Don Pendleton: Dragon Key

Crissey had been standing a few feet away holding his cell phone to his ear. He turned to the three new men. “Would one of you be so kind as to dump the van down the way?” he said. “And do take our friend and his little package to the designated drop point at your leisure.”

The other men nodded and hurried away.

Bolan watched as the truck with the prisoner and the crate drove off down the street, followed by the damaged van. He figured the Brits were perfectly capable of getting whatever was in the crate to a safe location for further review as well as interrogating the prisoner. The Agency could tag up with them later and decide if the Iranians had bought the real deal or not.

Bolan looked at Crissey, who still stood holding his cell phone with a worried expression on his face. “What’s up?”

Crissey heaved a sigh. “We’ve lost contact with two of my men—the ones who followed the Chinese with the briefcase.” He bit his lower lip. “They haven’t called in and I can’t seem to raise them.”

“Let’s go find them,” Bolan said, heading for the Englishman’s car.

Crissey nodded and hurried to the driver’s side. As Crissey drove to the warehouse district where they’d left the other two agents, Bolan felt his satellite phone vibrate. He took it out, glanced at the screen and answered the call with “Don’t you ever sleep?”

Brognola’s deep chuckle came from the other side of the world. “Hell, it’s zero-eight-fifteen here. Time for my midmorning snack while I get ready to watch Let’s Make a Deal. ”

“Why don’t I like the sound of that?” Bolan asked.

“You must be psychic.” Brognola’s laugh came through clear as a bell. “I need to run something by you, but how did the mission go?”

Just then Crissey pulled past the empty car the two MI6 agents had been driving.

“Hal, hold on,” Bolan said. He reached for his Beretta with his other hand.

No one else was in sight. Crissey swung the car into the alleyway and proceeded slowly down the narrow route.

“Striker, you still there?” Brognola asked.

The headlights shone over a pair of legs extending out from behind a row of garbage cans.

“Bloody hell,” Crissey said.

“Let me call you back,” Bolan said into the phone.

Chapter Two

It was almost four in the morning by the time Bolan and Crissey transported the two dead agents, Thomas Norris Trent and Peter J. Helmsworth, back to the British Embassy. Searching and clearing the rest of the warehouse had been tedious, but necessary, as well as erasing any trace that MI6 had been involved. Not finding Trent’s weapon had drawn the process out further, and finally the threat of a nascent sun forced them to abandon their search. They left the rest of the mess for the Hong Kong police. When they finally sat down in a small room next to the embassy cafeteria, neither man had much appetite, but both needed a cup of strong coffee. They’d been up for more than twenty-four hours straight. The Brit was holding up pretty well, Bolan observed, maintaining a bit of the traditional stiff upper lip, but the Executioner could tell the man was deeply affected by the deaths.

“Did you know those men well?” he asked, taking a sip from his mug.

Crissey nodded. “Tom Trent and I have been here on assignment for the past year and a half. Before that we did a tour in Afghanistan.” He forced a smile and dumped some more sugar into his cup. “After that one, we thought coming here would be a bit of a vacation.”

Bolan said nothing. He knew that dropping your guard on any assignment, no matter how benign it looked, could be a fatal error. “At least they’ll be buried in home soil.”

Crissey nodded again. “I do wish we could have found Trent’s pistol. I would have liked his father to have it. It was a stainless steel Walther PPS. Quite the good gun. Had TNT engraved on the slide in fancy script.” Crissey smiled wistfully. “His initials. Made quite a joke of it.”

“Think his killer took it?” Bolan asked.

Crissey shrugged. “Most likely, but perhaps that’s preferable to the Chinese finding it and being able to trace it back to us.” His brow furrowed. “Trent was no neophyte. He knew his stuff.”

Bolan considered this. Trent had apparently had his neck broken. There was also a large dark spot on the right side of the dead man’s jaw, although Bolan hadn’t taken the time to examine it closely. At least it appeared Trent’s death had been quick—no needless suffering.

Bolan drank some more coffee and stood. “I have to make a call.”

“Certainly,” Crissey said, also standing. “I’d better check in myself.” He showed Bolan to an adjacent room and left.

Bolan punched in the digits of Hal Brognola’s number on the satellite phone. He answered on the second ring, sounding as gruff as ever. “About damn time you called back. What, you enjoying the Hong Kong nightlife, or something?”

“Not hardly,” Bolan said. “I was helping our friends at MI6 clean up a little mess. They lost a couple guys.”

“Oh,” Brognola said. “Sorry to hear that.” He waited a beat, then asked, “You get the package?”

“The Brits are giving it a once-over now, along with a prisoner.”

Brognola grunted an approval. “One of the buyers?”

“Affirmative,” Bolan said. “And he speaks Farsi.”

Brognola swore. “That’s not good. If the Chinese are exporting technology to Iran it could mean big trouble.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think the Chinese government’s involved. If they were, I doubt they’d be using a channel like the Triads.”

“True,” Brognola said. “But it no doubt points to some high level corruption in the PLA.”

Bolan had considered that possibility, as well. Corruption was rampant in China, especially in the government. Having access to the guidance system for an advanced missile would mean somebody who was pretty high up the food chain was complicit.

“Anyway,” Brognola said, clearing his throat. “I’m glad you intercepted it. Good work. So how you doing?”

Bolan smiled in spite of his fatigue. The sound of Brognola shifting gears meant the other shoe was about to drop. “I could use a couple hours’ sleep, but what have you got?”

Brognola laughed, but it sounded forced. “Can’t put nothing over on you, can I?” He cleared his throat again. “Since you got that one about wrapped up, you feel up to another mission?”

Bolan paused as he felt exhaustion seeping through him.

Brognola seemed to take his hesitation as reticence. “I mean, since you’re in the neighborhood and all.”

“Can the Mr. Rogers imitation. What’ve you got?”

Brognola sighed. “You ever hear of a Chinese dissident called Han, Son Chu, aka Sammo Han?”

“Sammo Han,” Bolan said. “Isn’t he that one-armed lawyer?”

“Lawyer, activist, blogging sensation and darling of the free press.”

“Free press?” Bolan said with a chuckle. “In China?”

“The world press, as well. Anyway, he was placed under house arrest two days ago.” Brognola paused and then emitted what sounded like a grunt of pain or pleasure. Bolan imagined him taking a long sip of some of Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman’s god-awful coffee. Bolan drank some of his own coffee and found it weak by comparison.

“Anyway, seems that Sammo Han’s not only a celebrity on the world stage, he’s also valuable to the USA. But word is, the People’s Standing Committee is set to charge him with sedition, lock him up and throw away the key.”

“After they give him a fair trial, you mean.”

“If he even gets to a trial. Most likely he’ll be conveniently killed trying to resist arrest. That Agency team was sent to do an emergency evac from Beijing for him and his family.”