by Alex Ryan
After a long pause, the driver’s-side door opened and Foley stepped out. He walked around to the front of the SUV and met his passenger, a woman who Lankford immediately recognized as Dazhong Chen. She said something to Foley and then gestured to a door at the back of the restaurant. Foley looked around and then nodded. Together, he and the doctor approached the door. They paused and listened before disappearing inside.
It was time.
Lankford sped across the parking lot and jerked the car to a stop four spaces south of the SUV. He scanned the area and, seeing no threats, exited his sedan and hustled across the parking lot. Like Foley, Lankford paused to listen outside the door. He could hear the hushed sound of Foley and the doctor, but he could not make out what they were saying.
He took a deep breath and steeled himself.
In the next thirty seconds, either he would hear an explanation worthy of fireworks from the American former Navy SEAL, or he would shoot the bastard dead.
And maybe the doctor, too.
Drawing his pistol, Lankford reached for the door.
Chapter 36
Nick followed Dash into the storeroom, wondering if Dash had lost her mind. She had been under so much pressure, experienced so much emotional trauma, and had so little sleep the past two days, he would not be surprised if she had gone loopy on him. He’d seen it before with guys in the military after traumatic events. Sometimes the mind checks out from reality as a defense mechanism. Watching her rummage through a shelf full of canned goods and foodstuffs, he told himself to be patient and stay calm. The woman had proven her brilliance, so he owed it to her to let this play out. If the restaurant manager walked in on them, he would simply play dumb. He was good at that.
“He’s been here,” Dash said, sliding an oversized can of lard out of the way. “Or someone has.”
“How can you tell?”
Dash grabbed a padlock from the back of the shelf and held it up for him to see.
“Okaaay,” Nick said, staring at the lock.
“You still don’t believe me?” she said, firing him a look.
“I’m not sure what the lock has to do with—”
“Look here,” she snapped, cutting him off. She gestured for him to look past the shelves.
He obliged and ducked his head. Behind the shelves, he spied a door, almost perfectly concealed in the wall. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I was worried Qing might have entered another way,” she said, setting the lock down. “Because I have no idea what the combination is for this lock.”
Nick chuckled at the comment. As if after everything else they’d been through, a padlock would have been the insurmountable obstacle that ended their mission. “We would have gotten the lock off, Dash.”
She blushed and smiled back at him. “Help me move this shelf.”
Nick stepped back as she gripped the corner of the long shelf. He reached over to help her, but the entire shelf was already gliding easily away from the wall, rolling on a nice set of castors. He traced his finger along the nearly invisible seam in the wall and then reached for the handle.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
Just as he started to pull, the room got bright and he heard the back door open.
“Step away from the wall and turn around, Foley,” a voice—an American voice—boomed. “Keep your hands where I can see them or I’ll shoot you.”
There was terror in Dash’s face as they both turned to face their aggressor. Nick gave her a tight smile and then grabbed her hand in his and raised their hands together overhead.
“Just be cool, Lankford,” Nick said, facing the CIA agent. “This is not what you think.”
Lankford shifted a pace to the left so he could have a line on both of them and then pulled the door closed behind him. “And what do I think? That a rogue American SEAL has betrayed his country and is working with a high-ranking Chinese national on a weapon of mass destruction? Could that be it?” Lankford’s voice was controlled and professional, but there was a rage in Lankford’s eyes, a rage that meant he had found his agent—Jamie Lin—or what was left of her.
“I understand how this looks on paper, Lankford,” said Nick, staring into the barrel of the CIA man’s nine-millimeter pistol. “But you don’t have all the facts.”
“Oh really? Then why don’t you enlighten me with the facts, Foley?”
“We’re on the same team. We’re working toward the same end game, okay? Something horrible is about to happen, and I’m trying to stop it.”
Lankford took a half step toward them, but not nearly enough to allow the SEAL to be in arm’s reach of his weapon. “If we’re on the same team, Foley, then why hasn’t a single fucking task force in the entire intelligence community claimed you or acknowledged your operation in China?”
Foley grimaced. He had led Lankford to believe he was with a covert team on purpose, in the hope of shaking loose some information. Now that mistake was biting him in the ass.
“Look, I lied to you,” he said. “I admit that. I needed information and I let you believe I was with a covert team. The bottom line is I’m not working for anyone. I really am just an NGO volunteer who was working on a clean water project outside Kashi.” Lankford snorted, but Nick continued. “Something terrible happened in Kizilsu, and a lot of innocent people died. One of those people was a friend of mine on the project. I didn’t ask to get involved in this, Lankford. The suck found me. It’s the story of my fucking life, if you haven’t figured that out by now.”
“Even if I did believe your peacenik volunteer in the wrong place at the wrong time story—which I don’t for a second—but even if I did, it still doesn’t explain why are you standing here in the pantry of Grandma’s Kitchen with a high-ranking Chinese biological weapons expert.”
The clock was ticking, and Nick’s hackles were up. He had no interest in explaining. Instead, he simply said, “Dr. Chen is here because she is the only one who knows where the madman with the weapon of mass destruction is hiding.”
Lankford raised an eyebrow and lowered his gun slightly.
“So there is a bioweapon in play,” he said softly.
“Yes and no,” Dash said from beside Nick, letting go of his hand. “The weapon is not an infectious agent like a virus or bacteria but a vector-specific nanotechnology. Once the target is infected, the agent destroys the target’s tissues at an astounding rate. There is no countermeasure for this weapon, and it has a one hundred percent mortality rate.”
Nick saw that Dash’s explanation had a sobering effect on Lankford. She had his complete attention.
“Who is the target?” Lankford asked.
“Civilians,” she said. “It could be anyone, or everyone. Do you understand the risk now?”
Lankford looked at Nick.
“She’s right, Lankford. We have to stop this asshole before he gets out of Beijing. We had sixty-seven deaths in Kizilsu, and we think that was just a single canister released in a mosque. Can you imagine what would happen if he sold this technology to al-Qaeda, or ISIS, or Iran? The stakes are big. Not just for China, but for the rest of the world.”
Lankford pursed his lips, and he lowered his weapon a little. “I will have to verify this.”
“There is no time,” Dash said, her voice trembling with urgency. “We must stop him or I fear he will kill thousands.”
“Yeah, you said that already,” Lankford said, his face not hiding the internal battle he was fighting. “Assuming I believe you, you still haven’t explained what you’re doing here in this food closet.”
“This is a hidden entrance to the Underground City,” Dash said. “We believe we can find him there.”
“The Underground City?” Lankford said, confused.
“Look,” Nick said, growing impatient. “We don’t have time for this shit, Lankford. We need to go. Now.”
Nick watched Lankford’s face flash red with anger, but after a beat, the coolness of a professional operator
returned. The CIA agent was beginning to understand the stakes and was weighing his options. Nick hoped Lankford could find a way to put his personal feelings aside and focus on doing what was right.
“You better make time, Foley. Because you’re each one trigger pull away from going nowhere ever again. Now tell me, what happened to my agent? What happened to Jamie Lin?”
“Jamie Lin was murdered,” Dash said softly. Then she raised her eyes and defiantly held Lankford’s gaze. “But we had nothing to do with that. She was my friend. Even after I found out she had lied to me and was using me for the CIA, I still cared about her.”
“How was she murdered? Who was responsible, and how is it tied to this plot?” the agent asked.
“My former husband killed her with the biotech weapon,” Dash said evenly. “He must have somehow learned about her—perhaps even about her role in the CIA—and when he did, he targeted her. But because of her death, we were able to discover what this weapon was, and maybe even how to stop it.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying you’re the one who cut her up?” Lankford’s voice was tight.
“Yes,” Dash said. “We autopsied her, and that is how we discovered the weapon and eventually that my husband was involved.”
Lankford shook his head. “Your husband is the one behind all this?”
She nodded.
“I can’t let you go,” Lankford said, shaking his head. “This is all too crazy.”
Nick clenched his jaw and lowered his hands.
“You have a choice, Lankford. Either come with us and help us stop the next attack,” Nick said, turning his back on the CIA agent, “or shoot me in the back. Either way, you need to decide right now. Because we’re leaving.”
Nick grabbed the handle and opened the hidden door in the wall.
“I will answer all your questions on the way, Mr. Lankford,” Dash said.
“You win.” Lankford sighed and lowered his gun. “You’re lucky I have a gut feeling about you, Foley.”
Nick winced. “And?”
Lankford chuckled and then, after a pause, holstered his weapon under his shirt.
“You’re not a traitor, Nick,” the CIA agent said with a smirk as he joined them by the hidden door. “Only an idiot would make up a story like that if it wasn’t the truth.”
Nick’s shoulders sagged with relief.
“What exactly is the play here?” Lankford asked.
It was Nick’s turn to chuckle.
“It’s a little loose,” he said. “We’re improvising as we go.”
“Great,” Lankford said.
Nick peered down the stairwell with its eerie red lights. He turned back to Lankford. “Creepy. Maybe we should kit up a bit? I have a weapon, but only one magazine of ammunition.”
Lankford rolled his eyes.
“Jesus, Foley,” he said, and he shook his head as Nick stared at him hopefully. “Pushing your luck a bit, aren’t you?”
“If you have a backup, we’ll double our firepower.”
Lankford lifted his right pant leg and pulled a small pistol from an ankle holster. He pulled two short magazines from his pocket.
“This is all I have,” Lankford said.
“Way more than I had a minute ago,” Nick said. He pulled the slide back to check a round in the chamber on the subcompact pistol. “Sig three-two-oh?”
“Yeah,” Lankford said, handing him an extra magazine. “Twelve rounds staggered in the magazine and then one in the pipe. Not a lot of ammo.”
“Thirty-seven is better than the ten I had before,” Nick said. He slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants. “You ready?”
“Hooyah,” Lankford said, mimicking the SEAL battle cry.
Nick smirked. “Hooyah.”
Nick led, with Dash behind him and Lankford taking up the rear. After a few paces, he felt Dash’s hand find his shoulder. He led them down a steep set of concrete steps, lit softly in red with lights placed at ankle level along the wall. At the bottom, they entered a tunnel—a massive rectangle of concrete with red lights stretching into the distance.
“What the hell is this place?” Lankford asked.
“This is an entrance to the Underground City,” Dash said.
“How far does this tunnel go?”
“Many kilometers. The Underground City is very, very big. It is said the Underground City was designed to provide shelter for six million citizens of Beijing in the event of a nuclear attack on the city during the cold war. The long tunnels like this one are escape routes from the heart of the city to what were the outlying districts at the time of construction.”
“What is it used for now?”
“Officially, nothing,” she said. “Unofficially, it has become a black-market economy for unregulated, underground housing, the drug trade, and prostitution.”
They walked in silence for several minutes until Lankford said, “Do you have a plan to find your husband, Dr. Chen?”
Nick looked back at Dash, not sure what he expected to see in her face. Her eyes were wide in the darkness, but her jaw was set firmly.
“I have some ideas where to look.”
“If we find him, what then?”
“We must kill him,” she said simply.
Nick raised his eyebrows, surprised at her stoic conviction. It seemed like a thousand years ago that those beautiful eyes had scrutinized him with quiet curiosity from above a surgical mask. The events of the past two days had changed her. She was like a blade after finishing—first quenched to be hard and now tempered for toughness.
“If we find him,” Lankford grumbled.
“Oh, we’ll find him,” Nick said.
“How do you know?” Lankford asked.
“Because we have to,” Dash answered for him.
The three of them continued down the dark tunnel, toward a dim yellow glow in the distance. As they walked, the light gradually intensified along with Nick’s anxiety. Dash’s search-and-destroy plan for Qing sounded good in principle, but Nick knew the devil lurked in the details. In his experience, evil rarely menaced alone, and he would be shocked if Qing did not have “associates” in the mix. As far as Nick was concerned, Qing’s weapon was officially in play, and that meant their objective could be infinitely more complicated depending on how much of a head start Qing had. Nick realized that having Lankford with them could be a blessing or a curse.
On the one hand, Lankford had decades of experience successfully tracking and stopping men like Chen Qing. But could he trust Lankford with their lives? With the lives of thousands, possibly millions, of Beijing citizens? As crazy as it seemed, at that moment, Nick thought he might actually trade Commander Zhang for Lankford. Zhang understood the political and philosophical differences between the United States and China. Zhang knew the inner workings of the Chinese system and had intimate knowledge of Beijing. Lastly, Zhang was part of the brotherhood. They were both blooded Special Forces warriors who—regardless of the insignia, patches, and flags stitched on the uniform—were committed to stopping terrorism and the murder of innocents above all else. Maybe Lankford was cut from the same stuff, maybe not. Nick did not know the man well enough to say.
Eventually, they reached a section of tunnel brightly lit overhead by regularly spaced yellow halogen lights. They had yet to encounter another living soul, but Nick was certain that could change at any moment.
“Where are we going?” he whispered to Dash, wondering why he was whispering.
“A placed called Club Pink. I believe Qing is a regular customer there,” she said with acid in her voice. “It will be a good starting point.”
Fifty meters ahead, Nick saw that the tunnel intersected a larger space—a hub with other tunnels and hallways leading off of it. As they approached, he noted two dark side passages off their tunnel: one on the left, one on right. In his peripheral vision, he caught movement in the shadows from both. He reached instinctively for the pistol in his waistband and pulled Dash behind him, but it was too lat
e. Two men, each bearing submachine guns, greeted them at gunpoint. Nick raised his hands to shoulder level, stepping completely in front of Dash.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Nick said.
The men were dressed identically in black cargo pants and black short-sleeve shirts with a symbol embroidered over the left breast pocket. They wore radios clipped to their belts with wireless headsets and a wired microphone transceiver clipped to the right shoulder epaulet. In another setting, he would have assumed they were police or security officers. The taller of the two, still a half foot shorter than Nick, barked something at them in Chinese.
“He wants to know who we are and where we are going,” Dash whispered from behind him. She answered the man in Chinese and then said to Nick, “I told him we are going to Club Pink to find my husband, Chen Qing.”
The man stepped to the side and spoke into a radio at his shoulder, much like a cop.
“You do not belong here,” he said in broken English, his accent thick. “Nah welcome. Needs permissions to coming here.”
He gestured with his rifle back down the tunnel.
“Now what?” Nick asked over his shoulder at both Dash and Lankford.
Dash stepped out from behind him.
“We wish to speak with Gang Jin,” she said boldly. “I am Dazhong, wife of Chen Qing.”
The two men looked at each other in surprise, but then the taller man barked something else and they both cackled. The apparent leader gestured again with his rifle at the tunnel behind them.
“You go.”
Then he raised a hand to the earpiece in his left ear, listening. He spoke softly into the radio at his shoulder again. Then he whispered something to his partner, who raised both eyebrows, then lowered his rifle to point it at the ground. He looked nervous.
“One minutes,” the taller man said and glanced nervously over his shoulder.
“What’s going on?” Lankford whispered.
Dash and Nick shrugged their shoulders in unison.
A moment later, two more men, dressed the same as the first two, approached from the far tunnel. These men were also armed, but their rifles were slung casually across their chests. They joined the first two sentries and then parted to allow the grand entrance of a fifth man.
