all his strength, and gradually forced the warped door open, all the while expecting the ladder to pull free of the wall and collapse with him still clinging to it.

  He shrugged off the bags and shoved them up through the narrow, square hole, then squeezed himself through. The trapdoor was definitely not made for large people. For a brief moment his broad shoulders seemed stuck diagonally, but he was able to drop one and shove his other arm up and through.