Like a nocturnal jungle cat, Bolan sprang from the roof, dropping onto the man. He landed perfectly, bearing the man to the ground with his weight. Before the guard could drag in a breath or recover enough to cry out, Bolan looped the bag strap around his prey’s neck and pulled it tight while keeping the man pinned to the ground with his superior weight.
Already breathless from the surprise attack, the guard wheezed and clawed at the nylon strap, vainly trying to loosen it enough to suck in the smallest sip of air, which remained forever outside his purpling lips, constricted throat and straining lungs. With one last agonized heave, the man relaxed in death.
Bolan kept the stranglehold for another minute, listening for any sign that someone might have heard the brief scuffle while making sure the guard was truly dead. When the body underneath him remained still and no one came running, he got up and dragged the corpse to the door.
Limping to the rear, he grabbed his weapons bag and walked back to the front again. The door was secured with a simple bolt, which he carefully pulled back. Then he opened the door, pistol ready in case someone was inside waiting for him. The room beyond was empty. After sweeping and clearing it, he dragged the dead guard through the doorway and placed him in a corner, then closed the front door. Taking his pistol and spare magazines, Bolan glanced around, aware that the trail of death and destruction he was leaving meant he might have only a few minutes left to get Liao, get a vehicle and get the hell out of there.
The room was clean and sparsely furnished, with only a small desk and a cabinet next to it. Another door stood across from the entryway, but Bolan walked to the cabinet first. Seeing it was unlocked, he opened it to find a variety of first-aid supplies.
Untying the improvised T-shirt bandage, he doused the bloody rag in alcohol and pressed it to the injury, welcoming the antiseptic’s stinging bite. Grabbing a sealed bandage and some medical tape, he covered the wound and then stuffed some more bandages, gauze and tape into his bag.
Next, he headed to the interior door and slid back the bolt. Easing it open, he saw Liao slumped in a chair in the middle of the room, head down on his chest and snoring softly.
Bolan walked over and clamped a hand over the sleeping man’s mouth. He awakened at once, grabbing the hand on his face and trying to wrench it away before looking up and seeing the other man’s face. Only then did he relax, breathing hard through his nose.
Bolan bent to his ear. “We’re leaving right now. Follow me, and do exactly what I say when I say. Do you understand?”
He pulled back to see Liao nod. Bolan jerked his chin at the open door and Liao got up and headed for it.
In the outer room, Liao gasped at the dark, still form of the guard crumpled in the corner. Bolan passed him and crossed to the exit, putting an ear to it to listen for any sounds of movement or conversation outside. Hearing nothing, he made sure Liao was ready before opening the door and heading for the motor pool.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Damn it, a luxury Mercedes-Benz doesn’t simply disappear!” Fang shouted into his phone. “I already know its appearance heading east on the road was faked. Now, find me that car!”
Resisting the urge to smash his smartphone against the dashboard, he disconnected and put it away, then glanced at the general, riding across from him. “It is unseemly to show that sort of reaction to disappointing news, I know. I apologize for my behavior.”
General Zhao waved his hand. “It is nothing I wouldn’t do in your place. Indeed—” he looked around at the barren landscape they had been driving through for the past hour “—if something doesn’t break soon, I think we’re going to have to admit defeat.”
Fang opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. The simple truth was that the general was right. He couldn’t keep going on this crusade, couldn’t keep marshaling ministry resources and personnel to find this man, who somehow kept eluding him and the security dragnet around the city with ease. If they didn’t come across a solid lead in the next few hours, it would be all over—and his career would be over, as well. There was no way to recover from such a monumental screwup. Most likely he would find himself back at the organ transplant facility, only as a donor this time not a Ministry of State Security agent.
He shook his head. “We aren’t finished yet,” he said, trying to keep his tone confident.
But he had to admit that the odds were growing longer with every passing minute. The two-truck convoy had been driving down the western highway for hours and was now far from the city. Yet there had been no sign of the sedan or the mysterious American. It was as if they had vanished from the face of the earth.
Fang knew that was not the case; it was simply impossible. What was possible, however, was that their quarry had gone to ground somewhere out here, found a bolt-hole in the thousands of hectares of trackless steppe to wait until the heat died down. Then, once he was off the case, they would slip over the border into Mongolia or Tibet, maybe even Russia, and disappear completely.
But he would keep looking for them for as long as he could.
Fang’s musings were interrupted by his phone. He pulled it out and saw that he had a downloaded photo waiting for him. Opening it, he saw two pictures: the first one was of a car matching the one he was looking for by the side of a desolate road. The second was the map coordinates of where it had been spotted—more than 280 kilometers from their current position. “Son of a bitch! We’ve been going the wrong way!”
He showed the map to General Zhao, who grinned as he grabbed the truck’s radio microphone. “I thought this might happen, so I’ve taken the liberty of enlisting some help. Forward those coordinates to me.”
Fang did so and the general studied them for a moment before speaking again. “Turn the trucks around and start heading back to the city,” he instructed the driver before talking rapidly into the microphone. Fang caught “Harbin” and “thirty minutes out” in the chatter back and forth.
“Did you just do what I think you did?” he asked.
“You’re not the only one who has favors owed to him,” the general replied.
About twenty minutes later their driver pointed into the air and said, “General Zhao, sir. It’s here.”
Fang gaped at the sleek, well-armed Harbin Z-9 military helicopter that was slowly landing in a nearby field. Able to carry up to ten armed soldiers, the twin-engine rotorcraft had a maximum speed of 190 miles per hour. It was also well armed, with a pair of 23 mm cannons, and pylons loaded with HJ-8 antitank missiles. It was the perfect equalizer for the hunt ahead.
“Nice, isn’t she?” the general asked. “I thought we’d take a few men and catch a ride on this to go check out that car of yours.”
“Th-thank you, my friend,” Fang stammered, overwhelmed by what the general was doing for him. “After this, our slate is clean, I promise.”
General Zhao nodded. “I know, but do not worry about that right now. Come on, we’ve got a flight—and a prisoner—to catch!”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Submachine gun in his hands, Bolan limped toward the large building he’d seen the vehicle enter that afternoon. Liao followed on his heels, watching behind them for any guards.
Using the surrounding buildings as cover, they reached the large warehouse-like building with little difficulty. However, there was a problem with the structure itself. Light shone from under the main doors and Bolan could hear the sounds of someone working on something inside over the clatter of a gas generator, along with off-key singing.
“Great. A mechanic is working late,” he said, standing beside the door.
“So, why can’t you just shoot him?” Liao asked. “That generator’s probably making enough noise to cover the sound.”
It wasn’t the plan Bolan had been about to go for, but the other man’s logic did make sense.
Snugging the butt of the gun into his shoulder, Bolan reached for the handle of the door and was about to turn it when a loud voice directly on the other side abruptly st
opped him.
“Back to the corner!” Bolan said, turning and hobbling as fast as his injured leg could carry him.
They rounded the corner just in time. The door opened and a man stepped out, turning to call back once more to someone inside before loping off across the grounds.
“That was close,” Bolan said as he pressed an ear to the wall. “The singer’s still in there. We’ve got to get some eyes on what’s all going on inside.”
Liao pointed up. “There are some windows near the roof.”
Bolan looked up and frowned. The small windows were about ten feet off the ground. There was only one way to do this…
“You’ll have to climb onto my shoulders,” he said to Liao. “Are you up to that?”
“I would crawl to the airport naked if it will get me out of here,” he replied.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Checking to make sure no one was around, Bolan laced his fingers together to form a stirrup. “Step into this, then up onto my shoulders. Go slow, don’t get seen and don’t fall.”
Liao nodded, then braced his hands on Bolan’s shoulders as he stepped into the improvised step. Pushing up, he clambered onto his shoulders, his left foot clouting the big American in the head as he tried to steady his footing. For his part Bolan tried to remain steady, although the man on his shoulders wasn’t making it easy. “Calm down!” he whispered. “Stop moving around so much!”
“Sorry!” Liao whispered back.
“Just tell me what you see.”
Now secure on his perch, Liao cautiously raised his head just enough to see inside the garage. As he did, the main door opened again, then closed with a bang, startling Liao and making him jump and shuffle his feet. Gritting his teeth, Bolan stayed put and braced himself against the wall, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his calf.
“Okay…coming down.” The Chinese defector climbed down almost more clumsily than he had gone up, kicking Bolan in the ribs as he went and stepping on his foot before hitting the ground.
Grimacing, he regarded the smaller man. “Well?”
“Besides the singing man, there are four others playing cards at a table,” Liao reported, squatting in the dirt. “The layout is like so, more or less.” He quickly sketched the interior of the motor pool and where the various people were, then looked up at Bolan. “What do you want to do?”
“We need some kind of distraction to take out some of them before I go in.”
“Wouldn’t the simplest way be to turn out the lights?” Liao jerked a thumb toward the rear of the building, where the generator clattered away.
“Isolated yet accessible. Liao, we might just make a special agent out of you yet,” Bolan said. “Come on.”
The two men walked to the back of the building where the generator was housed inside a small shed. “Better and better,” Bolan said. “All right, you wait on the far side and keep a lookout while I go in and disable the generator and wait for the guard to show up. I doubt I’ll need any help with him, but if there’s any trouble—” he handed Liao another pistol “—hit him hard over the head with this. Do not shoot him.”
“Got it.” Liao nodded and took his position outside, while Bolan opened the door and slipped into the darkness inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the moonlight peeking through the thin gaps, he looked at the rattling generator—its racket even louder in the confined space—found the choke and pushed it all the way over. The motor coughed and then died with a sputter. In the silence Bolan heard the loud cursing of the men inside. As he’d hoped, this was something that happened fairly often, so it didn’t engender much attention.
There was a quick discussion—no doubt over whom was going to go out and fix it—then he heard the scuff of boots as someone approached the shed door. Bolan thought he heard movement near the door and tensed, pistol butt raised, but the door didn’t open, and he stood there for a few seconds before it swung wide and a light shone inside.
Bolan shrank into the corner as the man walked in and headed straight for the silent generator. As he bent over the hot machine, Bolan stepped forward and brought the butt of his gun down on the back of the man’s neck. He slumped over the motor and slid down it to the ground.
He retrieving the man’s flashlight and dragged him into the corner. Leaving the door ajar and the flashlight on the floor as bait, Bolan reset his trap and waited. Sure enough, a few minutes later he heard the sound of another guard ambling out.
“Sun? Ni qu na’erle?” a slurred voice asked at the door. The man stumbled in and kicked the flashlight away from him. As he bent to pick it up, Bolan stepped out and gave him a swift blow to the head with his pistol, dropping him to the floor.
Bolan dragged him over to the corner, as well, wondering if he could actually repeat the maneuver a third time. He set it up again, complete with flashlight and open door, and waited. This time, he heard two voices talking as they approached the door.
An irritated voice posed a question as they stepped up to the doorway. Bolan tensed, knowing he’d have to strike quickly to knock out both men.
The first man said something, shaking his head as he stepped inside the shed. He was more alert than the other two, however, and shone his own flashlight around as he advanced. Fortunately he swept it to the right first, toward the empty side of the shed. As he did, Bolan stepped forward and clocked him hard on the side of the head, felling him like a short tree.
He turned, pistol raised to nail the second man, only to see the sentry already falling forward, out cold. Behind him stood Liao, his pistol raised and a huge grin on his face.
“Nice work,” Bolan said as he grabbed the first man’s shoulders and dragged him inside. “Get that one.”
Liao shoved the second unconscious guard inside the room. After stripping the men of their weapons, they secured the men’s hands and feet with their bootlaces and gagged them with their belts. When Bolan realized Liao was taking longer than he expected, he looked up to see the other man changing into pants taken from one man, a shirt taken from another, and socks and boots from a third. When he was finished, he looked almost exactly like one of the guards they’d just subdued.
Nodding at the combined practicality and intelligence of the move, Bolan finished his look by setting him up with a belt and pistol combination on his waist, and used his hospital gown to gag the man whose belt he’d taken.
“If we keep this up, we might manage to get out of here without too much difficulty,” he said as he finished tying the last man’s feet. Turning one of his three flashlights toward the generator, he adjusted the choke to normal and hit the ignition button. The machine rumbled to life again, filling the small area with its noise and a bit of smoke. “Let’s go.”
After wedging the door closed with one of the guard’s boots—even if they got their gags off, Bolan figured the generator would drown out any shouts they made—they headed toward the door of the motor pool building again.
After checking to see if the front of the building was clear, Bolan and Liao slipped to the main door and opened it, letting out the singer’s voice as they slipped inside.
The interior of the large room was filled with vehicles in various states of disassembly, from a 6x6 truck on blocks to the frame of what looked like an old APC from the 1960s near the back. Bolan scanned the area for a usable vehicle—he had no wish to push his luck any further than he already had—and came up with one that was just about perfect.
The olive-drab 4x4 was an Iveco NJ2046, a light but sturdy Italian-built truck that could carry about ten men and their gear. Bolan had seen versions adapted to also mount the HJ-9A antitank missile, but this one, unfortunately, was not, although it seemed to have the mount for the weapon still attached. Still, it had a decent range, and for where they were going, would be the perfect vehicle to take them through the rough country that lay between them and safety in Mongolia.
“Come with me, but keep an eye on the door.” Bolan walked over to the mechanic, who was singing s
ome sort of love ballad, he guessed, as he worked underneath a large army-surplus vehicle from the 70s that had been driven onto ramps. Grabbing the man’s feet, he yanked him out from under the vehicle and pointed his pistol into the mechanic’s face.
Already startled by the movement, his song died off in a terrified squeak as he stared down the muzzle of the gun. His gaze flicked to Liao, staring at him sternly with folded arms, and his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. Bolan adjusted his vision with a light tap of the pistol on his forehead, making the man refocus on him.
“Liao, translate,” he ordered, nodding at the Iveco. “Does that truck run well?”
Liao asked the question and the man nodded, rattling off a rapid-fire Cantonese reply. “Yes, the work on it was just finished this evening, and it is supposed to go back out for duty tomorrow morning.”
“Where is your fuel stored?” Bolan asked.
Liao translated and the man answered again. “The truck is fully fueled and carries a twenty-liter spare. The rest of the fuel is stored in a building two blocks behind this one,” he told Bolan.
Although tempted to try to grab some more, Bolan knew that move would probably land them in trouble. “Tie him up and gag him,” Bolan said. Liao scurried to comply while he walked over to check out the truck. Everything seemed okay. The tires were sound, the engine looked good and the spare full gas can was there as promised.
“You ready?” he asked Liao, who ran over to him and slid into the passenger’s seat, only to get a shake of his head from Bolan. “What, you think I’m going to drive out of here? Get over here. If we can, we’re going to head right out the front—”
A chorus of shouts made him look up and, moments later, an alarm went off.
“Damn it!” He got into the passenger seat and readied the submachine gun. “Let’s go, right now.”
The front door opened and he got a glimpse of guards rushing in. Leveling the weapon out the window, Bolan squeezed off two short bursts, catching one guard in the stomach and making him pitch over, and scattering the rest.
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