Lethal Risk

by Don Pendleton

  “Go, go, go!”

  Liao had already started the truck and jammed it in gear while stomping on the gas pedal. The vehicle leaped forward—straight at the closed garage door.

  “We stopping to open it?” he asked.

  “Hell, no!” Bolan punctuated his answer by raking the middle of the door with his subgun, putting a neat line of bullets through the door. When they hit, the weakened section burst open and the lower half of the door was carried forward with the truck’s momentum. Bolan saw one guard who had been bowled over by the breaking door roll to a stop in the middle of the compound. He fired another burst to keep the rest of the nearby guards’ heads down. A few return shots whizzed by, but none came even close to them.

  “We are still going out the main gate, right?” Liao asked as Bolan reloaded.

  “Right!” He pulled back the cocking lever and stuck his head and shoulders out the window.

  “What about the tower?”

  “Leave them to me,” Bolan replied. “Just go as fast as you can. We’re going to have to ram it!”

  Their makeshift armor flew off as Liao took another corner so fast the truck slewed around it on two wheels. “Easy there! Crash this thing and we aren’t going anywhere!”

  “We’re coming up on the main road and the tower,” Liao said. “It’s just around this corner.”

  “All right, the second you get around it, step on it!” Bolan said.

  They took the second corner almost as hard as the first, and the moment Bolan saw the gate and tower and guards in the distance, he opened fire. He put two bursts into the guard room between the gate and the bottom of the tower, then emptied the rest of his magazine into the sentry position itself as they got closer, starting near the bottom and letting the weapon’s natural climb rate do the work for him. Splinters flew from the floor and sides as the slugs chewed into it. Bolan heard at least one scream of pain from inside.

  The magazine ran dry while they were still thirty yards from the gate. Instead of reloading, Bolan drew two QSR pistols. Pointing one behind him and one in front of him, he pulled the triggers on both as fast as he could, laying down a barrage of 9 mm rounds intended to keep the guards under cover instead of intending to hit anything.

  “We’re about to hit it!” Liao yelled, making Bolan duck back inside after spraying the tower with the last of his bullets. He braced himself as the heavy-gauge wire and metal-framed gate loomed large in the windshield.

  “Here we go!” Liao shouted as he hunched over the wheel, teeth bared in a maniac grin.

  The truck slammed into the gate and punched through, smashing the left side open and tearing the right side completely off its hinges, sending it spinning into the dust. The truck swerved to the right upon impact, but Liao handled it as if he’d been breaking out of prison camps all his life. He got the truck back on the road and zooming away to the north in seconds.

  Bolan had reloaded his submachine gun and now emptied the magazine at the guard tower as they sped away. He hoped to keep them under cover so they couldn’t get a bead on the truck before it sped out of range. Someone up there did manage to get the machine gun on line, but all the person did was chew up a line of dirt behind the truck before it disappeared into the night.

  “Holy shit—we did it!” Liao yelled as they rocketed down the narrow dirt road.

  Bolan was less sanguine as he reloaded the submachine gun and both pistols, sticking both of the smaller weapons in his belt. “Yeah, but we’re a long way from safe. And they’re not going to just sit back and let us get out of here. In fact…” He caught the glare of headlights in the rearview mirror. “They’re already coming after us.”

  “What’s the plan?” Liao asked.

  Bolan climbed into the back. “You just concentrate on getting us as far from that camp as possible. I’m going to do everything I can to get them off our ass.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “There’s the vehicle!”

  His sweating fingers tightly gripping the butt and forestock of the QBZ-95 assault rifle loaned to him by General Zhao, Fang sighted along where the other man was pointing as they flew through the air at more than 173 miles per hour.

  Although he wasn’t a religious man, if asked, Fang would have said the helicopter was a godsend. It would have taken hours to drive back along the highway and over the narrow, twisting roads that cut through the steppe to reach their target. The Harbin, however, didn’t even have to hit its top speed to bring them there in just under an hour.

  Now they were approaching the Mercedes-Benz, which appeared to have been abandoned in the middle of a field, a short distance from a converted prison camp. It looked used and abused, with its back window missing, and was covered in dust and chaff from being driven on the roads and into the field.

  “Let’s take it!” he said into his headset.

  “My men will clear the vehicle first, then we will inspect it—for your protection, of course,” Zhao replied, the unmistakable ring of command clear in his voice. It was the first time Fang had heard it today.

  “That’s fine, but I want to see it for myself,” he replied.

  Zhao nodded. “Just give them sixty seconds. Then you can look at it all you like.”

  Grudgingly, Fang nodded, although he was pretty sure they had kept moving. There would be no point staying with the car if it had broken down or run out of gas.

  Using hand signals, the general directed the six-man squad to surround the car and capture—alive—anyone they found inside. The helicopter hovered a few feet above the ground and the squad opened the side doors and jumped out, fanning out to cover the car while giving themselves intersecting fields of fire for protection and reinforcement.

  They advanced on the forlorn vehicle in a line, the ends of which walked faster to encircle the car in a U-shaped formation. At a signal from the team leader, each man on the end approached the car from either side and covered the passenger area, careful not to catch each other in their field of fire. At the same time, two men approached the trunk. The leader signaled again and the soldier on the driver’s side popped the trunk open, the pair of soldiers next to it covering the empty space with their weapons.

  “Sir, this is Red Squad One, the target is clear. Repeat, the target is clear. There are no hostiles inside. Repeat, no hostiles inside.”

  “Take it down. I want to see for myself,” the MSS agent said.

  Zhao ordered the pilot to land the helicopter and the moment it was on the ground, Fang exited and ran to the car. The soldiers cleared a path for him as he sprinted over.

  “Someone used tear gas to clear the vehicle,” the sergeant shouted as he looked inside. “You can still smell it.”

  “Yes, Sergeant, thank you.” Fang opened the glove box and riffled through it, then looked underneath the seats. All he found was a bag holding several empty bottles. Two were water bottles that contained a few drops of a cloudy, off-white liquid. There were also several empty antibiotic medicine containers in the bag.

  “This was their car,” he said, holding up the bag as he emerged. “General, you said there was a prison camp nearby?”

  “Yes, the Cheng Dao Reprimand Center,” the general replied.

  “And the tear gas…” Fang said. “That’s where they are. With any luck, the prison guards have captured them.” He started back to the helicopter. “This day might still have a happy ending yet.”

  Zhao recalled his men and within sixty seconds they were airborne and heading to the prison camp.

  As they approached, Fang saw that the main gate had been smashed open, with one half hanging crookedly off its hinges. The nearby guard tower had also been chewed up, with bullet holes pockmarking its exterior. Armed men ran all over the place, shouting to one another as they formed a human perimeter. Cold dread iced over in the pit of Fang’s stomach as they got closer—he knew what had caused this kind of chaos—and he feared that they had arrived too late yet again.

  A spotlight was trained on the
helicopter and a voice shouted at them through a bullhorn to identify themselves immediately or be fired upon.

  Zhao got on the external loudspeakers, identified himself and Agent Fang, and let the prison know that they were touching down and to summon the warden immediately.

  That put the fear of the state into the guards and one took off, running toward a building in the back. By the time Fang and Zhao were out of the helicopter and approaching what was left of the main gate, a bald man with a small potbelly and a ground-churning stride was coming to greet them.

  “General Zhao, Agent Fang.” Despite the circumstances, he snapped off a crisp salute. “I am Warden Rong Yam. I appreciate your promptness, although confess to being surprised at your arrival, since we just sent out the alert about this escape attempt a few minutes ago—”

  “We have been chasing these fugitives for the past twenty-four hours,” Fang interrupted. “It’s a pair. A local man and a tall American, right?”

  The warden frowned at the description. “One was Chinese, yes, but I don’t know about an American. We found the local in a car about five kilometers away, but he was alone. He said he was a fugitive from a Beijing mental hospital—”

  “That man is a traitor to our nation, and his accomplice is an American trying to get him out of the country. It is imperative that they are captured as soon as possible,” Fang said. “Where are they now?”

  “That explains the shooter,” the warden said. “They broke out of here about ten minutes ago. They stole one of our trucks and headed north. We’re in pursuit right now.”

  “Mongolia…of course! Come on, General!” Fang said as he turned and ran for the helicopter. “Radio your men, Warden, and tell them the two must be captured alive!”

  All the general’s men boarded quickly and in a few seconds the helicopter took off, following the pursuit toward the border.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Bolan kept an eye on the two vehicles as they approached the speeding truck. One was a much larger truck, a six-wheeled monster that took up almost the entire roadway. Ahead of it was another Iveco—only this one had a light machine gun sitting on the pintle mount that usually held the antitank weapon.

  “Damn!” he said. No matter what kind of gun it was, it would have a far superior range to Bolan’s submachine gun. Depending on the skill of the person manning it, the pursuers could chop the rear of their vehicle into pieces at their leisure, then take them when they were forced to stop.

  As if confirming his prediction, the gunner let loose with a long burst, the bullets kicking up dirt to the left of the truck. Liao swerved right, almost running off the road, and then overcorrected, making them fishtail wildly. Bolan crouched to remain upright through the crazy gyrations.

  “Settle down up there!” he shouted. “They didn’t actually hit us!”

  “This is only the second—no, the third time I’ve ever been shot at!” Liao yelled back. “Pardon me for not being used to it!”

  “Well, you better get used to it quick because more’s incoming!” Bolan said, hunching in the seat as another fusillade chopped up the road on their right. He returned fire, but as expected, they were far out of his weapon’s range. The enemy would soon have their range. There had to be a way to even the odds… His gaze fell on the spare tank of gas attached to the rear of the vehicle, and he winced at having to sacrifice it, but knew if their pursuers hit it with a stray shot, the truck could become a speeding Molotov cocktail. It would be better to use it to their advantage than the enemy’s.

  “Tell me when we’re coming up on a curve or a valley—any place where we’ll be out of their sight, even for a few seconds,” Bolan said while scrambling to grab the heavy container. He was lugging it back to the middle of the truck when the latest barrage drilled into the rear, shattering the window and punching a series of holes through the tailgate. Bolan checked the tank for damage. Fortunately, it hadn’t been hit.

  “Are you okay?” Liao shouted.

  “Yeah, but that was too close,” Bolan replied.

  “We’re coming up on a dip in the road in about 150 meters,” Liao shouted.

  “Perfect.” Tearing off his shirtsleeve, Bolan unscrewed the cap and stuffed the cloth into the hole. He knew just shooting it would have no effect; the fuel wouldn’t explode without an actual flame.

  He rooted around in his pocket for the matches from the nightclub. They were still slightly soggy and smelled of sewage, but the word “waterproof” was plainly visible on the cardboard. “Stop at the bottom,” he called back while ripping one out and dragging it across the ignition strip on the back of the book.

  It didn’t light. Bolan tried again as they slowed to a stop. “Now what?” Liao asked.

  “Just a second…” Bolan dragged the match head across a third time. It sparked, smoked and lit brightly. “Got it!”

  He touched it to the cloth, which flared sullenly to life. Bolan made sure it caught as he scrambled into the back of the truck again.

  “They’re coming!” Liao cried.

  “I hear them. I’m just going to leave a little surprise…” Bolan could hear the rumble of the approaching larger truck, almost drowned out by with the roar of the smaller one. He set the gas can on its side in the middle of the road. “Floor it!”

  Liao hit the gas and they shot forward. Bracing himself, Bolan snugged the butt of his submachine gun tight to his shoulder and aimed at the rapidly shrinking gas tank.

  The lead truck roared into the depression. Seeing their quarry less than fifty yards away, the machine gunner scrambled to adjust his aim—just as Bolan fired.

  The bullets punched into the gas can, sending fuel spurting out. For a second nothing happened and he feared the gas might have smothered the fire.

  But as the pursuit truck roared straight at them, the improvised incendiary detonated with a dull whomp!

  Unable to stop in time, the truck plowed straight through the huge fireball. The driver lost control and drove the flaming vehicle up the embankment before regaining control and stopping.

  “Stop!” Bolan shouted. As his truck skidded to a halt, he jumped out and limped as fast as he could toward the burning vehicle. The machine gunner was trying to track toward him, but Bolan shot first, a long burst that knocked the man backward, making him slowly topple off the truck.

  The panicked driver clawed at his door in an attempt to get away from the flames licking at the windshield. Bolan helped cure his fear permanently by putting a burst through the window and into his target. The driver slumped over the steering wheel, face and upper chest leaking blood.

  A second guard got out of the passenger side and brought his gun around to aim at the big American.

  Letting loose the last of his magazine, Bolan’s bullets pulverized him, dropping him to the dirt.

  Leaping onto the back of the truck, the Executioner yanked the locking pin loose from the pintle and lifted the light machine gun, a bullpup-model 5.8 mm QBB-95 with an 80-round drum magazine behind the butt. Glancing around, he saw another ammo drum lying on the bottom of the truck and grabbed it, too. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the bigger truck closing fast.

  Leaping out, he carried both items to their truck and tossed them in, then started back to the burning vehicle.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Diversion!” Bolan yelled over his shoulder. “Hang on!” He ran to the other vehicle, where the flames were almost out. Opening the driver’s door, he threw out the lifeless body and jumped in. The engine was still running and he jammed it into gear and floored the gas pedal.

  The truck lurched forward along the side of the small hill and for a heart-stopping moment Bolan thought it was going to roll over. Then he got it straightened and drove down to the road again. Once there, he hit the gas, heading straight toward the larger truck.

  Seeing the oncoming vehicle, the bigger vehicle honked its horn, but Bolan didn’t stop. When the two vehicles were a hundred yards apart, he opened the door and
dived onto the ground, rolling hard with the impact.

  At that velocity, the big truck couldn’t turn aside fast enough, although the driver tried. The front of the 6x6 crashed into the smaller truck on the passenger side, crumpling the hood and engine compartment and sending the Italian truck flying through the air.

  The large cargo truck hit its air brakes immediately after the impact, shuddering to a stop. Bolan wasn’t waiting around to find out what they were doing, however. The moment he stopped rolling, he got up and bolted back to the truck, ignoring the steady stabs of pain from his left leg every time it hit the ground. He reached the vehicle, which Liao had thoughtfully backed up for him, at the bottom of the dip. Diving into the back, he banged his knee painfully on the machine gun on the floor as he yelled, “Go, go, go!”

  Liao hit it and the truck began speeding away. “They’ll never catch us now!” he shouted, pounding the roof with his fist. “We did it!”

  “We aren’t in Mongolia yet!” Bolan, still in the back compartment, slumped against the tailgate, breathing heavily. His leg twitched, and he noticed his phone was vibrating.

  He dug it out and answered. “We’re—”

  Akira Tokaido’s voice screamed in his ear. “Missile! Evacuate the vehicle—they’ve locked-on an antitank missile!”

  “Stop now! Right now!” Bolan yelled to Liao as he shoved the phone into his pocket and grabbed the machine gun with his other hand.

  The truck skidded to a halt and as the other man turned to him, Bolan yelled, “Incoming missile. Get out now!”

  Liao scrabbled at the door handle and got it open as Bolan hit the ground on the other side of the rear door. He made sure Liao was scrambling away from the truck before running himself.

  As he did, he saw the bright flash of a missile launch about a mile away and shouted, “Hit the dirt!” as he dived to the ground.

  Two seconds later the world exploded.