Dragon Key

by Don Pendleton

  The Executioner headed down a small aisle to the back of the property, noting the powerful odor of human waste. He heard grunting and scraping sounds behind him, and the door to the outhouse burst open. A squatting man peered out, his pants around his shins, brandishing a Norinco Type 54 semiauto in his right hand. Bolan shot him in the forehead. The man fell over, exposing a dark hole in the concrete floor. Leaving him where he was, Bolan moved to the corner and took a quick look.

  The construction was the same as the other houses: L shaped with a small courtyard. A three-foot pipe with a spigot rose from the concrete and spewed a stream of water into a metal tub that sat next to the solid wooden gate. The hooch had a sliding door, but Bolan could see lights on behind it. He heard voices, too. The door opened and a man appeared, shouting something in Mandarin. Another Norinco pistol hung loosely in the man’s grip.

  Eight hostiles had moved from the van with the unconscious man. Bolan had to assume all of them were armed, and certainly dangerous. He also didn’t know if there were additional personnel in the house prior to their arrival. Facing those kinds of odds meant his only chance was the element of surprise. He pulled a flash-bang grenade from the pocket of his cargo pants and straightened the flanges of the pin.

  The guy in the doorway laughed and yelled again.

  Probably wants to know what’s taking his buddy so long in the latrine, Bolan thought.

  He switched the Beretta to his left hand and pulled the pin on the flash-bang. The Executioner was adept at shooting with his nondominant hand, but successfully throwing the grenade through the slight opening between the door and the jamb required the accuracy of his right hand.

  The guy in the doorway yelled again, louder this time, and opened the door a bit wider as he stepped down into the courtyard, his face twisting into an angry scowl.

  Bolan extended his left arm around the corner, acquired a sight-picture, and fired in one smooth motion. The man twisted and fell on the ground. Another man peered out and looked down at his fallen comrade. Bolan shot him in the side of the head and stepped into the courtyard, releasing the safety flange on the flash-bang. He threw it through the open space with an easy underhand toss, switched the Beretta back to his right hand and waited for three more seconds until the concussive blast of the grenade burst through the open space.

  Moving forward, Bolan kicked the sliding door back on its slot and extended his right arm, with the Beretta, inside the room. Wisps of smoke and a distinct smell of burned gunpowder hung in the air. At the far end, a man and a woman were kneeling beside a supine figure Bolan took to be Tressman, a medical bag next to them. The other two occupants of the room were standing, shaking their heads. These two both had submachine guns slung in front of their hips. Bolan shot them Mozambique-style, two in the chest, one in the head. He then stepped inside the room and slammed the door.

  The man and woman were hunched over Tressman now, blinking their eyes with expressions of disorientation and discomfort. Bolan kicked the man in the side, sending him sprawling. He was a bit more gentle with the woman, grabbing her by the arm and lifting her up. He did a quick, but thorough, frisk. Finding nothing, he shoved her down into the corner and frisked the man. He was unarmed, as well.

  Bolan shoved him next to the woman and said, in one of the few Mandarin commands he knew, “Don’t move.”

  Bolan went to one knee, keeping the Beretta trained on the two of them, and checked Tressman’s carotid for a pulse. The beat was slow and steady. Bolan managed to peel open Tressman’s distended left eyelid and saw a glazed whiteness. The medical bag was open, and a hypodermic syringe, a rubber tourniquet and a vial lay on top of what appeared to be a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. The vial contained some type of clear liquid.

  Bolan stood and moved over to the man and the woman. They were gradually coming around. Stepping over an expanding puddle of blood from one of the corpses, he spotted a large ball of heavy twine in one corner and holstered the Beretta. Using the twine, he secured the woman’s hands behind her back and then bound her knees and ankles. Satisfied that she was immobile, Bolan moved to the man. He was almost completely recovered from the debilitating effects of the blast by the time Bolan had finished securing his wrists, knees and ankles. As Bolan stood, he saw the man’s brown eyes open wide behind a pair of metal-rimmed glasses. The man assessed the Executioner carefully, then said, “You are an American.”

  Bolan didn’t answer.

  “Please,” he said. “Do not kill us. We are not Triad. We are medical professionals.”

  The guy’s English was good, and he didn’t have the look of a gangster. Even though the clock was ticking, Bolan decided to see what he could find out.

  “Where’s the other guy?”

  The man’s brow crinkled. “I don’t understand.”

  “I saw nine people enter this room.” Bolan made an all-encompassing gesture. “I’ve accounted for eight. Where did the last one go?”

  “He left soon after we arrived. I do not know where.”

  “Who was behind this?” Bolan asked.

  The man shook his head. “I cannot tell you that. They will kill me.”

  Bolan’s lips stretched into what he hoped would be a malevolent grin. “And I’ll kill you if you don’t.” He let the grin fade away and set his features into a scowl. “You got three seconds to tell me.”

  The man fidgeted.

  Bolan pulled open his shirt and put his hand on the butt of the Beretta. The man’s eyes widened.

  “All right,” he said. “It was Lee Son Shin. They call him the Praying Mantis.”

  Bolan had heard about a legendary Triad enforcer who went by that name, but other than a few reports citing crimes allegedly committed by the Mantis, Bolan knew little else. He glanced at his watch. He’d been at this game for almost eight minutes. It was time to get moving. He gestured at Tressman.

  “How bad is he?”

  “Very bad. He needs medical attention. I can give it to him. Please, let me live. I am a doctor.”

  “A doctor who works for the Triads,” Bolan said. He picked up the vial. “What’s this?”

  The doctor’s eyes flashed to the left. “Penicillin.”

  “Try again,” Bolan said.

  The doctor swallowed quickly. “It’s sodium pentothal. But they made me administer it. I had no choice.”

  “I’ll bet,” Bolan said. He dumped the contents of the medical bag onto the floor but saw no other medications. He picked up two rolls of gauze and one of medical tape. The woman had come out of her stupor and was lying on her side, crying.

  “How much of the drug did you give him?” Bolan asked.

  The doctor blinked and shook his head. “Only a few cubic milliliters. It will not harm him. He needs to sleep anyway.”

  Bolan pulled out his knife. “How long will he be out?”

  The doctor’s eyes widened, a look of terror on his face. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “How long?”

  “A few hours perhaps,” the doctor said. “Please, I’ve cooperated. You must let me go.”

  Bolan sliced off some material from a shirt hanging nearby. He went to the woman first, telling her to open her mouth and then tying a gag in place.

  “You cannot leave us here,” the doctor said. “They’ll kill us.”

  “I doubt that. Good doctors are probably hard to come by in China. Especially Triad doctors.”

  “No, no,” the doctor said, shaking his head furiously. “You do not understand. This area is not safe for us. The people around here are disenfranchised peasants. They have a hatred for those in the medical profession. If they find us, they might kill us. It’s quite common here.”

  “Then you’d better hope your buddy the Mantis finds you first.” He secured the gag. It would have been quicker and safer
to kill both of them, but the Executioner didn’t kill unless it was necessary, and these two were basically civilians. He rechecked the bonds then stood up and moved over to Tressman.

  It was time to go.

  Bolan squatted down and lifted Tressman, slinging the unconscious man over his left shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Tressman was probably about a hundred and eighty pounds of pure dead weight at this point, but that barely slowed Bolan down. He stepped out into the small courtyard and moved to the gate. After checking to make sure the alleyway was clear, Bolan stepped through the gate, closing it behind him, and began a quick trot toward the vacant lot about thirty yards away. As he ran, his fingers closed over the handle of the flare gun in his right pocket. Withdrawing the gun, Bolan cocked back the hammer, pointed it upward and pulled the trigger.

  The crisp pop and the accompanying trail of bright light and smoke sailed upward through the nighttime sky. Before he’d gone fifty feet Bolan heard the staccato beating of the approaching rotors. Grimaldi was right on time.

  Chapter Seven

  General Wong was nervous, but he knew better than to express this to Chen. The Triad leader was his only chance to keep this situation contained. And the old bastard knew it.

  The son of a whore has me by the testicles, Wong thought. He adjusted his pants at the unpleasant thought and picked up the cell phone, scrolling down to Chen’s private number.

  Last night Wong had been informed about the “abduction” of the American spy, and he needed to make the proper notifications to the Politburo this morning. The Standing Committee would be summoning him soon, and when they did, he’d be able to tell them that he’d recovered the American, and the foreign agents who’d taken him, by killing the contingent of soldiers. It would be unfortunate that all of the foreigners had perished during the recovery operation. You couldn’t interrogate dead men.

  Hopefully, Chen’s assassin had obtained whatever information they needed from the American, Tressman.

  Regardless, it was time to see how things were progressing. He pressed the button for Chen’s number.

  It rang several times, and Wong glanced at his watch. It was 0500. Early, but still reasonable enough to give him time to prepare.

  Finally, Chen’s voice came on the phone, sounding as fresh as someone who was wide-awake. Wong had no time for formalities. “I’ve been waiting for your call. Did your men get the American?”

  “They did.”

  Wong felt a wave of relief. “What have you found out?”

  Silence.

  “Are you there?” Wong asked.

  “There has been a slight complication,” Chen said. He paused, as if enjoying the silence and the anxiety he knew it must be causing Wong.

  “Complication?”

  “After we seized him, several of my men were killed by an American agent who took the prisoner.”

  “What?” Wong was flabbergasted. “How could the Americans manage that?”

  “Apparently they are more resourceful than we anticipated,” Chen said. “But do not be concerned. A wise man plans for every convolution.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I have the situation well in hand,” Chen said.

  “Well in hand?”

  “Of course, Comrade General.”

  Wong hated it when Chen called him that. There was condescension lurking behind his obsequiousness. The Triad leader’s soft chuckle came over the phone’s speaker like the ticking of a clock—a clock connected to a detonator.

  “And what am I supposed to tell the Committee when they summon me this morning?” Wong asked.

  “Tell them your men were assassinated by some mercenaries believed to be employed by the Americans,” Chen said. “The spy was already interrogated and is of little importance now. There is something else you must do. Something more pressing.”

  Wong bit his lower lip as he pulled a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. “What is that?”

  “Are your men standing by to arrest Han Son Chu this morning?”

  “Yes,” Wong said. “The Committee directed it, but they are to wait until after the American movie star leaves.”

  He heard Chen’s soft chuckle once again. “Excellent. Here is what you must ensure happens.”

  * * *

  BOLAN GLANCED AT his watch and told Herbie to drive around the block again. He’d slept about three hours in the past forty-eight and he could feel felt a wave of fatigue beginning to wash over him.

  What I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee, he thought. Even some of Aaron’s horrible brew.

  “At least they drive on the right side of the road here on the mainland,” Grimaldi said. “Not like in Hong Kong.”

  He sounded as tired as Bolan. The three men continued to circle the streets near the bus station, waiting for Yang.

  Early that morning, Bolan had met Han’s wife and granddaughter at the marketplace and whisked them away after telling them the evac plan had changed. Instead of heading to the coast by train, Bolan would put them on a bus with Huang.

  When Tressman had come to, he’d admitted he wasn’t sure how much of the previous plan he’d divulged under the interrogations.

  “I feel like I let everybody down,” he’d said. “I let the Agency down, too.”

  Bolan hadn’t had the heart to tell him the Agency was letting him dangle in the wind. At this point the injured man needed something to hold on to. “You did fine, under the circumstances,” Bolan said. “Now help us get the rest of the mission completed.”

  Tressman had nodded and Bolan had wrapped the man’s face with gauze and taped it in place. Then Tressman, Mrs. Han and the granddaughter had headed for the bus station, with Huang riding shotgun. They’d been hoping to pass for a Chinese family transporting an injured uncle down to the seashore.

  Yang had accompanied them at a distance to ensure they made it onto the bus.

  That had been at 0805. Over an hour ago. Bolan felt his cell phone vibrate and checked the incoming text. It was from Yang.

  On board. Come get me.

  “Swing by and pick her up,” Bolan said.

  “Okay, boss,” Herbie said with a lopsided grin, a cigarette dancing between his lips as he talked.

  Bolan still wasn’t certain how trustworthy this guy was, and that was why he wanted to keep Yang with them as they proceeded to part two: getting Sammo Han out of harm’s way. After Tressman had been taken out of Song Jing he’d feigned ignorance when the PLA soldiers had ordered him about in Mandarin, making them resort to gestures and shoves. Right before the deuce-and-a-half had been ambushed, Tressman had overheard two soldiers say that Sammo Han was to be formally taken into custody later this morning. That meant the evac plan had to be put into overdrive. Bolan still wasn’t sure how they were going to accomplish all this now that they were without their helicopter. He hadn’t even seen Han’s house up close.

  “That Yang’s kind of a hot number,” Grimaldi said as they approached the bus station. “I wonder if I’ll have time to show her a little bit of the Chinese nightclub scene before we ship out?”

  “Just make sure you stay on the right side of the road,” Bolan said. He tapped Herbie’s shoulder and pointed to Yang, who was walking briskly toward the corner. “Pull ahead of her and I’ll open the door.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  When she got into the front passenger seat Yang smiled, but she still looked nervous. “They all got on the bus.”

  “Good,” Bolan said. “Now let’s go pick up Sammo Han and get out of here. Does that Tai Pang guy Tressman told us about speak English?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Yang said. “Tressman was the only one who dealt with him. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “What about you, Herbie?” Bolan asked. “You know thi
s guy, Tai Pang?”

  Herbie shook his head, causing ash to drop from his cigarette. “I never see him.”

  Bolan handed Yang the phone number Tressman had given him. “Call him and tell him we need to set up a meet after we get Han.”

  Yang nodded and made the call.

  Bolan reviewed his options. The simplest plan would be to grab the lawyer, head for the American embassy and have him ask for political asylum. But from what Tressman and Huang had said, Bolan doubted Han would go for that unless his wife and granddaughter were already safely out of the country. The next best move would be to get him out of Beijing. The capital was too hot, and the Chinese were too efficient at shutting everything down if they were searching for somebody, especially a couple of Americans who’d been involved in a shooting incident. Bolan and Grimaldi could be on the most-wanted list already.

  Yang held her hand over the cell phone and turned to him. “He wants to know what your plan is.”

  “Tell him we’ll let him know at the meet,” Bolan said. “Just set up a time and we’ll call him back with the place.”

  She nodded and relayed the message in Mandarin into the cell phone.

  “Why am I starting to feel like that little Dutch boy?” Grimaldi asked. “Sticking our fingers in the holes in the dike, just hoping it all don’t come crashing over us.”

  “You’d have a hard time passing for Dutch.” Bolan grinned. “But I’d like to catch a glimpse of you in those wooden shoes.”

  * * *

  SAMMO HAN LIVED in a modern-looking area composed of row after row of white, four-story town houses with balconies. Decorative wrought iron fences surrounded each complex, and a narrow walkway ran behind each group of houses, bordered by a six-foot-high wall on each side. The neighborhood was set along an asphalt street that stretched into the distance. In a picture, it could have been Anyplace, USA, but it was on the outskirts of Beijing. Tall skyscrapers loomed in the distance.