Dragon Key

by Don Pendleton

Bolan thought about the disparity between this scene and the one from last night. China was obviously doing a lot of upgrading, but he’d also heard the dichotomy between the urban rich and the rural poor was more pronounced the farther you got from the cities.

  They drove slowly past a section of houses that looked virtually identical to the ones on the last block, except the house in the middle had a contingent of uniformed soldiers standing in front of it. Four men stood smoking cigarettes, their QBZ-95 rifles slung across their chests. Bolan told Herbie to drive on past.

  “Does Han speak English?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes,” Yang said.

  “Those houses have a rear entrance?” Grimaldi asked. “There’s nothing like a good old Chicago-style alley for sneaking somebody out the back door.”

  “No alleys here,” Bolan said. “Just walkways.”

  He turned to Yang. “Do you think Han will go with us willingly?”

  She shrugged. “Originally, he just wanted us to take his family out. He was adamant about staying, but that was before we knew he was going to be arrested this morning. I think he’ll play ball.”

  “If he doesn’t,” Grimaldi said, “I say we leave him to his own resources and beat feet outta here.”

  “That’s not an option,” Bolan said. “Hal said Han’s got some special information regarding that deal I broke up between the Triad and the Iranians.”

  Grimaldi sighed. “Well, that’s good to know.” His eyebrows rose and he pointed. “What the— Will you look at that?”

  A convoy of vans followed a black Mercedes limousine down the block. The vans all had huge folded antennas on their roofs. Most of the lettering on the sides was Chinese, but a few of them spelled out CNN.

  “Any idea what this is about?” Bolan asked.

  Yang compressed her lips for a moment, then said, “I’ll bet it’s J. Michael Major. He’s over here attending the sporting events and made a big point of saying he was going to meet with Sammo Han.”

  “J. Michael Major?” Grimaldi said. “The actor?”

  “The Midnight Crusader himself,” Yang replied. “He’s big on human rights issues. He even started a special school in Kenya for girls who’ve been abused.”

  “Maybe we can use this to our advantage,” Bolan said. “It looks like some Western reporters are here. If we’re seen, we won’t stand out so much.”

  “We’re not exactly dressed for the occasion,” Grimaldi said, holding his hand in front of his black BDU shirt.

  “Herbie, drop Yang and me off over there,” Bolan said as he slipped off his own BDU shirt and shoulder rig and set them on the floor next to Grimaldi. “Keep an eye on everything for me.” He cocked his head fractionally at Herbie.

  Grimaldi nodded and grinned. “I can’t believe you’re leaving your baby with me. I feel honored.”

  “I can’t think of a better babysitter,” Bolan said, wishing he had a second gun to take along, just in case. “I’ll call you when we’re ready to be picked up.”

  The van pulled to a stop and Bolan jumped out, followed by the young woman. They cut through some side yards, walking down the narrow lane that separated one set of houses from another. When they got to Han’s house, Bolan stopped and reconnoitered a bit. He was able to steal a quick look over the high wall. Two soldiers in Han’s backyard were standing by the side of the house craning their necks to get a view of the activity in front. Both men had QBZ-95 rifles.

  Bolan waited, pondering his next move. He motioned to Yang to move to the next house. He boosted her over the wall and they made their way through the adjacent yard. A white picket fence separated the two yards then ended abruptly, allowing for a small shared courtyard. Bolan and Yang moved quickly. The soldier, who was still focused on the scene in front, didn’t notice them. The area in between the houses was a narrow twelve feet, but was obscured by shadows.

  Close enough to shake hands with your neighbor, Bolan thought. They moved to the edge of the building and saw a Caucasian man clad in a black leather jacket on the street moving toward the front of Han’s house. The man’s hair was feathered back and his face had a chiseled, handsome cast. A gaggle of reporters and cameramen followed him.

  “That’s J. Michael Major,” Yang whispered.

  Bolan nodded. “You think the soldiers will let him inside?”

  “I doubt it. The Politburo’s already said they won’t tolerate any of the Western press giving a forum to troublemakers.”

  As if in response, two of the soldiers in front immediately sprang forward, holding their rifles at port arms and shouting.

  “They’re ordering him to stop,” Yang said.

  Major continued, his movements imbued with a cocky swagger. The soldiers shouted again. The reporters and cameramen fanned out, stepping back slightly as they recorded every movement. The soldiers moved in front of the advancing movie star. He stopped, flashed a Hollywood smile, and stood with his hands on his hips.

  “I’m J. Michael Major,” the movie star announced in his stentorian voice, “and I’m here to see Han Son Chi, also known as Sammo Han.”

  One of the soldiers shouted something in Mandarin.

  Major flashed his high wattage grin again. “Sorry, I don’t understand. Are you welcoming me?”

  He stepped forward and the soldier made a quick movement with his rifle, knocking the movie star backward. Suddenly four new police vehicles, lights and sirens blaring, whirled around the corner. They skidded to a halt and a small army of uniformed police spilled out. One officer, with a cluster of silver diamonds on his epaulets, began blowing a whistle and shouting commands.

  Two cops moved toward Major.

  “Hey, you dare to touch me,” the actor was shouting, “and it’ll be on every television network in the world and the internet before noon.”

  One of the cops in the background leaned over and whispered into the commander’s ear.

  Two of the cops stepped up holding nightsticks.

  “Listen,” Major yelled, “do you know who I am? I played the Midnight Crusader in my last movie. I make more money in one movie than all of you put together will make in a hundred years.”

  “This might be the diversion we need,” Bolan said, steering Yang toward the back of the house. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Give me your weapon.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re going to shoot them? The guards, I mean.”

  Bolan didn’t answer. He didn’t want to kill the rear sentries. The men were soldiers doing their job, and they weren’t a direct threat as of yet. Plus, the sound of a couple of shots from the Walther would no doubt alert the group in front. But on the other hand, he didn’t want to face two armed men without being able to return fire if necessary.

  As they moved along the side of the house Bolan heard two snicking sounds, like sharp pops cutting through the air. He recognized them immediately as reports from a sound-suppressed pistol. He thrust his arm across Yang’s chest, knocking her back against the side of the house.

  “Hey!” she yelled.

  “Shh,” Bolan said as he pushed her to a squatting position. They were about ten feet from the edge of the house.

  Bolan heard voices, the sound of breaking glass and then the burst of wood.

  Sounds as if they’re going inside, he thought.

  He shifted the Walther to his left hand and withdrew the Espada knife with his right, flicking open the long blade. Edging toward the corner, he was suddenly confronted by a Triad hit man holding a Norinco Type 54 with a long sound suppressor attached. Bolan reached forward and smashed the man’s right wrist with the Walther. As the weapon dropped out of the would-be assailant’s hand, Bolan pivoted and drove the Espada into the man’s gut and pushed upward. The hit man gasped, blood seeping out of his mouth. Bolan quickly pulled him around the corner and threw him to
the ground. He wiped his blade on the man’s pants leg, refolded the knife and put it back into his pocket. As he turned to pick up the fallen Norinco he saw that Yang was in the process of throwing up. He squatted beside her.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, then vomited again. Bolan handed her the Walther and grabbed the Norinco. He pulled the slide back a fraction to make sure there was a round in the chamber and saw the shiny brass casing.

  Moving to the corner again, he took a quick look. The yard was empty except for the bodies of the two sentries, both of whom lay prone with expanding puddles of crimson around their heads. They still had their rifles slung. Whoever had killed them hadn’t been interested in retrieving the bulky weapons. That most likely meant they were already armed and wanted to move fast. Bolan knew he had to move fast, as well. He turned to Yang.

  “Looks like the Triad’s going after Sammo Han,” he whispered. “Follow my lead and don’t shoot unless you have to. Ready?”

  The young woman wiped her mouth and nodded.

  She has some pluck, Bolan thought.

  They both stood up and began cautiously moving. Bolan motioned for her to stop a few feet from the corner as he stepped back, raised the silenced Norinco, and began to edge around the corner, exposing as little of himself as possible while retaining the ability to get off a quick shot. The rear door had been broken open and hung loosely from its hinges. Inside, he heard a low, guttural voice speaking in Mandarin and caught a glimpse of three men, all clad in black leather jackets and wraparound sunglasses, standing around a fourth man who was on his knees. He was missing his left arm. One of the standing men was holding a knife against the kneeling man’s cheekbone. He yelled down at him.

  “Can you understand him?” Bolan whispered to Yang.

  She nodded. “He said, ‘Where’s the dragon key?’”

  Bolan filed this information for later and positioned himself along the edge of the doorjamb. He pointed the Norinco at the head of the man holding the knife, allowing for the sight-obscuring upper rim and extra weight of the sound suppressor. He squeezed the trigger. The man’s head jerked, leaving a mist of red as he twisted and fell. Bolan zeroed in on the other two hit men, shooting the second one in the base of the neck as he turned and catching the third one with two rounds in the chest. The man on the floor looked toward Bolan with an expression of horror as the Executioner moved with quick strides through the house.

  “Mr. Han,” Bolan said, “we’re here to help you.” He continued to sweep the rooms, checking for other assailants, but found none. “Anybody else here?”

  The man’s jaw dropped slightly, then he shook his head.

  Yang came in and started talking to Han in Mandarin. Bolan went to the front windows and peered through a lace curtain. Outside, a group of people milled about, gesturing at the house and shouting in Mandarin and English. A couple police officers pushed the actor back as the news cameras recorded everything. One of the police officials glanced at the scene and said something. A group of officers approached the cameramen and another struggle started. Bolan went back to Yang and Han, who was now on his feet. A trail of crimson dripped from a cut on his cheek.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” Bolan turned to Yang. “Call Herbie and tell him to pick us up where he dropped us.”

  She nodded and took out her cell phone.

  Han shook his head. “I cannot go. I must stay.”

  “In another minute they’ll be coming inside.” Bolan gestured at the three dead men. “These guys were Triad, so they’re gunning for you now. Plus there are two dead PLA soldiers out back. You think you’ll be able to explain your way out of all this?”

  Han blinked twice, then nodded. “You are right, of course.” He pointed to a harness and prosthesis lying on the nearby table. “But I will need that.”

  Bolan grabbed it and headed for the door. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Han grabbed a jacket and smiled. “I am very glad that at least, I could give you a hand.”

  Bolan glanced at the prosthesis and grinned.

  Chapter Eight

  After lifting Yang and Han over the six-foot concrete wall at the rear of the property, Bolan tucked the Norinco into the left side of his belt and scaled the wall himself. He landed lightly in the narrow walkway between the houses and motioned for the others to follow him toward the adjacent street where he hoped Herbie and Grimaldi would be waiting. Han, who was carrying his artificial left arm in his right hand, was having trouble keeping up. Bolan slowed his pace and looked around. No one seemed to be following them, but it was only a matter of time before the police found the bodies and started closing things down and doing a house-to-house, vehicle-by-vehicle search. They had to be out of there before that.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Han was walking now, his artificial arm dragging on the ground next to him.

  Bolan pivoted and started running back to him. Yang slowed when she saw him, but he motioned for her to continue and went to Han.

  “Mr. Han, what’s the problem? You having trouble keeping up?”

  Han smiled wanly. “I regret my tardiness, but my stomach is very sore. When those gangsters accosted me in my home, they hit me numerous times.” He took two more steps and stopped. “I can go no farther. I am sorry.”

  “We can’t wait,” Bolan said. “I’ll carry you.” He bent his legs, flipped Han over his left shoulder and began sprinting toward the end of the walkway. He caught up to Yang at the mouth of the alleyway and scanned the street for the van. It was nowhere in sight.

  “Call Herbie back,” Bolan said. “See what the problem is.”

  She took out her cell phone and hit the call button.

  “Are you going to put me down now or carry me all the way out of Beijing?” Han asked.

  Bolan gently lowered the man’s feet to the ground and apologized.

  Han grinned. “No need to say you’re sorry. You are very big and very strong.”

  Yang turned to Bolan. “He says he’s almost here.”

  Bolan nodded and did another scan of the area. A few people were on the street, heading toward the growing brouhaha in front of Han’s house. Hopefully, it would last a few more minutes and give them the chance to escape notice. But that also meant remaining as inconspicuous as possible.

  “Mr. Han,” Bolan said, “this would be a good time to put on your arm. It’ll make you less noticeable.”

  “It is a rather laborious procedure,” Han said. “And I will need to buy a new shirt.” He was clad in a T-shirt that made his missing limb even more conspicuous. “But please, call me Sammo. That is my English name.”

  “Okay, Sammo. Can you just hold it across your body for the time being?”

  Han nodded and held the arm against his left side. “And what is your name?”

  “You can call me Matt Cooper,” Bolan said.

  Han nodded. “Ah, a man such as yourself must have many names. Am I correct, Cooper-jun?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. He heard the high whine of an engine and turned to see the van accelerating down the street. Herbie had been true to his word. After another quick glance, Bolan told Yang and Han to walk at a normal pace toward the street. Running at this point would only draw attention. The van screeched to a stop at the curb.

  So much for being inconspicuous.

  Grimaldi slid the side door open and helped Yang and Han inside. Bolan got in last and slammed the door shut.

  “We need to get out of here fast,” he said. “But try not to make it look like we robbed a bank.”

  “Gotcha, boss,” Herbie said. He executed an arcing U-turn and bounced up and over a curb and a grass parkway. Then he accelerated toward the main roadway.

  “Slow it down,” Bolan said.

  Herbie was lighting another cigarette as he drove
. “Everybody in China drive fast.”

  Bolan caught a glimpse of the man’s lopsided grin in the rearview mirror.

  “No sweat, boss,” Herbie said. “Me number one driver.”

  There was no alternative at the moment, but Bolan made a mental note that their exodus from Beijing would not be by truck, van or automobile. The simplest plan would be to head to the American embassy and try to smuggle Han inside. Then he could ask for political asylum. But it wasn’t quite that simple. For one thing, the Chinese were already looking for Tressman, an escaped American spy, so they most likely had the embassy staked out, perhaps even surrounded.

  If they could get to the coast, and buy or steal a boat, Brognola would arrange a Navy pickup somewhere on the Yellow Sea. That had been Tressman’s original plan. But this was an immense country and the drive would be at least eight to ten hours. Perhaps there was a better way.

  He turned to Yang. “You have Tai Pang’s number?”

  She nodded.

  Bolan was more than a little concerned that this asset had been compromised when Tressman was interrogated. But if that were the case, the Chinese would have probably already picked him up. They had to move quickly, and Tressman’s original plan was out the window. “We need transportation out of here. Beijing’s too hot.”

  “You want me to call him?” she asked. “Where do we want to go?”

  “Just find the number for now.”

  Bolan considered their options. Hong Kong would be his first choice. He had more contacts there, but it was also the farthest destination and pretty much out of their reach unless they could somehow get on an airplane. The chances of that were slim to none. Tressman and Han’s family were en route to Shandong Province on the coast, which was about five or six hundred kilometers away. That was a more logical departure point.

  “Herbie,” Bolan said, “how long will it take us to get to Shandong?”

  Herbie blew out a plume of smoke as he took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Shandong, no problem. Some good road, some bad. Maybe five, six hour.”

  “Let’s go for it,” Bolan said.