China Crisis (Stony Man)

by Don Pendleton

  His dealings with Shadow and Townsend had brought Regan bigger paychecks, had expanded his customer base across the Pacific and had brought him closer to China, North Korea and a number of struggling groups eager to pay good money for top-class weapons. That was one of the reasons for Regan’s success. He never sold his customers inferior goods. It wasn’t good practice. Sell poor guns, you were liable to get your clients killed. And if they survived they wouldn’t forget the individual who delivered those defective weapons. The type of people Regan dealt with tended to have long memories and were somewhat dedicated when it came to settling grudges. Deliver excellent weapons, on time, and at the agreed price and the customer would always call on you if and when the need arose again. In Regan’s business word of mouth meant a great deal. It wasn’t as if he could go around advertising on television.

  Regan’s association with Pete Tilman went back to his early years. Tilman had been a wild character back then, running black ops for the Agency when the whole thing was like a crazy game. Tilman’s missions were risky, dangerous, but he always got the job done and he always treated his partners well. Regan and Tilman had become more than just business partners. They built a closeness that transcended money and political wrangling in backwater republics. They had been shot at and chased, almost captured, and even wounded together. Every time they had walked away intact.

  As U.S. involvement in Central America was toned down, Regan and Tilman drifted apart. Not through choice. More through career expansion. In the end Tilman was pulled back to the States and handed an assignment in Washington. Regan, his own business growing strongly, found he lost touch with his CIA buddy on and off. But occasionally they would cross paths. And then the Shadow deal came along. Townsend, bankrolled by high flyers with political-military tendencies, knew Regan had some Pacific Rim dealings. He had dealt with China on a few small deals. When Townsend offered him the chance to come in on the big operation Regan saw it as another expansion opportunity. He was also surprised, though not exactly impressed, when Tilman showed up on Townsend’s payroll. Regan’s former CIA buddy was a different man. He could still do his job and was pulling off some risky deals for Shadow, but Regan saw a big change in Tilman. He had lost some of his sparkle. It shocked Regan a little, but in the end he accepted that time changed people. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not. Later when Regan learned about the killing of three CIA agents who were on a stakeout trying to catch Townsend’s people during an exchange, he took an educated guess that Tilman had done the shooting on Townsend’s behalf. He had been right. Tilman had made no bones about it. It wasn’t the first time he had killed. He had done his share during the early years. This time it was different. This time he had done for no better reason than the money Townsend was paying him. Back in their early days Tilman had higher ideals. He was a Company Man, no question, but right or wrong in those days there was a pride in what a man did. That had gone, leaving Tilman strangely reduced in moral stature.

  The abrupt change in the situation, with Townsend and company showing up in Santa Lorca, hadn’t concerned Regan too much. Problems that needed fixing were all part of the business. He welcomed his working partners to his expansive hacienda, as he had in the past. He saw it as an opportunity to work matters through.

  Now though, with Townsend’s new man, Hawkins, being exposed as an undercover agent the picture had altered yet again. Enough so that Regan decided, mainly for his own protection, to call in reinforcements from his warehouse on Port Cristobal docks. That they were on their way made Regan feel better.

  HAWKINS ROLLED THE SUV to a stop, raising a hand in greeting to one of Regan’s security men. The man nodded and returned to his patrol of the grounds. Hawkins set the brake and switched off the engine. Climbing out, he turned toward the house, passing the identical SUV that had been parked alongside when he had left. Something clicked as he walked by and it was as he stepped inside the house, making his way to the open living area, that it registered. By then it was too late. He had made himself known to the group, still lounging around the room as he had left them.

  Chomski glanced across the room as Hawkins showed.

  “Hey, our very own scout. You spot anything out there, Tonto?”

  Hawkins crossed to the bar and helped himself to a cold bottle of beer from the minichiller.

  “Only the locals and a few oilmen spending their pay. Hell, Cristobal is one quiet town.”

  “Hear that, Rik?” Chomski said. “T.J. doesn’t rate Port Cristobal.”

  “Maybe it isn’t sophisticated for him,” Brandt said.

  The man was staring directly at Hawkins, a vacant smirk on his broad face, and Hawkins knew then what it was all about.

  His instinct had been right all along. It had warned him when he’d stepped out of his SUV, glancing at the other vehicle and observing that it was parked the opposite way around than it had when he’d left.

  T.J., you walked into this like a dumb country boy, he berated himself.

  “Something on your mind, son?” Townsend asked, rising from his seat to face Hawkins.

  “Not really, boss.”

  The room had fallen silent. Out the corner of his eye Hawkins saw that Brandt was on his feet, too, edging wide to block off any passage to the door.

  “I guess you’d better have your money back, Mr. Riotta,” Hawkins said, easing his hand into his pocket for the roll of notes. “All I took was for a beer.”

  He showed the wad of money and tossed it toward Riotta, who caught it neatly.

  “Got to hand it to you, T.J.,” Chomski said. “You had them all hooked. I just never was a fan.”

  “We should have listened to Ralph,” Brandt said. “He saw this fuck was a fake all along.”

  Hawkins was absently toying with the small change he’d pulled from his pocket. He was aware that matters were rapidly coming to a boil. His cover was disintegrating with each passing second.

  “Should I know what’s going on here?” he asked,

  Brandt was the one who let it out, unable to hold back any longer. “Let’s quit all this fucking around,” he yelled. “We all know what this little shit has been doing. I told you I saw him in town talkin’ with that mother who was in the gun store in Landry the day he was collecting the boss’s shotgun. Then they met up with another guy and went to a hotel. He was in there for around thirty minutes. Came out and drove back here.”

  “Ouch,” Chomski said. “I guess you fucked up there, T.J. You screwed us. Now it’s payback time.”

  Hawkins gripped the coin-size device Lyons had given him and squeezed it. He felt the distinct click of engagement.

  Brandt moved in fast, circling behind Hawkins to frisk him and remove his pistol. He snatched the bottle from Hawkins’s hand and tossed it aside. Then he retrieved the cell phone Hawkins was carrying. The man paused, motionless for a second, then Hawkins heard the sudden intake of breath and the rustle of movement. He knew what was coming but prepared or not, the blow from Brandt’s pistol drove Hawkins to his knees. He knelt on the floor, stunned, feeling the warm rush of blood from the gash in the back of his skull. It soaked into the collar of his shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get them back in focus.

  “Get him on his feet,” Townsend said.

  Hawkins felt himself being hauled upright and dragged backward, hands gripping his upper arms. He was slammed against the wall, his head bouncing off the stone. The shock cleared his vision and he found himself staring at Townsend.

  “Goddamn you, boy. You’ll suffer for this. Making me look a fool.”

  “It wasn’t that difficult,” Hawkins said, and regretted the words instantly as Townsend let go a wild yell, backhanding him across the side of his face.

  “Think you’re so smart, don’t you? In that case why are you the one in the shit?”

  “You want to reconsider that, Mr. Townsend? I’m not the one who stole top-secret U.S. material and sold it to the Chinese. I’m not the one about to go down the river for that
.”

  “I hope you’re not going to give me the ‘do you love your country’ crap,” Townsend said. “Jesus, Hawkins, give me credit for some intelligence. I’m a product of America, son. I was born into a society that hammered it into me from day one. Land of opportunity. Riches for anyone if you’re willing to work and work hard. Well, I was and I did, and I even served goddamn America. I fought her battles, killed her enemies, waved the flag. And while I was doing that the sons of bitches back home were growing fat on arms dealing and back-door politics. Selling us all down the fucking river so they could all keep getting richer and richer. And I went along with it all, just like the other suckers, until I got my eyes opened and decided well, hell, if it’s good enough for them, then it sure is good enough for Oliver Townsend.

  “As soon as I did my time I went right out there and sold my soul to the Devil and the mighty dollar. Now I’ve got a slice of the pie and boy does it taste good. You know what grieves those pious bastards in Washington? The fact I’m whupping their asses at their own game. Only I took it a step further and I jumped on the biggest gravy train of them all. And it hurts them, ’cause I went and shared out their fancy toys, sold ’em to the enemy. What fuckin’ enemy? Last time it was the Russians. Now we’re best buddies. Next year it’ll be fuckin’ North Korea. Hell, the Chinese are already doing multibillion-dollar trade with us. Damn me, son, it’s just a big grown-up game of Monopoly. Buy and sell. Share and swap. Pull in the cash. Wake up and see the sky-writing, Hawkins. Global community means global economy. So let’s pass around the goodies.”

  “Same old excuses I’ve heard from every crook I ever met,” Hawkins said. “Never do understand why you try so hard to justify what you do.”

  “Must be some of that old-time religion my mother used to throw at me. Something about repentance? Or was it seeking spiritual solace? Never could make the difference. In the end, son, I really don’t give a sweet fuck what you think. I don’t owe you a damn thing, except maybe a bullet between the eyes for all the grief you’ve created. I had you figured for a genuine believer. Damn you, Hawkins, you know how hard it is to recruit really good men?”

  “Maybe I could do weekends for you,” Hawkins said, and immediately regretted his remark.

  It got him a hard, full-on punch that split his lower lip and raised a bruise across the side of his jaw.

  “No place for smart remarks, Hawkins. In your position I would keep very quiet.” Townsend rubbed the raw knuckles of his right hand and watched as Hawkins spit blood from his swelling mouth.

  He stayed silent, watching as Jack Regan crossed the room, a wry smile on his face.

  “Bubba, choose what you say with your head, not your ass. This ain’t your day.”

  “We should finish this now,” Chomski said.

  “No, no, no, Ralph,” Townsend said. “I want to know who this prick works for. And how much information he’s passed on to his people. Killing him in anger won’t give us a thing. We need to assess the situation. Damage limitation is the watchword for the moment.”

  “Oliver, may I suggest we consider our options,” Su Han said from the other side of the room. “This is exactly what this man wants. For us to lose control before we know exactly what the problem is. If we do that, then he has already achieved a small victory.”

  As Townsend let them consider his words, Han turned casually to stand close to a desk. Only Hawkins saw him reach out and close his hand over a pair of flash drives. The Chinese dropped them into the pocket of his jacket.

  Regan turned and left the office. He picked up a transceiver from a side table and pressed the transmit button.

  “Xavier, come in.”

  “Sí.”

  “Keep it sharp. Tell the others.”

  “Is there are problem?” Xavier asked.

  “Possibility. Hawkins might have been followed from Port Cristobal.”

  “How many?”

  “Two we know he met.”

  “I understand.”

  Regan stood debating his next move. He sensed he wasn’t alone. It was Su Han.

  “He may have brought his contacts back with him?”

  “Damned sure he didn’t just pass the time of day and nothing else.” Regan banged his fist against the back of a heavy chair. “Son of a bitch. Just when things were running smoothly.”

  “Good fortune can be a capricious mistress, Mr. Regan.”

  “You don’t say. My old man always told me when things look good they seldom ever are.”

  He moved to one of the windows and peered out, nodding as he saw heavy drops of rain hitting the glass. In the few seconds he stood there the rainfall increased rapidly. In the glare from the security lights beaming out across the grounds he watched as the incoming rain swept through the foliage, bouncing as it struck the earth. Santa Lorca lay in the tropical rain belt and sudden unexpected rainstorms were the norm at this time of year. Which wasn’t going to help matters right now.

  The transceiver in his hand crackled and Regan raised it to answer.

  “Boss, I can’t find Rico.”

  “What about Delgado?”

  “He is—”

  The transceiver fell silent. Regan didn’t waste time calling Xavier’s name again. There was no point. A man like Xavier didn’t break off in the middle of a conversation unless something—or somebody—caused him to.

  Regan called in his house security, a team of seven men. Unobtrusive when not required, they emerged from their positions and joined him.

  “Time to earn your pay, boys. I believe we have unwelcome visitors. Unwelcome and hostile. You know what to do. Go to it.”

  Su Han returned to the office, drawing his pistol. He indicated Hawkins. “It appears this one is smarter than we all have been led to believe.”

  “A burst in the head should change that,” Chomski said.

  He had armed himself with a Franchi SPAS shotgun and racked in a shell with a hard yank on the slide.

  “I’m beginning to come around to your way of thinking, Ralph,” Townsend said.

  “Let me do it,” Brandt said. “I never did take to this bastard.”

  “Rik, that hurts,” Hawkins mumbled, his mouth swollen from where Townsend had hit him.

  Brant found that funny, grinning. “Not as much as—”

  The sudden rattle of autofire broke through the rumble of the falling rain. Bullets struck one of the windows, glass blew into the room and everyone scattered. A second burst followed hard on the heels of the first.

  Hawkins was left alone in the confusion. He saw his chance, took it and launched himself forward, his target Su Han. The Chinese failed to see Hawkins until the last moment, and then it was too late. The Phoenix Force commando, powering across the empty space between them, hit Han hard, pushing him sideways. Han realized what was happening in the last second before they struck the window. The impetus took them through in a shower of splintered wood and broken glass. Han’s terrified yell was drowned by the torrential rain. Hawkins maintained his grip on Han as they dropped to the ground. The Chinese gave an explosive gasp as the impact took his breath away and he lay on his back, trying to suck air into his lungs, momentarily paralyzed. The moment they landed Hawkins let go, rolling clear, then twisted back to snatch the SIG-Sauer Han still gripped in his right hand. Hawkins’s free hand snaked into Han’s jacket pocket and located the flash drives. He pushed them deep into his pants’ pocket, then gathered his legs under him and sprinted for the closest cover.

  Behind Hawkins the SPAS shotgun boomed repeatedly as Chomski shoved his head out the broken window and cut loose.

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  “WE HAVE INCOMING,” Wethers called across the room.

  “Patch me in,” Kurtzman said, turning to view the wall monitor.

  “Visual is from my Slingshot bird,” Wethers said. “I’ve been monitoring Regan’s place and ran an infrared scan. I did a perimeter and immediate area check. There’s a vehicle approached from the direction of
Port Cristobal, off the main road and moving down the approach to Regan’s hacienda.”

  Kurtzman hit the magnification relay and increased the image, checking out the signatures.

  “Open truck with at least half a dozen armed men in the back. Storm’s making it difficult to sharpen the picture any further.”

  Wethers tapped in more commands and speakers became active.

  “That’s Regan calling on his land line about ten minutes back. I tapped in as soon as we knew T.J. was in the house. I’ve been recording Regan’s calls ever since.”

  “We verified it’s Regan from voice analysis,” Delahunt said. “It was easy to pin them down after we ran comparison tests on those recordings Townsend logged onto his computer.”

  “Good of him to assist,” Brognola said.

  Wethers smiled. “He doesn’t know yet. Now, we picked up on this latest call to someone identified as Manolo. Told him to gather some armed men and get out to the house fast.”

  “The number he called was local. We ran a trace,” Delahunt said. She put up a map of Port Cristobal that was overlaid by satellite grid lines from the Slingshot system. “The phone is located in this building on the docks.”

  “Wasn’t it the docks where Phoenix had their meet with Regan last time around?” Brognola asked.

  “Where the contract with that Fedayeen representative was to go down? Yes.”

  “Regan had a warehouse there where he conducted his arms business.”

  “It seems he still does. Our Mr. Regan is a known figure in Port Cristobal. He’s well-known for his entrepreneurial skills.”

  “Translated that means he probably has connections bought and paid for,” Brognola said.

  “Money and guns,” Delahunt replied. “Nothing much changes.”

  “Look at the background. Santa Lorca as a country doesn’t have a lot going for it at the moment. The current oil finds might pump some money into the state coffers, but the place has always been an open market for illegal trading of one kind or another.” Brognola studied the satellite imagery. “Can you get a message through to Lyons? Warn him what’s coming up?”