Dragon Key

by Don Pendleton

  Wong pulled a Norinco Type 213 from under his jacket and held it to Han’s forehead. The traitor closed his eyes, sweat rolling down his face. The girl looked ready to urinate on herself. In spite of the tears and the smudges of dirt, she was rather attractive. The Mantis regretted that she was going to die so soon, before he had the chance to take some pleasure with her.

  He smiled. Perhaps he would ask Master Chen for permission to do that. It would be a nice bonus.

  Wong cocked back the hammer of the Norinco. “Do you know the consternation you have caused me? The anxiety?”

  Master Chen raised his hand. “One moment, Comrade General.” His voice was serene, like the gentle rippling of water over the stones in a brook. “Would it not be prudent to first check the dragon key to make certain it is the correct one?”

  Wong’s lips curled into a snarl, and he whipped the pistol across Han’s face, opening a gash on his right cheek. The blood streamed downward and dribbled onto his shirt. Then Wong poked the pistol into the girl’s face. “You will pay as well, for your interference.”

  Master Chen clapped his hands together once, and then held an open palm toward the Mantis. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the dragon-headed charm that held the flash drive and handed it to the master.

  “Ah,” Master Chen said. “At last, we have in our possession that which we have sought.”

  “Give it to me,” Wong said.

  Master Chen held it toward him and said, “You can verify it on this computer.” He clapped again and one of the lackeys stepped forward with an open laptop.

  Wong frowned and stuck the pistol in his waistband—without, the Mantis noticed, flipping on the safety. A reckless move for one purported to possess such extensive military training. He pulled at the dragon key, sliding the green head off the metallic plug. The lackey reached for the flash drive but Wong snarled, “I’ll do it. Give me that.” He snatched the laptop out of the lackey’s hands and stepped off to the side. Cradling the device in his arm, he inserted the flash drive, looked around and then punched a series of keys. He waited, but then his lips spread in a smile that showed both triumph and relief. After adjusting the mouse and clicking it a few times, he smiled again. He carefully set the open computer on a clean place on the floor.

  “All is well?” Master Chen asked.

  “Yes,” Wong said. He pulled the pistol out of his belt and strode over to Han. “Now I’m going to enjoy killing you.” He pointed the gun at the woman’s face. “Or would you rather watch her die first?”

  “Please,” Han said. “She is—”

  Wong backhanded him, using his fist this time. He spat in Han’s face, turned and delivered another expectoration into the woman’s face.

  “I think I will shoot her first,” Wong said, “but not fatally...yet. To show you both the pain that comes with retribution and justice.”

  “You dare speak of justice?” Han said. “When you steal from the poor farmers and sell our country’s military secrets?”

  Wong punched him again, and then pointed the pistol at Yang.

  The Mantis heard a sharp flicking sound, and Wong’s head jerked, blood bursting out of his gaping mouth and dappling the two kneeling prisoners, Master Chen and the Mantis. Another whistling, snapping sound and the guard across the room grabbed his chest and curled forward. Wong was twisting, still alive, and brought the pistol upward, pulling the trigger. The end of the barrel exploded with a searing flash, and the Mantis felt the heat of a round whiz by him.

  Wong’s body jerked again, and this time he twisted to the floor.

  The Mantis turned and saw the big American, Cooper, leaning through a broken side door with an elongated pistol, smoke curling from an attached sound suppressor.

  Wong’s pistol flashed, and this time the Mantis looked in horror as Master Chen suddenly hunched forward, his hands holding his stomach.

  “Wong, you idiot,” he said.

  “Master!” the Mantis yelled, grabbing the wounded man and pulling him down to the floor, out of the line of fire.

  Had Wong shot the master accidentally? The Mantis cradled Chen’s head. No matter. It was caused by the American, and he would now die.

  * * *

  BOLAN PUSHED THROUGH the broken door, firing as he advanced. There were seven hostiles inside the room, and so far he’d only managed to take out two of them. His old buddy, Tai Pang, was there, too, and Bolan knew how deadly that man could be, with or without a gun.

  Swiveling to the right, Bolan shot a Triad gangster leveling a shotgun toward him. The weapon went off, sending a blast of what was apparently double-ought-buck into the dirty floor. Bolan felt the sting of ricocheting pellets sear his left leg. He put a second bullet into the gangster’s forehead for good measure, and then jumped to his left to avoid being a stationary target as he scanned the room.

  Two more were visible, but where was Tai Pang?

  Another thug was firing a pistol. The rounds whizzed by Bolan’s side. He brought the Beretta around and shot this new assailant in the throat. As that gangster fell to the floor, Bolan pivoted and shot the one by the door who’d been fumbling with a shotgun. Two more to go—one of them being Tai Pang and the other a guy in a blue suit. They were both on the floor, as were Han and Yang.

  The slide locked back on his Beretta. Bolan dropped it and pulled out the SIG. He began to extend his arm when a foot smashed into his wrist, knocking the SIG Sauer from his hand. It clattered across the dirty floor. Bolan’s eyes automatically followed it, which, seconds later, he realized was a tactical error, as a hooking kick caught the back of his head.

  Bolan pitched forward, moving with the blow. He regained his footing after a few staggering steps, only to get hit again in the center of his back by a flying kick. This time he went sprawling onto all fours. He pushed himself forward and rolled to his feet, assuming a fighting stance as he turned to face the assailant who stood in front of him.

  “Tai Pang,” Bolan said, hoping to gain a moment to take a breath. “I thought I’d seen the last of you at the abandoned buildings.”

  The wiry man spat. “My name is not Tai Pang. It is Lee Son Shin.” His body snapped into a kung fu stance, his eyes glaring with hatred. “I am also called the Praying Mantis, and all those who know me fear me. Think of that as you die.”

  “I’ll try to remember,” Bolan said. He figured if he could keep his opponent angry, it might offset his game a little.

  The Mantis jumped forward, spanning the six feet between them with a seemingly effortless leap. His body twisted in the air, and before Bolan could counter, the other man’s instep smashed into Bolan’s left shoulder. The blow knocked him off balance, but not down. Bolan figured he outweighed the Mantis by at least fifty pounds, so he had the advantage in power, if he could connect. He shot a quick left jab out toward Lee’s head, but the Mantis slipped the punch and spun around, catching Bolan’s exposed side with a vicious kick.

  Bolan took a step back, and the Mantis pivoted and whirled, smashing another hooking kick into Bolan’s back. Pain shot up through his spine. The Executioner tried a quick left hook, but Lee swayed back, allowing Bolan’s fist to sail over him.

  Two quick, thumping punches collided with Bolan’s rib cage, but they hardly affected him at all. The spinning kick that immediately followed did, however. It came out of nowhere and clipped Bolan’s jaw. Black spots coalesced in front of his eyes for a split second, then vanished. Taking a quick breath, Bolan lashed out with another left hook, this time catching Lee’s cheekbone. The smaller man staggered.

  Bolan advanced, popping him with a left jab, right cross.

  The punch didn’t quite land flush on Lee’s jaw, so the damage was minimal. The smaller man rammed a side kick into Bolan’s gut, and another sharp pain shot through him. Bolan swung an elbow down onto Lee’s thigh. The Mantis whirled
and caught the back of Bolan’s head with a spinning back kick. The black spots came and went again.

  Got to get inside those kicks, Bolan thought.

  He saw the flicker of Lee’s right eye and the man’s foot swept up and clipped Bolan’s temple.

  The tell, Bolan thought. His eye flickers right before he strikes.

  The Mantis stepped forward, sending a snapping front kick at Bolan’s face, but the Executioner was ready. He blocked it with his left hand and stepped inside, delivering a powerful right to Lee’s midsection. The blow knocked the Mantis backward.

  Get inside, Bolan told himself. Work the body. Slow him down.

  The Mantis jumped forward again, but Bolan anticipated the move, grabbing the other man’s foot and jerking it upward.

  This time it was the Mantis who dropped onto the dirty floor, but he recovered with the quickness of a mongoose and whirled. The perfectly executed sweep caught Bolan’s forward leg and knocked him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, landing on a pile of partially demolished bricks. Bolan rolled off the bricks just as the Mantis, who was suddenly on his feet again, brought an ax kick down toward Bolan’s head.

  As he rolled, Bolan picked up a half brick and threw it hard, but his opponent brushed it away with a flick of his hand. It slowed his advance enough for Bolan to start to get up.

  The Mantis jumped forward again, his right foot lashing out and ripping into Bolan’s left side. As the Executioner tried to pull away from the blow, the Mantis flipped a second kick with the other foot.

  Bolan was beginning to feel the ache of being on the receiving end of too many hits. It was time to take the offensive again. He feigned being more severely injured to draw the Mantis closer, and then twisted with a right uppercut as he came in. Bolan’s fist caught the Mantis on the chest and bounced off his jaw, sending the smaller man sprawling.

  Now it was Bolan’s turn to move in. But the Mantis surprised him by flinging a brick that smacked into Bolan’s left shoulder, leaving a residual, stinging pain. The Executioner continued moving through it, getting close enough to deliver a solid left hook that connected square on the Mantis’s face. Bolan had managed to get his weight behind the punch, and the Mantis went flying. He hit the ground and did a rolling motion, like a reverse somersault, and straightened up on his feet again about ten feet away. His right arm cocked back and then zoomed forward.

  Something shiny flashed, and seconds later Bolan felt a burst of pain as a circular throwing star ripped its way up his left arm. He ducked and tossed some more broken bricks at the Mantis, whose hands flashed again.

  The balisong knife appeared. The Mantis smiled. “I shall enjoy cutting your throat.”

  Bolan said nothing, watching for the tell. The Mantis jumped forward, slashing at Bolan’s left shoulder.

  The Executioner dodged the blow and grabbed the other man’s right wrist. He stepped closer and used his other hand to grip the knife hand. The Mantis must have realized he’d made a mistake by getting too close. He smashed a palm strike into Bolan’s face. The two men danced for a dominant position, but Bolan used his superior strength and weight to pull, then push the knife into his opponent.

  It made a popping sound, and the Mantis grunted as the blade pierced his abdomen.

  You said you like shiny things, Bolan thought. Here’s your last one.

  Taking no chances, Bolan forced the smaller man to the ground, continuing to bear down on the knife hand. The Mantis struck Bolan’s right temple with a chopping blow, but the punch didn’t have much force. Their eyes locked, and the Mantis gritted his teeth, his lips twisting into a scowl, and then his eyes drifted up and to the right, looking vaguely unfocused, and finally sightless.

  Bolan stood up, feeling as though he’d been run over by a truck.

  No, not a truck, he thought. A Chinese bullet train, maybe.

  He staggered across the room and picked up the SIG Sauer and then the Beretta. Shoving the SIG into his belt, he dropped the magazine from the Beretta, inserted a new one and released the slide. He turned and went to check on Yang and Han. He helped Yang to her feet and she embraced him.

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “I thought I was going to die. They were going to kill us.”

  Tears streamed down her face. Bolan held her as she cried on his shoulder. He reached out with his other hand to help Han to his feet. The one-armed man’s face was a mixture of sweat and blood, with a gash on his right cheekbone and a split lip.

  “Looks like you might need some stitches,” Bolan said. “How do you feel?”

  Han smiled wanly. “I feel grateful to be alive.” He bowed. “Thank you for saving us.”

  Bolan gave a quick nod in return.

  “I never doubted, somehow, that you would come,” Han said. “And you beat the Praying Mantis at his own game. In physical combat. He was a legend here. Your skill is extraordinary.”

  Bolan managed a grin.

  “How did you find us?” Yang asked, stirring from his embrace. He let her go.

  Bolan shrugged. “I tracked you from the bank,” he said. “What about you? How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll feel a lot better when we get out of here.”

  “I agree,” Bolan said. “Let’s go.”

  “Not quite yet,” Han said. He stumbled a bit as he scrambled over to the laptop that was lying on the floor and picked it up, cradling it with his good arm. He walked over to a stack of bricks and set the computer on top. His hand poised over the keyboard, he began pressing keys. Bolan could see the screen images popping up. Han smiled and then pressed some more keys. He smiled again and looked at them, grinning now from ear to ear.

  “The computer has asked me if I wish to rename the password on the dragon key,” he said. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “How about the Shanghai subway?” Bolan said. “Which I hope we can catch to get out of here. I left a cabbie named Arnold waiting up on the road.”

  Twelve hours later, Shanghai waterfront

  BOLAN GLANCED AT the lights of the city, glowing like a myriad of colored jewels, then at the dark waters of the South China Sea slapping against the wharf, and finally at the sleek cabin cruiser that would take them to their rendezvous in international waters with the US Navy. It was the last leg of this journey to get out of China. Despite all he’d been through, Bolan felt as if he was catching his second wind.

  The man on the boat jumped down and stood by the moorings. “Are you ready to shove off?”

  His accent sounded British, and Bolan figured the guy was probably MI6. He reached in his pocket and felt the hard ridges of the Walther PPS he’d recovered from the Mantis. Bolan would do his best to get it back to Crissey so it could be returned to the dead agent’s family. It was the warrior’s code. He turned to the others.

  “Shall we?”

  Grimaldi smiled and took in a deep breath. “Ah, I feel like singing ‘A Slow Boat to China’ with Frank Sinatra.”

  “I’d prefer a quick boat out of China,” Bolan said.

  “Yeah, that’ll work, too.” Grimaldi glanced at Yang, who was smiling at him. “Did I ever tell you about the time me and him took a skiff out of Singapore with a load of bandits on our six?”

  “No, Mr. Grimaldi,” she said with what looked like a tolerant smile. “But I’m sure you will.”

  Both Bolan and Han laughed at that one.

  They started toward the stairs that would take them down to the boat. As they reached the pier, Han placed a hand on Bolan’s shoulder.

  “Cooper-jun,” he said.

  Everyone stopped and looked at him.

  “I only came this far to be certain you could leave safely,” Han said.

  Bolan gave him a questioning look. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Han said, “that I am not yet ready to
leave China.”

  After all they’d been through, the pronouncement surprised Bolan, but he said nothing.

  “I will trust you to look to the well-being of my family,” Han continued. “And tell them I will join them once my job here is done. I still have much work to do.”

  “Done?” Grimaldi said. “You’re seriously thinking of staying here after a PLA general and a bunch of Triad gangsters tried to punch your ticket?”

  Han looked at him and smiled. “I will miss your colorful language, my friend. I think there is much you could teach me about the proper use of English idioms.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Grimaldi grinned and extended his hand. “At least until I figure out what it means.”

  “But why?” Yang asked. “Why are you staying? They tried to kill you.”

  Han turned toward her and made a quick bowing gesture. “As I said, there is still much to do here. I have many people who are depending on me to be their voice against the political corruption.”

  Bolan reached into his pocket and pulled out the thick roll of yuan. “Here, maybe this will help.”

  Han laughed and shook his head. “Thank you, but it is not necessary.” He held up the flash drive. “Now that I have the dragon key decoded and General Wong is dead, I am suddenly a very rich man.”

  Bolan smiled and shoved the yuan into Han’s shirt pocket. “Keep it anyway. You’ll need some knocking-around money.”

  “So what are you gonna do with all that dough?” Grimaldi asked.

  “There is a saying in the new China,” Han said. “The way to power is lit by money. Few of the rural people here have access to the benefits of our burgeoning economy. I will use this newfound wealth to help them.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps I shall become a politician.”

  “Nah,” Grimaldi said. “You’re way too honest.”

  Han laughed. “We shall see. But let us hope that one day we will all meet again in your Las Vegas. And I would fit in very well, would I not?”