Ballistic

by Don Pendleton

  And by that time, it might well be too late.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Legendary Fantasy, Ancol Dreamland

  Fann Lieu was standing near the Parthenon and looking for the sphinx of Egypt, feeling edgy and disoriented as the Indonesian rain soaked through his lightweight jacket. He had packed in haste, not thinking of the weather beyond vague notions of tropic heat, and there had been no opportunity to buy a raincoat after he checked in to his hotel. Some of the people rushing past him on the midway had cut holes in plastic garbage bags and pulled them on over their heads, reminding Fann of photos he had seen from Baghdad’s Central Prison early in the U.S. war against Saddam Hussein.

  Better soaked to the skin, he decided, than dressed like a hostage—or a giant leech from some low-budget horror film.

  The park employees dressed in ancient costumes had evaporated as the rain grew stronger, no doubt seeking shelter for themselves. Fann didn’t have the luxury of hiding out and killing time until the rain stopped. First, he didn’t know if it would stop. And more importantly, he had a job to do—meeting with Maia Lee.

  He’d wondered, on the taxi drive from his subpar hotel to Ancol Dreamland, whether she had gone so far beyond the pale that she would try to kill him when they met. It seemed irrational, but hints of paranoia had been tossed into his briefing by the Deputy Assistant Minister for State Security. Why would an agent in the field turn rogue, unless her mind had somehow grown unbalanced?

  Wait and see, Fann told himself. Do not prejudge.

  Sound counsel, but his nerves were twitching nonetheless.

  Again, Fann wished he had a weapon, even though his skills had barely been rated adequate in training, and he’d had no practice in the years since then. On second thought, false confidence might prove more dangerous than traveling unarmed, particularly if a weapon prompted Maia to some act of violence against him.

  Meet and talk, he thought. Explain the ministry’s concern.

  If she would listen.

  And if not...?

  He had been promised backup and would have to trust that promise. Otherwise, if Fann believed he was alone in this, he might have turned and run away. Instead, he fixed his eyes on Dunia Fantasi’s version of the sphinx and moved in that direction, jostled on his way past running children and the parents who pursued them without much success.

  He should be safe here, Fann decided, with so many eyes surrounding him. A public meeting, he recalled from training at Beijing’s University of International Relations, was considered best if it was feasible, large open spaces being much preferred over sequestered spots with poor escape routes.

  As if Fann Lieu needed to escape from Maia Lee. The notion almost made him smile, until he recalled Chou Hua Tian’s remarks. She has begun to act erratically. There have been...incidents. Fatalities. But even so, surely she wouldn’t try to harm Fann in the midst of an amusement park, surrounded by a mob of witnesses.

  Shoes squelching on the rain-slick pavement, shoulders hunched and hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, Fann drew closer to the sphinx. He started focusing on women in the crowd now, trying to spot Maia from a distance, wondering if she had seen him yet. Fann hoped she wouldn’t change her mind at the last moment, slip away and leave him standing in the sphinx’s shadow like a jilted lover.

  When she tapped him on the shoulder from behind, Fann nearly yelped aloud. Spinning to face her, it required a force of will to shift from startled gaping to a smile.

  “Hello, Lieu,” Maia said. “You came alone?”

  * * *

  “HE’S FOUND HER,” Huo Zhangke informed his team, using the wireless headset. “Verify positions!”

  Lia Yin, first to respond, said, “I have target acquisition.”

  One by one, the others chimed in until he’d heard from all thirteen. They had the sphinx surrounded at a distance, Lia closest to the targets at a range of thirty yards, while some of Huo’s gunmen hung back at sixty, eighty and one hundred yards. The trick was to construct a living cage without alerting Maia Lee or spooking Fann Lieu into hasty action that would give away the trap.

  And meanwhile, they were on alert, all watching out for the American.

  Huo had seen a number of white faces in the crowd, between the ticket gates and Dunia Fantasi, but they had been paired in couples, one of them with squalling children. If a lone white man was lurking in the neighborhood, Huo hadn’t spied him yet. Which posed a problem if the hypothetical American was covering his female cohort, ready to assist her when the trap sprang shut.

  Huo found himself in a dilemma. He could take the woman now, or stall until her partner was revealed, at which time it might be too late for a clean shot at Maia. His orders, clearly stated, were to bag both of the upstarts who had wreaked havoc on members of the Flying Ax Triad, but would he be forgiven if he let one slip away while waiting for the other to reveal himself?

  Unlikely.

  Huo Zhangke edged closer to the target and her friend, both targets now, the man from Beijing rated as disposable. Reaching inside his raincoat, he clutched the grip of his Type 80 machine pistol. Although its sights were permanently fixed for fifty yards, Huo wanted to be closer before he opened fire.

  “Move in as planned,” he told the others, trying to speak without moving his lips. The last thing that Huo needed was some stupid tourist watching him and running off to park security because he’d seen a crazy fellow talking to himself.

  The first shot would be his, although he knew that Lia Yin was chomping at the bit to make a kill. She frightened Huo sometimes, particularly on the two occasions when they’d shared a bed, Lia seeming to believe that pain and pleasure were identical. She was a witch, that one, with lethal magic in her hands.

  Huo didn’t rush as he approached his targets. There was no great hurry, certainly no reason to alarm them, and he still hoped that one of his people might spot the American gunman, as well. If they didn’t discover him before the shooting started, Huo’s last hope lay with the American jumping in to help when his associate went down. If that didn’t provoke him, if he chose to flee instead of fighting like a man, Huo would be left with only half a prize.

  Forced to explain his failure, throw himself upon Jin’s mercy to survive.

  Which was another problem in itself, since Jin Au-Yo possessed no mercy. Those who failed him had a way of winding up their lives in misery and pain.

  Perhaps the American would be a knight in shining armor, dying for his lady. As he drew his pistol, Huo Zhangke could only hope.

  * * *

  MAIA HAD STUDIED Fann and his surroundings thoroughly before approaching him. He seemed to be alone, no watchers visible from where she stood, but that proved nothing. Even now, she had the option of retreating, leaving him to wait in vain, but part of her had to know why he’d been sent so far from home to meet her in the rain, at a bizarre amusement park.

  She waited till his back was turned before approaching him, then tapped him on the shoulder.

  When he’d recovered from his momentary shock, Fann replied, “I am alone. As promised.”

  “No one followed you?” she asked.

  He frowned at that, delaying long enough for Maia to suspect deception, then said, “I saw no one following.”

  She had to press the point. “And you made no arrangements to be met here?”

  “Only by yourself,” Fann said.

  Not trusting him, she said, “All right. Let’s walk.”

  She wondered where Matt Cooper was, whether he was covering her as she started off with Fann, passing the sphinx and moving toward a sized-down model of an ancient pyramid. In these surroundings, she would not have been surprised if they were ambushed by a walking mummy.

  “So,” she said, “what brings you to Jakarta?”

  “I came to see you, a
s you know,” he answered.

  “But at whose request?”

  “The Deputy Assistant Minister for State Security himself,” Fann said.

  “I doubt that I am so important,” Maia said.

  “This is a time of crisis,” Fann replied. “You have a critical assignment, and he worries that you may be...”

  “What?”

  “Unreliable,” he answered, clearly reluctant to say it.

  “Chou thinks I would betray the ministry?”

  “He said there had been incidents. Fatalities. He said you have been working with an American agent. Is it true, Maia?”

  She answered him with silence.

  “No one understands,” Fann said at last. “You don’t communicate with headquarters. On top of all that’s happened with the Brave Wind missiles, it’s too much.”

  “And they sent you to stop me?”

  “As a friend, to speak with you,” Fann said. “You have no cause to mock me.”

  “I’m surprised, that’s all,” she said. “Why send an officer with zero field experience into a situation with fatalities involved?”

  “Perhaps because they thought that you would speak to me.”

  “And here we are. What is your message, Lieu?”

  “The Deputy Assistant Minister—”

  “Chou Hua Tian,” she interrupted him. “I know his name. Go on.”

  “He wishes you to stop whatever you are doing. Catch the next flight to Beijing. Explain yourself at headquarters.”

  “Face trial, you mean,” she said.

  “There was no mention of a trial.”

  “Perhaps they will dispense with it and send me to the wall directly,” she replied. “Such things are known to happen.”

  “You may be able to redeem yourself,” Fann said.

  “And how might I do that?” she asked.

  “Surrender your accomplice. The American.”

  * * *

  BOLAN MUTTERED a curse as Maia and Fann Lieu began to walk away, leaving the sphinx behind. He understood her motivation. It was better to become a moving target than to stand still and make it easy on your would-be executioners, but Bolan hadn’t spotted any shooters yet, and breaking cover cut both ways. If enemies were watching out for him, somewhere amid the midway crowd, he would be more conspicuous following Fann and Maia than if he remained in place.

  It was too late to think about that now. He couldn’t let the pair slip out of sight and range.

  They had walked on for thirty yards or so when Bolan spotted one apparent follower. A Chinese woman, slight of build, with hair tied back under a camo bush hat, was keeping pace with Maia and her friend but staying well off to one side. She wore a large black plastic trash bag poncho-style, to keep her clothes dry, denim jeans and well-worn sneakers showing underneath its floppy hem.

  The makeshift rain gear was a common feature in the crowd surrounding Bolan, but this woman stood out from the mob because she was alone and moved with more determination than the others, homing in on her targets. The trash bag hid her arms and anything she might be carrying, but she would have to clear it if she meant to aim and fire with any accuracy. Nearly certain of her plan, still Bolan waited for the confirmation he required to drop a woman on the midway, and while tracking her, he kept on watching for the backup that he knew had to be in place somewhere nearby.

  Still walking, Maia and Fann were talking with their heads almost together in the rain, keeping their voices down so no one passing by could overhear them. Maia shook her head in negative response to something Fann was saying, whether contradicting him or simply answering a question, Bolan couldn’t tell.

  Their single follower cut glances to her left and right from time to time, as if watching for comrades on her flanks. As Bolan closed the gap between them, he made out the earpiece she was wearing, thought he saw her lips moving in profile for a second, just before she turned away. That gave him all the confirmation that he needed of a team in place, but a preemptive strike would only warn the others, maybe spur them into action prematurely. He hoped to spot them, before they moved on Fann and Maia.

  It would help to know if they were going for a snatch or a kill, but Bolan had no way of learning that before the trap closed. It would be too late by then, if they were sniping from a distance, but that struck him as a risky move with so many civilians in the line of fire. Or would they risk a massacre to get the job done, after he and Maia had inflicted so much damage on the Flying Ax Triad?

  Hang in a little longer, Bolan thought. Another minute, maybe two.

  And pray it’s not too late.

  * * *

  “I WON’T BETRAY HIM,” Maia said.

  “Betray him? What about the ministry? Your country?” Fann challenged.

  “Someone from the ministry could be involved in this,” Maia replied.

  “In what? The missile hijacking? Think what you’re saying, Lee.”

  “I have thought about it. It’s the only answer that makes sense.”

  Fann recognized that tone, the stubbornness that he remembered from their student days together, any time they disagreed on something. Looking for a way to crack that wall, he said, “You’re sounding paranoid.”

  She cut an angry glance in his direction and replied, “It isn’t paranoia if I’m right.”

  “And you prove that by running off to the Americans?”

  “I haven’t ‘run off’ anywhere,” she snapped. “The man you speak of saved my life.”

  “And now he’s placed your life in jeopardy,” Fann said.

  “The choice was mine,” Maia replied.

  “There’s still time to reverse it,” Fann replied. “If you won’t give him up, at least come home with me.”

  “Not until we’ve found the second missile. Fann, you must know what’s at stake here.”

  “Maia, listen to me! If you don’t—”

  Fann lost his thought then, as a child came out of nowhere, running full-tilt while looking back over his shoulder. He caromed off Fann’s left hip with a squeal of surprise and collapsed on the pavement as Fann, stunned and cursing the pain, turned to snap at the brat. Before the words could form, he heard a muffled popping sound and felt another blow, this one beneath his arm, lancing his chest with agony.

  Fann dropped to one knee, gasping, suddenly unable to draw breath. His mind was churning, trying to make sense of the event, as Maia called his name from miles away, her voice barely an echo in his head. A coughing spasm racked him, and his bleary eyes beheld the boy who’d slammed against him, gaping up at Fann now, with a dripping crimson face.

  Whose blood? he tried to ask, but choked on salty warmth before he could articulate the words. The boy was scrambling backward, spider-walking on his hands and heels, keening in panic as Fann expelled another gout of crimson. Someone clutched him from behind, tried to prevent his toppling to the pavement, but he slithered through the helping hands and felt the asphalt slap his cheek.

  Impossible, Fann thought. A silly accident. This can’t be happening.

  Then someone in the press of bodies shouted, “She has a gun!”

  The last thing Fann heard was sudden thunder hammering the neon night.

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD SPOTTED one more shooter—thought he had, at least, off to his right and closing in—when Fann and Maia stopped dead in their tracks to face each other. Maia’s face was hidden from him by her poncho’s hood, but Fann seemed agitated. He was saying something Bolan couldn’t hear and wouldn’t have been able to translate, using his hands for emphasis, when someone’s rowdy kid came plowing through the crowd and ran head-on into Fann’s flank.

  It couldn’t be part of the setup, but it worked for Bolan’s adversaries, visible and otherwise. The woman he’d been tracking snaked an
arm out from beneath her trash-bag cape and fired a silenced pistol from a range of thirty feet or less, its bullet striking Fann as he half turned to help or reprimand the bleating child. It was a lung shot, clearly, bringing blood up in a spurting rush, as Maia brought her submachine gun out of hiding, into action.

  Bolan turned to face the second shooter—male, Chinese, mid-twenties, whipping back his raincoat to reveal a stubby shotgun—just as Maia zipped the woman who had shot her friend. A short burst sent ripples through the trash bag, taking down the target as the female hitter squeezed off two more silenced rounds into the crowd at large.

  Screams then, of pain and panic. Bolan had his Pindad SS2 lined up and tracking as the second shooter racked his shotgun’s slide, something he should have done before, to save time once the killing started. As it was, the wasted fraction of a second cost him everything, gave Bolan all the time he needed for a double-tap that spun the youngster like a dervish, triggering a blast of buckshot in the general direction of the looming Ferris wheel.

  More screams. More tourists down and bleeding. Bolan shoved through the crowd toward Maia and her fallen classmate, when the trap closed and all hell broke loose.

  He couldn’t count the guns, could only estimate their number at a dozen, give or take. They were surrounded, more or less, and their attackers clearly weren’t concerned about collateral damage. Muzzle-flashes winked in competition to the garish midway lights, none of the other weapons silenced. Outside the kill zone, some park visitors mistook the shots for fireworks, craning for a glimpse of sky beyond the part bleached out by Ancol Dreamland’s lights. Too late for some, they realized that Death had come among them and was taking names.

  Blood-spattered from a near miss that had dropped a passing clown, Bolan reached Maia, clutched her arm and snapped, “Come on!” He pulled her forcibly away from Fann’s body, lifeless now, no longer spitting blood, and hauled her toward the meager shelter of the nearby pyramid. No muzzle-flashes seemed to come from that direction, making it as safe as anywhere along the midway while they took a moment to regroup.

  “She killed him,” Maia said, dull-voiced.