Don Pendleton - Lethal Risk

“Well, regardless of whether you want to or not, you’re heading into a Chinese prison anyway.” The mission controller flipped to another slide. “We’ve located Liao—inside Qincheng Prison.”

Bolan stared at the overhead satellite view of the prison built with cooperation from the Soviets during the 1950s. “Well, at least they won’t suspect anyone trying to break into the place.”

“Yes, that may be your only advantage,” Price said. “Bear and Akira are working up an infiltration plan as we speak. They’ll work this mission exclusively.”

“Well, then, there isn’t much else to say, is there?”

Bolan put both hands on the table and started to rise, but caught Brognola’s troubled look. “If you chomp that cigar any harder, Hal, you’ll end up eating half of it. What’s on your mind?”

To her surprise, Price saw something very rare—a hesitant reply from Hal Brognola. “Striker, you can always refuse this mission. We’ve done a lot over the years, you and me. Pounded a lot of ground, kicked in a lot of doors.”

“And did a lot of good along the way, too,” Bolan reminded him.

The big Fed nodded. “I know, I know. And normally, I’d be the first person backing you wherever you needed to go to complete the mission. I get it, and I get the risks you and the others take every time you’re in the field. But this one…” He spread his hands helplessly. “I just have a bad feeling about it. You’re sticking your head right into the dragon’s maw, and all by your lonesome, too. Shit, I don’t even think the embassy can help you if you get in a jam over there. You can say no.”

“Hal, you know I wouldn’t refuse a mission the President thinks is important. And if the intelligence this man can deliver gives us the edge in dealing with the Chinese —and can prevent them from starting a war in the region—then it’s worth the risk,” Bolan replied. “I’ve executed enough missions with minimal equipment going in before. Besides, it’s Beijing. I’m sure there’s a thriving black market that will supply me with everything I need at only modestly exorbitant prices.”

“Be that as it may, Striker, this whole thing is starting to stink to me. We should consider the possibility that this is a trap, that this Liao could be a double-agent dangled in front of the US in the hope of catching us in the act.”

“Hal—” Bolan regarded the big Fed soberly for a moment “—I go into just about every foreign country thinking someone’s gunning for me, because usually someone is. But the day I let that stop me from doing what we think is right is the day I hang it up for good.”

“All right, I’ve said my piece.” Brognola turned to Price. “Do you have anything to add?”

The Farm’s mission controller cleared her throat. “Given the potential difficulties of you not having access to your usual assets in the field, I’ve taken the liberty of working up a mission profile that would at least have you working with someone over there that could ease your way. He would have to travel as a tourist and rendezvous with you in the city itself—”

“If you’re going to say John Trent’s name, forget it,” Bolan interrupted her. “He almost got killed in one of Stony Man’s ops. I’m not saying he wouldn’t help, but it’s pretty clear to me that the President would pitch a fit if he even got a whiff of a civilian being involved. It wouldn’t matter anyway. This one’s too big for John, and that’s not a slight. It’s going to have to be me—and me alone—going in.”

Price grinned as part of Brognola’s tortured cigar hit the conference table.

“Don’t worry, Hal. I’ll be back before you know it. The good news in all this is that they have no idea I’m coming. If Liao is already in custody, they probably think the matter’s over already. You’d be surprised at how much I can get done in those circumstances. Just make sure that cover jacket is airtight. The last thing we need is anyone in China getting even a hint that there’s a US operative in their midst.”

Price slid a flash drive across the table to him. “This contains all of the data that Bear and Akira have been able to find so far. It’s a thirteen-hour flight from DC to Moscow, where you’ll officially launch from, so hopefully they’ll be able to ascertain where Liao’s family is being held in that time. Do you have any questions?”

“Just one,” the Executioner replied. “When do I leave?”

Zhang Liao’s eyes fluttered open and he blinked at the soft white light shining down on him from the ceiling.

Turning his face away from the glow, he licked his dry lips and tried to swallow through a parched throat. His mouth also tasted sour and fuzzy, as though he’d been asleep for a long time. His head was pounding and slow, too, as if he’d just tied several on at the bar before going home. Liao didn’t drink, however—a rarity among Chinese. He preferred to keep his mind sharp to navigate the intricate corridors of power and deals within deals he had been trained to handle since he was a teenager.

So, if he hadn’t had anything to drink…what had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was leaving his office for what would have been the last time…

The embassy!

He was supposed to be going to the US Embassy to defect, but something had happened on the way… He had been jostled by a stranger, and that was the last thing he could remember.

Reaching up to touch his forehead as he tried to recall what had happened to him, Liao got another surprise upon seeing his bare arm, which was usually dressed in an English-cut, button-down Oxford shirt. His eyes widened in surprise when he looked down to realize he was now dressed in a paper-thin hospital gown.

His gaze traveled the rest of the room, taking in the metal-framed hospital bed he was laying on, the sterile, bare walls surrounding him, the door that appeared to lead to a small washroom, the safety-wired glass window with drawn curtains, and the security-locked, handleless door that was keeping him from leaving. Instinctively he sucked in a breath of the slightly metallic-tasting air as he realized that wherever he was, he was a prisoner.

He looked down to the left at a cheap pressboard nightstand next to his bed, and right, where a wheeled tray sat with what looked like a call button on it. With cold fear starting to swirl in the pit of his stomach, Liao tested his legs and found that they worked just fine. Swinging them over the side, he got up, steadied himself as a wave of dizziness crashed over him, and walked to the washroom.

Everything in here was either stainless steel—like the toilet and sink, which were both bolted to the wall—or plastic, like the water cup, which was so flimsy it couldn’t be used for anything other than its intended purpose. Liao drank two cups of flat, warm water, and washed his mouth out with another cupful. He splashed some water on his face, feeling somewhat refreshed at the wet sensation, then dried himself with the small rough-cotton cloth sitting on the side of the sink.

With nothing left to do, he returned to the bed and sat. Spotting the window again, he got up and walked over to it, moving the blinds aside just enough to peek out.

As he’d feared, it didn’t show the outdoors. Instead it looked out onto a drab hallway, where men and women in drab-colored scrubs bustled back and forth down the corridor. One additional thing that he knew most hospitals didn’t have: the armed guard standing outside his door.

What is this place? he wondered. Where am I?

Just then the door clicked and swung inward, making him scoot back toward the bed. A man in a doctor’s white coat and dark maroon scrubs walked in, followed by the armed guard he had seen outside his room. The doctor, carrying a computer tablet under his arm, was probably a decade younger than him, his black hair already receding from his forehead buzzed short so he didn’t have to worry about it. The guard was even younger, maybe midtwenties and, from what Liao could see, in excellent physical shape. He was also well armed, with a holstered black pistol on the belt at his waist and a stubby submachine gun hanging from a strap over his shoulder. He stood stiffly just inside the door and never took his eyes off Liao.