Dragon Key

by Don Pendleton

  Xi’s crisp reply pleased Wong. He dismissed the young officer and waited until the captain had softly closed the door to the office. Then Wong picked up his cell phone and called Chen.

  “And have you forestalled the official arrest of Sammo Han and his family, as well?” The old bastard’s voice sounded as soft as a woman’s sometimes.

  “Yes,” Wong said. “That is set for tomorrow morning, after the American movie star attempts his meeting.”

  “Excellent. Everything is in place, as it should be. We have only to wait for the gentle rain to bring forth the blossoms.”

  Wong wasn’t even bothered by the metaphor this time, but he knew he had a long way to go before his neck was out of the noose. He terminated the call and reviewed the plan for the next few hours. Captain Xi and his contingent would arrive at Song Jing, take custody of the American and then be met by Chen’s men for an ostensible exchange. He pictured the process and felt a slight twinge of regret knowing he was sending Xi and the three other loyal soldiers of the People’s Liberation Army to meet their death.

  But they would die fulfilling their duty to their general. What more could a good soldier ask for?

  * * *

  BOLAN CHECKED THE spare magazines for his Beretta: one with armor-piercing rounds, three with standard loads and one jacketed with hollow points. He also had his five-and-a-half-inch folding Espada knife. In addition to Grimaldi’s weapon of choice, a SIG Sauer P220, the package included night-vision goggles and bulletproof vests for Bolan and Grimaldi, smoke and flash-bang grenades, thin leather gloves, special radios and more than enough yuan to pay any bills or bribes to get the job done.

  The radios would be practically useless more than a few hundred feet apart due to the absence of any repeating towers tuned to their particular frequency. But it would still give Grimaldi and Bolan a communication advantage. He divided up the money, giving most of it to Grimaldi for storage, and kept a hefty roll for himself.

  “Damn,” Grimaldi said. “We could buy a couple dozen helicopters with all this.”

  “Hal must have figured we’d need some knocking-around money,” Bolan said.

  After paying off the attendant—who was supposed to be guarding the private airfield where the tourist agency kept its fleet of five helicopters—they’d flown the chopper, an old Russian Mi-8, to a small field about forty kilometers from the prison. Grimaldi wanted to do a more complete shake-down inspection after the cursory one he’d done at the airfield. The rendezvous point appeared to be a small, abandoned farm that was overgrown with weeds.

  “If we’re going to be banking our lives on this oil drum,” Grimaldi said, “I want to go over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

  Bolan watched as his associate went over the helicopter, inspecting every inch with the scrutiny of a consummate professional. Grimaldi was perhaps the best pilot Bolan had ever known, and there was no one he’d rather have with him when his back was against the wall.

  Bolan snapped the Beretta into his shoulder holster and slipped on a loose-fitting black BDU shirt. Underneath he wore a light Kevlar vest. It wouldn’t stop high-velocity rounds from the guards’ rifles, but he felt confident it would give him the edge against their standard Type 54 handguns. He fitted the Espada knife into the right-side pocket of his cargo pants and secured the extra magazines inside his jacket. He hoped this would go forward without a shot being fired. He wouldn’t relish the consequences if it didn’t. Taking on even a small contingent of the PLA on their home turf while being woefully underequipped would not be pleasant.

  Bolan heard the whine of a truck’s engine as a pungent odor wafted over the area. He turned and saw Herbie driving the honey-wagon. It was a medium-size truck with a big, oval-shaped tank on the back. Huang followed, driving Herbie’s van. They doused their lights and pulled up into the field. There was very little cover since the entire area was devoid of trees.

  “Heard from Yang?” Bolan asked Huang as the young man exited the van.

  He nodded. “She’s still at the market, waiting. Han’s wife hasn’t shown up yet.”

  Bolan had sent Yang to lay the groundwork for the evacuation of Han’s wife and granddaughter the next morning. That operation was all set to unfold independently of tonight’s. Splitting his meager force wasn’t Bolan’s first choice, but to proceed as Langley had directed—leaving Tressman to languish in a Chinese prison while the USA pursued his release through diplomatic means—wasn’t an option. It would only be a matter of time before Tressman broke. For all Bolan knew, the beleaguered agent might have already broken, in which case, the official arrest of Han would probably be moved up. Some adjustments to the original evacuation plan were in order, too. It was best to operate on the assumption that the entire plan had been divulged.

  “Hey,” Grimaldi called. “How about some help over here? I need somebody to hold this light.”

  “I’ll go,” Huang said. “I always wanted to learn about helicopters.”

  Bolan nodded. At least the kid was game. Or maybe he just wanted to edge away from the smell of that honey-wagon. It didn’t seem to bother Herbie, who grinned at Bolan and lit up a cigarette.

  Bolan glanced at his watch: 2030. Almost time to move out.

  He decided to check with Stony Man Farm one more time, just in case the powers in Washington had somehow managed a miracle for Tressman. He punched a number into the sat-phone, and when Brognola answered, Bolan asked, “Any progress?”

  “Yeah, the boys here in D.C. have finally found someone as good at double-talk as they are. The Chinese are still stonewalling. Won’t even admit they have him, much less talk about a diplomatic release or exchange. Not that we have any bargaining chips anyway.”

  “Well, in about an hour or so they might not, either.”

  Bolan could hear Brognola sigh. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Striker. The odds seem a bit uneven.”

  “The odds stink,” Bolan said. “We’re also proceeding with instructions on the evac as far as we can.”

  “As far as you can? Problems?”

  “Apparently one party is reluctant to dance,” Bolan said, referring to Huang’s report that Sammo Han wanted to remain in China. “Says he has unfinished business.”

  “Great,” Brognola said.

  “We’re going to need a change in travel plans anyway. I’m not sure if the old file’s been corrupted or not.”

  “Roger that. I’ll get Aaron working on something right away. We’ll set it up at this end and let you know.”

  Grimaldi waggled his flashlight up and down, signaling that he was ready to go. Bolan clicked his own light on and off in reply.

  “Striker?” Brognola asked. “You there?”

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. “We’re ready to shove off.”

  Brognola blew out a slow breath. “Is anything gonna go right on this damn mission?”

  “I’ll let you know soon enough,” Bolan said as he terminated the call.

  Bolan trotted over to the helicopter, glad to put as much distance between himself and the honey-wagon as possible. Herbie followed and the four men squatted as Grimaldi shone a flashlight over a map of the area and they went over the plan one more time.

  “Herbie, is everything set?” Bolan asked.

  “Everything number one,” Herbie said, holding up his extended thumb.

  “Your friend was able to give Tressman the instructions? He’ll be ready?”

  “Everything number one.”

  “Verify that before you go in,” Bolan said.

  Herbie looked slightly confused and Huang translated, after which Herbie nodded and took out his cell phone. Bolan looked at Huang. “You clear on your part?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Repeat it for me,” Bolan said.

  “Herbie’s friend has the keys to the
cell. We take Wayne out, and I stash him in the truck,” Huang said. “Then the vacuum conveniently malfunctions and we have to leave.”

  “And if things go bad?” Bolan asked.

  “I text you and we head for the roof. Wait for you to pick us up with the chopper.”

  Bolan hoped it wouldn’t come to that. There were way too many variables for this to run smoothly.

  “Remember to text me instead of calling,” Bolan said. “I won’t be able to hear the phone over the sound of those rotors. Plus, speaking English on a cell phone is a bit out of character for a guy driving a honey-wagon.”

  Huang grinned and nodded.

  Bolan handed him a sealed plastic bag with a Glock 17 inside.

  “You know where to put this,” he said with a grin.

  Huang smiled back and started heading for the vacuum hose attachment.

  “Hey, boss,” Herbie said. “How ’bout gun for me, too?”

  Huang paused, but Bolan waved him on. “No gun. And you’ll get your money once my people are safely out of Song Jing. Not before.”

  Herbie wrinkled his nose and nodded. “Okay, boss.” He walked toward the truck.

  Bolan and Grimaldi watched them take off as they synchronized their watches. It was 2043. Fifteen minutes to get to the prison, another twenty to twenty-five to get set up, get Tressman and do the pickup. Bolan and Grimaldi planned to be airborne and heading toward the rendezvous point at 2120. They didn’t have the fuel to be in the air the entire time, plus a tourism chopper circling in the nighttime skies over this section of the city was bound to attract undue attention. Bolan mulled it all over and blew out a slow breath.

  Way too many intangibles, he thought.

  The taillights of the honey-wagon were two minute red dots now.

  Bolan’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. It was from Yang.

  Meeting complete. Set for tomorrow.

  Bolan acknowledged the message, told her to stay put and gave Grimaldi an update.

  “This whole thing stinks almost as bad as that honey-wagon,” Grimaldi said, nodding toward the truck. “You think the kid can handle it?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. He’d been wondering the same thing. They waited for twenty minutes, going through their equipment one more time, and finally started the preflight checklist. Herbie and Huang should have gotten inside the prison by now. It was time to get airborne. As they were working, Bolan’s cell phone vibrated with an incoming text. He glanced at the screen and his heart sank.

  This one was from Huang: Problem.

  10-4, Bolan texted back. Sitrep.

  “Something’s up,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi’s head shot up. “What?”

  Bolan held up his phone. “Waiting for more info.”

  “Marvelous,” Grimaldi said.

  Five minutes, seeming like five hours, slowly passed, then another text came from Huang: PLA picking up T now. Departure imminent.

  The Chinese army was taking Tressman out of the prison? Bolan assessed this new complication. They were obviously taking him to a new location, but why? Had their rescue op been compromised? He wished he could talk to Huang directly, but didn’t want to risk it.

  Roger that, Bolan texted back. How many? What vehicle, ETD?

  4 PLA, Huang replied. Red army deuce-and-a-half. ETD in 5 to 10.

  This isn’t making sense, Bolan thought. Why would they send a four-person transport squad in a two-and-a-half-ton truck?

  Regardless, Bolan knew they had to get airborne and track the departure. At least a vehicle that size would be easy to spot. If the opportunity for an interdiction arose, they’d take it, and if not, it was back to square one. He slipped on his night-vision goggles and gave Grimaldi a sitrep.

  We’ll tag them, Bolan texted to Huang. Break down and get out ASAP.

  He slipped the satellite phone into his pocket and put on the helicopter headphones so he and Grimaldi could communicate. The engine rumbled and then cycled to life as the big rotors began their incremental acceleration.

  “You read me?” Grimaldi asked via the headphones.

  “Loud and clear.”

  Grimaldi flipped one goggle down over his left eye but kept the right one up to maintain his depth perception during liftoff.

  “I gotta tell you,” he said, “I got a bad feeling about this one.”

  “You and me both,” Bolan replied.

  They ascended into the black sky. The lights of the city glowed far to the east. Below them the ground looked dark and unforgiving. Grimaldi leveled off at about one thousand feet and headed for the prison. When they got within a few kilometers he pushed the stick forward and they descended to five hundred.

  “Keep your eyes open for any power lines,” he said, flipping the other goggle down into place.

  Bolan used a pair of night-vision binoculars to search the maze of buildings below, and finally found the front gate of the prison. He suddenly wondered if the PLA truck would be leaving by that exit. Grimaldi continued in a slow circle.

  “I sure hope they don’t hear us and decide to open up with that fifty cal,” he said.

  “You and me both,” Bolan replied, but he doubted the guards would be that reckless. A helicopter flying in the vicinity at night would most likely be taken for a military or police aircraft.

  At the very least, he told himself, they’ll think it’s a news station.

  The front gates opened and a huge truck exited the prison.

  “That has to be them,” Bolan said.

  “A Chinese army deuce-and-a-half? How many bogies we dealing with?”

  “Huang says four.”

  “Four?” Grimaldi laughed. “How big are they?”

  “They might be giants,” Bolan said. He continued to track the vehicle as it wound through the narrow streets.

  “That reminds me of an old George C. Scott movie,” Grimaldi said. “He played this mental patient who thought he was Sherlock Holmes.”

  “We might need old Sherlock to figure out what’s going on here.”

  They ascended a few hundred feet, allowing them to follow the truck without the sound of the rotors announcing their presence. To Bolan’s surprise, the vehicle turned away from the road leading back to the center of the city and continued to an open field. He adjusted the binoculars and saw the dark shape of an automobile, a van, parked off the roadway.

  “Looks like they’re tagging up with somebody,” he said.

  Grimaldi canted the helicopter to give him a better vantage point. “Want me to go lower?”

  “We’re good.” Bolan could see a group of people getting out of the van.

  “I wish we had an infrared scanner on this thing,” Grimaldi said. “It isn’t Dragonslayer, that’s for sure.”

  “I’m counting eight exiting the van below,” Bolan said. The figures assembled along the road and waited as the army truck rolled up to their position. The driver and the passenger got out of the big truck, walked to the group on the roadway. After a few more seconds Bolan saw three figures getting out of the back of the deuce-and-a-half. One of them moved with extreme slowness and needed assistance.

  It had to be Tressman.

  Suddenly the figures below whirled in a dance of confusion. Several pinpoint flashes sparkled in the darkness. Two figures fell by the front of the truck. The three at the rear were motionless as the others surrounded them. They took one of them to the van and walked the other two to the side of the road, where they were made to kneel.

  Two more starbursts of light flashed in the inky blackness, and the two kneeling figures toppled over.

  Two of the eight people from the van began picking up the fallen bodies and tossing them into the back of the army truck. Then they all got into the van, which started up and did a
three-point turn on the roadway.

  “Which one?” Grimaldi asked. “The new van or the old deuce-and-a-half?”

  “Stay with the van,” Bolan said. They were too far to know for certain, but Bolan was willing to bet that Tressman was now in custody of whoever was driving it. They’d just executed four PLA soldiers without the slightest compunction, which meant they were not only brutal, but also probably operating outside the law.

  Triad involvement? That seemed likely. But why had the soldiers stopped to meet them? It had all the earmarks of an arranged rendezvous, except for the surprise ending. Soldiers operated on orders, as did the Triad, but each reported to an entirely different set of bosses.

  All that could be sorted out later. Right now Bolan had one shot at getting Tressman back, and that was to grab him before he disappeared into the morass of the Triad’s network. But with Yang, Huang and Herbie out of the picture, and Grimaldi piloting the helicopter, the Executioner had little choice but to do this next part alone.

  Chapter Six

  The Mantis braced himself against the van’s rear fender and watched as the doctor and his female attendant administered to the American spy. The ham-handed interrogators inside Song Jing had beaten him to a pulp. The man’s eyes were swollen shut and his face was distorted with so many bruises that his features were almost unrecognizable. The Mantis was amazed the American had not yet been broken. The man was apparently stronger than he looked.

  “What is his condition?” the Mantis asked.

  He’d been told the American was fluent in Mandarin, so he operated under the assumption that the spy was listening and understanding the conversation.

  “He’s been severely beaten,” the doctor said. “But he should recover, with rest.”

  The Mantis nodded and said, this time in English, “Proceed as directed.”

  The doctor reached into his medical bag and withdrew a hypodermic syringe and a small vial of clear liquid. He glanced down at the American, apparently estimating the man’s weight, and then stuck the end of the needle into the soft rubber stopper and nodded. The nurse tied a soft rubber hose around the American’s left biceps, then began massaging the inner aspect of his elbow. The Mantis moved forward, kneeling next to the American.