Cameron, Marc - Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

Clark ignored the questions, but asked one of his own.

“Tell me our route.”

Clark watched carefully as Samedi explained how he planned to stack the bolts of cloth so that a hollow space remained inside, and then drive them to “the border”—though he did not explain which one. It would be “easy,” “no problems,” “for sure.”

Samedi’s nonchalance about crossing the border—the most dangerous portion of the trip—while he continued to sweat his ass off just talking in the cold barn set Clark’s teeth on edge.

Customarily, Clark held to the rule of threes—one hiccup could be an anomaly, even two, but three hiccups, no matter how small, and he’d shut down most ops for a fresh start. Samedi’s arrival ahead of schedule, the almost-correct passphrase, the sweating—all of it could be explained away, but …

Hala walked out of the shadows, chewing her shirt.

“Come, come, child,” Samedi said, brightening. “Time to go.” He turned to Clark, less twitchy now, but still sweating. “Will you help me load?”

“Of course,” Clark said, releasing a pent-up sigh. He relaxed a hair—but still followed Samedi out to make sure he didn’t call anyone while he backed his truck into the warehouse.

The loading went quickly, with the Uyghur directing more than doing. It would be a relatively short ride, so the vacant cavern they’d left in the middle of the stack was just large enough for both Clark and Hala to sit down. Samedi used sharp wood dowels to pin the interior bolts of cloth in place. He’d done this before.

Finished, Clark used the rear bumper to climb out of the truck and turned to find the muzzle of a black Makarov pistol pointed directly at his chest.

Samedi grabbed Hala’s coat by the shoulder, but she yanked away and ran to Clark.

Clark raised both hands. “It’s okay,” he said, trying to calm the girl. He cocked his head at Samedi. “Is there a problem I don’t know about?”

“There is no problem.” Samedi shrugged, keeping his Makarov level, his bony finger curled around the trigger.

With ballistics falling between a .380 ACP and a nine-millimeter Luger, the little 9x18 Makarov was plenty capable of ruining Clark’s day. They were five feet apart, not quite close enough to make a move without risking Hala.

Samedi thrust the muzzle forward, driving home his point. “You pay one hundred thousand American dollars and I drive you out. Simple. No problem.”

Clark kept his right hand up but pulled Hala closer to him with his left. His hand remained there, resting behind her hood.

“We can discuss this like businessmen.”

“There will be no discussing,” Samedi said. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

“Then we do have a problem,” Clark said. “Because I can’t get you that kind of money until we are out of China.”

“That is your problem,” Samedi said. “Not mine.”

Hala’s shoulders began to shake. White-hot fury swelled in Clark’s gut. He took a deep breath, tamping down the anger.

It would come in handy later.

“You frighten the girl,” he said, flicking his raised hand, getting Samedi accustomed to movement. “Look, I’m not lying to you. I do not have that kind of money with me.”

The pistol dipped an inch, but steadied quickly. “How much you have?”

Clark groaned. He had yet to decide if it was better or worse that this guy was such a moron. “About five hundred dollars.” He lowered his right hand as if to reach into his coat.

Samedi barked. “Do not move! I know you have gun in pocket. I will shoot the girl. I swear it!”

Clark’s hand went back up. “Okay,” he said. “It’s okay. Do you want the five hundred or not?”

Samedi’s bushy brow was no longer able to keep the sweat out of his eyes. He squinted, attempting to wipe it away with his free hand. The pistol never wavered off Clark.

The Uyghur chewed on the idea for a long moment, and then gestured at Hala with his chin. His top lip curled into a derisive sneer. “The girl should bring a good price elsewhere. I will take your money and turn you in to the Bingtuan.” He snapped bony fingers, ordering Hala to him, keeping Clark at bay with the Makarov. “Come, child. I won’t hurt you.”

Clark held the back of Hala’s coat, keeping her beside him. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re not going to do that.”

Hala spit out her shirt collar and spoke up. “I have money,” she offered. Breathless. Hopeful. She dug into her coat pocket.

Samedi laughed. “I can have your money no matter what. Now come.”

“You may as well shoot me now,” Clark said, drawing Samedi’s attention off Hala as she withdrew the Snake Slayer pistol from the coat pocket. Her hand swung behind her back with the derringer. She tried to cock it, but Clark gave her neck a gentle pat.

Completely unaware, Samedi brandished his Makarov, feeling in control enough that he shuffled a half-step forward. “You would bring more money alive,” he said. “But I will shoot you. I promise.”

Hala began to sob. “I am scared, John.” The tears were real, and her shoulders shook so violently that Clark feared she might drop the derringer.

Samedi took another half-step, beckoning impatiently with snapping fingers.

Right hand still raised, Clark crouched as if to comfort the girl. His left slid down her back to take the little derringer. He studied Samedi, gauging the distance—a scant four feet.

“It will be all right,” Clark said, calm, but loud enough that Samedi heard it. “You must do exactly as I say. I won’t let him hurt you. I promise.”

Hala nodded.

Samedi snapped his fingers.

Clark cocked the pistol.

“Run!” Clark said.

Samedi’s head snapped up, shocked. His eyes shifted to Hala, only for a moment, but it was long enough for Clark to spring forward, past the other man’s gun, while he brought up the Snake Slayer. Clark fired instantly.

The blast took Samedi in the teeth, the force of the point-blank explosion and over a hundred tiny lead pellets tearing away his lower jaw. The Makarov slipped from his hand and he teetered there, blinking, before crumpling to the dust.

Clark scooped up the Makarov, quickly press-checking the chamber and making certain it was not cocked before dropping it into his coat pocket opposite the Norinco. He was certain the Snake Slayer worked, so he kept it in hand as he herded Hala away from Samedi’s body.

Clark squatted in front of her with a low groan. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, her little chest wracked with sobs. “What now?”

Clark released a long breath. “Honestly,” he said. “I have no idea. But you did good there. You saved our lives.”

She buried her small face against his chest and began to cry in earnest. Clark patted the back of her head, his mind going a hundred miles an hour. “We’ll figure something out,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as her. “How about you sit in the truck while I take care of something really quick?”

She leaned away, looking up at him with doe eyes. “You have to hide him?”

He nodded.

“Can I play with the baby chickens?”

Clark dragged Samedi’s body to the corner, dumping it in the shadows behind a metal desk. It was the best he could do in an otherwise empty warehouse. He knelt beside the body, checking for an extra magazine for the Makarov. Finding none, he opened the man’s wallet. The ID card was in Chinese, with the Uyghur name spelled out in phonetic characters with Arabic beneath. Clark’s Arabic was rusty, but if he read the script correctly, this man’s name was Yunus Samedi, not Timur Samedi, whom Clark was supposed to meet.

Clark left the wallet on top of the body, open, to lead authorities to think Samedi had been killed in a robbery. He could hear Hala jabbering at the chickens, and stooped so he could look under the belly of the truck.