Lethal Risk

by Don Pendleton

  Even so, the moment the nurse had left, he’d gone to the bathroom and washed his injury clean, wiping it down with damp toilet paper that he immediately flushed. Inspecting the cut, he couldn’t see any sign of immediate infection, but figured it was too early to tell. Cleaning it off also gave him the idea to try covering it in damp paper next time, as the warm, wet environment would hopefully speed the transmission of the bacteria and make him sicker quicker.

  That thought brought a smile to his lips, which instantly died as the door opened and two guards entered, followed by Dr. Xu.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Liao. How are you feeling today?”

  “All right, for a man who is going to die soon,” he replied. Liao had decided early on to not fence words with the doctor or anyone here. He was going to be brutally honest with everyone. “But I imagine that doesn’t concern you very much, does it?”

  “Quite frankly, no, it doesn’t,” the doctor replied while reviewing Liao’s chart. “No one ever arrives here accidentally. I know enough about you to know that the government has deemed you an enemy of the state, and therefore they have delivered you to me, so that I may recover what parts of you I can and give them to people in the hopes of prolonging their life.”

  “That’s how you choose to rationalize your part in my death?” Liao asked.

  “That’s one way. I also take pride in knowing that I am helping to keep our glorious state strong by removing dissidents such as you who would seek to destroy it. So, while your ultimate goal may have failed, you should take comfort in knowing that your death will enable others to live.” He said all of that as dispassionately as he might have ordered dinner at a restaurant.

  Not if I have my way, I won’t, Liao thought savagely. He kept his expression impassive, however, and stared at the doctor as he pored over the chart.

  “Are you feeling feverish at all, or thinking slowly, perhaps?” Xu asked.

  “No, my thought processes are very clear. Why?”

  “The night nurse noticed a slight temperature variance over the past twenty-four hours, and you’ve been spending more time in bed than noted previously.”

  Liao waved at the empty room. “Where else would you have me be? Other than the toilet, that is?”

  Xu’s answering smile was thin. “We like our patients to be as healthy as possible, of course—”

  “Of course—unhealthy organs wouldn’t be nearly as useful to you, would they?” Liao asked.

  “No, they wouldn’t,” the doctor replied. “Get out of bed.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  The doctor’s expression didn’t change. “Then the guards will remove you from the bed by force if necessary. Any further insubordination will result in you being secured to the bed until your scheduled operation. Now, am I going to have to ask again or do you require assistance?”

  “No, I can do it.” Slowly, Liao got out of the bed, keeping his legs as close together as he dared without being obvious about it. Trying not to tremble in his nervousness, he stood impassively as the doctor checked his lymph nodes, then his limbs, then under his arms. He couldn’t still the trembling in his limbs, particularly when he thought the doctor might be going to palpate his genitals.

  “You’re shaking, Mr. Liao,” he noted as he placed his stethoscope on the man’s chest. “Breathe in, please.”

  “That’s because it’s cold in here and that—” Liao nodded at the instrument on his chest “—isn’t helping.”

  That actually brought a slight smile from the normally emotionless physician. “No, I suppose not. Turn around.” He repeated the same breathing request, then removed the stethoscope, hung it around his neck and folded his arms. “You can return to your bed, if you wish.”

  “What’s the prognosis?” Liao asked as he sat on the bed and pulled his legs up, careful to not expose anything through the backless hospital gown.

  “No sign of infection that I can find. We’ll get you another blanket, and keep observing you for the time being, to make sure this doesn’t develop into something. You just get plenty of rest, okay?”

  “Sure. There’s not much else I can do, is there?” Liao held the doctor’s gaze for a few more moments, until he turned on his heel and left the room, the guards falling in behind him. Only when another minute had passed did he let out the breath he was scarcely aware he’d been holding.

  It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to bolt from the bed straight back into the bathroom and dig out some more feces to reinfect himself. However, since Dr. Xu had kindly informed him that he would be under observation, he didn’t want to do anything to alert them of a change in his daily habits. Therefore, he would have to wait for at least a couple of hours before going again.

  Liao lay back on his pillow, eager to see if his improvised poultice idea would bear any ill fruit.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The false Liao had barely finished uttering his shout for reinforcements before Bolan hurled the heavy padlock into his face. His nose crunched with a spurt of blood as the pistol went off—the bullet coming nowhere near the Executioner—and the man clapped both hands to his bloody face and screamed.

  Drawing his own pistol, Bolan ran to the side of the cell door and waited as pounding footsteps approached. A man rushed in and the moment he did, Bolan chopped down on his neck with the butt of his pistol, sending him straight to the floor. Another man charged in right behind him, but couldn’t stop in time to turn and shoot the intruder. Instead he tripped over Bolan’s outstretched foot and fell on top of his partner. The big American drew his foot back and kicked the man at the base of his neck, stunning him.

  Knowing the cell was a death trap, he took the PPK from his pocket. Sticking both pistols out the door, he fired four shots to the left and right, hearing startled shouts as guards scrambled to avoid the flurries of bullets.

  In the confusion that followed, he ran for the sewer hole, still shooting in both directions. Some return fire sounded from one end, making him drop into a slide as he neared the sewer shaft. Once there, he scooted forward and stuck his feet into the hole, shooting in both directions. When the PPK locked back on empty, he tossed it aside, then slid into the hole, turning as he did so he could grab a rung with his free hand. He shoved himself down just as a spray of bullets split the air where his head had been a second earlier.

  Not bothering with trying to pull the grate back, Bolan extended to his full height and dropped the few feet into the small tunnel. He crouched there, half in the horizontal pipe, waiting with his pistol pointed up until a shadow blocked the light. The moment he saw it, he unloaded the rest of the magazine, the thundering echo of the shots pounding his ears unmercifully in the small space. A spatter of blood rained down on him as the man fell over the hole.

  Reloading his pistol, Bolan tucked it into the back of his pants, then scooted down and began crawling down the narrow pipe as fast as he could. He figured he had maybe eight to ten seconds before someone came along and sprayed the interior with bullets. He knew he had to make that dogleg before they arrived.

  Distant shouts echoed down the passage and boots clanged against the rungs. Spotting the bend in the pipe a few yards ahead, Bolan put on a burst of speed as he heard someone splash down in the pipe behind him. It was either stop and try to shoot the guy or make it to cover. Bolan opted for the latter, lunging full-out into the muck as an automatic weapon opened up.

  Bullets sparked and whined all around him. Lying full-length in the putrid stream, he pulled himself forward until he made it around the dogleg, then lay there for a few seconds. Sitting up in the pipe and gritting his teeth against the reports, he stuck his hand around the corner and fired six shots, trying to aim down the center of the pipe. He heard splashing and shouts from farther back, and hoped he’d bought enough time to get out.

  Turning back around, he crawled as fast as he could to the junction, hoping he wasn’t about to slide out of the sewage into the arms of another squad of guards. As he got c
loser, he tried to listen for any sounds of an ambush, but he was making too much noise and the ringing in his ears wasn’t helping, either.

  Leading with his pistol, the Executioner sluiced out into the large space to find it empty. Pulling himself out, he turned in time to see the flash of lights coming around the bend. He crouched and waited until one of his pursuers turned the corner before unloading the rest of his magazine. The light popped and died, and he heard no more movement.

  Reloading his pistol, he grabbed his bag and hit the larger pipe. Once inside, he turned off his own light to avoid being a target both from his pursuers or anyone waiting ahead. The stifling, suffocating darkness pressed in all around him, but he kept moving, knowing he had a long way to go, and even then he might make it out only to be captured at the end of the pipe. As he trudged along, bent over so that he didn’t hit his head, he tried to stay alert for any sounds of pursuit, but soon realized that his ears were still ringing from the shooting in the small pipe. He settled for keeping his eyes open and his pistol ready.

  Replaying the step count in his head, he slowed when he got to six hundred, knowing he was roughly one hundred steps from the exit. Although every instinct wanted to charge ahead, he knew if he did that, it would likely only earn him a long prison sentence in the best case or a bullet in the head in the worst.

  Panting and soaked in sewage, he approached the end of the sewer pipe carefully, his vision adjusting to make out the moonlit night through the blackness of the pipe itself. Twenty paces away, he stopped and tried to sense whether anyone was waiting outside, but didn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything and realized he’d have to chance it.

  He crept to the edge of the pipe and stopped, looking, trying to listen again. Quietly bending the bars apart, he slipped out, expecting to hear a shout to halt or to feel a hand on his arm.

  Nothing…he was utterly, completely, alone.

  But there were bright lights on at the prison, and Bolan knew they would be scrambling guards to come after him.

  He turned and ran up the hill.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Akira Tokaido watched the alert unfold at the prison. Getting eyes on the facility while Bolan entered had been more difficult than usual. Due to its isolated location, the security cameras inside were self-contained, with no outside access. The young hacker had been able to access the regular computers—that’s how they’d found Liao in the first place—but he hadn’t been able to find a way in to the surveillance system.

  Instead they’d grabbed time on a CIA satellite overflying the area, and had gotten the feed up just in time to see everything go south. Lights had gone on all over the compound, and guards were systematically locking down the perimeter and searching through every building. A heavily armed squad, complete with riot shields and automatic weapons, entered the building where the target had been located.

  “No word from Striker yet?” Brognola asked.

  “Not yet, Hal,” Tokaido answered.

  “And we have no eyes inside the building where the target was reportedly located, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “Would someone care to take a guess as to what happened in there?” the big Fed asked.

  “I’d say that they suckered us, Hal.” Kurtzman pivoted his wheelchair to face his boss. “They set a trap and we fell for it hook, line and sinker.”

  Brognola rubbed his hand over his face. “And exactly how did that happen?”

  “Everything looked legit,” Kurtzman continued, unruffled by the other man’s laser-like stare on him. “He was the right type of prisoner to end up at Qincheng, the time frame was right and we did everything we could to confirm it in the limited amount of time we had. Based on all available evidence, Zhang Liao was in that prison cell—right up until Striker arrived. I’d like to tell you we’re perfect, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be foxed, as well.”

  “No, you’re right, Aaron. You guys do enough magic and mind reading on these things as it is. But Striker has walked into a trap and might very well be dead now. We need to put a team on standby to be ready to get him back ASAP.”

  “Not until he’s missed his checkin deadline,” Kurtzman pointed out. “As per the mission protocol.”

  Price cleared her throat. “Bear’s right, Hal. Also, while I don’t like bringing this up, I need to remind you of the mission parameters that were handed to us by the President.”

  “I’m damn well aware of the parameters. I won’t leave Striker hanging, Barb.”

  “None of us would, Hal. However, Aaron’s still correct. We need to wait until Striker’s misses his next checkin,” she said, hating every word that came out of her mouth. “Once we know his status, then we can plan accordingly.”

  Brognola grunted his acknowledgment of that brutal fact. “With this part blown, what are the probable outcomes?”

  “Bluntly, that depends on whether he’s alive or dead,” Kurtzman answered. “If he’s alive, then it’s only a matter of time before we’re in a whole heap of trouble. Granted, there’s nothing that officially ties him to us, however, as you’ve no doubt realized, the Chinese aren’t that stupid. At some point, they’re going to figure out that he’s not from Russia or Eastern Europe. From there—and factoring in who his target was—it’s not a huge leap to figure out who sent him. If that happens, the cat is out for good and we’re left holding the bag.”

  “Technically, yes,” Price said. “However, keep in mind that the Chinese don’t want this to get out, either. It’s very possible that they’ll also sweep it under the rug, and Striker will have just disappeared in the line of duty. He knows the drill. The President will disavow all knowledge of any US assets operating in China.

  “That said, I think I’ll just wait here until we receive word from Striker.” Price pulled up a chair and sat.

  “I’ve never played the waiting game well,” Brognola said. “I’m going back to the farmhouse to do some paperwork. Call me if you hear anything.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Traffic ahead, sir.”

  The driver’s warning brought Deshi Fang out of his reverie and he looked out the windshield to see a truck from the prison drive by at a high rate of speed. It was followed by another one and he got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Damn it—get us to the prison as fast as you can.”

  His driver stomped on the gas, and soon the sedan was flying down the dirt road. The moment he saw the prison, Fang knew he had missed whatever had happened there. It was lit up like high noon, with every light and spotlight in the place turned on. Guards scurried to and fro like ants spilling out of a kicked anthill.

  The main gate was locked down tight, with a half dozen guards all carrying submachine guns at port arms. His driver stopped the car a few meters away and Fang got out slowly, aware that every guard was watching him as he approached.

  He pulled his identification from his coat pocket and held it out in front of him as he walked to the nearest guard. “Agent Deshi Fang, Ministry of State Security. I must see the warden immediately.”

  The guard scrutinized his card closely, then said, “Come with me, sir.”

  He led Fang to the guard booth next to the gate, where he called someone. Several moments later he opened the door that led into the prison. “You will find him in Yi Building, sir.”

  “Thank you.” The guard’s answer only deepened Fang’s concern. He broke into a run toward that particular building, which was also surrounded by a ring of armed guards. Repeating the ID flash at the main door, he was let inside after another careful examination of his credentials.

  Inside, there was activity everywhere, but the majority of it was centered around a sewer drain in the middle of the hall. Fang saw the warden, a man named Da Wen, directing guards who were hauling up something from beneath the ground. Over by the far wall, three guards were being attended to by a physician.

  “Warden, what happened?” he asked as he joined the short, broad-shouldered man with buzz-cut, i
ron-gray hair and a pugnacious squint. He was smoking furiously as he oversaw what was going on.

  “What happened?” He pointed to a limp, blood-and-sewage covered body that was just now coming out of the hole. “The trap we set worked—except the bastard fought his way out, that’s what happened! I’ve got two dead and three injured guards, and he got away.” He shook his head. “More than likely I’ll end up in here myself, after a mistake of this magnitude.”

  Fang’s ministry had joined forces with the Ministry of Public Security to set up a sting operation, in the event that the Americans tried to recover Liao. They had leaked the information about him being at Qincheng Prison in the hope of attracting some sort of extraction team. By the looks of it, they had attracted a lot more than they had bargained for.

  “But it can’t be all bad,” Fang said. “Your people did flush out the team, right?”

  “Team? Team!” Wen stared at him in mingled shock and anger. “This was all done by one man! He fought my guards to a standstill and got out the same way he got in—through the sewers. We had supposed that might be an entry point, but it ranked so low on our list we didn’t reinforce it, figuring any sign of activity there might spook them, and anyway, we’d be able to capture them in here, right?”

  Fang nodded, realizing that part would be the problem that would end the warden’s career. “Look, you executed this operation by order of the Ministry of State Security. I’ll do what I can for you in my report.”

  Wen took a drag off his cigarette, then lit a new one from it and tossed the butt away. “Sure, Fang, sure. You write it up any way you like…it won’t make any difference.” He shook his head. “A year before retirement, and it’s all over.”