Hong Kong Black: A Thriller (A Nick Foley Thriller)

by Alex Ryan

  Lankford screwed up his face.

  Nick let it drop. “What’s a mirror?” he asked.

  “Just an expression,” Lankford said. “Yu’s assignment was a mirror image of an operation—not real, but not exactly fake either. In this case, his staffing company activity in Xi’an was meant as a ruse.”

  Nick nodded. “You said he was careless and lazy. Was that really your opinion of him?”

  Lankford groaned a sigh and suddenly looked exhausted. “I’m venting, Nick.”

  “I know that, but I’m being serious. Was Peter Yu a careless field agent?”

  “We only worked together a short time, and I didn’t know him before.”

  “Was that his rep?”

  “Not from what I hear.”

  Nick pursed his lips. “Maybe he wasn’t.”

  “Wasn’t what?” a now irritated Lankford asked.

  “Careless. Maybe Yu was working Lihau as an asset. You said he was looking at Chinese companies with ties to defense and the West. What about the company she worked for?”

  “I know, Nèiyè Biologic,” he said. “Billion-dollar Chinese firm. The CEO has been on a buying spree, vacuuming up biotech start-ups and research facilities in Europe, the US, and Canada. But there was no military or defense connection. We looked hard at them and didn’t find shit. It’s hard to imagine that poking around Nèiyè Biologic would get a CIA agent killed.”

  “It’s equally hard to imagine that the Chinese government would disappear a CIA agent, put a hit on me, and kill a Chinese civilian scientist. You said it yourself, Yu was working on low-level shit. This isn’t Cold War Berlin, where being a spy gets you garroted in an alley. If they knew you were CIA after our adventure in the Underground City, they could have tossed you out or arrested you or whatever. They let you stay—probably to watch you—so why kill one of your low levels and then go after me?”

  “I don’t fucking know, Nick.”

  Nick sat back down on the sofa next to Lankford. “There has to be something else here, something we’re not seeing. Who stands to gain from taking out Yu? What is their next move?”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the problem with not seeing . . . you’re fucking blind to next moves.”

  “Then let me help,” Nick said, surprised to hear the words coming out of his mouth.

  “We tried that already, and look where that got us,” Lankford said, gesturing to them on the sofa. “My cover as station chief is blown, and you’re a marked man, which, if I’m not mistaken, makes us the two most useless assets in China.”

  “I’m still handy with a gun,” Nick said and smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Yeah,” Lankford said. “But you’re a terrible spy. The log says you went to the plaza today, wandered around with a coffee, and ate lunch on the dock. What the hell, man? Which part of ‘lie low’ don’t you get?”

  “How is that not lying low? We’re in Discovery Bay. The only people here are expats. You didn’t say I was confined to quarters. Who the hell is going to rat me out—that family with three kids I passed, waiting for the Disneyland shuttle? Oh, wait, I know—the rich, fat Russian and his skinny, young blonde who asked me for directions?”

  “Be a fucking professional,” Lankford growled, getting to his feet. “This is serious.”

  “I’m not a fucking professional,” Nick snapped back, springing to his feet, now toe-to-toe with the shorter CIA man. “I left the Teams for a different path. I traded in my M4 for a shovel, and I was happy to. But you dragged me into your world, and now I’m back in the suck all over again—always looking over my shoulder, waiting to kill or be killed.”

  “Screw you, Foley,” Lankford said. “You dragged me into your world and ruined my operation in China first, remember? Your Boy Scout sob story about wanting to save the poor is getting tired. Don’t you dare pretend you’ve checked out. You’re aching to be in the game. I saw it in your eyes in Beijing, and I see it in your eyes now.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s not bullshit; it’s the truth you refuse to recognize. Just like you refuse to admit that the only reason you’re still in China is because you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that someday Chen is going to let you into her panties, and the two of you are going to ride off into the damn sunset. She’s on China’s Quick Reaction Bioterrorism Task Force. She’s being groomed for the CDC director position. Wake up, Nick—you and Dash are never going to happen.”

  Nick balled up his fist to strike the CIA man, but discipline trumped rage. He took a deep breath and stepped back. Looking at Lankford, he did two rounds of four-count tactical breathing. Lankford was spun up too—his cheeks bright red and his jaw set.

  When his pulse rate had slowed below a hundred, Nick said, “We’re both stressed and exhausted. Let’s take a break.” He picked up Strong Vengeance, the Jon Land novel he’d been reading, and tucked it under his arm.

  “Where are you going?” Lankford asked.

  “To get some coffee,” Nick said, his tone daring the CIA agent to tell him not to.

  “Nick,” Lankford called after him.

  Nick paused, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Get me a vanilla latte, will ya?”

  That was as close to an apology as he’d get from Chet Lankford. “Sure,” he said, looking back at the CIA man.

  “And feel free to put it all on my tab.”

  Nick chuckled. “Don’t worry, I always do.”

  CHAPTER 11

  CIA safe house

  Amalfi complex, Discovery Bay

  Lantau Island, Hong Kong

  0315 hours local—Day 4

  I nsomnia blows.

  Nick rolled over on his back and sighed.

  He watched as the palm trees outside cast dancing shadows on the ceiling in the soft, blue glow from the pool lights. The bed was comfortable, the air was cool, the pillow was soft, and he was exhausted—all together, he should be passed out and five hours deep into the monster sleep he’d hoped to get tonight. But here he was, staring at the ceiling and mulling over his argument with Lankford:

  “Don’t you dare pretend you’ve checked out. You’re aching to be in the game. I saw it in your eyes in Beijing, and I see it in your eyes now.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s not bullshit; it’s the truth you refuse to recognize. Just like you refuse to admit that the only reason you’re still in China is because you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that someday Chen is going to let you into her panties, and the two of you are going to ride off into the damn sunset. She’s on China’s Quick Reaction Bioterrorism Task Force. She’s being groomed for the CDC director position. Wake up, Nick—you and Dash are never going to happen.”

  He had almost decked Lankford for saying it . . . but why? Why did Lankford’s words make him so angry? Was Lankford right? Was Nick living in a fantasy world, trying to be a man he wasn’t while trying to seduce a woman he could never have? He ripped the cotton sheet off his torso and tossed it aside in aggravation.

  They say the truth hurts . . . Well, fuck the truth. I can be who I want to be. I can date who I want to date—regardless of her nationality or profession.

  He was trying not to obsess about Dash but was clearly failing. He couldn’t help it; he was worried about her. Where is she? What is the biological threat she’s investigating? Is she in danger? Has she forgotten about me because she’s spending all her time with Commander Zhang?

  He rolled onto his side, facing the wall opposite the window.

  The shadows changed.

  Nick frowned and felt his muscles tense. For a moment, the shadow on the wall looked less like a palm tree branch and more like a . . .

  A second shadow joined the first—hunched in a combat crouch. The figures swiveled, and Nick immediately recognized what could only be the barrels of their long guns. As the shadows crept across the wall, Nick rolled out of bed and onto the floor. He moved toward the dresser where his Sig Sauer lay, ducking at the waist to keep bel
ow the sight line of the window. From a squat beside the dresser, he reached up and snatched the nine-millimeter pistol, chambered a round, and crabbed silently over to the window.

  He took a deep breath and popped his head above the windowsill. He scanned left to right for only a millisecond and then ducked back down. The imagery from his sweep populated his mind’s eye—nothing unexpected. Nick frowned and raised his eyes above the windowsill again, this time for a longer look: the pool deck was empty and well-lit in a green-blue hue from the submerged lights; the perimeter fence was intact, and the gate was closed; there were no moving shadows, no dark figures crouched in corners, no one stirring at the condo next door.

  Was it all a trick of the light? Was this a delusion of a paranoid mind racked with insomnia? Or were the CIA branch guys making a sweep of the property? He had to imagine this facility had a state-of-the-art alarm system and cameras strategically located throughout and around the property. Yet no alarm was sounding . . .

  He heard a chirp that was immediately choked off—like a smoke detector warning of a low battery. Then silence. Nick pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and slipped his feet into his camp shoes. He slid quietly to a position next to his bedroom door, watching the shadows on the wall for anything else alarming. Clutching his gun in his right hand, he waited and listened.

  His pulse thumped loudly in his ears.

  A floorboard creaked somewhere outside his room.

  Then a toilet flushed, spiking his adrenaline. He smirked and lowered his gun—

  An explosion shook the entire house, cracking the glass in his bedroom window.

  Breacher charge . . . They’re coming for me.

  Two deafening booms followed—flash bangs, he assumed. A heartbeat later, pistol fire crackled before being drowned out by automatic rifle fire.

  He shifted to the left of the door, keeping the muzzle of his Sig trained on it. He crouched low and pressed his shoulder against the wall. The door burst open, and a rifle barrel moved through the doorway, the muzzle spitting fire. The bed exploded in a cloud of wood chunks, fabric shreds, and down feathers. He angled the muzzle of his Sig around the doorframe and fired three times at torso level. The machine gun barrel jerked up toward the ceiling, still firing. Paint and stucco rained down on him from above until the rifle went still and clattered to the ground.

  He reached out and grabbed the receiver of what looked like an Israeli-made assault rifle—IMI Galil, a voice whispered in his head. He tugged it toward him, but the rifle was attached to a black-clad assassin by a woven nylon sling. Heaving with all his might, he dragged the rifle and its dead owner into the bedroom. He scanned the limp body and then pulled a bloody ski mask off of the killer’s head, revealing half of a Chinese face. The other half was a mass of bloody bone and gray matter. This fucker wasn’t coming back. Nick slipped his pistol into his waistband, snapped out his folding knife, and cut the rifle sling. Pistol shots echoed in the hallway outside, coming from the bedrooms to his right. He snatched two extra magazines from the dead man’s vest and shoved them into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. Then he went to a combat kneel and aimed down the dark hallway over the iron sight.

  “Foley—you intact?” a voice called from the room to his left.

  It was Lankford.

  “I’m good—you?”

  “Intact,” the CIA man hollered back. “How many do you . . .”

  His question was cut off by more rifle fire. Nick thought he heard a grunt and then a moan.

  “Lankford?”

  No reply.

  Nick fired blindly into the hall and down the staircase. A barrage of heavy return fire tore chunks out of the wall and doorframe beside him. He backpedaled into the room.

  “Lankford!” he shouted.

  Still no reply.

  In seconds, the assaulters would overwhelm him.

  Time to go.

  He fired another prolonged burst into the hallway, and as the barrage of return fire came, he dashed to the window. He scanned outside. Still clear, but he had no idea who or what might be lurking beyond the fence. It didn’t matter, because he sure as shit couldn’t stay here. He scooped up his backpack with his left hand, slung it over his shoulder, and fired the rifle at the cracked window, spraying back and forth until the window shattered. Another barrage of gunfire echoed in the hall, and then he heard boots pounding on the stairs.

  He heard a familiar tink and in his peripheral vision saw a grenade roll into the room.

  Without a second thought, Nick launched himself out the second-story bedroom window.

  He felt the white heat of the explosion on his back before he heard it. The concussive energy of the blast funneled through the window, propelling him farther than his leap alone could have. Without the grenade—it occurred to him as he was flying through the air—he would have fallen short of the pool and splattered on the pool deck instead. A half second later, he hit the water, landing at an awkward angle. His left arm got wrenched backward, and his left cheek smacked the surface so hard that he saw stars . . . but the cold water quenched the burn on his neck and accepted him without breaking his bones. As he sank to the bottom of the pool, dragged down by the weight of his clothes and gear, an eerie, blue quiet enveloped him. He expected tracers to zip through the water at any second, but the bullets never came.

  If only I could just stay here . . .

  He kicked off from the bottom and swam to the far side of the pool. With a grunt, he hauled himself out of the water and rolled onto the deck, his rifle back up, trained on the window he had just leapt from. Muzzle flashes lit up the window from the inside. Flames danced in the window and licked up the walls from the fire now raging inside his bedroom. He heard voices barking instructions in a foreign language but in a cadence familiar to operators. Another explosion shook the building as a second grenade exploded a hole in the back wall of Lankford’s bedroom.

  Nick stifled the urge to shout the spook’s name as debris rained down in the yard and splashed into the pool. He scanned the yard for Lankford—maybe he’d gotten out before . . . Then he saw something smoking a few yards from him that made his heart sink. A boot. Lankford’s boot. The condo shuddered, creaked, and then collapsed in on itself, the back half of the structure giving way. Nick looked away. Lankford was gone.

  He was alone—again.

  He ducked into a tactical crouch and moved to the fence line, easing right into the bushes. From the shadows, he scanned the rear of the complex over his rifle but saw no movement. Thick black smoke was now pouring out of the shattered glass doors that led from the living room to the pool deck. He heard shouting from his right and looked over to see three black-clad figures standing over five Chinese businessmen from the other half of the duplex. The executives knelt beside the pool, arms raised. One captive was naked, three wore silk pajamas, and the last was in boxers. A much younger woman—a professional, Nick guessed—was sobbing. Before Nick could decide what to do, one of the black-clad men barked an order, and the other assaulters delivered five rapid gunshots, exploding the businessmen’s heads in geysers of blood and brains. The young girl shrieked hysterically and then was silenced with a bullet of her own. He had just watched the cold-blooded murder of six completely innocent people. Either the killers assumed that they too were CIA, or they were just keeping things neat and clean.

  With the executions complete, the three killers moved as a pack back toward the CIA half of the “safe” house. Nick raised his rifle and took aim at one of the black-hooded heads . . .

  Lankford’s dead, along with everyone else inside the house. Going out in a blaze of glory won’t help anyone.

  He lowered his rifle and crept along the wall to the back corner. After a quick glance behind him, he rolled over the fence and disappeared into the dense tree line behind the row of duplexes. As he moved deeper into the woods, he performed a rapid self-assessment. He was bruised and sore but had sustained no injuries. The wail of approaching sirens convinc
ed him it was time to ditch the assault rifle. He still had the compact Sig Sauer pistol tucked in his waistband. He transferred the Sig and extra mags to his backpack and hid the machine gun under a patch of ground cover and fallen palm fronds. Then he turned west and began the trek away from Discovery Bay. He had to get off Lantau Island, and his best hope was to catch the first ferry of the morning at Mui Wo.

  Time was his enemy.

  His body was not among the dead in the safe house.

  When the men who were hunting him realized that . . . the hunt would begin anew.

  CHAPTER 12

  Silvermine Bay Ferry Pier

  Mui Wo, Lantau Island, Hong Kong

  0605 hours local

  Nick sat alone on a wooden bench.

  The green-painted slats were dappled with dew. A somber fog hung over the bay, and the heaviness of it matched his mood. His jeans were still damp from his plunge in the pool, making it impossible to warm up despite the hot cup of coffee he clutched in both hands. An overwhelming fatigue was making it hard to stay sharp. It had been like this in the Teams. He would go hours, sometimes days, running a hundred miles an hour with his hair on fire, but the moment he was confronted with a few minutes of inactivity—waiting for a helicopter or, in this case, a ferry to Hong Kong Island—the exhaustion would cave in on him like an avalanche.

  His head bobbed with microsleep.

  Unacceptable.

  He had to stay sharp; his life depended on it.

  He stood and checked the time. The next ferry was scheduled to dock in five minutes. Five minutes left on Lantau. Five minutes for the men hunting him to take their shot. Whether you’re waiting for salvation or waiting to die, five minutes is an eternity. He scanned the other passengers milling about the pier, looking for malevolent cues. No furtive glances. No nervous body language. No hands buried deep in long coat pockets . . .

  His heart rate ticked down a notch.

  He glanced out at the water. The ferry was on approach and slowing. According to the posted schedule, this was the high-speed ferry, crossing the bay to Pier Five in only thirty-five minutes. Getting off Lantau alive was his first and only priority at the moment, but the minute he stepped foot on Hong Kong Island, he’d need to find a place to hole up. He was short on resources, which meant he’d need to stay somewhere cheap, and that meant somewhere in the unsavory part of town. Fate, apparently, was not without an ironic sense of humor. His vision of hiding out Cold War–style in a slum was soon to be a reality.