But Chae anticipated this and put up his hands to block the blow. Cole in turn snapped the man’s head down and slipped his arm around his neck in a guillotine choke, sinking his forearm tight into Chae’s throat, arching his back to lift the agent off his feet, cutting off his air supply completely.
Cole felt Chae’s hands pummel at him uselessly from his bent-over position, waited for him to adjust his weight as Cole knew he would, and then wrenched up violently, severing the man’s spinal cord in one devastatingly final motion.
Cole turned to face Park, but a group of policemen had surrounded him, taking him out of the picture for now.
His head snapped back to Wong, but the arms broker was no longer there.
Seeing his chance, the man had simply vanished.
6
Wong Xiang breathed hard as he rode the elevator to the National Monument’s viewing platform.
Who the hell were these people? The white guy had been protecting him, but why? It was obvious that the Asians weren’t so friendly, but Wong knew one thing for sure – he was better off without any of them.
At first, the viewing platform had seemed like a good idea; it was far away from all the trouble on the ground. But what if he’d been seen riding it up? Wouldn’t he be followed? But it looked like the police were on the scene back in the square, so maybe they’d all been arrested; maybe even killed each other.
But Wong didn’t believe it; none of the men back in the square looked like the type to let themselves get arrested, and he knew that at least one of them would survive and come for him.
So what were his options? If he waited at the top, someone would find him sooner or later. But if he simply rode the car back down, it was equally likely that there would be someone waiting for him there.
The emergency stairs? If someone followed him up, he could run down while they were taking the elevator. Unless they were coming up the stairs the other way, of course.
He pulled his cellphone out, realizing that he could call some friends to come to the rescue; well-armed bad-asses that would sort out these guys no problem. Except that by the time they got here, he could already be dead. He looked down at his phone. There was no signal in the elevator car anyway.
There was only one option left.
He looked up at the roof and sighed.
Cole raced up the stairs two at a time, determined to intercept Wong Xiang at the top.
He knew he might soon have company – the last thing he’d seen of Park was a blur of movement from the crowd behind him as he went for the surrounding police officers. Gunshots were ringing out by the time Cole had hit the stairwell, and he hoped that it was the policemen who’d been firing; from what he’d seen of Park already, however, he had to accept that the policemen could all be dead.
Cole burst out of the stairwell into the viewing platform, knocking an overweight security guard to one side as he raced to the elevator.
Yes. He’d made it in time; the elevator had just arrived, the door opening to reveal a group of tourists. And yet they didn’t pour out of the car with the excitement they would have ordinarily displayed; instead, their eyes were all staring upwards, and Cole poked his head through and looked up too.
The access hatch was open.
And Wong was gone.
Although it was still warm at four hundred feet, the wind whipped at Wong, threatening to rip him off the top of the enormous structure.
It had been crazy, but what else could he do? He was being chased by the most relentless people he had ever met, and he still didn’t know why. He’d be able to buy some time up here, stay here until things quietened down.
He checked his cellphone again, hoping to place that call to his friends. They’d be able to secure the square, escort him back down. Hell, he was in tight with half the local government.
But there was still no signal.
He threw the phone on the floor in disgust. What fucking use was it?
A noise to one side caught his attention and he turned, horrified to see the American hauling himself up onto the roof.
‘Damn,’ he said in resignation, ‘you one persistent motherfucker, you know? What the hell do you want?’
Cole approached, hands raised in placation. ‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ he began. ‘I was sent here to protect you. I’m a friend.’
‘Friend? Friend of who? Who sent you?’ Wong was backing away, but Cole noticed his body language relaxing slightly. The fact was, Cole had demonstrated his desire – and his ability – to protect the man, and had therefore built some measure of trust. Would it be enough?
But then the roof access hatch next to Cole burst open and an enraged Park launched himself towards him, unarmed but deadly. Cole was unhappy to see that he’d been right about him taking out the police officers back in the square.
Cole absorbed the man’s energy and turned him over by grabbing the arms and dropping his bodyweight, using a throw common to both judo and aikido.
Park rolled across the rooftop and regained his feet instantly, rising up into a fighting stance.
Definitely taekwondo, Cole thought as the two men circled each other, Wong forgotten for the moment. At the top of the four hundred foot National Monument, the city of Jakarta spread out far and wide below them and no barriers to protect them, Wong wasn’t going anywhere.
Cole himself had trained in the martial arts since boyhood; first in boxing and wrestling, and then in the oriental martial arts of karate and judo. He’d carried on his training in the military, becoming an expert in the Israeli defense system of krav maga and the grappling art of Brazilian jiu-jitsu, as well as excelling at the host of specialist unarmed and close quarter combatives courses he had been sent on while training as a covert operative. And then there was the ancient art of Kalaripayattu and the death strikes of marma adi he had been taught while imprisoned in Pakistan, the supposed mother of all martial arts.
It was a rare occasion when Cole faced somebody as adept as he was, but Cole could see that Park was such a man; his body honed to perfection, his mind razor-sharp.
The two men continued to circle each other, searching their opposite number for an opening of any kind, any opportunity they could capitalize on. In each man’s mind’s eye, a hundred scenarios were thought through and discarded in fractions of a second; moves and counter-moves, actions and reactions.
But taekwondo was an aggressive, attacking art, and Cole could tell from the slight tension in the man’s muscles, the tightness of his jaw, that he wanted to attack; it was in his nature, and Cole knew that if he was patient, the man’s attack would be launched as surely as night following day.
The stand-off seemed to last an eternity, but finally – inevitably – Park’s face contorted into a seething rage and he let out a piercing kihap shout to attune his energies as he leapt at Cole with a powerful jumping front kick.
Anticipating the surge, Cole sidestepping and scooped his forearm in and up, hitting the leg from underneath and turning Park over in the air.
Miraculously, the man performed a full somersault and landed on his feet; but Cole seized his own opportunity and skipped in, punching out at Park’s face with his thumb, pushed in tightly and extended from his fist. The thumb found its mark, jabbing deep into Park’s left eye, half-blinding him instantly.
Enraged, Park instinctively reached out and took hold of Cole, hands clenching around his neck and jerking forwards violently with his head.
The dense bone of Park’s skull crashed into Cole’s face; he felt the cartilage in his nose give way, and Park reared back to do the same again, his grip still tight around Cole’s neck.
As his battered face rushed towards Park’s head, the bunched-up fingertips of Cole’s right hand ripped suddenly upwards, catching Park in the soft tissue between his throat and his chin.
Park’s grip released instantly as he staggered back, gasping for breath, and Cole rushed forwards, throwing a straight right to Park’s temple.
But Pa
rk recovered more quickly than Cole thought possible and deflected Cole’s punch, hands securing tight around his wrist and throwing him across the rooftop in a perfect hapkido wrist throw.
Cole rolled across the roof and collided with Wong, the impact knocking the arms dealer back towards the edge of the roof.
‘Aniyo!’ Cole heard Park shout; Korean for No!, which confirmed his suspicions about the man. But Cole had no time to fully process this information, as both he and Park raced to the roof edge to save their only source of vital information.
Both men’s hands leapt out to grab hold of Wong – his arm, his leg, his shirt, anything! – but it was too late and, his eyes wide with terror, shock and simple disbelief, Wong Xiang fell from the rooftop of the National Monument, four hundred feet to the concrete square below; and Cole and Park watched in dejected horror as the body erupted over the sidewalk, shattered completely, whatever information he could tell them about Liang Kebangkitan lost forever.
For an instant Cole wondered whether there was any point in fighting on; their target was lost, why not just agree to move on? But he knew deep down that this could never happen, that Park’s warrior honor would demand closure; and then he felt the air parting and moved back from the edge of the building just in time, Park’s boot flying an inch from his face.
Cole trotted back to control the center of the roof, keeping Park’s back to the edge, using his footwork to keep to the safety zone.
Park attacked again with a side kick to Cole’s knee, and Cole stepped off to one side and threw a powerful shot into the man’s liver, doubling him up and then lashing out with a Thai leg kick of his own, smashing his hardened shin bone into the side of Park’s knee., shattering the patella and tearing the ligaments.
Pain creased Park’s face and he stumbled, struggling to stand; but his guard was still up, and his eyes were still focused.
Cole threw a hard front kick, but Park intercepted it with his elbow, jamming the point down onto the small bones of Cole’s foot. As Cole sagged forward, Park unleashed a front kick of his own; powerful enough, even with his knee destroyed, to propel Cole back across the rooftop, his feet touching the edge.
Like Wong, he teetered, trying to get his balance, and then went, toppling backwards over the edge.
Unlike Wong, Cole managed to twist his body in mid-air, turning to catch hold of the precipice with his vice-like fingertips. The wind pulled at him, threatening to rip him off the side and send him plummeting to the concrete hundreds of feet below him, and for a second Cole was overwhelmed by a powerful sense of vertigo as he saw the great Indonesian city spread out like a grey urban blanket beneath him.
But then his equilibrium recovered and he tried to pull himself up. He saw the black boots of his opponent come stamping down towards his hands and instead of hauling himself up onto the rooftop he swung one leg up and around above him, sweeping Park’s supporting leg out from underneath him like a scythe.
He pulled himself back over the parapet in one smooth movement, jumping on top of Park, legs either side of his chest trapping the man tightly as he rained down blows on the agent’s head and body.
When Park went to cover up his face, Cole reacted to the opportunity and pulled one of the Korean’s arms out and up, securing it to his own chest with his hands as he swung one leg over Park’s face, moving his body until it made a right angle with Park’s, his elbow trapped across Cole’s hips.
And then in the same smooth fluid movement, Cole pulled back on the arm while raising his hips violently upwards, breaking Park’s arm at the elbow with the juji gatame armlock of both judo and jiu-jitsu.
Park stifled a scream and turned in towards Cole, unleashing the fist of his other arm in a frenzied attack as he struggled back to his feet. Cole pushed him away and they were separated again, both men now breathing hard despite their conditioning.
Cole knew the end was near – Park was at the limit and only had one good attack left in him.
It came sooner than Cole expected, a violent roar that emanated from deep within the center of the Korean’s powerful body. And then – even with a broken knee and arm – Park ran towards Cole – two steps, three, four – then braced his legs and to Cole’s amazement launched himself off his damaged leg, attacking Cole with twimyo yeop chagi, the immensely powerful flying side kick of taekwondo which had been used once upon a time to knock armored warriors from their mounts.
Cole knew that if it caught him in the chest or head he would have no chance – the power of the kick would send him sailing out into the void with no hope of grabbing the roof.
But Cole was able to read the passage of the kick as it sliced through the air and grabbed it with both hands, right around Park’s lower leg; and, keeping his center of gravity low, Cole pivoted violently, using Park’s own momentum to turn him in midair, swinging his body around like an Olympic hammer thrower until the point of . . .
Release.
Cole let go of Park’s leg and watched as the Korean’s body went spiraling off the side of the building, eyes finally wide in panic as he realized that there would be no second chance.
And then he was gone.
Cole saw the body hit the square below, not too far from Wong’s, the Korean’s halo of bright red blood mixing with the arms broker’s, and he sighed.
Damn.
What was he going to do now that he’d lost his only lead?
He sat down on the roof, exhausted from the combat, the adrenalin.
Across the dusty marble roof, he saw something.
It was a cellphone, and hope leapt in Cole’s heart as he raced over to it.
Yes, he thought happily.
Maybe there was still a chance after all.
PART THREE
1
Minister of State Security Choi Ho-ki stared across the parade ground, hands behind his back, watching the military parade in front of him; hundreds of loyal soldiers in the Korean People’s Army Ground Force going through intricately choreographed drill moves with wonderful precision.
President Kim himself was watching too, from a raised dais behind a row of battle tanks, surrounded by his normal entourage of key advisers.
The morning air was chilly, and Lt. General U Chun-su breathed out steadily and watched the air turn to steam in front of him as he waited for Choi to speak.
‘What do you think our great leader will say when I speak to him later?’ Choi said finally, eyes still locked on the parade ground, not even wanting to look at the Director of the RGB.
‘I will tell him myself,’ U said humbly, knowing that it would be expected. ‘I will tell him that I failed.’
There was a pause as Choi seemed to consider the matter. ‘No,’ he said evenly. ‘That is not what will happen. President Kim is expecting results, and we will deliver them, do you understand?’
‘But what can we –’
‘We can press ahead as planned. Off schedule of course, but you will have to be flexible. We still have quantities of the product left at Camp Fourteen?’
‘Yes, we have a large stockpile, but what –’
‘That is what you will need to figure out,’ Choi explained patiently. ‘If you wish to retain your position as Director, you will carry out this mission as directed. President Kim is only interested in results, not in methods. Get it there, use it, any way you can. Yes?’
U nodded his head slowly, watching the army parade in front of him, marching right past them with the click of boots and the swish of material; postures erect, faces proud.
He was just going to have to be creative.
‘Tango down!’ Lt. Commander Jake Navarone called out after making the shot, his suppressed H&K MP-10 submachine gun tracking across the room in front of him, his partner Duke Kleiner covering him as they cleared the ship room by room.
They’d already been through countless drills since arriving in Subic Bay – dry firing drills, range drills, practicing approaching the Navy boats via covert insertion, boat handling and n
ight swimming – and had now been granted permission to use a full-size cargo ship loaned to the US Navy by Storm Shipping, an American company who’d had a ship at dock in the nearby Port of Batangas.
‘Clear!’ he heard Kleiner announce, followed by more pronouncements by other members of his squad.
‘Upper deck all clear!’ Navarone said through his throat mike.
Navarone and Kleiner swept out of the room and headed for the bridge where they were to regroup with the other SEALs, hearing muffled shots as they moved.
Before they reached their rendezvous, Navarone heard Commander Treyborne over his earpiece. ‘Hostages secured, all tangos down.’
Navarone smiled. Even though it was only an exercise, the people playing the pirates were no pushovers – they were all operators from SEAL Team Four who were stationed at Subic Bay. But DEVGRU were the best of the best, and trial runs like this were what made them so effective. Practice didn’t make perfect on its own; perfect practice made perfect, and that is what DEVGRU constantly strived for.
This latest exercise was only part of the puzzle; a piece of the mission broken down so that it could be perfected. They hadn’t inserted via boat or clandestine underwater swimming, and they wouldn’t be going through fully securing the ship and the extraction of the hostages. These skills would again be practiced separately, each man’s performance analyzed so that mistakes could be corrected and ironed out. And then it would all come together in a full mock-up of the operation – or as near as they could manage without detailed information such as the exact location of the vessel and the numbers and armaments of enemy personnel.
Once the vessel was located, thorough recon would have to be performed so that such questions could be answered, and then they would have to go through all their exercises again before committing to the real thing.
WHATEVER THE COST: A Mark Cole Thriller Page 11