by Alex Ryan
Zhang shushed Lankford while wearing a harsh scowl. “I can’t hear when you talk so much.”
Nick nodded in agreement, but Lankford made a good point, and it calmed his nerves. Through the headset he wore over his right ear—the left earpiece pushed back so he could hear the conversation inside the van—he could hear Dash and Chung talking in clipped Chinese. He waited for Zhang or Lankford to translate for him, but neither man seemed inclined to do so at the moment, which meant either the dialogue was not important or it was very important. Given the intonation of Dash’s voice, he assumed the former.
“What’s going on?” he whispered to Lankford.
“They’re through security,” Lankford said.
More talking, then a prolonged pause, followed by a new voice—male, Chinese.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Lankford whispered. “I was wrong. The meet is a go.”
“Her contact says his name is Mr. Lu,” Zhang said, pulling up an employee directory for Nèiyè Biologic. “I’m sure it’s a legend, but it’s worth checking.”
“He’s asking them to follow him,” Lankford added.
“Where?” Nick asked.
Zhang raised a hand, listening, and then said, “Down into the vault for a VIP tour of the statues.”
“I don’t like it,” Nick said, and his leg began to bounce up and down like a piston. He could tell from the sound of Dash’s voice that she didn’t like it either. “Did she refuse?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Lankford said, “Lu just gave her an ultimatum.”
Her voice sounded very tense now. “We need to pull her, or go in.”
“Relax, Foley,” Lankford said, but his face was more sympathetic than his tone. “This isn’t the SEAL Teams. We can’t just kick in doors with a capture/kill agenda and hose down the joint. This is spycraft—it’s how the game is played.”
“Hang strong, Nick Foley,” Zhang said. “They are in one of the most crowded museums in the world, and she is with Lieutenant Chung. He will keep her safe.”
“Hang tough,” Nick mumbled, and Zhang’s left eyebrow rose, expressing his confusion. “The expression is ‘hang tough,’ not ‘hang strong,’” Nick explained. “What are they saying now?”
“He’s talking about the First Emperor and the history of the terracotta warriors . . . Everything is fine. Give it time . . .” Zhang suddenly lifted a closed fist.
“What happened?” Nick demanded, trying to make sense of the gibberish in his headphones.
“What did Lu just call her?” Lankford said, his voice sharp.
Zhang jerked his headset off and flung it at the console. “We have a problem,” he said, abruptly standing.
“Shit, they’re blown,” Lankford said. “Lu called her Dr. Chen. We gotta move.”
A heartbeat later, Nick heard the unmistakable staccato crack of gunfire over the comms channel. He jumped to his feet and banged his head on the ceiling in the process. Zhang passed a rifle to the driver and tossed the Snow Leopard in the back an extra magazine, while Nick snatched a QBZ-95 fully automatic assault rifle from the rack for himself. He looked over at Zhang, expecting him to order him and Lankford to wait in the van, but to his astonishment, the Snow Leopard Commander simply nodded and passed each of them a tactical vest emblazoned with Chinese symbols above the English words “SPECIAL POLICE GRP.”
“We must hurry,” Zhang said, and Nick slipped the two additional magazines of thirty rounds each into the magazine pouch on the front of his vest.
He followed Zhang out of the van and shifted automatically into combat mode. The instant his feet hit the ground, he dropped into a low tactical crouch, weapon at the ready. He fell in next to Zhang, but they hadn’t made it two steps when the screech of tires caused him to freeze. He spun right and watched a black SUV swerve and lock its brakes, coming to a halt in front of their van. A second vehicle executed the same maneuver behind them, boxing them in. Nick raised his rifle into firing position and pressed himself against the side of the van. He was well positioned to engage the front SUV and had to trust that Zhang’s Snow Leopards would take the rear, splitting the threat with him.
The front SUV’s doors flew open, and four men stepped out with Chinese assault rifles up and at the ready. Instead of tactical gear, these operators were dressed in dark suits, reminding Nick of the men who had tried to kill him on his first trip to Xi’an. He clenched his jaw and tensed his finger on the trigger guard of his rifle. He took aim through the iron sights of the rifle and placed a mental dot on the forehead of the armed agent closest to him.
Behind him someone, not Zhang, barked something in Chinese.
“Hold your fire,” Zhang ordered in English.
Nick kept his finger outside of the trigger guard but kept his weapon up.
“What the hell is going on, Zhang?” Lankford yelled from somewhere behind Nick.
“A misunderstanding,” Zhang yelled in English. Then he barked something else in Chinese.
More urgent and angry conversation in Chinese transpired around him while Nick and the Chinese suits played 5.8 × 42 mm brinkmanship.
“Commander Zhang is mistaken. There is no misunderstanding,” a female voice said in English as a pair of shapely legs stepped out of the lead SUV. “In fact, I think everything is now crystal clear.”
Nick shifted his gaze to the female agent and knew immediately that things had taken a turn for the worse. This woman was angry . . . very, very angry. At first glance, she was a doppelgänger for Dash, but upon closer scrutiny, their resemblance diverged. Where Dash’s eyes were kind and empathetic, the female agent’s gaze was angry and hard. Where Dash’s beauty was soft and feminine, this woman’s angular features might as well have been chiseled from stone.
She fixed her eyes directly on him, and as she spoke, it felt as if she was driving an iron spike straight into his heart.
“My name is Agent Ling Ju, of the Ministry of State Security,” she announced. “Nick Foley and Chet Lankford, you are both under arrest for espionage against the People’s Republic of China.”
CHAPTER 25
For a split second, Zhang actually considered shooting the bitch.
Yes, it would be impetuous, completely irrational, and even immoral, but in the heat of the moment, none of that mattered. Agent Ling Ju and her men in black had become an obstacle between him and Dazhong, and he didn’t do obstacles.
“Lower your weapons and step aside,” he shouted at her. “This is a counterterrorism operation. You and your men are interfering. Every second wasted puts lives in danger.”
Ling flashed him a smug scowl and started to argue, but he cut her off.
The words came with such fury that he drew stares from the gunmen on both sides. “Enough. I said step aside!”
Zhang saw trigger fingers shift from guards to triggers.
“We don’t have time for this shit, Zhang,” Nick called out. “Go.”
“What?” he said, turning to the American SEAL.
“Just go,” Nick said. “We’re all right.”
“How the fuck are we all right?” Lankford demanded from behind him.
“Please, go,” Nick said, ignoring his CIA counterpart’s protest. “Save her.”
Zhang nodded at the American and then turned to Ling. “This isn’t over,” he growled, then gave the hand signal to his men to move out. Without a backward glance, he took off in a sprint toward the museum, daring Ling and her men to shoot him in the back.
No bullets were fired.
He reached the museum in less than a minute and breached the main doors. The expansive vestibule was on lockdown, with visitors and staff crouched and cowering behind pillars, information kiosks, and in some instances, each other.
“Down in the vault,” a woman shouted at him from his left. “I heard many gunshots.”
“Which way?”
“That way,” she answered, pointing to his ten o’clock.
Zhang signaled to his two teammates to advance. Taking point
, he moved in a combat crouch toward a stairwell leading down to the vault. His feet flew down the stairs with blind precision as he sighted over his rifle for threats. At the bottom landing, he took a knee, and he felt his teammates shift into the ready position behind him. At the tap on his left shoulder, he stood, scanned forward, and then swung left to clear his left rear corner. As he scanned for shooters waiting in ambush, his mind was already processing the visual details he’d taken in from the rapid sweep—rows of warrior statues to his right, a deserted corridor leading away into shadow.
No, not deserted . . . There were bodies on the floor.
“Clear,” he barked and advanced on the corridor.
Three bodies, none of them Dr. Chen, lay sprawled in the geometries of death. They were dressed as security personnel—in gray trousers and dark-blue blazers—but had short Type 79 submachine guns connected with slings under their coats. The two closest men had bullet holes in their foreheads. The other lay facedown.
Nice work, Lieutenant Chung.
He stepped over the bodies, still scanning over his rifle, and advanced on the closed doorway ahead. At the door, he paused to glance at his fellow operators. Both men nodded. He counted down in a whisper: “Three, two, one . . .”
He breached the door with a sharp, hard kick. He entered the space, his rifle up, finger on the trigger. The room appeared to be a restoration and storage space, containing several statues in various states of repair and numerous wooden crates. In his peripheral vision, he saw black-booted feet sticking out from behind a wooden crate littered with bullet holes. Clearing left and right, he fast-stepped—still in a combat crouch—toward the boots, the pit in his stomach confirming what he would find.
He signaled for his teammates to clear the room while he rolled Lieutenant Chung gently over onto his back. There was no reason to check a pulse—the left side of Chung’s head was gone, evaporated by a burst of 7.62 rounds from the enemy submachine guns capable of emptying a magazine in less than two seconds. The crate beside him dripped with Chung’s blood and something else unpleasant.
Zhang stood, raising his weapon to the ready. “Status,” he barked into his mike. One voice answered in the earpiece in his left ear.
“All clear,” his Snow Leopard told him.
Moments later, they were beside him and moving together to a heavy metal door marked “Exit” at the far end of the room. Zhang breached first, clearing the concrete landing that served as a loading dock. He moved swiftly along the concrete apron out into the bright sunlight, his men falling in beside him.
The loading and parking area behind the building was vast—and empty.
Zhang dropped his weapon to his side and lowered his head.
She’s gone . . . I’ve failed.
“Now what?” his teammate asked.
“First, clear the museum and question the witnesses. Also, I want to know if the three dead guards are museum employees or hired help playing dress-up. I presume the latter. Review the security camera footage. I want face shots of these bastards; send the images to my phone. When the local police arrive, let them know it is a counterterrorism operation and we are in charge, but get their help in gathering information. If anyone gives you resistance, call me.” He turned his attention to the shorter but solidly built man to his left. “You come with me.”
The first operator moved back through the door, which clicked shut behind them. Zhang then sprinted around the building, his rifle in a low-slung position, and across the parking lot to their black NV van, the rear door still open on its hinges. His subordinate kept pace, his own rifle still up. Zhang jumped through the open door into the rear compartment.
“Any trace of our friends from Guoanbu?” he asked.
“None,” his subordinate answered, scanning the parking lot. “Nor the Americans.”
Zhang sat at the control panel and picked up one of the headsets, pressing one earpiece to his left ear. There was soft static. Zhang switched to the other two channels and heard nothing. Dazhong’s transmitter was dead. He tapped the mouse for the center computer in the row, and it flickered to life, but the left window, which should have been bouncing with yellow lines, was flat and still. Zhang slammed his fist down on the counter in frustration, and the other two screens flickered to life, both showing only screen savers with the Snow Leopard emblem in the center of a blue field.
To find the bastard who took her, he needed help.
He needed the Americans back.
Peter Yu had been a CIA asset. Zhang’s gut told him that Lankford and Foley knew more than they were letting on about Nèiyè Biologic. By the time the Guoanbu was done with them, Dazhong would be dead.
Zhang grimaced, realizing that what he was about to do was career-ending. In China, it might be life-ending.
Fuck it.
“Get in,” he said to the other operator.
Zhang unsnapped his rifle from its sling and moved through the passage to the front. He set his QBZ-95 on the floor and slid into the driver’s seat. The other Snow Leopard slipped into the front passenger seat and buckled in.
“Where are we going?” the man asked.
Zhang started the ignition. “Whatever happens,” he said, putting the heavy, overpowered van into gear, “remember you were following orders. The agents we are prosecuting are potentially involved in a conspiracy to cover up the murder of dozens of innocents and the assassination of Major Li.”
“You really think the MSS is involved?”
“I don’t know,” he said, answering honestly. “But their intervention enabled the people who killed Lieutenant Chung and kidnapped Dr. Chen to escape. And we know something else . . .”
“What’s that, sir?”
“That Nick Foley and Chet Lankford aren’t responsible.”
“We know that,” the young Snow Leopard replied, “but I don’t think Agent Ling cares.”
Zhang pressed the accelerator to the floor and headed toward the MSS field office in Xi’an. He weaved in and out of the traffic along the four-lane highway, heading into downtown.
“I see them,” his comrade said after several minutes, pointing at the two black SUVs caravanning ahead. “What’s the plan, sir?”
“The plan is to bluff an assault and take the Americans back.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. No lethal force, do you understand? We come at them hard, but if they call the bluff, we surrender. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The young man said, looking more and more unsettled as the implications of his Commander’s words sunk in.
In the left lane, Zhang closed the gap to the rear vehicle. The SUV’s windows were tinted dark, and he couldn’t make out the occupants inside. Standard procedure for the Snow Leopards would be for the rear vehicle to clear tails while the lead vehicle transported the detainees. Time to put his tactical driving prowess to the test. With his front bumper even with the SUV’s rear tires, Zhang cut the wheel right, hitting the SUV’s left rear corner panel. The SUV veered violently to the left, and Zhang felt the van losing control. He jerked the wheel hard into a correction, skidding onto the right shoulder and barely managing to keep the vehicle on the road. With traction regained, he piloted the van behind the SUV and then accelerated clear as the rear SUV spun out of control. In his side mirror, he watched the black vehicle spin off the road, dropping nose first into the ditch on the left highway shoulder.
The lead SUV began to accelerate, but it was too late. Zhang cut left, hitting the SUV in the right rear quarter panel and again accelerating through the impact. The black SUV spun in the opposite direction this time, and Zhang cut his wheel, spinning to a stop beside the SUV, his passenger side coming to rest against the passenger side of the SUV. Zhang and then his teammate were out of the van in seconds, rifles up and trained on the driver and Agent Ling.
“Step out of the vehicle with your hands in the air,” Zhang commanded.
“Are you mad?” the female MSS agent asked as she crawled over f
rom the passenger’s seat and exited on the driver’s side of the SUV. Unlike her driver, who had complied and raised his hands over his head, she placed her hands defiantly on her hips, her right hand near the butt of the pistol on her belt. “You’re going to burn for this, Zhang. This is treason.”
“It’s not treason, Special Agent Ling,” Zhang said. He needed to hurry, before the men in the SUV several hundred yards behind regained their composure and came to her aid. “You simply don’t have all the information. There are deadly forces at work against us. Our bioterrorism counterterrorism task force has been targeted. Major Li of the PLA has been assassinated, and my CDC team member, Dr. Chen, has been kidnapped. The two Americans in your custody are critical to my investigation. I am afraid you’ll just have to trust me on this.”
“Trust you?” Ling demanded and took a step toward him, despite the assault rifle pointed at her chest. “You demand my trust as you point your weapon at me? You will go to prison for this.”
“I don’t have time to debate this with you. You have trusted me once before, though I can see you do not remember.”
Ling’s face contorted as recognition flickered in her eyes.
Zhang smiled at her and called out, “Nick Foley and Chet Lankford, exit the vehicle and come with me.”
The driver-side rear door opened, there was some fumbling, and then Foley and Lankford emerged. Zhang turned back to Ling.
“We met in Juba two years ago, although I was working under an alias. The situation was similar: you were working with incomplete information and nearly made a career-ending mistake then as well. But I moved some chess pieces to help you.”
Ling looked at him more closely, her brow knitted up. “That was you?”
Zhang nodded.
Nick and Lankford were behind him now.
“Get in the van,” he said over his shoulder. Then he smiled at Ling. “Give me forty-eight hours. That’s all I ask; then you can do what you must.”
Sudden movement from his left made Zhang swing his weapon that way, his eyes still on Agent Ling. He spied a weapon over the roof of the SUV. His teammate saw it too and swiveled his rifle . . .
