Ballistic

by Don Pendleton

  It was the only game in town, and Bolan was all-in.

  Beijing, China

  COMMODORE FENG JINGWEI sat at his desk at home, inside his den. The only light burning in his apartment was a small lamp on that desk. It sent a pool of light across the desktop blotter, where normally he would lay out correspondence, files, reports—whatever the next day’s official business required him to study. This night, however, the blotter was clear, except for a pistol centered precisely within the circle of light.

  It was an old Type 64, first issued back in 1980, but a firearm’s age was immaterial if it was well maintained. Chambered for 7.65 mm rounds, the equivalent of a 7.65 mm Browning or .32 ACP, it would be more than adequate for what Feng had in mind. A larger caliber would make more mess, and Feng had no wish to unduly aggravate the housekeeper who came on Fridays.

  It was only common courtesy, a trait too often lacking from his life as he saw now.

  A life which Feng Jingwei intended to cut short.

  He had considered every other option, after Chou Hua Tian called to report that he was heading for Jakarta with a team of handpicked men to settle the “unpleasantness” ongoing there. Feng hadn’t asked the Deputy Assistant Minister for State Security for any details, left it all in Chou’s hands, wished him well and turned his thoughts to personal concerns.

  Of course, Chou’s scheme was risky. Some might call it ludicrous. Feng didn’t know how Chou intended to explain his absence from Beijing, much less the borrowing of soldiers from his ministry for duty in the capital of Indonesia. That sounded like an act of war to Feng, and he imagined that the Minister for State Security would take a dim view of the outing. Not to mention China’s president, premier and other ranking leaders of the Central People’s Government.

  If Chou should fail, or even make his presence in Jakarta known, there would be hell to pay. And Feng had no doubt in his mind that Chou would sell him out immediately, in a hopeless bid for leniency. Which meant that both of them would face a firing squad, but only after fierce, prolonged interrogation and a public trial stage-managed to absolve the Chinese government of any fault.

  Feng found that prospect unacceptable.

  If he had to die—and who on earth could finally escape it?—he would pick the time, the place, and he would go out in a peaceful haze induced by copious amounts of rice baijiu, his favorite liquor. Two large glasses had already dulled his fear, and Feng thought that a third would be enough to send him smiling on his way.

  He sipped the liquor slowly, feeling no great hurry now. Holding the tall glass in his left hand, Feng picked up the pistol with his right. It weighed twenty-four ounces with a loaded magazine, but he would only need one of the weapon’s seven rounds. His memory told Feng the sixty-five-grain bullet would leave the gun’s muzzle at 925 feet per second, delivering 123 foot-pounds of destructive energy on impact. More than enough for his needs when the pistol was inside his mouth, its front blade sight pressed into his soft palate.

  No one could possibly miss at that range.

  There would be no lingering, no witnessing the shame experienced by family or friends when his corruption was exposed, no pain beyond the first split second. And beyond that? Who could say?

  Feng drained his glass, set it aside and cocked the pistol.

  He closed his eyes and hoped for the relief of sheer oblivion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Cengkareng, West Jakarta

  “He should have called by now, if he was still alive,” Tan Sen Neo said. “We already know he’s not in custody.”

  “Or not reported, anyway,” Gao Chu replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he was in protective custody...” Gao left the comment dangling, letting Tan draw whatever conclusions came to mind.

  “You think that Huo Zhangke is now an informer?” Tan made no effort to conceal his incredulity.

  “Not an informer in the common sense,” Gao said. “But think of it, sir. If he was charged with murder—more than one, in fact—he faces death. Presented with an opportunity to save himself, he might give names.”

  “And then we kill him slowly,” Tan reminded Gao. “What would he gain?”

  “We’d have to find him first. If he’s concealed by the authorities, it might be difficult.”

  “Witness protection?” Tan imagined Jin Au-Yo’s reaction if that proved to be the case.

  Gao Chu shrugged, then replied, “It’s possible. I don’t say it’s a certainty, sir.”

  “Find out,” Tan ordered. “If our people on the force don’t know, increase their bonuses to motivate them. Use the information from our files, if necessary. Someone knows if Huo has turned.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Gao said.

  “Meanwhile, I want patrols at full strength in the city. How many Americans can there be wandering around Jakarta with a Chinese woman? They should stand out like a boil on Dong Jie’s face.”

  Tan’s reference to the Chinese film and television star made Gao Chu smile, but only for a second. Their predicament allowed no room for levity. In fact, the task at hand was deadly serious, and could rebound against them fatally unless they managed to resolve it soon.

  “We still have soldiers checking the hotels,” said Gao. “There are so many that—”

  “I can’t give Jin excuses,” Tan said, interrupting him. “It doesn’t matter if there are a thousand. We must visit every one of them, then think of something else to try if that brings no result.”

  “Of course, sir,” Gao said. “It has occurred to me that since the woman is—or was—an agent of the Ministry of State Security, she may have access to facilities not recognized as rented lodgings.”

  “You mean safe houses,” Tan said.

  “Why not? We know the ministry maintains a presence in Jakarta. There’s no reason to believe they are restricted to the embassy.”

  “I have no ready access to that information,” Tan acknowledged grudgingly. “But Jin may know of someone who could help.”

  “Will you contact him?” Gao inquired.

  “Not yet,” Tan said. “He took the last call badly, as expected. It’s too soon to ask a favor, when we still have other avenues remaining to explore.”

  “You’re right, of course, sir,” Gao said. He didn’t sound convinced.

  No matter. Tan was still in charge, as long as Jin Au-Yo remained in hiding and didn’t relieve him of command. If it came down to that, Tan would have worse problems than making another phone call to his boss. He would be out of work, and likely out of time.

  But not yet.

  Tan still had a few tricks left, and ample guns at his disposal to eliminate the targets he was tasked to kill. If only he could find them now. His best chance had been wasted, but it need not be his last chance.

  Not just yet.

  Cengkareng

  “THAT MUST BE IT,” said Maia Lee.

  They had followed Jalan Daan Mogot across town, westbound, then wound north on Jalan Bangun Nusa into the Daan Mogot Estate. Mini mansions lined the curving streets, and Bolan eyed the number Maia had picked out approaching on their left.

  According to their late informant, they were looking at the lair of Tan Sen Neo.

  Which explained the two men idling by the gate that sealed off Tan’s driveway from access by unwanted visitors. The wall that stretched away on either side of it, encircling the grounds, was six feet high and made of poured concrete someone had painted beige. No razor wire or other obstacles sat atop the wall, as far as Bolan could discover on a drive-by, but that didn’t mean there were no sensors, cameras or other security devices in place.

  He drove around the block, came at the place another way. Tan’s property ran downhill toward a spillway that ran like a scar through the landscape, east-west, ready to take in water
from the nearby flood-control channel or spill into it if the rain grew too fierce on any given day. Part of Jakarta’s overall survival plan, and Bolan thought it might just work against the Flying Ax’s underboss this night.

  “There’s no place here to leave the car unguarded,” Bolan said, when they had made a circuit of the ritzy neighborhood. “We’ll have to run plan B.”

  “What’s that?” Maia asked, frowning.

  “I go in. You drive around as unobtrusively as possible and pick me up when I come out.”

  “You go in by yourself?” she asked, as if she hadn’t understood him properly.

  “Won’t be the first time,” Bolan said. Thinking, And if I’m lucky, it won’t be the last.

  “While I just drive around?”

  “We’re wasting time,” he said.

  “All right,” she told him, clearly disappointed. “Pull behind that store, and we can switch.”

  The place was closed at this hour, some kind of

  Jakarta-style convenience store. Bolan rolled in behind it, left the engine running while he stepped out in the dark and got his weapons squared away, then moved around to take the rider’s seat while Maia slid behind the wheel.

  He had already changed into his blacksuit, prior to dumping Huo Zhangke back at the waterfront. It fitted him like a second skin, had hidden pockets in convenient places and was sleek beneath the web gear that he wore. As Maia drove him back toward Tan’s place, Bolan cracked a can of camo paint, smearing his face and hands with practiced strokes that left them mottled green and black.

  “Okay,” he said, when Swamp Thing faced him from the mirror on the flip side of his sun visor. “If there’s no one behind us, drop me off at the canal. I’ll hike back in from there.”

  “I still think I should go in with you,” Maia told him.

  “And come back to find the car’s been towed, or someone’s waiting for us? Sorry. It’s a one-man job.” Smiling through paint, he altered that. “One-person job.”

  “All right, then. But if you’re not back in half an hour—”

  “You take off,” he finished for her. “Give some thought to getting out.”

  The SUV slowed, no headlights coming either way. Bolan stepped out and closed the door behind him, moving into darkness that devoured him.

  * * *

  AS IT TURNED OUT, there were no cameras or sensors on the wall. Another break: no dogs patrolling on the grounds. Bolan preferred to deal with human watchdogs when he had the opportunity. They’d made a conscious choice of who to serve, had joined the predators, and when he took them down it carried no sensation of regret.

  Over the wall in nothing flat, and Bolan blended with the shadows on the other side. If anyone had spotted him during the two seconds it took to make his move, they sounded no alarm. Bolan counted to ten inside his head, then moved out toward the house with loping strides. A sloping lawn, say forty yards across, and dim lights showing through a couple of the windows on the mini mansion’s second floor.

  Which didn’t mean the underboss or any of his men were tucked up in their beds. Barely two hours since the massacre at Ancol Dreamland, Bolan took for granted that his target would be stewing over what moves he should make to salvage something from the situation, land his prey before the angry weight of higher-ups came down on him.

  Expect a concentration toward the middle of the house, then, or up front. As to the numbers, Bolan couldn’t say. He’d have to play it all by ear.

  Another drawback: the Executioner didn’t have a clue what Tan looked like, beyond being Chinese. No help there, in a triad house, but Bolan knew from long experience that Tan—the boss—would be the guy least likely to be fighting on the front lines, most likely to be surrounded and protected by his men. Wade through the rest, and there he’d be.

  The back door to the house was locked, which was no great surprise. Bolan considered picking it, then changed his mind as voices reached his ears, coming from somewhere to his left. He tracked the noise around the south side of the house, paused at the corner, checking out a spill of light that fell onto a patio through glass sliding doors left open to the night. Some kind of conference in progress, cigarette smoke drifting on the breeze, shadows of pacing figures cast across the paving stones outside.

  Wishing that he had a stun grenade, Bolan advanced until he stood within three paces of the open sliding doors. The voices from inside were clear enough now, but he couldn’t understand a word. Not that it mattered, since he wasn’t there to eavesdrop.

  Edging closer, Bolan risked a peek around the doorframe, counting nine men in some kind of recreation room: flat-screen TV on one wall, chairs and couches, and a round table designed for playing cards or other games transformed into a drawing board for strategy. He tried to size them up, decide which one received the most respect and deference. Decided that it had to be the smallish man who sat facing the open portal listening as one and then another of his men suggested plans.

  Next step: take the others out, along with any stragglers, while he left the boss man breathing.

  Bolan took a deep breath, let it go and stepped into the doorway.

  * * *

  TAN SEN NEO SAW a shadow drift across the light spill from the patio, glanced up and blinked once at the vision of a tall man dressed in black, his face smeared with something that resembled grease, his torso hung with webbing that supported ammunition pouches. In his hands, some kind of automatic weapon with two muzzles pointed toward Tan and his men.

  Tan yelped a warning, saw Gao Chu begin to turn, and then the stranger opened fire. Short bursts and well controlled, the bullets ripping flesh and fabric, scattering his men as they were hit or tried to save themselves by leaping this and that way, clawing pistols from their holsters. Tan, stunned into momentary immobility by sheer surprise, kicked backward in his chair and hit the floor with stunning force, his head bouncing off the concrete under shag carpeting.

  He cursed, rolled clear, the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears. Some of his men were fighting back, but ineffectually, either wounded or so panicked that their shots went high and wide. Above Tan, crimson mist exploded from the lurching figures of his soldiers and advisers. Gao was down and thrashing on the carpet, staining it beneath him, like a mangled fish cast up onshore.

  Tan rolled and started scrabbling toward the nearest cover. That turned out to be a billiards table on the far side of the room. Halfway across that no-man’s-land, he suddenly remembered that he wore a pistol of his own and stopped to claw it from his belt. It might be wasted effort, but at least the man who’d come to kill him wouldn’t walk away and say that Tan had taken it without a fight.

  Tan owed the brotherhood that much.

  He yanked the pistol clear, half turned to fire in the direction of the doorway, but a boot came down upon his wrist with crushing force. Tan gasped, squeezed off one wasted shot before a painted hand relieved him of the weapon, then the boot was off his wrist and hammering his ribs. He grunted, rolled in an attempt to flee the pain and wound up facing toward the ceiling.

  Toward the smoking muzzle of a weapon hanging inches from his face.

  “I’m guessing you speak English,” the intruder said.

  Tan thought about denying it, but how would that work, if he didn’t understand the question? Grudgingly, stalling for time until his other soldiers reached the recreation room, he said, “I do.”

  “A second guess—you’re Tan Sen Neo.”

  While his first thought was to lie, Tan realized that a denial of his true identity might end his life and send the gunman off to search elsewhere. He nodded. “I am.”

  “Okay,” the stranger said. He was a white man underneath the paint. No doubt, the American who had eluded Tan’s best shooters at the waterfront theme park. “You want to take a little trip with me? Or are you tired of living?”


  Stall, Tan thought, and asked, “Where would we go?”

  “Someplace to have a private chat.”

  Pretending to consider it, he bought another fifteen seconds, then replied, “I seem to have no choice.”

  The soldier took a step back, then said, “Get up.”

  Tan started to comply, then saw his outer guards rush through the open exit to the patio with weapons leveled at his enemy.

  “Perhaps, instead,” Tan offered, “you should simply die.”

  * * *

  BOLAN SUPPOSED they were the gate guards, though he couldn’t swear to it. Wherever they had come from, they were in his face and in his way now. It was time for them to go.

  Lying at Bolan’s feet, Tan spit an order at his soldiers. Bolan caught the tone and knew they hadn’t been told to take him alive.

  Split seconds made the difference in combat. One soldier’s reaction time against another’s swung the balance. Bolan’s index finger had been tightening around the 40 mm launcher’s trigger as he turned to face the new arrivals, and he followed through the squeeze before they had a chance to fire, his weapon elevated toward the lintel of the doorway where they stood. His high-explosive round went off on impact with the doorframe, like an airburst from artillery, spraying its cone of shrapnel downward while the shock wave rattled through Tan’s house. The triad soldiers almost seemed to flatten underneath that deadly rain, but Bolan’s view was topsy-turvy as concussion tossed him backward, tumbling him to the floor.

  Tan was almost quick enough in his recovery to make a break, but Bolan swept his ankles out from underneath him with the Pindad autorifle’s stock. Tan hit the deck facedown, cursing a blue streak in his native tongue, and Bolan had him pinned with one knee in the middle of the underboss’s back before Tan could recover from the fall.

  “Last chance,” the Executioner advised the man, while the muzzle of his weapon warmed Tan’s nape. “How badly do you want to die?”

  “What is it that you want to know?” Tan asked.