Ballistic

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan prodded their captive with his pistol through the fabric of his poncho. Maia had the guy pinned on his right, with the Executioner on the left, prepared to drop him in a cross fire if he tried his luck at running. Beyond the nearest exit, people who had made it through were scattering, putting as much space between themselves and Ancol Dreamland as they could. Cars jockeyed for position in the parking lots, some fenders clashing in the process, drivers jumping out to curse and swing at one another.

  “We could be all night getting away from here,” Maia said.

  “We’ll get it done,” he answered, hoping that was true.

  Still twenty feet before they reached the exit and began their odyssey to reach the SUV. The parking lot had several exits and, unlike the park, it wasn’t fenced. If necessary, Bolan thought they could four-wheel it over dirt and grass to reach the nearest access road and clear the scene. First, though, they had to get their triad shooter to the car and in the car, without attracting any cops.

  The exit gate was coming up. Bolan could feel their prisoner bracing himself to make a move, and didn’t wait for anything to happen. Clutching the man’s left arm with his own left hand, Bolan put his weight behind a kidney jab, the muzzle of his SIG-Sauer biting deep. Their captive squealed in pain and slumped between them, his toes dragging as they steered him toward and through the exit.

  “Injured man here,” Bolan warned the nervous folk in front of them, while Maia translated.

  A moment later, they were out and moving toward the parking lot. Not free and clear, by any means, but getting there. Bolan could only hope it wasn’t all for nothing, and the man they’d captured knew something that could advance their cause.

  Without that boost, they would be going nowhere fast.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Banten Province, Java, Indonesia

  “It’s Tan, sir,” said Ma Mingxia, sat phone in hand.

  “How does he sound?” Jin Au-Yo asked.

  “Upset,” Ma said, grim-faced.

  That meant something had gone wrong. Again. Jin frowned and took the phone from Ma. Said, “Yes.”

  Tan Sen Neo told him, “Bad news, Jin. They got away.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes. I sent the best soldiers available, but they have failed us. Out of fourteen, six are dead and five are now in custody.”

  Jin did the math and said, “That still leaves three.”

  “Two managed to escape. They’re coming in for a debriefing.”

  “And the fourteenth?” Jin inquired.

  “The team leader,” Tan said. “You may not know him. Huo Zhangke?”

  “I’ve heard the name. He dealt with the Moluccans for us,” Jin replied.

  “That’s him,” Tan said.

  “And where is he?”

  Tan hesitated, then said, “No one seems to know. Perhaps he’ll call in soon. I’ve spoken to our man with the police. He’s definitely not among the ones arrested.”

  “So, you’re saying that he’s disappeared?”

  “There was a great deal of confusion at the park,” Tan said. “And there still is, I believe. We’ll find him.”

  “What about the other agent from Beijing?” Jin asked.

  “He’s dead, I think,” Tan said.

  “You think?” Jin challenged him.

  “It isn’t clear yet. They’re still counting bodies at the park.”

  Which meant civilians dead, as well. Scowling, Jin asked, “Police?”

  “One dead, at least,” Tan replied. “We don’t know yet who shot him.”

  “It’s bad enough with the civilians, Tan. They had to kill a cop?”

  “I don’t have the details yet,” Tan said. “Don’t worry. I’ll find out what happened.”

  “With a dead cop, it doesn’t matter,” Jin replied. “They’ll want revenge on top of money.”

  Tan considered that and said, “We’ll come to an accommodation.”

  “They’ll need blood for this,” Jin said. “Give them the two who got away, after you’ve questioned them.”

  “Alive, or...?”

  “I don’t want them telling tales outside the family,” Jin said.

  “I understand, sir. About Beijing...”

  “I’ll speak with them. They won’t be pleased,” Jin said.

  “Will it require a sacrifice?” Tan asked.

  Tan had to have known who would be next in line if Beijing wanted blood.

  “Perhaps not,” Jin replied. “I’ll let you know.”

  He broke the link without goodbyes, handing the sat phone back to Ma, and asked, “Do you believe in curses?”

  “No, sir.”

  Of course not. That was mystic foolishness. Still, Jin thought he could trace the moment when his luck had changed, gone sour on him. Was it when his soldiers captured Maia Lee? When she escaped? Or could he trace it further back, to the beginning of his business with the Arabs? By dealing with them, offering to satisfy their craving for a mighty weapon, he’d invited trouble. Now, with several dozen of his soldiers dead and the police involved, as well as agents from the PRC, Jin knew the burden of responsibility fell squarely on his shoulders.

  Wu Guchan would sacrifice him, if it came to that, to save the family. Why not? Jin was prepared to do the same with Tan Sen Neo. It was only natural. Whatever happened to a single man or group of men, the Flying Ax Triad survived.

  As to which man was sacrificed, however, there might be some flexibility. If he could shift the blame to Wu, their allies in the Ministry of State Security might see the wisdom of replacing him.

  And who better to fill that role, if he could pull it off, than Jin Au-Yo?

  Pluit, North Jakarta

  THEY HADN’T DRIVEN all that far from Ancol Dreamland, after all. The storage site where Maia kept a locker paid up for the year was one block off Jalan Pluit Karang Ayu, two klicks west of the theme park that had turned into a battleground. Renters had access to the place around the clock, a sleepy guard on-site to greet them without showing any interest in their business.

  Bolan drove between two rows of storage lockers to the far north end and parked outside of number 109. They had the sector to themselves as Maia stepped out of the vehicle, unlocked the unit, then returned to help convey their passenger inside. He didn’t fight them, may have known that it was hopeless or perhaps thought that he could bargain for his life.

  The unit had internal lighting, and the roll-down door was lockable from either side. Once they were shuttered from the world, Bolan examined the unit, noting the total lack of furniture, some plastic tubs against the back wall and a concrete floor beneath his feet. Someone had thought to put a drain dead center, probably in case the site was flooded. There were no stains on the floor or walls to indicate that that had happened yet.

  Bolan addressed their captive, telling him, “We may as well start with your name.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the triad shooter replied, “I’m Huo Zhangke. You’re not police. Why have you brought me here?”

  “For answers,” Bolan said.

  “I don’t betray my brothers,” Huo informed him.

  “Let me guess,” Bolan replied. “The thunderbolts and myriads of swords?”

  “You mock ancient tradition. No one from the Flying Ax has ever turned informer.”

  “My only interest in your brotherhood,” Bolan said, “is recovering the missile that was sold to terrorists. They want to set the world on fire and don’t care if the Flying Ax goes up in smoke along with everybody else. You owe no loyalty to them.”

  “I couldn’t help you if I wanted to,” Huo answered. “I know nothing of such things.”

  “We figured that,” Bolan advised him. “Which is why we need some face time with the m
an in charge.”

  “He’s left Jakarta,” Huo said. “I can’t tell you where he’s gone.”

  “But someone can,” Bolan replied. “Smart money says you know who that would be.”

  The triad gunner frowned, studied his shoes, retreating into silence.

  Maia glanced at Bolan, turned and shot their captive in the left leg, crimson spurting from his thigh an inch or two above the knee. Huo hit the concrete, wailing, making Bolan wonder how far sound would carry from their unit in the night.

  “Someone takes charge when Jin is traveling outside Jakarta,” Maia said. “Give us the name.”

  The wounded man glared back at her with teary eyes, then spit out, “Tan Sen Neo.”

  “What is he to Jin?” Maia demanded.

  “Underboss,” Huo replied, through clenched teeth.

  “So far, so good,” Bolan told Huo. “Now, all we need is his address.”

  Lesser Sunda Islands, Indonesia

  A NEW DAY WAS BEGINNING. Would it be the last for Usmar Malik?

  He had long since come to terms with death—with the idea of martyrdom in God’s name—but in the dark hours, when he was honest with himself, Malik still feared the crossing into unknown territory. It wasn’t that he had any cause to doubt his faith, much less accept the counterarguments of Christians serving the Great Satan. Rather, Malik wondered whether he was worthy of the paradise awaiting those who gave their lives to the jihad.

  It’s time to sleep, he told himself, deciding on a final check-in with the radar operators to make sure they were awake and paying close attention to their screens. It would be his head left in a basket if the night watch missed the U.S. fleet and let them slip beyond the Brave Wind missile’s range.

  Where were they? What was keeping them?

  Nasir had calculated that it might be days before the ships began to search among the Lesser Sundas. Malik’s argument—that they might never come unless the lure they had prepared was activated—failed to gain Nasir’s approval. Any premature broadcast, the Saudi said, might draw one of the E-3 Sentry AWACS planes—the U.S. Air Force Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft cruising at forty thousand feet and picking out their signal with its various surveillance systems. Once the Sentry had a fix, its Joint Tactical Information Distribution System would direct a Tomahawk cruise missile to the Thunderbolt from up to 1,550 miles away, with no risk whatsoever to the fleet.

  So, they had to wait. Only when ships were well within the Brave Wind’s relatively puny range could they afford to activate the beacon, setting up the largest target for a killing strike.

  And after that...

  Malik had questioned the escape plan when he heard it for the first time, half expecting that he would be asked to die after the fatal blow was struck, but as Nasir had explained it to him, it made sense. The Sword of Allah was a relatively small group, certainly when you compared it to al Qaeda or Hamas. As such, it couldn’t carelessly discard its highest-ranking officers—the brains behind the operation, as it were.

  So he and Nasir would escape, or try to, in the speedboats that sat waiting on the far side of their little island. One fleeing in each direction, east and west, to multiply the odds of individual survival. Malik understood that logic, too. And yet, suspicion lingered in a corner of his mind where doubt was prone to fester.

  What if Nasir planned on using Malik’s boat for bait, the same way they were using the Thunderbolt as a staked goat to attract a tiger? Should he cross the island now, before he tried to sleep, and search his speedboat for a hidden radio transmitter that would bring one of the Boeing F/A-18E/F Super Hornet fighters down upon him with its 20 mm Vulcan Gatling gun and its Harpoon antiship missiles?

  Was he simply being paranoid?

  Perhaps. But it would be an awkward situation, trying to explain his trek across the island if Nasir woke early and discovered he was gone. The next day, while they waited for the fleet, Malik could always dream up some excuse to check the boats. And if he found a hidden homing beacon...then what?

  Maybe switch it to the other speedboat, proving by his action that he had the sharper mind and was more suited to survive.

  Beijing, China

  CHOU HUA TIAN had gone to bed and was already dozing when the phone rang at his bedside. From its tone, he knew it was the green phone, scrambled automatically, its number known to fewer than a dozen people in the world. No matter which of them was calling at that hour, Chou knew that he was about to be confronted with some new emergency.

  Because he was a bachelor and lived alone, the late call troubled no one but himself. He cleared his throat, lifted the receiver from its cradle and said, “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” Jin Au-Yo said.

  Chou knew why he was calling. It could only be about the trap they’d laid for Maia Lee.

  “What news?” Chou asked.

  “All bad,” Jin answered. “Your decoy is dead. The woman and her American have escaped.”

  “Again,” Chou said, not bothering to cover the recriminating tone.

  “I know,” said Jin. “The men responsible are being punished as we speak.”

  “That is no consolation,” Chou replied.

  “Agreed. My soldiers are on full alert, as are authorities throughout the district.”

  “None of which has helped so far,” Chou said. He’d come to a decision, most reluctantly, and saw no reason to postpone it further. “I am coming to Jakarta with a group of my own people to resolve the situation.”

  “As you wish,” Jin said. “If you need anything...”

  “Certain equipment,” Chou acknowledged. “It can be arranged between us on arrival.”

  “Of course. Call me with details of your flight when it’s arranged, and you will be met at the airport. Anything you need will be provided.”

  “Very well,” Chou said. “I’ll see you soon.”

  He cut the link and scrambled out of bed, suddenly anxious to be on his way. It was a move he should have made before this, Chou supposed, but he had hoped that Maia Lee’s defection could be covered up without him spending six long hours in the air and sweating in

  Jakarta’s heat to see the job done properly.

  Clearly, he had expected too much of the Flying Ax Triad and of Fann Lieu. At least Fann wouldn’t be coming home and telling tales around the office. Failure had a price, and Chou didn’t intend to be the one who ultimately paid for the fiasco now unfolding to the south.

  His team, already placed on standby, would be drawn from the elite troops of the ministry’s Ninth Bureau—Anti-Defection and Countersurveillance. Within that unit were one hundred warriors trained as members of the People’s Liberation Army Special Operations Forces and detached for service with the Ministry of State Security. They handled any wet work that the ministry required, either on foreign soil or in the PRC itself.

  Now, ten of them would be flying to Jakarta under the direct command of Chou Hua Tian, Deputy Assistant Minster for State Security. It was his first time in the field, directing troops, but Chou was confident that he could pull it off.

  Especially since failure meant disgrace, displacement and a brutal death.

  Pluit, North Jakarta

  HUO ZHANGKE HAD BALKED at giving up an address for his boss, but cracked when Maia pressed the muzzle of her PM2 against his still-unwounded right leg and advised him to invest in crutches. They would find the Flying Ax’s underboss in Cengkareng, he said, not far from Soekarno–Hatta International Airport. He was cursing himself as a traitor when Maia fired one more shot and the flow of words stopped.

  Disposal wasn’t all that tricky. Bolan used a pair of trash bags, pulling one over the triad shooter’s shattered skull, down to his waist, the other starting at his feet and coming up to meet the first. They lugged him to the SUV and put him in the cargo bay, considered cle
aning up the storage unit, then decided it would be a waste of time.

  “I won’t be coming back here,” Maia told him. “To this place or to Jakarta when we’re finished.”

  “Leave it, then,” Bolan said. “If they send someone along behind you, it’s their problem.”

  They were close enough to smell Jakarta Bay and reached it in five minutes flat, spent two more scouting out a stretch of shoreline where the fishermen had packed it in at sundown and gone home. A concrete pier extended thirty yards or so over the water, and they dropped Huo Zhangke from the end of it, not caring much whether he sank or floated. By the time somebody found him, called police and got around to tipping off his friends that he was dead, they ought to have his boss sewn up.

  Or they would have a whole new set of troubles to concern them.

  Like being dead.

  A triad underboss was bound to be protected. Jin Au-Yo would certainly have taken soldiers with him when he fled to Banten Province. Others would be scouring the streets for Maia and Bolan, looking anywhere that they could think of for their enemies. But Tan Sen Neo would retain enough guns to secure himself against attack.

  And reaching him meant getting past those guns, or going through them.

  Bolan’s specialty.

  His first job was to find the address Huo had given them and scout the layout, find the best approach. His goal was to take Tan alive and squeeze him as they had his underling, this time to get a fix on Jin Au-Yo. From there, if they were lucky, Bolan hoped to ID Jin’s connection with the Sword of Allah and, perhaps, get Jin’s thoughts on the best place to go hunting for the Brave Wind missile still in hostile hands.

  He understood that Jin likely had no idea—and wouldn’t care—how paying customers intended to use weapons he supplied. As far as learning detailed future plans the buyers might have hatched, he knew they didn’t have a hope in hell. But anything would help at this point, with the U.S. fleet in motion and a ship-killer prepared to strike at any moment.