Dragon Key

by Don Pendleton

  “The PLA has set up a blockade,” he said. “Apparently, they’re stopping and searching all trains departing Beijing.”

  The jig’s up, Bolan thought. He’d anticipated this move. Now the process of elimination had caught up to them. Once the train came to a complete stop, the soldiers would do a car-by-car search.

  “Come on,” Bolan said. “We’re going to have to jump off now.”

  “Before we’ve stopped?” Han asked.

  “Before we’re surrounded,” Bolan said.

  Bolan and Grimaldi grabbed their bags and moved to the door. Tai Pang and Yang went first, followed by Han and then the two Americans. They started down the corridor toward the exit when a uniformed conductor appeared holding his palms up. He said something in Mandarin, which Bolan took to be an admonishment to return to their compartment. Tai Pang lashed out with a blur of punches and the conductor collapsed to the floor.

  “Looks like that guy got his ticket punched,” Grimaldi said.

  “We’ve got to keep moving,” Bolan said.

  “I will put him in our compartment,” Tai Pang said. “You go to the door of the train.”

  Bolan motioned the others to go, stepped back to the compartment and held the door open. Tai Pang dragged the conductor inside and reached into his pocket, the balisong suddenly opening in his hand with a flash as he grabbed the unconscious conductor’s hair.

  “Don’t kill him,” Bolan said.

  Tai Pang hesitated. “He will identify us. They’ll know we were on this train.”

  “They’ll figure that out either way,” Bolan said. “He’s just a man doing his job. He doesn’t deserve to die.”

  Tai Pang held the knife above the conductor’s throat, his eyes fixing Bolan with a cold stare. He dropped the man’s head, stood and flipped the knife closed. “Very well. Let’s go.”

  “That looks like a Filipino knife,” Bolan said as Tai Pang dropped it into his pocket. “A balisong.”

  Tai Pang shot him a hard stare. “You are correct. I like shiny things.”

  “Those Filipinos know how to handle knives,” Bolan said.

  “As do I.”

  Bolan pressed the button to lock the compartment door from the inside and slammed it shut. He and Tai Pang hurried down the corridor and met the others in the small anteroom by the exit doors.

  The scenery was still rushing by the glass window of the door, but at a much slower rate. Bolan estimated that the train was traveling about twenty-five to thirty miles per hour. The ground next to the tracks was a hill of gravel. It would be a rough landing.

  Tai Pang took out the keys and unlocked the override box, then pressed the switch. The door popped open slightly, and Bolan pulled it all the way back and glanced out. The adjacent grade appeared to be free of any structural dangers, like telephone or electric poles. It was just a long, hard, stony slope. Farther down the tracks, he could see an array of vehicles and the glimmer of several sets of headlights perhaps half a mile away. They had to go now or they’d be seen, for sure.

  “I’ll go first,” he said. “Follow me in rapid succession.” He motioned to Grimaldi to jump last. “Curl your body up into a ball and try to relax as you land.”

  With that admonishment, Bolan stepped through the opening. He felt himself sail through the darkness for about two and a half seconds before his feet hit the uneven gravelly surface with a punishing jolt. It was like landing in a drop zone after a parachute jump. Bolan rolled with the impact, lessening the severity, and got to his feet in time to see the next figure sailing through the darkness. It was Yang. He paused to help her up and saw Han, his good arm extended and holding his prosthesis, flying toward the ground. He landed hard and rolled. Bolan knelt next to him and saw that he was unconscious, his artificial arm nowhere to be seen.

  Tai Pang jumped next, landing with the gracefulness of a jungle cat, and then Grimaldi with his suitcase in hand. His landing was somewhat less than perfect.

  Bolan lifted Han onto his shoulder and trotted toward Grimaldi, who was getting up slower than normal.

  “You all right?” Bolan asked.

  “Ah, twisted my ankle,” Grimaldi said. “But I’m good to go. How’s Sammo?”

  “Down for the count. Plus, his arm’s missing.” Bolan scanned the area. “You got your night-vision goggles handy?”

  “I have the arm,” Tai Pang said. He held it up.

  “I’ll take it.”

  Tai Pang looked at him momentarily, then handed the prosthesis to the Executioner.

  “Let’s see what star light, star bright tells us.” Grimaldi unzipped his bag and pulled out his night-vision goggles. “Don’t leave home without them.”

  Bolan grinned. “That fancy suitcase is going to make one of these rice farmers a nice pig trough.”

  “In your dreams,” Grimaldi said, looking through the binocular function of the goggles. “Looks like farmland leading up to a built-up area. Lots of high-rise buildings in the distance.”

  “Good,” Bolan said. “Maybe we can find a car somewhere. Which way is best?”

  “There’s a path straight ahead.”

  Yang and Tai Pang joined them and they all began a quick trot into the dark, expansive field. Soon they came to a barbed-wire fence. Han had stirred awake during the trek and said he was able to walk. Bolan set him down and gave him his arm back. He held it tightly to his chest. Grimaldi was showing the others how to go underneath the fence in a supine position. Bolan and Han followed.

  On the other side, three-foot mud walls housed row after row of budding plants springing up out of a layer of water. Grimaldi led the way along one of the walls that bisected the entire field. Yang and Tai Pang followed him with Han and Bolan bringing up the rear.

  Han was obviously having trouble balancing on the top of the barrier and slowed considerably.

  “I do not think I can continue,” he said. “Save yourselves. Go on without me.”

  Bolan glanced back and saw the lit train stopped about half a mile from where they’d jumped off. The search had undoubtedly begun. “Not an option. I’ll carry you.” Bolan shouldered the smaller man once again and began a quick trot to catch up to the others.

  Finally they reached a solid patch of ground that led to an old wooden house. A ramshackle barn lay about a hundred feet to the left, with a corral and a plow sitting in front of it. A huge ox stood slumbering inside the fenced-in area. Bolan paused and lowered Han to the ground. He took a few deep breaths and held up his prosthesis. “At least I was able to hold on to my arm.”

  “Anybody want to try to play cowboy?” Grimaldi asked, pointing to the ox.

  “Let’s check the barn,” Bolan said. “Maybe he has a truck.”

  “That is doubtful,” Han said. “He’s so poor, he plows the field with an ox. I don’t think he’d even have a telephone. This is another example of the division between the rich and corrupt and the poor.”

  “We must hurry,” Tai Pang said. “The soldiers will be coming after us, and the other railroad tracks are still five or six kilometers from here.”

  “You know,” Grimaldi said as he continued to look through the night-vision goggles. “It looks like there’s a built-up area over there about one klick away.” He pointed to the southwest.

  “Let’s go for it,” Bolan said.

  “But we’ll lose time,” Tai Pang insisted. “We should keep moving to the west, through the paddies.”

  Bolan shook his head. “We go this way.”

  They angled southwest through another set of rice paddies, replete with the mud barriers that served as walking paths. Bolan continued to glance back in the direction of the train. It looked like a small lit-up toy now.

  The rice paddy gave way to a barren field, pockmarked with numerous ditches and large holes. Grimaldi led them
through the erratic ground until they came to a street, across from which a series of modern-looking high-rises sprung up lighted only by moonlight.

  “No lights anywhere,” Grimaldi said. “Everybody’s asleep.”

  “Not sleeping,” Han said. “It is an abandoned city. We are in Jiangsu Province.”

  “Abandoned?” Grimaldi said. “Why’d all the people leave?”

  Han gestured with his good arm. “They were never here, except for the farmers, who were forced out. This is one more example of the corruption that rules China today. The politicians in this province took the land from the farmers and sold it to developers at a cheap price, who then built these buildings in anticipation of new housing that was never needed. The politicians were bribed to force the farmers to sell, and then the farmers were never paid.” He looked down and shook his head sadly. “Do you see how corruption has polluted not only our air and water, but the good earth itself?”

  “The Good Earth,” Grimaldi said. “Pearl Buck, right? I read that book in school.”

  Han’s smile was sad.

  “Keep moving,” Bolan said. “Let’s see if we can find a place to hunker down and get our bearings.”

  “Looks like we can take our pick,” Grimaldi said, then stopped. “Hey, wait.”

  Bolan heard it, too: the sound of an engine cycling in the darkness.

  “I thought you said this area was abandoned.”

  “It is,” Han said.

  “Well, somebody’s here,” Grimaldi said. “Squatters, maybe?”

  “Let’s take a look,” Bolan said. “Yang, stay here with Sammo. The rest of us will check things out.”

  Tai Pang seemed to stiffen at Bolan issuing orders, but he moved forward. Bolan and Grimaldi readied their weapons as they moved quickly across the dark, empty street and on to the next one. The sputtering got louder. They flattened against the wall of a building and Grimaldi used his night-vision goggles.

  “A generator over there,” he whispered. “And a truck and motorcycle.”

  Bolan turned to Tai Pang. “Who do you think they are?”

  He studied the scene, then said, “They are thieves. They steal the metals from these buildings and sell it on the black market.”

  “See any guards?” Bolan asked.

  Grimaldi peered through the night-vision goggles again. “Uh-uh. Lights flashing on the first floor, though.”

  “Let’s get closer,” Bolan said, and moved across the street.

  When he got to the truck, he paused by the cab and slowly opened the door. No keys in the ignition but a bundle of wires hung down from under the dashboard. He motioned for Grimaldi to check it out.

  “Think you can hot-wire this thing?” Bolan asked.

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?” Grimaldi said with a grin. “Got a knife?”

  Bolan gave him the Espada and moved along the bed of the truck. The motorcycle was parked about ten feet away. No keys in that one, either. If they couldn’t hot-wire it, they’d have to disable it or risk the chance of pursuit by the scavengers.

  The truck’s engine turned over once, sputtered out. Cycled again, and caught.

  Bolan watched the entrance of the building to see if the noise from the generator had covered the sound of the truck starting up. Grimaldi flashed a thumbs-up and got down next to Bolan. Voices emanated from inside the building and two men rushed out, one holding a long pipe wrench, the other a hammer.

  Tai Pang jumped forward and delivered a thrusting side kick to the guy with the hammer. As he folded and collapsed, the one with the wrench swung it in a looping arc. Tai Pang ducked under the swing, spinning so that his extended leg swept the wrench-wielder’s feet out from under him. The guy fell onto his back. Tai Pang leaped into the air and came down on the man’s throat, twisting his leg with a lethal punctuation. The first guy was getting to his feet, the hammer dangling from his hand. Tai Pang spun toward him, catching the juncture of neck and body with a spinning kick that looked as though it broke the guy’s neck. His head bobbled loosely as he fell forward.

  Something shiny clattered to the sidewalk as Tai Pang landed. It was the Walther PPS.

  Two more men rushed out of the building, each holding long metal rods. Tai Pang leaped toward them, jolting one with two snapping front kicks: one to the right knee, the second to the face. The man stumbled, and Tai Pang ripped the metal rod out of his hands. He whirled, using the bar to block a blow by the second assailant. The metal bar flashed upward, knocking the bar from the second man’s grasp. The hard metallic end drove into the throat of the first assailant, then across the neck of the second.

  “Damn, he’s pretty good at that, isn’t he?” Grimaldi said.

  “A little too good sometimes.”

  They rushed forward as a fifth man peered out from inside the building. He took one look at his fallen compatriots and started to run back inside. Tai Pang adjusted his grip on the metal rod, cocked his arm back and threw it like a javelin. It sailed straight into the back of the running man.

  Bolan stooped and picked up the Walther Tai Pang had dropped as the redoubtable fighter ran toward the last of the scavengers. Tai Pang jumped high in the air and landed feetfirst on the prone body of the last man.

  Something caught Bolan’s eye. The Walther had a stainless-steel sheen, with TNT engraved on the slide in fancy script. TNT... Thomas Norris Trent, the murdered MI6 agent. There was only one way Tai Pang could have gotten this gun.

  Bolan looked up, and in that moment locked eyes with Tai Pang. A silent realization seemed to pass between them.

  Bolan raised his Beretta, about to fire a round, when Tai Pang turned and ran deeper into the building, slipping around a corner and disappearing into the darkness.

  “What the hell?” Grimaldi said. “I thought he was on our side.”

  “So did I, until now,” Bolan said. “He’s Triad.”

  “Damn. Well, let’s go track him down, then. I don’t want a dude like him on our tail.”

  Bolan shook his head. “No time. Let’s check these guys for keys and get out of here. Remember we’ve still got the PLA breathing down our necks.”

  Grimaldi grunted, knelt by the first dead scavenger and started going through the man’s pockets. He found keys to the truck and the motorcycle on the second man.

  “Take his wallet,” Bolan said. “Let’s see if he’s got a Chinese driver’s license Han can use in case we get stopped.”

  Grimaldi checked the man’s rear pants pocket and pulled out a thick wallet. “Well, if we do get stopped we still have enough yuan to bribe our way out of it. We’re taking the truck, I assume?”

  “And the bike,” Bolan said. “We can use those long boards as a ramp to push it up into the back.”

  “Damn, a sport bike,” Grimaldi said with a grin. “I hope none of my Harley buddies find out about this.”

  * * *

  THEY LEFT THE bodies lying where they’d fallen and drove off in the truck. Bolan found a loose-fitting hat, which he jammed on his head to obscure his features as much as he could. The height of the truck aided in that subterfuge. He figured by canting his head slightly each time a vehicle came along side of them, the wide brim of the hat would do the trick. It was still dark as well, which would help.

  Han sat beside him in the cab, with Yang and Grimaldi out of sight in the back with the motorcycle and rolls of stolen copper wire. A small sliding window behind the seat of the truck opened into the truck’s bed.

  Han directed him to a modern superhighway, and he accelerated to a speed just over the limit. He hoped that cops in China gave speeders the same customary modified grace as coppers in the States did. Soon they were joined by other vehicles all traveling southbound toward Shanghai.

  “How much farther do you think it is?” Bolan asked.

 
Han looked around. “Perhaps four or five hundred kilometers to Shanghai. Then we will have to negotiate the city. It is a magnificent metropolis. Much like your city of New York, I am told.”

  Bolan glanced at his watch: 0330. They had maybe five or six hours of driving ahead of them, barring any unforeseen stops or detours. The gas gauge showed full for now. They’d been lucky in that respect. And Tai Pang was probably left floundering in the abandoned city, trying to dodge the PLA. That might buy them some extra time.

  Han heaved a sigh and looked at Bolan. “I have not thanked you for saving my life back there.”

  “Thank me when I get you safely to the American Consulate,” Bolan said. “Besides, I didn’t do much.”

  Han laughed. “You rescued me from the Triad killers at my house, and then you carried me when I had no strength to go on. You, and your two friends, continue to risk your lives on my behalf.”

  Bolan said nothing.

  Han continued. “When I was a youth, I used to watch the pirated movies from Hong Kong. They depicted wonderful Chinese heroes. Role models for Chinese youth. We needed those heroes. We still do.”

  “Everybody needs a good hero,” Bolan said.

  Han laughed. “My favorite actor was Jimmy Wang Yu. He played a character called the One-Armed Swordsman in several movies. Have you ever seen them?”

  “I don’t watch too many movies.”

  “No, you live them.” Han sighed. “When I was young, I used to dream that I could be like him one day.” He laughed bitterly. “And now I have come to this.”

  Bolan searched for something to say, but found nothing.

  The small window behind them slid open, and Grimaldi’s face appeared.

  “You know, a little heat back here would be nice,” he said. “Not that we’re complaining or anything.”

  “Mr. Han estimates we’ll be there in about five or six hours,” Bolan said. “With a little luck on our side.”

  “Damn,” Grimaldi said. “And I left my four-leaf clover back in the States.”

  “Four-leaf clover?” Han asked.

  “A good luck piece,” Bolan said.