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

by Alex Ryan

  Nick leaned over closer to see the screen more clearly as Jin scrolled through the pictures. He kept swiping until he found the girl’s haunting, eyeless visage.

  The Mayor grunted his disgust and displeasure at the sight. “It’s her.”

  “I’m sorry, Jin,” Dash said.

  Nick saw the muscles in Gang Jin’s jaw tighten before he spoke. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  “Nobody did,” Dash said, trying—Nick thought—to ease the guilt they could all see he was piling on his conscience.

  The Mayor of the Underground City handed the phone back to Dash and said, “I will help you put an end to this. What do you need?”

  They listened without interrupting while Dash laid out her plan to go undercover as an intermediary representing a wealthy organ buyer. If Jin could facilitate a meeting, then Zhang and Nick could orchestrate an “intervention”—her word for what Nick knew would likely involve gunfire and death to capture the principals, whoever they were. Once they cracked the facade, they could bring the entire corrupt operation tumbling down and, in doing so, find out how high the conspiracy went. When she’d finished talking, the Mayor looked at Nick and said, “Are you seriously going to let her do this?”

  “Absolutely not,” Nick said, staring at Dash with a look that would make his feelings—about both her and her plan—quite obvious.

  “These are very dangerous people, Dazhong,” Jin said, turning back to her. “The client meetings never take place in the Underground City. As a facilitator, I can make the introduction and vouch for your cover story, but if they feel threatened, if something goes wrong, I will not be able to help you.”

  “I understand, but I won’t be alone. I’ll wear a wire, and I have the best backup in the world in case anything happens—two Snow Leopards, a Navy SEAL, and the CIA,” she said, turning to her friends. “Right?”

  A stone-faced Zhang didn’t say anything. Then, after a long beat, he slowly nodded. “That’s right.”

  “You can’t seriously intend to go along with this plan of using Dash as shark bait,” Nick protested.

  “Given her medical knowledge, she is the most qualified person for the operation. We are being hunted, and time is of the essence,” Zhang said. “I don’t see a better path forward.”

  “Then at least let me come with you,” Nick protested. “You can pretend I’m your client—a wealthy American who can’t get an organ in the US.”

  “Be realistic, Nick,” Dash said with a patronizing smile. “Look in the mirror. You’re the picture of perfect health. No one would believe that you are suffering from renal failure, or liver failure, or any other organ failure for that matter.”

  “Then I . . . I can be your bodyguard.”

  “You don’t speak Chinese, Nick,” Zhang said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  Nick looked desperately at Lankford.

  “They have a point,” the CIA man said with a shrug.

  “She won’t be alone,” Zhang said. “Lieutenant Chung can be her escort. We’ll set up a mobile command center, and the three of us will monitor everything. As soon as she makes contact, we will intervene and grab the organ broker, and then it’s our turn to ask the questions.”

  Nick didn’t like the plan, but their options were severely limited. They were targets for assassination, and the only way to turn the tables was to penetrate the enemy’s network. He swallowed hard but didn’t say anything.

  “Good,” Dash said, a little too optimistically. “It’s settled.”

  Jin eyed her dubiously like a concerned big brother. After a long pause, he said, “For the record, I agree with Nick, but I’ll do as you ask.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I knew I could count on you.”

  Jin sighed. “First things first, I need the details of your cover identity. It must be perfect. Like I said, these people don’t fuck around.”

  “Don’t worry. It will be solid,” Zhang said. “I’ll build it myself, and Lieutenant Chung can help me populate the government databases.”

  “And you’ll need to make an earnest deposit. One hundred thousand dollars, nonrefundable.”

  Zhang screwed up his face. “One hundred thousand US dollars?”

  Jin nodded.

  “I’ll need signatory approval to move that much money. Given our current situation, that’s impossible,” Zhang said.

  “Without the money, you have no chance of securing a meeting,” the Mayor said.

  After a long, sobering pause, Lankford grumbled. “Give me the routing information, and I’ll make it happen.”

  “You will?” Zhang and Nick said with simultaneous disbelief.

  “Those bastards murdered Peter, blew up my safe house along with four of my staff, and tried to kill me and Foley,” Lankford said. “Consider this my down payment on revenge.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Qin Shi Huang Terracotta Warrior Museum

  Xi’an, China

  “Let me do all the talking,” Dash said to Lieutenant Chung as they approached the entrance to the museum.

  “Understood,” the young Snow Leopard Officer replied.

  “Even if they ask you a question directly, please defer to me. For the purposes of this meeting, you are my hired security. I do not require your participation in the negotiation, even if things appear to be going badly.”

  “Yes, Dr. Chen.”

  “And try to look a little bit more intimidating.”

  Chung’s jaw hardened, and his caramel-colored eyes bore into her with a cold hatred that made her take an involuntary step backward.

  “Not that intimidating.”

  His scowl evaporated, and he winked at her.

  They walked across the courtyard to the entrance of the museum. She purchased two tickets and moved into one of two security checkpoint lines where tourists were opening their backpacks for inspection. Lieutenant Chung was dressed innocuously in street clothes instead of his usual all-black tactical uniform, but when it was their turn in queue, he provided his Snow Leopard ID to the checkpoint security guard and discreetly informed the young man that he was carrying a concealed weapon. Dash’s pulse jumped when the guard’s right hand immediately shifted to the grip of his sidearm. Cool and collected, Chung asked that the guard call in the request over the radio to his supervisor, assuring him that arrangements had already been made with the museum director and chief of security. Eyeing Chung with suspicion, the guard made the call. The answer came back after a brief delay, and two minutes later, they were inside the main exhibit hall, incident-free.

  Despite being Chinese born and raised, this was Dash’s first visit to the Terracotta Warrior Museum. It was something she’d always wanted to see, but the trip to Xi’an was one she’d never taken the time to make. The main exhibit hall, or vault one, was the largest and most famous of the exhibits. The sheer enormity of the space was breathtaking. At 230 meters long east to west, by 62 meters wide north to south, the domed exhibit reminded her of an aircraft hangar. An elevated perimeter-observation track surrounded an open excavation pit, giving visitors a 360-degree view of the two thousand fully excavated warriors standing in parallel columns. An estimated six thousand fire-clay warriors and horses remained to be unearthed.

  “This is unbelievable,” she said to Chung, staring across row after row of tightly packed life-size figures. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “I don’t know,” Chung replied. “Looks like every sidewalk in Beijing at rush hour.”

  “You’re just like Zhang. Nothing impresses you guys.”

  “Oh, that’s not true,” he said with a sardonic smile. “The new Shenyang J-31 stealth fighter is pretty impressive.”

  “Boys and their guns,” she said, shaking her head for dramatic effect.

  She saw Chung’s expression suddenly darken. She turned and followed his gaze to a middle-aged Chinese man in a suit approaching, flanked by four security guards. The guards were dressed in uniforms matching the ones worn by the g
uards at the museum entrance checkpoint. The entourage stopped in front of them.

  “You must be Ming Su Lin,” the businessman said to her and flashed her a vulpine grin, showing a mouthful of perfectly straight, perfectly white polished teeth. She disliked him immediately.

  She forced a smile. “Yes, and this is my associate, Xi Hicheng,” she said, gesturing to Lieutenant Chung.

  The businessman extended his hand. “You may call me Mr. Lu.”

  She took his hand and decided he was probably using a cover identity just as she and Lieutenant Chung were. Mr. Lu’s grip was cold and hard as stone. She squeezed his hand politely, which he returned with just enough pressure to make her wince. A shiver snaked down her spine. Something was awry with this man. She sensed a keen agitation lurking just below the surface. He reminded her of a wounded animal—unpredictable, dangerous, and in pain.

  He released her hand.

  Without even acknowledging Chung’s presence, Lu turned to face the exhibit, placing both his hands on the railing. “It’s a pity,” he said, gazing at the exhibit below.

  “What’s a pity?” she said, playing along.

  “This,” he said, gesturing to the terracotta army.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He didn’t elaborate. After a beat, he said, “I’m a descendant of his.”

  “A descendant of who?”

  “The First Emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang.”

  “Is that so?” she said, trying to navigate her way through the disjointed conversation. “He was a great leader, they say—the first leader to unite China under singular rule and law.”

  “He was a fool—superstitious and single-minded. The true genius behind all the Emperor’s accomplishments was his second in command, Chancellor Li Si.”

  For a split second, she swore she saw malice in his eyes, but then he smiled warmly at her. “I have a surprise for you,” he said, stepping away from the rail. “Come, follow me.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, not moving.

  “Down into the vault,” he said. “I’ve arranged a private tour, so you can approach the warriors. They are more impressive up close. Every face is unique, did you know that?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I think I remember reading that.”

  “Come,” he said, beckoning her.

  She glanced at Chung. He gave a single shake of his head.

  “I’d rather conduct our business here,” she said.

  Mr. Lu’s smile evaporated. “Impossible,” he said, gesturing at the throngs of tourists mulling about. “Either we move to a more private location, or we part company. Make your decision now, because we will not meet again.”

  “All right,” she said after a beat, feeling Chung’s disapproving gaze on her. “Let’s go.”

  Mr. Lu’s smile returned. “Excellent.”

  He played tour guide, talking and gesturing as he led her and Chung down into the vault: “Every warrior, horse, and chariot was hand fashioned and intricately painted. Unfortunately, the paint has long since eroded, which is why all the statues are now the color of gray earth. But even without the paint, the diversity in facial structure and expression is remarkable—you can almost feel the soul of each warrior. I believe this authenticity can only be attributed to the fact that artisans did not use molds. Some estimates indicate that hundreds of thousands of laborers were conscripted to build the necropolis and the terracotta army, most of them toiling a lifetime on the project, with death serving as their only release.”

  She smiled and nodded, feigning polite interest as the man—with his four armed guards in tow—guided her and Chung on an intimate tour of the main exhibit. She knew this type of access was ordinarily reserved only for heads of state. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but she was not able to enjoy the moment because her nerves were on fire and her heart was pounding like a bass drum. What game was this guy playing? There had to be some reason for this private tour besides satisfying his ego by showing off his knowledge of ancient Chinese history. She glanced at Chung for reassurance, but the Snow Leopard didn’t notice because his eyes were scanning the area.

  “Fascinating,” she mumbled, turning back to look at Lu during a pause in his monologue.

  “But not as fascinating as what I’m about to tell you next. Do you know why the Emperor commissioned the terracotta warriors to be made?”

  “Because he was delusional,” she said, feeling the chill of a thousand blank stares from the warrior statues. “They say the Emperor believed he could take them with him into the afterlife, where they would serve as his eternal army,” she said.

  “You know your history,” he said with an awkward smile. “But the Emperor was not delusional, just obsessed. He was obsessed with immortality. He was obsessed with finding the Elixir of Life. He spent decades searching for it, organizing pilgrimages all across China. And do you want to know the greatest irony of all this?”

  She nodded.

  “He died during his third pilgrimage to Zhifu Island. The search for immortality was his ultimate and final undoing. If only the First Emperor were alive today, I would tell him the truth about the Elixir of Life and watch his reaction.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “What truth?”

  He leaned in and whispered to her, “The Elixir of Life is not a pill or a potion. You could search the world over and never find it—the secret is locked inside each and every one of us.”

  “Locked inside of us?” she repeated.

  “Yes,” he said, but when he pulled away, all the excitement and enthusiasm was gone from him. In a flat voice, he said, “I assume you are a proxy, sent here to negotiate on your client’s behalf.”

  “Yes,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Did you receive our wire transfer?”

  “We did.”

  “Good, so we are ready to proceed with the next steps?”

  “Almost, but first, tell me about yourself and your client. Personal history and motivations are a very important part of this process.”

  She swallowed and regurgitated the cover story they had concocted as a group in the Underground City with Gang Jin’s help. He listened thoughtfully, nodding as he did, while he led them out of the vault and into an underground hallway. He paused at a doorway labeled “Restricted, No Access” and waved one of his security guards up to unlock the door.

  Chung placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Where are we going?” Chung asked, eyeing Lu with cold suspicion.

  “Vault three,” Lu said, “to continue our tour.”

  “Vault three is that way,” Chung said, pointing off to their right.

  “He’s right,” she said, her stomach suddenly going sour.

  Lu sighed. “I told you, this is a private tour. We have access to restricted areas, off-limits to tourists. I promise, Dr. Chen, you won’t be disappointed.”

  Dash sensed movement behind her and felt a bee sting on the side of her neck. No, not a bee sting—the prick of a hypodermic needle and the subsequent burn as one of the guards injected her with a sedative. As the fog began to take her, she watched Lieutenant Chung pull his semiautomatic pistol from inside the flap of his jacket.

  Muzzle flashes and the roar of gunfire erupted in the tiny corridor.

  “No,” she heard herself say and felt her knees buckle as the world went black.

  CHAPTER 24

  Parking lot outside the Terracotta Warrior Museum

  Lintong District, Xi’an, Shaanxi, China

  1430 hours local

  When Nick was with the Teams downrange, the worst thing in the world was to not be out on the mission. It wasn’t boredom or wishing you were in the action—though those things were present for any SEAL not operating on the tip of the spear. It was sitting in the TOC—the tactical operations center—listening to the radio comms, watching IR imagery from overhead drones as your teammates converged on a target, seeing the firefight unfold, and knowing you could do nothing to help your brothers. It wa
s the helplessness that men trained to engage had to learn to overcome. As a SEAL, he had not handled “inaction” well.

  This was worse.

  Nick sat on a narrow, round stool inside the Nissan NV cargo van in front of the dark computer screen. Zhang and Lankford sat crowded in beside him, both on their own stools. Zhang had brought two other trusted Snow Leopards with them from Beijing, explaining that “four Snow Leopards were an exponentially more effective assault force than two,” a fact Nick understood well from his time with the SEALs. One of Zhang’s men sat behind the wheel in the driver’s seat, the other cross-legged on the floor at the back of the van, cradling an assault rifle. A crick in his neck was starting to antagonize Nick, and he desperately wanted to stand and stretch his spine out. Yet despite the extrahigh ceiling in the cargo area, the headroom wasn’t sufficient to stand in the van that Lankford insisted on calling the Snow Leopard Mystery Machine—a Scooby-Doo homage that none of their Chinese comrades understood, regardless of how many times he repeated it. After the fifth reference, Nick tried explaining as much to the man, but Lankford was undeterred.

  Presently, the CIA man was alternately humming and singing the Scooby-Doo theme song, sprinkling in only those lyrics he could remember.

  “Jesus, Lankford,” Nick growled when he finally couldn’t take it anymore. “Are you always this annoying on a mission?”

  “Only when I’m bored.”

  “Well, try to get unbored, because they just entered the building.”

  “All right, all right,” Lankford sighed. “But you do know the organ broker is not going to show. There’s no way this meeting goes down inside that place. Too crowded. Too much security.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “They’re scouting us. They’ll stay hidden, get some pictures, validate Chen and Chung’s fake identities, and then request a second meeting . . . undoubtedly at night, somewhere where they’ll have the upper hand. Trust me, this is not my first rodeo.”