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

“Easy, Jack,” Adara said, cursing softly as Ryan drifted the van through a sweeping corner, chattering the rear tires.

“Sorry,” he said, stomach in his throat. He’d adjusted the rearview mirror so he could keep an eye on what was happening in the back.

Covered in blood, Adara cradled Lisanne’s shoulders in her lap, working frantically. She’d applied a SWAT-T Tourniquet first—essentially a long strip of rubber—as soon as they were in the van. It was small, always in her pocket, and handy, so it went on while Ryan was getting the bag. She’d put a windless tourniquet over that one by the time they hit the edge of town, twisting it tight enough to make Lisanne wince from the pain. People liked to argue tourniquets in the comfort of their living rooms, throwing out stats about lost limbs and less drastic alternatives. Rolling down a mountain road in the back of a van in a hostile country with blood squirting out a brachial artery—all such arguments were void. Lisanne could well lose her arm if circulation wasn’t restored in the next few hours, but Adara had seconds to stop the bleeding.

“How …” Lisanne gave a hollow cough. It was weak, little more than a gagging click. “How … bad?”

“You’re hanging on,” Adara said. “And that is amazing.”

“Don’t … sugarcoat …” Lisanne said.

Ryan wiped away a tear with his forearm.

“We’ve stopped the bleeding in your arm,” Adara said.

“Hurts like hell,” Lisanne said. “What else?”

“Two shots to the abdomen,” Adara said. “No exit wounds.”

Lisanne arched her back, grimacing, and then fell limp.

Adara patted her cheek. “Hey, kiddo! Lisanne!” She put two fingers to Lisanne’s neck, sighing in relief, sniffing back tears like she had a cold. “I have a pulse. It’s fast as a runaway train from blood loss, but it’s still there. The shots missed her lungs, but one of the bullets went in right where her spleen is.”

Ryan glanced in the rearview mirror. He swallowed, straining to get the words out of his throat. “What … can you do?”

Adara shook her head. “If the bullet hit her spleen and she’s bleeding internally … there’s nothing I can do.”

Ding’s voice came over the net. “Jack, Jack, Ding. How’s she holding up?”

“Not good,” Ryan said. “We’re coming into the village now …” He tapped his brakes, slowing to let a dark beater crew-cab pickup coming in from the west turn onto the road ahead of him.

“Tell me that’s you,” Chavez said.

Ryan flicked his brights on and off.

“Gotcha,” Chavez said.

Ryan chanced a look over his shoulder. “How we doing?”

Adara shook her head. “Same. She’s out, but still breathing on her own and I have a pulse. She’s a tough lady.”

“No kidding …”

Ahead, the little pickup truck’s headlights went dark. Still well away from the docks, it stopped in the middle of the road.

“Tell Jack to stand by,” Yao said from the front seat of the Great Wall pickup. Ma drove. Chavez sat in the middle. Medina and the two Uyghur men sat in the back. The men made no secret of the fact that if they suspected either intruder of treachery that would harm Medina, they would not hesitate to shoot.

Yao had to ask to borrow the night-vision goggles back from the young Uyghur, Perhat, who seemed particularly fascinated by it.

“Something isn’t right,” Yao said. “The skipper is supposed to be alone.” He passed the NVGs to Ma.

“Alone?” Ma said, peering through the device. “This boat is very crowded at the moment.”

Lisanne was awake again, whimpering softly, grimacing from the pain.

Yao came over the net, hollow. “We’re blown,” he said. “I don’t know how, but there are people on the boat. I can’t be certain, but I think it’s the tall guy with the hat.”

“We can’t be blown,” Ryan said. “We’ll just have to take the boat back from them.”

“Jack,” Yao said. “I want to run down there and kill that son of a bitch. But they’d see us coming before we made it halfway down the pier.”

“I don’t care,” Jack said. “Lisanne needs a doctor—”

“It’s okay,” Lisanne whispered from the back. “It’s my fault anyway.” She coughed again. “Should have paid better attention …”

Ryan pounded the steering wheel with both hands.

“We can’t be blown!”

“Jack, really,” Lisanne said, every breath like she was leaking air. “It’s …” She licked her lips, summoning the effort for a few more words. “It’s … not your fault …”

“Stand by,” Yao said over the net. “Medina has an idea.”

Fu Bohai cursed himself for not telling his men to kill the woman straightaway. They had yet to answer his calls, and that had him worried. The woman’s friends must have shown up. He had little doubt now that these tourists from Finland were the ones who had chartered this boat. There were cabins around the lake. Perhaps they had knowledge that Medina Tohti was hiding out at one of them. It was the only thing that made sense in a country with security cameras on virtually every light post. Yes. She must be hiding in the wilderness, possibly being supplied by the person with the boat whose ticket stubs the CIA officer spoke of. Fu and his men would simply wait, and then force them to disclose her location. With any luck, he would have the Uyghur bitch by morning.

He tried Qiu once more on the phone … What had the CIA officer in Albania called him? Pukwudgie … What an amusing word.

Again, there was no answer.

He slapped the chart table with his palm, causing his men to glance up from their phones and the boat captain to give a muffled yelp beneath the tape over his mouth.

Yang, who was seated at the dinette, perked up and peered out the window.

“Did you hear that?”

“I heard nothing,” Fu said.

Then, far down the docks, a boat motor burbled to life.

Fu bolted to his feet, rushing out onto the deck to look down the pier. Gray hulks bobbed side by side all the way down, barely visible against the ink-black water. The engines were running, as Medina and her fellow conspirators would expect them to be when they arrived—but he’d never expected to actually launch. The boat was still tied to its moorings.

Farther down, the engine burbled louder. Something thumped against the dock. A light flashed briefly across the water—getting their bearings—and then winked out at the same moment the engine opened up. In his peripheral vision, Fu watched a small cabin runabout disappear into the night.

He loosed a scream of rage, pounded the bulkhead by the rear door. “Which one of you can drive a boat?”

Neither answered quickly enough. Fu strode to the V-berth and hauled the skipper to his feet, ripping away the gray tape, then spinning him to reach his bindings. He opened his knife, pointing it at Yang.

“Untie the dock lines,” he snapped, before cutting the skipper’s hands free. “You will follow that other vessel,” he said. “Catch it, and you will be greatly rewarded.”

“Y-Yes,” he stammered. “No problem. I will do that. Thank you.” The skipper’s head snapped up, looking out at the man pulling a line off the stern. “No, no, no,” he said, walking to the open door. “You must cast off the bow or you will run us into—”

The skipper stepped out as if to finish his imperative bit of instruction—but instead leaped over the side into the black water.

“Stop him!” Fu Bohai roared, then turned to his man who was left inside. “Tell me you have driven a boat before! Any boat!”

“Yes, Boss,” he stammered. “Though never one this large.”

“You take the wheel,” Fu said.

“Yes, Boss,” the man said again, tentatively sitting down to familiarize himself with the controls.