Dragon Key

by Don Pendleton

Han nodded. “I understand. Do you like to gamble, Mr. Grimaldi?”

  “Only on a sure thing.”

  “A sure thing?” Han’s brow wrinkled. “I do not understand your words.”

  “It’s an idiom,” Bolan said. He turned slightly and glanced at Grimaldi. “Now say good-night, Jack.”

  “Good-night, Jack,” Grimaldi said. “Wake us when we get there.”

  He slammed the window shut.

  If we get there, Bolan thought.

  * * *

  THEY RODE IN silence for long stretches, stopping for gas twice at isolated stations. Bolan kept his head down and pumped the fuel while Han, his artificial arm in his pocket, passed a handful of yuan to the attendant. Finally, they neared the outskirts of the huge city. The rising sun was shining over the roadway and more and more cars began to appear. Han perked up and directed Bolan to take the North-South Elevated Roadway. It fanned out into six lanes, each full of speeding vehicles. The skyline looked massive, modern and endless.

  “What’s the best way to get to the office of the American Consulate?” Bolan asked.

  Han told him to keep going straight. “It’s near Boai Hospital. That is where I got my new arm.” He patted the prosthesis. “The Shanghai Library is close, as well.”

  “I’ll have to check that out on my next trip.” Bolan reached back and banged on the window. After a few moments it slid open and Grimaldi’s face appeared again.

  “Can’t a guy get any sleep around here?” he said with a grin.

  “Sleep when this is over,” Bolan said. “We’re getting close to the consulate.”

  They were almost over the hump, but they still had the police and the PLA on their tail, and they were fighting the clock.

  “Let’s go directly to the American Consulate’s office and take refuge there. We can check on the status of your family and arrange for you to get political asylum in the United States.”

  Han said nothing.

  “Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “If you like Shanghai, you’re gonna love Las Vegas.”

  “Cooper-jun,” Han said. “By all means, you and your friends go to the Consulate. But as I told you, I cannot leave China without first picking up the dragon key.”

  Bolan frowned. This man was as stubborn as a country mule.

  “Okay, where’s this bank at?” he asked.

  Han gave him an address.

  Bolan smiled as the roadway expanded to ten lanes. “Maybe we’ll call a taxi. I’m getting a little tired of fighting all this traffic.”

  * * *

  THEIR DRIVE PAST the office of the American Consulate on Haui Hai Zhang Road revealed two things: the place looked like an antebellum mansion, except that there were at least three plainclothes police strolling around the driveway entrance. The huge house was set far back from the street with an expansive green lawn in between. The American flag flew proudly from a flagpole in front, and Bolan thought how welcome the sight of the Stars and Stripes was. He downshifted and kept going.

  “Looks like they’ve got a welcoming committee set up in front of the place,” Bolan said.

  “Can we crash through with the truck?” Grimaldi asked.

  “That would not be advisable,” Han said.

  “Mr. Han, he’s joking.”

  “I am?” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan turned right at the next corner and said, “Give me your SIG.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Grimaldi said. “Git yer own gun.”

  Bolan held up his hand and Grimaldi heaved an exaggerated sigh and smacked the SIG Sauer into Bolan’s palm.

  “Mags, too,” Bolan said.

  “Damn, why don’t you take shoes and socks while you’re at it?” Grimaldi handed over two full magazines. “Or maybe my underwear, since I already feel naked.”

  Yang’s face appeared beside Grimaldi. “Speaking of feeling naked, my cell phone battery’s dead.”

  Grimaldi sighed. “The story of my life.”

  Bolan pulled to a stop at the curb, shifted to Neutral and yanked the hand brake. “You can charge it up inside the consulate. Jack, let’s get the motorcycle out. You and Yang use it to zoom past those coppers and get inside the gate while I create a distraction. Once you’re in there, identify yourselves as Americans and let them know we’re going to need emergency assistance. Mr. Han and I will follow once we get the dragon key.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his satellite phone. “Here, get this charged up, too.”

  “Great plan,” Yang said, “but I’m sticking with you two.”

  Bolan turned to look at her. Her pretty face was framed in the window with a serious expression drawn across it. “We don’t have time to debate the issue.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “We don’t. So accept the fact that I’m going with you and Sammo.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Mr. Cooper. You don’t speak Mandarin. You can’t even listen to what’s being said around you. Face it, you need me.”

  Bolan took a deep breath and noticed Han sitting there with a wide grin on his face.

  “It seems that American women are very much the same as Chinese,” he said. “Always the secret boss.”

  Bolan thought about it. With Grimaldi inside greasing the wheels for their safe passage out of the country, maybe it would be prudent to let Yang join them. She did speak the language and could easily fade into the crowd and get back to the consulate if something went wrong.

  “Give Hal a sitrep when you get inside,” Bolan said to Grimaldi.

  “What about me?” Yang asked.

  “We’ll stop at an electronics store on the way to the bank and get you a new battery,” he said. “So you’ll feel fully clothed.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  * * *

  BOLAN TOOK ANOTHER spin around the block, this time accelerating loudly and grinding the gears to attract attention as Grimaldi rode alongside the truck on the motorcycle. Bolan barreled past the front gate, diverting the attention of the three men he assumed to be police, while Grimaldi made a quick right turn into the gate area, zooming around the barrier and heading down the long drive toward the huge white mansion.

  Hopefully, he won’t give the guards too hard a time, Bolan thought.

  He concentrated on driving, brushing off the lingering fatigue. It was 0923. He estimated that he’d slept a total of four hours in the past forty-eight.

  Traffic was so heavy on Huaihai Middle Road that Yang was able to jump out at an electronics store and buy a new, fully charged battery for her cell phone. When she climbed into the truck cab next to Han, Bolan told her to call the consulate to check on Grimaldi. After spending a good five minutes on hold, she was finally able to ascertain that “an unidentified man, claiming to be an American, was indeed inside and was being interviewed at this time.”

  “That means he’s running the show,” Bolan said with a grin. He glanced in both mirrors. Traffic was almost at a standstill. “How close are we to the bank, Mr. Han?”

  “I’m afraid it is some distance,” Han said. “It’s in the Pu Dong District.”

  “We could take the subway,” Yang said. “It’s right up there.”

  “What about this truck?” Han asked.

  Bolan veered toward an intersection. “It’s time to dump this thing anyway.”

  After leaving the truck in an alleyway, they began a swift walk toward the subway. On the way they stopped at a small restaurant and bought bottles of water and some greasy meat and gravy poured over a slice of bread.

  The subway proved much faster and less noticeable than the truck as it whisked them underneath the bustling city streets and the Huang Pu River, as well. As they emerged from the underground system Bolan told both of them to stay on the penultimate landing while he did some rec
onnoitering. The streets were busy with a flood of endless vehicular and pedestrian traffic. He spied an empty taxi and waved. The driver pulled to the curb and Bolan motioned for Yang and Han to join him. They hopped inside the cab and Han gave the address to the driver. He eyed them warily until Bolan slipped a large amount of currency over the seat. The driver’s eyes widened and he grinned.

  “Tell him to wait for us outside the bank,” Bolan said.

  Yang relayed the message and the driver nodded.

  As the taxi weaved in and out of the heavy traffic, Bolan thought about their next steps. Get to the bank, get the dragon key, then make their way back to the consulate. The subway might be their best bet, but he’d have the cab drop them someplace close, but not obvious.

  When they finally got to the bank, Han instructed the driver to pull over about fifty feet from the front entrance. He turned to Bolan.

  “Cooper-jun, may I suggest you wait here?”

  Bolan considered this. “It would be safer for me to go with you.”

  Han laughed. “That would also attract much attention. You are a very large man.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Yang said. “Nobody will look twice at the two of us.”

  Bolan took a deep breath and glanced out the windows at the constant stream of humanity. They’d taken pains to vary their approach here, so he doubted anyone could have followed them, plus, how would anyone know about this particular bank?

  “Mr. Han, you’re sure no one else knows about this location?”

  Han shook his head. “No one. I did not even tell my family for fear it would put them in danger.”

  Bolan nodded. “Try to make it quick.”

  He watched as Han, wearing his artificial arm, and Yang got out of the cab and walked leisurely down the street.

  They were right, he thought. They looked like two ordinary Chinese citizens strolling down the sidewalk. A big American tagging along would attract too much attention. They both went inside the bank.

  I just hope they’re fast, he thought.

  * * *

  AS BOLAN SCANNED the other end of the block, the driver suddenly exclaimed, “Hey, American! Look! Your friends got trouble.” The cab driver pointed through the window.

  Three men were pushing Yang and Mr. Han into a black van. One of them was Tai Pang.

  How the hell did he find us? Bolan thought as he whipped out his Beretta and started to open the door of the taxi. Tai Pang jumped into the van and it took off. The two other men got into a second van and that one slipped into traffic, as well.

  “You speak English?” Bolan asked.

  “I got English, little bit,” the driver said.

  Bolan reached into his pocket and pulled out a fist full of yuan. “Follow that first van. The one with my friends.”

  The driver’s eyes widened. He twisted in his seat and jammed the taxi into gear, barely looking as he zoomed into traffic to the accompaniment of several sets of squealing brakes and honking horns behind them.

  “No worry,” the driver said. “I catch ’em.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The van bounced as it pulled off the street and onto the mud-and-gravel road that led to the construction area beside the river. The Mantis waited for the van to come to a complete stop before he opened the door and hopped out. He told his men to wait before taking the prisoners out of the vehicle, and then he ran back to the second van, which was pulling onto the road, as well.

  “Park down there,” the Mantis said, pointing to a series of broken-down buildings that stood in sharp contrast to the spiraling skyscrapers just beyond the roadway. “Stay here and make sure no one follows.”

  The driver grunted in agreement.

  The Mantis walked back to the first van, got in and motioned for the driver to continue.

  “Why are you doing this?” Yang asked in English.

  He regarded her coldly and replied in Mandarin, “You would do well to beg for mercy in my native language. You are, after all, in my country.”

  “Please,” Han said, “let her go. You have me. She is not part of this.”

  The Mantis turned, and his arm shot over the front seat, slapping Han across the mouth. “Traitor, shut your mouth.”

  “You call me a traitor?” Han said, blood coating his front teeth. “You are the one who seeks to betray his own people for money.”

  The Mantis thought about punching him again, but he knew the master had forbidden it. He wanted Han delivered intact.

  A man holding a shotgun appeared at the corner of a building and pointed to his left. The van slowed to a stop and the driver rotated the wheel, pulling behind a three-sided structure that hid the vehicle from the roadway above. Two other vehicles were already parked there—a black jeep with military license plates and a dark-colored limousine. The Mantis got out and pulled the side door of the van open.

  “Get out,” he said. “It is only a short walk from here.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Han asked.

  The Mantis smiled. “To your reckoning.”

  * * *

  THE CABBIE, WHO said his English name was Arnold, had proved adept at following the two vans in the heavy traffic. As they all got closer to the river, the traffic thinned a bit and Bolan watched as the two vans pulled onto a gravel side road. It seemed to lead to a dilapidated series of small ramshackle buildings, the tallest of which was four stories. The structures had virtually no windows and the area looked to be in the process of being razed. Aside from the two vans turning in, it was totally deserted.

  “Where is this place?” Bolan asked.

  “Old neighborhood,” Arnold said. “Pretty soon gone. Boom, and they build more.”

  Bolan told him to pull just beyond the next curb and stop. He tossed the yuan he’d been holding onto the front seat and got out.

  “You want me to wait?” Arnold asked. “You pay more money?”

  Bolan nodded, then ran down the embankment toward the rows of dilapidated buildings. A fairly intact sidewalk ran between the houses. Trash, tiles and broken bricks littered the adjacent areas. An old pushcart partially obstructed Bolan’s path.

  He moved quickly and silently, attaching the sound suppressor to his Beretta. He had a full magazine, fifteen rounds and two more in the pouch on his belt. Plus, he had Grimaldi’s SIG with two extra magazines and the small Walther PPS he’d taken from Tai Pang with five rounds left. That gave him seventy-four rounds total. He didn’t know how well armed his opponents would be, but he figured he’d be outgunned.

  Going in with a low-ammo alert against a larger force, he thought. I have to play it smart, not flashy.

  His fingers felt for the Espada knife in his right pants pocket, but it wasn’t there. Bolan suddenly remembered giving it to Grimaldi so he could hot-wire the damn truck.

  He ducked through a narrow space that had once been a door in the back of the nearest structure. The inside of the place was littered with the detritus of human habitation: discarded clothes, a block of partially crushed charcoal, a few broken plastic toys... Making his way to the window, Bolan flattened against the wall and peered through. Across the street he saw the second van with four tough-looking guys in sunglasses standing around smoking and holding shotguns. Three more vehicles were parked in a shedlike structure with only three walls. The black van that had been used to kidnap Yang and Han sat next to a dark limousine and a black jeep with military license plates. Somebody with PLA connections was here.

  Bolan scanned the rest of the buildings but saw no trace of Yang or Han. Obviously, they’d been brought here to meet somebody. Their captors probably wouldn’t stray too far from their vehicles. He assessed the chances of taking out the four gangsters from his present location. Doable, but he wanted to make sure it wouldn’t alert the others. He backtracked th
rough the house and moved in closer, managing to find another vantage point inside a gutted building almost directly across from the four thugs.

  Bolan watched as one of the men took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt into a nearby puddle. One of the others hooked his shotgun under his arm and pulled out a pack, offering a smoke to his companion. As the companion shouldered his shotgun as well, accepting the smoke and then a light, Bolan acquired the initial sight picture. He shot the two who were in the most-ready positions first—head shots—then put two rounds into the congenial smokers. All four of them dropped instantly. To be certain they were out of the picture, he put a round in the head of each one, then stepped through a broken-out window frame on the side wall of the structure. He paused at the corner of the building, looked and listened.

  It was a faint sound, but unmistakable: a voice shouting in Mandarin coming from inside the adjacent building.

  * * *

  THE MANTIS WATCHED as General Wong moved in the light provided by the half dozen battery-powered lanterns. The room was almost empty, except for several folding chairs and piles of stacked bricks, which sat in various places like crude furniture. Wong stepped in front of the two prisoners and continued to shout at them. Both Han and the woman were on their knees. It was unnecessary to bind them. Not only was Han’s artificial arm now lying discarded in a corner, but they had nowhere to flee. And even if they tried, there were five men here in the room besides Wong and Master Chen.

  The general had forgone his uniform in favor of a finely tailored blue suit, similar in design to the one Master Chen wore.

  The master and the general, he thought. He would soon be rewarded for serving them both.

  “Did you think I would not find you?” Wong yelled. “I have been monitoring your flight the entire time, waiting until this moment.”

  Wong taking credit for both the surveillance and the capture bothered the Mantis slightly. After all, he had been the one who’d killed Tai Pang, taken his place, perpetrated the masquerade to monitor the Americans’ flight and planted the locating device in Han’s artificial arm when they jumped from the train. All the vaulted general had done was sit in the comfort of his offices and wait for the notifications.