Lethal Risk

by Don Pendleton

  He could now hear voices below and tried to break the ladder off so the police couldn’t follow him. But although the dusty wood groaned under his blows, it refused to give. About to try once more, Bolan extended his leg to kick at the slats when the beam of a flashlight illuminated him and a powerful voice shouted at him to freeze.

  Instead, Bolan pulled his leg out and shoved himself away from the trapdoor as a hail of bullets shot up and hit the roof over his head. Drawing the .45, Bolan stuck it over the lip of the trapdoor and returned fire, angling the muzzle away so he wouldn’t hit any policemen below. As expected, the M-1911’s thunderous roar made the approaching cops retreat.

  Bolan aimed the pistol at the ladder and blasted it to pieces with the remaining rounds. He shoved the now free-floating section away from the wall hard enough to crack it off and let it drop through the shaft. Keeping the pistol, he closed the trapdoor and stomped on it to wedge it shut, then turned on the light in his smartphone to look around for a way out.

  At first glance there didn’t seem to be one—no doors, no hatches allowing roof access, nothing. Bolan slowed his search and looked around again, his gaze falling on a small ventilation grate on the far wall. It looked like another tight squeeze, but there was no other choice. Slinging the bags over his shoulders again, Bolan headed for the grate, stepping carefully on the trusses to make sure he didn’t put a foot through the cheap ceiling tiles.

  Reaching the grate, he found it screwed into the wooden wall, with a screen for bugs and thin metal slats to keep out the rain. With no time for subtlety, Bolan tore out the screen, grabbed the .45, reversed it in his hand and hammered on the slats until they bent outward enough for him to shove them free. With all of them gone, he figured he might be able to squeeze through the narrow opening. There just remained the question of what to do with the bags.

  He poked his head out and looked around. As he had hoped, the roof was about six feet overhead. It was shallowly pitched, with red-clay tiles that he hoped were securely fastened to the building.

  Moving the bags to right below the hole, Bolan shoved his upper body through, then grabbed both shoulder straps and looped them around his bent forearm. Holding on to the edges of the grate, he eased his legs out until he was supporting himself by his fingertips and right leg, which was bent over the lower sill. Thus braced, he pulled the bags to the hole and transferred one, then the other to the other side of his body, cross-slinging them so they would be secure.

  With that done, he pulled his leg up and planted it on the sill, then reached up to grab the underside of the roof, which was covered in the detritus of decades of bird’s nests. He knocked the encrusted material away, careful to avoid getting any of it in his eyes, nose or mouth. Then he looked at the lip of the roof and calculated the jump he’d have to make, off-balance and weighed down by about fifty pounds of weaponry.

  He tensed, then leaped up and out, fingers scrabbling for a hold on the smooth tiles…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kurtzman had just returned to his station after updating Brognola and Price on the mission status when he noticed what looked like a panicked commotion at the doors of the nightclub Bolan had entered a few minutes earlier to purchase the rest of his equipment for the mission. Well-dressed men and scantily clad women were shouting and screaming as they rushed out the door and ran in all directions.

  Still watching while downing a healthy swallow of coffee, he almost choked on it when he saw the first police car screech to a halt outside, and two officers get out and run into the building with pistols drawn.

  “That can’t be good.” Setting his cup down, Kurtzman typed furiously, accessing highly classified eavesdropping programs used by the NSA to listen in to law-enforcement networks around the world.

  While Kurtzman had complained earlier about the profusion of video cameras in the world, particularly America, he also recognized the need to keep tabs on others, including, sometimes, allies around the world in the fight against crime. The key, he had realized early on, was to use the collected data dispassionately, objectively, in the pursuit of justice, nothing more.

  For him, there was never a personal agenda to the collection, no ax to grind against another government or nation—it was all done in the pursuit of a higher goal: making the scum of the earth accountable for their crimes. Finding other singularly minded people like that was a difficult task in today’s world, but Stony Man had done it.

  In Kurtzman’s opinion, it was one of the main reasons they functioned so well in the shadowy world of covert ops and counterterrorism—everyone at the Farm knew their job and what they had to do. There were no turf wars, no political grandstanding or backbiting, just a near obsessive focus on getting the job done, period.

  This particular case was an excellent example. Kurtzman’s fact-finding would help them learn if Striker’s cover had been blown, or if, however oddly, something else was going on inside that particular building. Once the data had outlived its usefulness, a transcript would be stored with the case file, and the master would most likely be deleted. If he did find something illegal or simply wrong, there would be no holding it over someone’s head to extract a favor at a future time. He started the recording and began running the radioed dialogue through a burst translator to try to get a handle on what was going down.

  The word was that an armed group of men had burst into the nightclub several minutes earlier, but the attack had been mysteriously foiled, with several of the suspects incapacitated or dead.

  A wry grin creased Kurtzman’s lips as he listened to the puzzled cops investigate the scene. Then he heard excited shouts and pounding footsteps, followed by a deafening flurry of gunshots and what might have been breaking or falling wood of some kind—it was hard to tell through all the yelling. Apparently they were chasing one suspect up into the top level of the building, but he was shooting back at them.

  Throughout it all, Kurtzman kept listening for a familiar voice—Striker’s, but never heard him. He wasn’t worried. Bolan had near complete surprise on his side, and was an expert at creating his own escape routes, often when there didn’t seem to be any in the first place.

  Kurtzman listened a bit longer, just to make sure that Bolan was safely away. He heard the death count—three, but none were mentioned as being Caucasian, so he was pretty sure Bolan had escaped. He recorded a few more minutes of the officers’ conversations, just enough to get the gist of what had gone down.

  Sipping his coffee, he debated waiting to get the all-clear sign from Striker first, or possibly stirring up the hornet’s nest by calling in Price and Brognola now.

  As he pondered, his computer beeped with an incoming message.

  Met cousins from wrong side of tracks.

  Received presents, but others crashed the party.

  Three won’t crash anything again.

  Was very popular. Had to leave without saying goodbye.

  Grinning again, Kurtzman confirmed receipt and then forwarded the message to Price and Brognola.

  *

  “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Brognola said, the stub of an unlit cigar poking out of his mouth. “At the same time Striker’s meeting with one tong to finalize his weapons purchase, another tong decides to raid the place?”

  Kurtzman nodded. “Excellent summary, Hal. But to be fair, the second gang did come in about ten minutes after Striker arrived.”

  “Jeez!” The big Fed ran a hand through his graying hair. “What the hell is going on here? Is this mission jinxed? Is there any chance that we’ve been hacked?”

  “I think tongs have better things to do with their time than try to assassinate a high-level American operative, even if he did sneak into their home turf,” Price said. “And I can’t think of any reason one of the ministries would go to such extravagant lengths to false-flag a mission to this degree. If it had been a sting, they would have had him dead to rights on entering the country illegally and buying illegal arms—more than enough to throw him in a deep hole and
throw away the key.”

  She folded her arms as she watched the translated radio communications between the officers at the club. “As far-fetched as it sounds, I think Striker was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The important thing is that he accomplished what he was there to do, and it looks like he got away clean.”

  Brognola watched through a street camera as the police cordoned off the block and began setting up their investigation. “That analysis does not make me feel any better. You know the old saying in covert ops—there are no coincidences. If Striker crosses paths with the wrong person, even inadvertently, it could jeopardize the entire mission.”

  “True,” Kurtzman said. “However, unless you have anything you’d like us to do about this, we’ll move on to Qincheng Prison and Liao’s family.”

  “Keep us apprised of what happens at the nightclub while advancing both of those,” Price replied. “Maybe we’re getting all of the snags out early, so the rest of the op will go smoothly.”

  Brognola regarded her with a pained expression. “Want to bet?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ministry of State Security Agent Deshi Fang sat calmly in the back of his staff car as it inched through the crowded city streets, heading toward a nightclub that was the front for the White Lotus, a tong that ran drugs, girls and whatever else they could sell into and out of Beijing.

  He was on his way to investigate what had been reported as an armed robbery and shooting that had occurred there earlier that night. Unconfirmed sightings of a foreigner being involved had been in the report that had crossed his desk, and something about the whole incident aroused his suspicions enough to warrant taking a look at the scene himself.

  After sitting in the bumper-to-bumper snarl for a few minutes, Fang checked the remaining distance to their destination. When he realized they were less than two miles away, he decided to get out and walk. After telling his driver to meet him there, he left the car and joined the throngs of late-night revelers on the sidewalks.

  A several-centimeters-taller-than-the-average Chinese man, Fang had no problem reaching his destination on foot. His calm sense of self-assurance and military bearing—gained from his years in the People’s Army, where he had achieved the rank of major—dispelled the people in front of him without difficulty, many of them stepping aside without even realizing why. With a path clearing for him as if by magic, he reached the door to the nightclub, which was guarded by a trio of Beijing police, in less than ten minutes.

  Showing his identification, he was allowed inside and was soon talking to the officer in charge. Most city cops were either obsequious to ministry personnel or barely civil, often thinking the MSS stuck its noses into cases it didn’t need to, thus complicating the street officers’ lives. For his part, Fang always tried to work with whomever he had to, without jealousy or rancor—life was too short for such pettiness.

  This man, Sergeant Jiang Wei, with the Criminal Investigative Police, was neither. The weary-looking man, with heavily lidded eyes and pouches underneath them that reminded the major of a bulldog, was dressed in a wrinkled, light gray button-down shirt, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, and black slacks. Accepting the presence of the state security officer with a stoic blink, he offered him a cigarette, which Fang declined. Wei then tucked the battered pack in his pocket before launching into what his investigation had discovered so far.

  “We had unconfirmed reports that guns were being run out of here for a few months now, contributing to the rise in violent crime and civilian casualties in the neighborhood.”

  Fang nodded; he’d seen the tragic incident reports, including one about a five-year-old girl killed on the street when a gunfight between two local gangs had broken out on her block. It had been splashed all over the city tabloids and had sparked a denunciation by the mayor’s office, which had then immediately relegated cleaning up the mess to the already overworked city police department.

  “However, we were never able to get a man on the inside. Since this was designated a top priority, we had been running surveillance for the past month, hoping to catch a lead—someone we could arrest and lean on. You know the story.”

  Fang murmured his agreement, content to let the older sergeant keep talking. He surveyed the room while listening, taking in the overturned chairs and tables, and the large blood pool and what looked like drying brains and skull fragments on the bar. He also spotted two young women wrapped in blankets—one trembling, one defiant as they were being interrogated by a female police officer.

  “Tonight we were on eyeball detail when this tall Caucasian walks in—not completely out of the normal, the place gets a fair number of out-of-country tourists, but he was large enough that my men noticed him. Our man on the floor said he headed upstairs right away, as if he had an appointment with someone, so we thought we’d see what he came back out with and pick him up if we could. Except before he left—” Wei gestured to the chaos around them “—the Chaos Demons paid the White Lotus a visit.”

  Fang nodded again; he was familiar with both gangs. The White Lotus was more established and the Chaos Demons were the upstarts, making waves and taking territory any way they could. Fast, well armed and ruthless, they had been described in interagency briefings as “China’s MS-13,” referring to the powerful and fast-spreading Central American gang. He knew of several ongoing MSS operations against them, but none had been in this area. Making a note to follow up on that, he motioned at the sergeant to continue.

  Wei paused as a badly wounded man strapped onto a stretcher was carried down the stairs by two paramedics. The middle of the blanket covering him was dark with blood.

  “As far as we can tell, the Caucasian wasn’t directly involved in this gang altercation. According to our preliminary findings, however, he killed several of the assailants.”

  “Killed several men armed with pistols?” Fang asked. “How did he do that?”

  The sergeant nodded at the defiant-looking woman. “She claims he came in for a private show. Then, when the shooting started, he fought the attackers, smashing one in the head with a bottle, taking his pistol and shooting the others.”

  “Hold on—you’re telling me some tourist off the street out for a lap dance suddenly decides to take on a bunch of armed gang members who burst into the club?” Fang asked with raised eyebrows.

  “I’m as skeptical as you are, Major, but so far, that’s what the evidence and eyewitness accounts are telling us.”

  “Right, the witnesses… Why leave them alive?” Fang mused. “For all he knew, she could have been in on the double-cross.”

  Wei shrugged. “She said he even told her to stay down and she would stay alive. She decided to follow his advice.”

  “Wait a minute. If she was on the ground, then how did she see him kill the other men?”

  “All she claims is that he clobbered a guy with a bottle right in front of her, and when the smoke cleared, they were dead and he wasn’t.”

  “Okay…” This entire incident was getting more and more curious. “What about the man who got smashed with the bottle? Is he alive?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “Caved in his temple. The guy was probably dead before he hit the floor.”

  “Pretty violent reaction for having his private show interrupted,” Fang said while watching the trembling woman. He nodded at her. “What’s her story?”

  “She’s another dancer. She was working the bar floor when one of the Demons grabbed her as a hostage,” Wei replied. “Four of the Lotus surrounded him, so he wasn’t going anywhere, but he had a gun to her head and told them to let him go or she was dead. Next thing she knew, a shot was fired and the guy was killed standing right next to her. She didn’t get a scratch. From the angle of the entry wound—” Wei pointed to the top of the staircase, about twenty meters away “—we figure it came from up there.”

  “Okay. What happened to our mystery customer?”

  The sergeant ran a hand through his thinning black
hair. “He escaped.”

  Fang’s eyebrows rose again. “How did that happen?”

  “The first officers on the scene came in right when the hostage situation was being…resolved. After securing the area, they headed upstairs and found three wounded men, two dead men and the woman dancer. A door at the end of the hallway was open and investigating it revealed a ladder that led up to an attic area under the roof and down below street level. The officers split up to investigate each potential escape route. The ones heading down say they lost any escapees in the maintenance tunnels under the street. The ones heading up, however, spotted someone ahead of them at the top of the shaft. They say their orders to stop moving were met with gunfire, which they returned. The ladder was damaged in the firefight and partially destroyed. By the time our men surrounded the building and gained access to the roof from the outside, there was no sign of the unknown subject.”

  The two men looked up as another wounded, groaning man was hoisted down the stairs on a stretcher. “I want updates on both of those men as soon as they’re out of surgery. They are to be kept under guard until I say otherwise.”

  Wei nodded.

  “I also want copies of all of the witness statements. The dancer, did she get a good look at the Caucasian?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “She said he was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, so most of his face was covered. Our digital composite artist will be working with her down at the station.”

  Fang nodded. “Make that a top priority, and make sure the sketch is circulated throughout the city.”

  “What is the charge, sir?”

  “The man is wanted for questioning right now, so just a be-on-the-lookout notice will suffice. Let’s not try to spook him. Although it doesn’t sound like he would gun down innocent civilians, I don’t want to offer him the opportunity because some beat cop gets overzealous.”