Lethal Risk

by Don Pendleton

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “Jesus H., tell me you got something!”

  Brognola was nearly beside himself, sleeves rolled up, his latest cigar mangled into a wet, brown stub dangling from his lips.

  Everybody around Tokaido had held their breath when he’d seen the antitank missile being set up. The big Fed had overridden all protocols and not only had him patched through, but turned the phone on so that Bolan would get the message. “If we fail, he’s dead, and it won’t matter anyway,” he’d said at the time.

  Tokaido said he thought he’d seen two people leave the truck before the massive explosion, but he wasn’t sure. The truck had been obliterated, the antiarmor warhead blowing it into a twisted, charred sculpture of burning metal and rubber.

  “I’m still trying to raise him,” the young hacker said. “If he’s stunned, there won’t be much we can do over his phone.”

  As he said that, the view of the destroyed truck fuzzed with static, then vanished in a sea of black-and-white snow. “Satellite’s out of range.”

  “When’s the next one due?” Price asked.

  “Not for thirty-four minutes,” Kurtzman answered.

  Tokaido established the call link again.

  “Could there be some sort of interference messing with the signal?”

  “Maybe, but doubtful.” Kurtzman grunted. “Bouncing a signal directly off a satellite is pretty damn good for accuracy. If he isn’t answering…there’s probably only one of two reasons.”

  “Well, it could be that the phone was damaged in the blast, too,” Tokaido pointed out.

  “Okay, three reasons,” Kurtzman said.

  “I sure hope it’s one of the first two,” Brognola added quietly.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Mack Bolan clawed his way back to consciousness, which consisted of a roaring headache and a ringing in his ears that felt as though someone was rapping a hammer directly against his skull.

  Where…explosion…warning…

  He felt a wave of heat coming from something nearby and heard a faint crackling under the bell tone reverberating through his head. Swallowing through a parched throat, he opened his eyes. The world swirled crazily around him for a moment and he squeezed them shut for a moment.

  Liao! Have to get up. Keep moving…

  Forcing his eyes open again, Bolan blinked until the landscape around him calmed down. He took a deep breath, than another, then felt around him until his fingers closed on the comforting stock of the machine gun he’d liberated from the truck as he’d escaped.

  Pulling it close, he checked it out, finding it in perfect working order. With the weapon charged and ready, he sat up, pointing it at any potential enemies. His head spun and he gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes open until the sensation passed. The ringing in his ears was fading, although he was sure it would stay with him for some time.

  Feeling something flex and crack in his hip pocket, he pulled out his last smartphone to find the screen shattered. It was useless to him now, but he shoved it back in his pocket, still aware he couldn’t leave any evidence of his presence behind.

  There was no one around them—yet. Bolan was sure the guards would arrive any minute now, if only to confirm their kill.

  “Liao?”

  A low groan was the only answer he heard. Looking around, he saw a sprawled form a few yards away. Keeping an eye on the road, Bolan got to his feet and walked over to the other man.

  The defector had definitely looked better. Unaware of the shock wave accompanying an explosion, he had apparently still been upright when the truck had blown up and the force had knocked him off his feet. He moaned softly and then shuddered, and Bolan saw why.

  A jagged shard of shrapnel was embedded in his right thigh. It wasn’t bleeding much, which Bolan took as a good sign. If the metal had sliced through the femoral artery, he would have been dead already.

  “I can’t take it out now,” Bolan muttered. He knelt by the other man, rolled him over onto his back and patted his cheek. “Liao? Liao! Wake up!”

  “It is Monday already? Just five more minutes…” Liao’s eyes fluttered open. “Where am I…and why does my leg hurt so much?”

  “You’re hurt, so just lie still,” Bolan began, but Liao lifted his head and gasped when he saw the metal dart sticking out of his leg.

  “What is that?”

  “Shrapnel from the exploding truck. Listen to me,” Bolan said. “We’re getting a new ride, but I’m going to need your help, all right?”

  “What can I do like this?”

  Bolan pulled a pistol from his belt. “Act as bait.”

  *

  TWO MINUTES AND twenty-eight seconds later Bolan watched down the barrel of the machine gun as the 6x6 lumbered off the side of the road about two hundred yards away. Once again he wished he had a sniper rifle, but this weapon would have to do.

  Four men spilled from the vehicle and approached the now smoldering wreckage of the truck. On seeing Liao’s crumpled form, a shout went up and two of the men advanced to investigate him, while two others stayed back.

  Bolan took a rough sighting on the pair in back, then on the approaching two, knowing he was going to have to make some of the best shots of his life in the next few seconds.

  I hope Liao remembers to stay down, he thought as he dropped the sights on the nearest of his targets.

  One of the lead pair stretched out a boot and nudged Liao’s motionless body. Making sure the second man was covering him, he slung his rifle and bent to turn him over. This was the part where everything depended on Liao.

  “Don’t shoot the man right next to you. I’ll take care of him,” Bolan had told him. “You have to kill the guy who’s going to be covering you, understand? If you don’t, we’re both dead. So get your sights on him and don’t stop firing until you’re empty, got it?”

  It was an incredibly risky plan, and Bolan hated putting the man in this position, but they needed an element of surprise for their trap to work. Liao had nodded at the time, but now was when they were going to find out whether he could really do it. His first shot was the signal for the slaughter to begin. The moment his body rolled over, he raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger at the man standing less than five yards away.

  Anticipating that first shot, Bolan squeezed the machine gun’s trigger. The QBB-95 roared and several rounds tore into the body of the man checking on Liao. Before he fell—conveniently on top of Liao—Bolan quickly adjusted his aim and sprayed the rear guard pair with a short burst. At that range, there were more than enough bullets flying to knock both men down.

  Now came the tricky part. Sighting in on the driver’s side of the truck cab, Bolan sent a burst into it, shattering the side window and stopping the engine from turning over.

  Two men jumped from the back and sprayed fire wildly into the darkness as they ran for the front cab. Bolan cut them both down with short bursts, then realized that he might have the same problem on the other side. Rising, he limped to the truck’s far side in time to see a man climb into the passenger seat. Throwing the heavy gun to his shoulder, Bolan put a burst through the front windshield, smashing the heavy glass and spraying blood across the interior.

  Finally, everything was silent. Even so, he headed to Liao first and made sure he was okay. The man was still lying under the motionless body of the guard who’d been checking on him. The front of his stolen uniform was soaked in blood. Bolan shoved the body off and eased the empty pistol out of his hand.

  “Did I get him?” the former politician asked.

  Bolan glanced back at the very dead body of the second guard, his chest covered with blood from several bullet holes. “Yeah, you did good. Stay here. I just need to clear the truck and then we’re getting out of here.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere fast,” Liao replied.

  Grabbing an assault rifle from the dead man, the Executioner headed for the truck and cleared the cab first, pulling out the two bodies and toss
ing them to the ground. Once that was done, he walked to the back, clearing each area underneath around the tires in case someone was hiding beneath the truck, then whipped around the corner to check the cargo area.

  It was empty, save for a still smoking HJ-8 antitank launcher tube lying on the cargo bed next to a box of missiles. Bolan checked the four-pack of warheads and found one missing.

  “Time to go,” he muttered as he carefully jumped down and limped back to Liao.

  “Okay, new transportation has been secured,” he said as he hauled the other man up and slung his arm around his shoulder. “We’ve got a long way to go, so let’s get moving.”

  “Fine by me,” Liao replied, exhausted by the flight and his injury.

  “Just a few more hours and we’ll be safe,” Bolan stated.

  “Should we remove the metal in my leg?”

  Bolan looked at it. “It’s not bleeding now, and if we take it out, it might start to. It’s best to leave it right now. Besides, it’ll leave a hell of a scar for you to impress your kids with.”

  “Yes, but my wife will probably kill me for getting hurt in the first place…” Still, Liao smiled as the two weary, battered men trudged over to the large truck and Bolan helped him climb aboard. The Chinese man only cried out once as he got himself settled. Bolan worked his way up and into the driver’s seat, then started the truck, which roared to life, and put it in gear.

  “Now let’s get the hell out of China.”

  *

  FOUR MINUTES AFTER leaving the prison camp the Harbin helicopter came upon the wreckage of the small truck and several bodies lying on the ground.

  Fang’s fingers tightened on his assault rifle as they landed nearby, and this time he was the first to jump out, running straight to the smoking debris. The truck had been utterly destroyed, but he saw no evidence of any bodies inside.

  Turning, he saw General Zhao and the rest of the squad policing the area, paying special attention to the various bodies scattered around. The MSS agent rejoined Zhao as his sergeant reported what they’d found.

  “All were killed with small arms fire. From the burst patterns, it was most likely the machine gun taken from the other truck, except this one—” he pointed at one body with a chest full of red “—who was killed by pistol fire at relatively close range.”

  “So, where’d they go?” Fang asked. “They couldn’t have just disappeared out here.”

  “No, judging from the tire marks, they killed the prison guards and stole their truck,” the sergeant replied. “We can’t be more than two to three minutes behind them.”

  “Then let’s go!” Fang ran back to the helicopter, the bitter tang of defeat turning to the sweet taste of victory.

  Oh, yes, I will have you both, he thought as the rest of the men climbed aboard and the helicopter took off. And then you both shall pay.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The military truck was never built for speed. Bolan was finding that out the hard way as he wrestled the 6x6 vehicle down the rough dirt road at a bone-rattling 53 miles per hour. Every bump caused a jolt of pain to shoot up his injured leg, and he could only imagine how Liao, who had soon turned white-faced as they’d torn down the road, had to have felt.

  Still, every mile they put between them and the prison was one more closer to Mongolia and escape. Despite the close calls and near-death experiences they’d both had in the past hour, Bolan was starting to feel good about the possibility of making it to the border and through the arid wastelands of southern Mongolia to the airport.

  Those hopes were dashed by two gouts of flame that bracketed the road ahead of the truck, sending up huge fireballs and shooting dirt several dozen yards into the air.

  Bolan slammed on the brakes, sending Liao crashing into the dashboard of the truck with a scream of pain. Both men stared as a military helicopter, its missile launch tubes still smoking, dropped into the road in front of them.

  “Zhang Liao and unidentified American, you are hereby ordered to turn off the engine of your vehicle and come out with your hands up!”

  Bolan looked over at Liao, who stared back at him with bright eyes out of a dirt-and-smoke-smudged face. “Feel like surrendering?”

  Liao grabbed a loaded and charged assault rifle from the floor beside him. “Hell, no!”

  The Executioner slammed the vehicle into gear and hit the gas. They shot straight at the helicopter, with Liao spraying the front canopy with bullets. It barely managed to rise into the air before the cab of the truck would have hit it, and Bolan and Liao raced underneath, gaining speed as they roared down the road again.

  In the rearview mirror Bolan saw the helicopter turning in midair to give chase. “Can you drive?” he shouted over the wind rushing into the cab.

  “Yes, but where are you going?” Liao asked, taking the wheel as Bolan headed into the cargo area.

  “I have one last present for them,” he replied. “Try to give me at least two minutes, then stop when you don’t have any other choice.”

  “All right!” Zhang wrestled the truck into a higher gear and mashed the gas pedal to the floor, making the truck leap ahead as bullets chewed into the road on either side of it. “But whatever you’re going to do, do it fast, okay?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “Careful, damn it!” Fang said as he watched the stream of bullets from the Harbin’s two 23 mm cannons kick up dirt on either side of fleeing vehicle. “The truck is to be disabled, not shot to pieces!”

  “Yes, sir!” the pilot replied tightly. After they had almost killed the helicopter pilot and nearly rammed the aircraft, the general’s man had tried shooting the truck’s tires out, but that was proving nearly impossible.

  “Deshi, the pilot cannot perform miracles,” General Zhao said. “He’s doing the best he can.”

  “And if either of those two men are killed by his actions, he will have to answer to the ministry as to why,” Fang said, glaring at his friend.

  “I am sure it won’t come to that,” the general replied, then hit his headset. “Fire for effect again, but directly in front of them this time.” He turned to Fang. “Sometimes, more direct measures are called for.”

  Within seconds the missiles were armed and ready, and at the general’s signal, the pilot launched them directly into the road not more than fifty meters ahead of the truck. This second pair of explosions almost knocked the vehicle off the road and it slewed wildly to the left before skidding to a stop.

  “Drop us right in front of them, and do not move, even if he drives straight at us!” Fang shouted.

  On the general’s nod, the pilot made the helicopter descend until they were less than ten meters off the ground, about thirty meters away from the truck. A huge cloud of dust rose in the downdraft from the rotors and Fang squinted to make out the truck as he requested the loudspeakers be activated again.

  “Zhang Liao and unidentified American, you are…” He paused as a blurry form appeared on the top of the truck, holding a long tube. Even at that distance, Fang swore he saw the man’s cold blue eyes bore into his as he adjusted the thing he was carrying. “What’s—”

  The general recognized what the American was holding sooner. “Antitank missile! Climb! Climb!”

  Those were the last words Fang ever heard. The long tube spewed forth something that raced straight at his face and then the world erupted in a millisecond-long burst of fire before going completely and utterly black.

  EPILOGUE

  Jack Grimaldi paced back and forth on the tarmac outside the Gulfstream jet in the early morning light, worry knitting his features into a mask of concern.

  It had been several hours since anyone had had contact with Bolan and repeated attempts to raise him had all gone unanswered. With the Liao family here, neither Grimaldi nor Charlie Mott could mount any sort of exploratory trip to see if they could find the two men—not that they had any inkling about where to look in the first place.

  The Stony Man pilot was determined to stick i
t out here as long as he could, but Price’s inquiries about the status of the Gulfstream airplane were getting more difficult to put off.

  Gonna be hell to pay when I get back, he thought. Even so, it was worth it—especially if he brought Sarge back with him. When he brought him back with him.

  “Hey, Jack.”

  He looked up to see Mott standing in the jet’s doorway, pointing down the tarmac. “Someone’s coming this way.”

  Grimaldi squinted in the dim light from the rising sun, his furrowed brow relaxing as the figure of two men became visible in the distance. “Get the preflight done and the engines warmed up, Charlie,” he called over his shoulder as he broke into a run. “We’re getting the hell out of here the second those two are aboard.”

  He ran toward the pair, who were limping slowly toward him. He slowed as he got closer, then finally stopped as they approached.

  Both men looked as if they had both gone through hell. Covered in dust, two pairs of steely, determined eyes—one brown, one blue—stared back at him from faces covered in blood, dirt and smoke. Their clothes were the same: torn, stinking and covered in a dark mess of blood and dirt.

  “Jesus, Sarge, what happened to you?” he asked as he helped take the Chinese man’s weight.

  “There was a bit of disagreement about our leaving the country,” Bolan said through dry, cracked lips. “In the end, we had to make a forceful diplomatic point.”

  “Well, I assume they listened,” Grimaldi said as they headed toward the Gulfstream, its jet engines already turning over.

  “Didn’t…have…much choice,” the Chinese man said, sharing a weary yet triumphant smile with Bolan.

  “All right, then, let’s get both of you aboard and get into the air,” Grimaldi said. “We’ll get you both cleaned up and your wounds looked at, and get some food into you both, as well. And, Mr. Liao, there are some people aboard who are very anxious to see you.”

  *

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER BOLAN, showered, shaved and wearing a clean flight suit from the jet’s stores, looked in on the reunited Liao family with Grimaldi.