SHADOW CHASE

A high-ranking Chinese official has arranged to defect to the United States and reveal war crimes his country has perpetrated throughout Asia. But while en route to discreetly bring the official to American soil, Mack Bolan learns the man has been arrested, and the mission becomes much more urgent. And dangerous.

Bolan’s first stop, the notorious prison where the official is being held, is a trap he barely escapes. On the run through the streets of Beijing, with intelligence agents hot on his trail, time is running out to recover the defector. And when his search-and-rescue leads him to a government-sanctioned organ-harvesting facility, the Executioner adds search-and-destroy to his list of things to do before his trip to China is complete.

Diving into the back, Bolan yelled, “Go, go, go!”

Liao hit the gas, and the truck leaped forward. “They’ll never catch us now!” he shouted.

Bolan slumped against the tailgate. His leg twitched, and he felt his phone vibrating. He dug it out and answered. “We’re—”

Tokaido’s voice screamed in his ear. “Missile! They’ve locked-on an antitank missile!”

“Stop! Right now!” Bolan yelled as he shoved the phone into his pocket and grabbed the machine gun with his other hand.

The truck skidded to a halt and, as Liao turned to him, Bolan yelled, “Incoming missile—get out now!”

Liao scrabbled at the door handle and got it open as Bolan hit the ground. He made sure Liao was racing from the truck before running himself.

Bolan saw the bright flash of a missile launch and shouted, “Hit the dirt!” as he threw himself forward.

Two seconds later, the world exploded.

Mack Bolan: Lethal Risk
Don Pendleton

A leader is best when people barely know he exists. When his work is done, his aim fulfilled, they will say: we did it ourselves.

—Lao Tzu

A single person can change the course of history, and when one of these people needs help, I’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen—and go through anyone who stands in my way.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quote

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Edward Carstairs couldn’t stop drumming his fingers on the worsted wool of his navy blue dress slacks. Barely containing his impatient sigh, he peered through the thick, gray smog at the bumper-to-bumper traffic inching along the eight-lane superhighway. Although there was still an hour before sunset, the cloud of pollution lent a hazy, unreal appearance to the world outside.

We’ll never get there at this rate, he worried. “How long now?” he asked his driver in flawless Mandarin.

“Ten, fifteen minutes,” the man replied.

Rolling his eyes, Carstairs ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. It was the exact same answer he’d gotten the last three times he’d asked—inflection and all—over the past forty-five minutes.

He took a deep breath, tasting the pervasive, acrid odor of Beijing’s polluted air, and stared out the window, pondering what the successful completion of this assignment could mean to his career.

Carstairs had only been in China for eight weeks, and was still figuring things out at the US Embassy. So far the capital city had been a constant swirl of contradictions, delightful one day, maddening the next. But when a coded message had arrived from Washington, DC, instructing his superior to send a car and an escort with a stated “low profile” to pick up a family from an exclusive address in a gated community and bring them back to the embassy, Ambassador Balcius had picked Edward to carry out the task.

“It should be a simple pickup,” he’d said. “No one knows you’re coming, and the neighborhood is fairly close to your home. Your background and recent arrival make you perfect for the job, as no one has gotten a bead on you yet—at least, as far as we know. I’m sorry I can’t give you more information other than the minimum need-to-know, just know that this assignment has repercussions far beyond its seeming mundanity. Above all, be careful—the government here has its hand in everything. Take nothing for granted, and above all, trust no one.”

His superior’s words ran through Carstairs’s mind again and he patted his right pocket, feeling the small tube of metal there. If he was caught carrying it, or even worse, using it, it would be a diplomatic incident at the least, and get him expelled from the country and possibly even end his career at the worst.

But Edward Carstairs was well prepared to handle just about anything that might happen; three years in the US Army had seen to that. He would have gone into Ranger School but for the accident that had blown out his knee; however, his ASVAB score had allowed him to move to intelligence. After his four-year hitch was up, his flawless command of Mandarin made him a top recruit of the State Department, and Carstairs soon found himself swimming in the murky waters of international diplomacy on the other side of the world.

With a lurch, the traffic knot untangled itself and as quickly as they’d been blocked, the nondescript sedan sped up and took the next exit to the neighborhood and the address Carstairs was heading to. As they left the jam-packed main streets behind and entered the rarified neighborhood, his breathing quickened. He already knew that this was more than just a simple pickup—whoever he was going to collect was important to the United States, which meant there could be trouble before the night was over.

His sedan motored down wide, empty streets with homes built like Italian villas on either side. He stared, eyebrows raised, at the Western-style grounds that made the neighborhood even more surreal. To buy a house out here took real money, even considering China’s artificially inflated economy. Whatever was going on, it was bigger than anything in which Carstairs had previously been involved.

In a few minutes the car stopped in front of a more modest, Tudor-influenced house several blocks inside the neighborhood. His driver pointed to the home. “This is address.”

Carstairs looked up from his smartphone, which had confirmed his driver’s words, and down the block. There was no one else in sight. His car was the only one here. “Keep the engine running. I’ll be back with three other people very soon.”

His driver nodded and grunted a response. Edward slipped his paper mask over his nose and mouth, then stepped out into the night air.

It was a little easier to breathe out here. Glancing up he was surprised to be able to barely make out the night sky amid the smog and light pollution. Carstairs trotted up the flagstone-inlaid walk to the large, double front doors made of some sort of exotic wood he didn’t recognize, complete with a small, inset door for seeing who was outside. Scanning the area one last time, he noticed there were no lights on inside as he raised his fist and knocked on the door. There was no answer at first and Carstairs was just about to knock again when the viewing portal cracked open. A woman’s eyes stared at him.

“Good evening, Mrs. Liao,” Edward began, “My name is Edward Carstairs, and I am from the United States Embassy—”

He had only gotten to “United” when the portal closed and he heard locks being opened on the other side. The door cracked open just wide enough for him to enter, and a woman’s hand shot out, grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.

Before he could react, Carstairs found himself standing in an opulent vestibule. The floor was white marble, and an unlit, massive, blackened-iron candelabrum hung overhead. The woman who had yanked him inside was also wearing a breathing mask, and dressed all in subdued gray and black. She was younger than he expected, somewhere around thirty years old, and clutched a dark green leather Hermès satchel purse, her only apparent nod to fashion. Two children stood in the doorway, a girl of about ten years old and a boy about eight, both wearing backpacks. The boy stared at him silently. The girl had her nose buried in some kind of portable game console.

“You are American,” she said. “From the embassy?” The second sentence was practically a statement, with the barest upward inflection at the end to hint at uncertainty.

Carstairs nodded. “Yes, I’ve been sent to get you and your family and to take you back to our compound.” He looked over the children’s heads into what appeared to be a richly appointed dining room.

“Where is your husband?”

“He is—not home.”

The pause in her words told him more than she could have possibly known. He was most likely the real target, but the United States was securing his family so the Chinese couldn’t get to them and use them as leverage. “Are you ready to go?”

She nodded then turned to check her children. “Zhou, put that away. I need you to pay attention to me now.” To Carstairs’s surprise, the girl tucked her game into her backpack and regarded her mother and him steadily.

“All right, here’s what’s going to happen.” Turning to the portal, Carstairs cracked it open enough to see up and down the block. His car, idling at the curb, was still the only one outside. “I’ll go out first. You give me three steps, then take the children’s hands and follow me. If anything happens, get them inside the car. The driver will take you to the embassy. Understand?” She nodded tightly. “All right, let’s go.”

Slipping his right hand into his pocket as he opened the door, Carstairs swept his practiced gaze left then right as he strode confidently outside and down the walk. Even while sending a brief, coded text to the embassy telling them he’d made the pickup, every sense was on overwatch, searching their surroundings for the slightest hint of a threat. Carstairs was aware of the woman and her children two steps behind him as they walked toward the idling car. Five steps away, four, three—

Headlights bloomed down the street as a large sedan with government plates rounded the corner and headed toward them.

“Keep moving,” he said as he stood at the rear of the car, shielding her and the kids with his body. “Get inside.”

Mrs. Liao did exactly that, efficiently shuttling her two children into the backseat, then sliding in after them. The sedan pulled to a stop in front of Carstairs’s vehicle, and a man got out of the passenger’s side. He was dressed in a simple black suit with a white shirt and black tie, and screamed government intelligence to the American. Not local police—probably someone from the Ministry of State Security.

Carstairs casually slipped his hand out of his pocket and held it at his side, fingers loosely curled to conceal what he was holding.

The man had no doubt spotted the diplomatic plates on the embassy car—and Carstairs knew that if they wanted Liao’s family that badly, the plates wouldn’t mean dick. Even so, he tried feigning innocence; it was possible, although improbable, that these guys had spotted the diplomatic plates and were just out for an evening shakedown.

“Can I help you?” he asked as the man walked up to him.

The man didn’t answer for long seconds, his gaze raking the sedan as a tendril of smoke curled up from his crooked butt. Carstairs waited patiently, already aware that the men knew who he was and why he was there. “You are from the US Embassy.” He didn’t even try to make it a question.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing in this neighborhood at this hour?”

Carstairs had had more than enough time to come up with a plausible cover story for this trip—as long as his accuser didn’t know what was really going on. The problem was that in China, even one wrong word could be misconstrued as an insult, or even worse, evidence of something improper or illegal occurring. “I’m helping a friend of mine—Mr. Liao. He asked me to look in on his family while he’s away. We’re going to dinner.” It was about as simple as he could make it, and reasonably plausible. The fact that he was an American might raise an eyebrow or two, but usually the weight of his being with the embassy silenced any questions.

Not, however, this time.

The man shook his head curtly. “These three are wanted for questioning by the Ministry of State Security. They will have to come with us.” He turned to the car door even as Carstairs interposed himself between the man and the vehicle.

“I’m afraid that I cannot allow you to do that, sir. These people are now in a United States Embassy vehicle, and as such, are under the protection of my country.”

It was a major gamble Carstairs was trying, and he knew it. He’d seen the “diplomatic protection” gambit used in a movie when he was a child, and he knew that US Navy ships were considered sovereign territory, but he wasn’t aware of any official laws rendering a car to be defined as sovereign US territory. However, he was determined to play as many cards as he could before resorting to any kind of violence.

His words actually stopped the man for a moment and he regarded Carstairs with a quizzical expression. “Do not make this into trouble for yourself and your country. Surrender the three people inside to me and go home.” He pushed back his rumpled coat to reveal a matte-black pistol Carstairs didn’t recognize on his hip.

The novice diplomat sighed and turned to the car door. “Very well. However, I want your name and identification number, as my superiors—” Instead of reaching for the door, however, he whirled and sprayed the man in the face with his pocket pepper spray canister. The man stumbled away, coughing and clutching his face with both hands, unable to even think about drawing his gun.

Carstairs yanked open the front passenger door and got in as the driver’s side door of the MSS car opened.

“Go! Get us out of here!” He turned to the woman and children in the backseat. “Get down and stay down!”

The driver put his car in Reverse and backed down the street as Carstairs turned back in time to see the MSS driver with his pistol out and aimed at them. He hunched in his seat as the flat cracks of the firing pistol were heard over the racing car engine. The front windshield starred as a bullet hit it, but it didn’t penetrate, ricocheting off into the night.

Carstairs’s driver backed onto a side street and slammed the car to a stop, then put it into gear and rocketed them forward as he turned toward the highway. Carstairs glanced behind them to see the headlights of the MSS sedan in the distance, gaining rapidly.

If we can just make the highway, we can probably lose them… But even as the thought materialized, the sedan caught up with them, looming even larger in their rear windshield. Underneath it huddled Mrs. Liao and her children, all staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. Carstairs noted that they all had their seat belts on, which was good, since the possibility of an accident was high now.

The sedan rammed them from behind, making the embassy car shake and lurch forward. The Chinese sedan accelerated, pulling alongside the car on Carstairs’s side. Now, unfortunately, the driver could shoot at them if he wished, but instead he jerked his steering wheel sharply, slamming his car into theirs and making his driver fight for control.

“Ram him back!” Carstairs ordered. His driver slowed a bit, allowing the MSS car to pull ahead. But just when Carstairs thought the enemy car was going to cut them off, his driver flicked the wheel, sending their car into the other’s rear quarter panel. The expertly executed pit maneuver made the MSS car skid and swerve wildly out of control. It crossed in front of Carstairs’s car, close enough that he could see the driver’s furious face as he struggled to avoid crashing. Then they were past, and his car was accelerating up the entrance ramp to merge with the busy but flowing evening traffic.

Still breathing hard, Carstairs checked behind them for any signs of pursuit, but no battered black sedan came flying up from an off-ramp after them. He took a deep breath, aware that his pounding heartbeat was starting to slow, and checked on Mrs. Liao and her children. They all seemed to be all right, although the boy had tears running down his face, even though he had never made a sound.

“It’s all right. We’re taking you back to the US Embassy, where you’ll be safe—” Even as he said that, Edward felt the car swerve suddenly. He turned to find them taking an unfamiliar off-ramp.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Accident ahead. Taking detour,” his driver answered.

Carstairs blinked at that answer, even as he pulled out his smartphone. A hand covering it made him look up in surprise.

“Do not use. Ministry agents track you through it,” the driver said.

“Oh. Okay. Just get us back to the embassy as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, of course.”

But as they drove on, Carstairs’s instincts alerted him that something was wrong. He glanced at the driver, who navigated the cramped side streets with ease. There was nothing outwardly remarkable about him—just another Chinese national who had gotten a job driving for one of the many embassies in Beijing, a highly prized position in the city. And yet… Carstairs began reviewing the events of the evening.

He hadn’t seemed surprised by the two men at Liao’s house, he thought. However, as the ambassador had said, the government had its hand in most everything here, so perhaps it just wasn’t that surprising to see them following a US Embassy car with diplomatic plates.

But what about that pit maneuver? That was more uncommon, as was the way he had handled the chase in general.

Glancing at the man again, Carstairs was surprised to see part of a tattoo, consisting of Chinese characters, on his forearm. “That’s a nice tattoo. What does it mean?”

His driver glanced down, then sidelong at the American before replying. “‘Loyalty to the nation.’”

His words sent a chill through Carstairs. While that could have been any loyal young Chinese’s man’s symbol of dedication to his country, he knew that particular tattoo had special meaning for those in the Chinese military.

The phrase had become famous since the twelfth century when a Chinese army general named Yue Fei had quit his post and returned home, only to be scolded by his mother for leaving his post and abandoning his duty to his country. According to legend, she had tattooed that exact same phrase on his back, and he had returned to duty, becoming one of China’s most celebrated warriors. To this day, many lifelong military recruits, especially among the younger generations, got the same tattoo as a symbol of their fidelity to the military and the People’s Liberation Army in particular. Carstairs had become aware of it during his studies of Chinese military history.

Shit, he’s military intelligence!

Carstairs slid his hand around the pepper spray again and waited for the opportunity to strike. He had one shot at surprising the man, who was probably equally trained in hand-to-hand combat as he was, maybe better.

Ahead, a small traffic jam made the driver slow the vehicle as a motorcycle rickshaw had collided with a panel truck. The accident blocked the entire street and traffic was at a standstill. The moment the car pulled to a stop, Carstairs made his move.

Flipping up the safety cover, he brought the container out of his pocket and blasted the driver in the face. But instead of screaming and trying to protect himself, the Chinese man shoved his arm up, deflecting the tear gas spray into the roof. Quicker than Carstairs could react, he brought his left arm over, grabbed the wrist of Carstairs’s canister-holding hand and twisted it toward the windshield. The chemical was having some effect—his eyes were red and watering, and his nose was dripping, as well—but the man didn’t seem incapacitated in the least.

He’s had chemical desensitizing, Carstairs realized before a fist streaked toward his face. The blow was off balance and startled him more than doing any real damage. His head bounced off the door window, and he managed to throw his left arm up to block the second punch coming his way.

The pain in his wrist was increasing, but Carstairs managed to turn the canister toward the man’s face and blast him again. Although the chemicals didn’t faze him, the buffeting spray did make him instinctively turn his face away, which was what Carstairs had wanted.

Plucking the canister out of his pinned hand, he smashed it into the driver’s face, feeling the man’s cheekbone break with a palpable snap. Carstairs didn’t let up; driving the end of the plastic-and-metal device into the side of the man’s face, ignoring his weakening attempts to fend him off.

Finally, when the driver was bloody and semiconscious, and no longer an immediate threat, Carstairs reached across, opened the driver’s door and shoved him into the street.

Sliding into the driver’s seat and trying not to cough at the lingering wisps of gas, he put the car in Reverse and began backing up to the nearest intersection. Fortunately there was no one behind him.

“What was all that? Why did you do that to him?” Mrs. Liao asked.

“He was Chinese military,” Carstairs said between coughs. “Whatever your husband has done, a lot of people want him really bad—”

As he said that, they reached the intersection and were immediately flooded with bright white floodlights. Carstairs had just enough time to look over when the car was broadsided by a huge truck. The impact sent them flying across the intersection and into the side street, where the car landed on its roof.

Flung around by the crash, Carstairs found himself lying on the ceiling of the overturned car, a heavy tightness compressing his chest. He tasted blood. One eye was swelling shut and a dull pain bloomed in his ribs. Even so, he knew he had to get Mrs. Liao and her children out and away before more soldiers came. He tried to move, but found himself pinned by the seat. He looked around for his phone but couldn’t see it nearby.

Footsteps crunched on the shattered glass from the window and Carstairs looked out to see a pair of wing tips standing next to the wrecked sedan.

Sets of combat boots appeared next to the shoes and a face leaned down to look in at him in surprise. “The American is still alive.”

“Kill him and collect the others,” came a curt reply. “Make it look like the car accident did it.”

The man looking in on him produced a pistol and turned it around so he was holding it by the barrel. Trapped and unable to move, Edward Carstairs watched as, without a word, the Chinese soldier began crawling toward him, pistol held at the ready to bash his skull in.

CHAPTER ONE

“Well, it just goes to show that you can always trust the State Department to take what should be a simple extraction job and screw up the entire thing.”

Mission controller Barbara Price stared at Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, for a long moment before shaking her head. “Coming down a bit hard on State, aren’t you, Hal? It’s one thing to dodge the local police, or even the ministry. It’s another thing to go up against the Chinese military—”

The gruff man sitting across from her snatched the chewed-to-death cigar from his mouth and used it like a big, brown exclamation point as he interrupted her. “Whenever an officer of the United States government is performing his duty in what is perceived as a foreign environment, which by nature should be considered potentially hostile, all necessary precautions must be taken to ensure his safety as well as the safety of those he comes into contact with.”

Brognola stuck the remains of the unlit cigar back into a corner of his mouth. “Above all, the embassy should not send out just one man to collect the family of the biggest potential defector since Tretyakov! Now it’s turned into the largest screwup since Wang Lijun!”

“The hero police chief of Chonqing City, who was also investigated for the organ transplant facility he founded—”

“Organ transplant facility, my ass,” Brognola interrupted again. “Those butchers are harvesting the insides of political prisoners like the Falun Gong and selling them to the highest bidder. They conveniently get rid of their ‘protestors’ once and for all, and make a tidy profit to boot. Wang tried to buy his way into the US with a trove of documents implicating several high-ranking Chinese officials. Supposedly, although we were never able to confirm this, those documents were instrumental in taking down power politician Bo Xilai. And when State gets the chance to pull in someone who’d make Wang’s knowledge look like peanuts, they bungle the whole thing from the start. Now he’s in the wind and nobody knows where the family went! Balcius will be lucky to keep his job after all this. Not to mention we have to go in and somehow clean up this unholy mess.”

“Well, we’re good at that,” Price reminded him.

“I know, I know. But Striker’s going to have to stay so far under the radar on this one he might as well tunnel into Beijing. We can’t afford to let this spiral into an international incident. We’re just lucky the Chinese also want to keep this as quiet as we do. The black eye on relations between the two countries would take years to fade.”

Price looked down at her tablet, hiding a smile. She didn’t blame Brognola for his irascible attitude. As the Farm’s liaison to the President and a head honcho at the Justice Department, the big Fed had to wade into the alphabet soup that was Washington, DC, on a daily basis to try to glean whatever useful intel he could from the multitude of often-bickering departments on the Hill.

“What’s Striker’s ETA?”

“We sent him the Priority One message—” Price consulted her watch “—nine minutes ago. I’m sure Cowboy and he are double-timing it back.” She referred to John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s premier weaponsmith.

As if in confirmation of her statement, her tablet pinged with a message from Akira Tokaido, a top hacker and member of the Farm’s cyber team.

Striker inbound. Coming your way in 10 seconds.

“He’s on his way here right now,” she confirmed, making sure her presentation was ready.

They both looked up as Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, strode into the War Room carrying a ceramic mug. “Barbara. Hal,” he said, greeting each of them with a nod.

As he slid into a high-backed leather chair, Bolan blew on the mug of steaming coffee and sipped it cautiously, grimacing as he swallowed. “Just when I thought I was used to Bear’s brew, he changes it up on me.” He glanced at Brognola with a raised eyebrow. “Sure you don’t want a cup, Hal? It’ll take the edge off.”

“Bear” was Aaron Kurtzman, who was as good with making Stony Man’s computers do everything but sit up and dance as he was bad at brewing remotely drinkable coffee.

“Yeah, that and ten years off my life.” Brognola had already pulled out the other indispensable aid he was never without, a roll of antacid tablets, and thumbed a pair into his mouth. “Keep that damn cup as far away from me as possible. The smell’s bad enough. I’d hate to have to actually drink it.”

Despite the potentially top-secret materials they were about to discuss, Price watched the two men sparring with an internal grin. Between them, Bolan and Brognola had carried the fight for justice and freedom to all four corners of the globe, and knew each other better than any person alive. Even she wasn’t privy to all parts of their relationship, which was fine by her. Some things were best left alone.

“Barbara, why don’t you fill Striker in on the mess we’ve found ourselves in, courtesy of those jackasses over at State?”

Barely resisting rolling her eyes, Price exchanged an it’s-gonna-be-one-of-those-days glances with Bolan as she started her program deck.

On the large flat-screen monitor at the end of the room, a man’s face appeared in a candid shot taken as he was walking down a busy street. He was Chinese, dressed in an expensive suit, and had the look of someone who appeared at ease on the surface but carrying a heavy internal load.

“Three months ago, a midlevel employee at our US Embassy in Beijing was approached by a man claiming to work at the highest levels of the Chinese government,” Price began. “He wanted to defect to the United States with his family, and was willing to provide a vast amount of information on everything China is involved in, from their military plans for the rest of South Asia and beyond, to top-secret economic programs being executed around the world.”

Bolan frowned. “Almost seems too good to be true. Who is he?”

“Zhang Liao. A career politician, his family’s made its fortune at the top of the Chinese government for the past four generations,” Price replied. “The Liao family has showed a particular aptitude for reading the political winds and shifting with them. No member has ever been caught in a scandal or punished as part of a change in the government. They even survived the incident in Tiananmen Square with their reputation intact, when most of the rest of the government suffered from the fallout.”

“So why the sudden change of heart?” Bolan asked.

“Liao said that he feared the course the current government was taking would lead inexorably to war, whether that be with Taiwan, or any of a half-dozen other countries, over the Spratly Islands, or the recent dustup with Vietnam over territorial waters, or even Japan, which has been flexing its military muscle recently, most likely to avoid the appearance of weakness. He even brought up the possibility of a military plan that could eventually bring in the other superpowers. He didn’t divulge any more details, but said he could provide proof that China was taking steps to expand its influence and power over the other countries in the region and beyond.”

“No kidding.” Brognola grunted. “The buildup of the Chinese military on the Indian border has the Indians alternately rattling sabers one minute while selling them trade goods the next. And the Chinese are practically buying Africa wholesale as it is, pouring billions into power grid and other infrastructure projects and dams in the interior. Those poor nations who think they’re getting a great deal right now don’t understand the bill that will come due afterward. The Chinese are masters of the long game—they don’t do anything without factoring in the ramifications years from now.”

While Bolan listened to Brognola, his eyes hadn’t left the picture of Liao’s face. “I assume standard verification and cross-referencing protocols were followed?”

“To the letter. Everything he starting feeding us to prove his bona-fides checked out,” Price said. “He gave us advance intel on troop movements for a buildup near Tibet pending a new crackdown on independence seekers there, and was also able to give us their previously unseen action plan for Taiwan, which involves them taking control of the country within the next decade.”

“Not much of a surprise there,” Bolan replied. “Any half-decent analyst could sift what we already know and come up with the same conclusion.”

“Yeah, but predicting’s one thing. Proof is something else entirely,” Brognola said. “This guy could give us enough intel to blunt or at least slow the intended Chi-Com advance across Asia for the next couple of decades.”

The corner of Bolan’s mouth quirked up at the old reference to the Chinese Communist Party. “Okay, so where is he?”

“He’s missing,” Price stated. “Although State claims they followed every protocol and procedure by the book—” Price couldn’t resist glancing at Brognola to see if he was going to chime in, but he held his peace “—the scheduled attempt to take him into US custody and begin the asylum process never got started. He was supposed to lose any government watchers and enter our embassy secretly three days ago. He never showed.”

“Are we sure that State didn’t just get cold feet again, like they did with Wang Lijun?” Bolan asked. “As I recall, the US turned down his asylum request because the government didn’t want to embarrass the Chinese so close to their VP’s visit to the States. Isn’t it possible this is along those same lines, and now State’s just covering its ass?”

“I could go along with that, if what I’m about to tell you hadn’t happened two nights ago,” Brognola said around his unlit cigar. “With typical State ham-fistedness, they sent one guy out to pick up his family.”

An American face appeared on the screen with vitals listed next to it. “Edward Carstairs. Good man, ex-Army, smart as hell, 99th percentile on his AFQT, but new to the region,” the big Fed continued. “The suits thought he’d be perfect, since he wasn’t known to anyone there yet. He made the pickup of Liao’s family—the embassy got a verified text from his phone, and also traced it to Liao’s home address two nights ago, but they never made it back.”

Price brought up the next slide, showing a totaled sedan that had been T-boned with a vengeance. “The official story is that the car was in an accident—which fits at first glance. Except the usual driver of the car was missing and hasn’t been seen anywhere since. Carstairs’s body was the only one found at the scene, although hairs and fiber samples showed there were at least two other people in the car with him.”

Bolan’s gaze had narrowed at the news. “How did he die?”

“Our embassy sent out a press release stating that he died in a car accident,” Price replied. “Forensic autopsy showed he suffered multiple blunt force traumas to the head, causing a cerebral edema that ultimately killed him.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Bruises on his hands and arms showed that he attempted to defend himself during the assault.”

“The bastards beat him to death,” Bolan said.

“I’m afraid so,” Price confirmed. “The whereabouts of Liao’s family is currently unknown.”

“And what are we supposed to do about it?”

“Officially, nothing, of course—even for us,” Brognola said then took a deep breath. “Unofficially, the President wants one man to go in, locate Liao’s family and him and get them all out of the country.”

“One person?”

Brognola nodded. “That’s right. But wait, it gets better. Although the White House has classified Liao a Priority One target, I’ve been ordered not to give you any backup or even support while you’re in-country. The potential risk of trace-back to assets in the US, or to any in-place assets is deemed too high, so you’ll be completely on your own. No extraction if the op gets blown and no aid if you get caught. I raised as much holy hell as I could, but the Man is holding firm.

“You have to be false flagged, in case you’re caught, so the blowback will be aimed at another country. Given your knowledge of the language, I think we’ll have to go Russian, maybe even Georgian. An operative tasked with getting to Liao before the US does.”

Bolan snorted. “That cover won’t hold up to a sneeze. There’s no way the Georgians would be able to penetrate Chinese intelligence that deeply. Assuming that we’re going forward, we’d best make this come straight down from Moscow. At the very least, if it did get exposed, it might make the President feel a little more paranoid about his neighbor to the east, and vice versa.”

“Of course, you’re going to do your damnedest not to get caught.”

“As always,” Bolan replied. “Besides, I’ve heard enough about Chinese prisons that I have no desire to see what one looks like up close.” He watched as Price and Brognola exchanged glances. “What?”

“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?”

CHAPTER TWO

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.

“Mr. Liao, so good to see you awake!” the doctor said in Cantonese, forcing Liao to focus on him. “I hope you have been comfortable during your stay.”

Liao frowned at the man’s seemingly easy manner. “Who are you? Where am I? What is going on here?” He rose from the bed as he asked the last question, making the guard step forward.

Without turning, the doctor raised his hand, gesturing for the guard stop in his tracks.

His expression sobered and he motioned for Liao to sit.

“Very well. You wish answers, and there is no reason to keep them from you. I am Dr. Chen Xu, head of surgery here at the Guaw Li transplant facility. You are Zhang Liao, a government employee turned traitor and attempted defector. Instead of holding a trial, which could prove very embarrassing to the government, they have delivered you to me.”

“What?” Liao’s heart sank. “There must be some mistake,” he said, his brow creasing in confusion.

The doctor smiled. “Oh, no. If you are brought here, then there was a very good reason. But do not worry about trying to contact anyone. This facility has been built over the past decade at great cost and secrecy, to avoid public embarrassments like what has happened with other facilities of the same type.”

“And what is to happen now?” Liao asked, even though he had a terrifying feeling he knew the answer.

Xu consulted his tablet, flicking through screens with his finger. “Well, we still have to run a few tests to get a sense of just how healthy you are—your blood work came back with excellent results, by the way.” He looked down at Liao and all trace of human warmth or compassion was gone from his demeanor. “And once those are completed to our satisfaction, we will sedate you and harvest as many of your internal organs as possible.”

Liao stared at the doctor for a long moment. He’d heard what the man said, but it was as if his brain refused to comprehend the words. His mouth opened and closed as he struggled to come to terms with what was going on. “But…you can’t…what about my family?”

Xu checked his watch, as casually as if making sure he wasn’t running behind in his appointments. “By now, they are no doubt in the hands of the Ministry of State Security. But do not worry, Mr. Liao, you will provide a far greater service to your country and its people in death than you ever did in life.”

He turned and began walking to the door, temporarily blocking the guard’s view of the prisoner.

Blind, unreasoning rage suddenly filled Liao. If what the doctor had said was true—if his family was captured, and him slated to die, with no one possibly knowing where he was and what had happened to him—then he might as well take at least one of them with him.

Liao launched himself off the bed at the doctor’s back. He leaped on the doctor and bore him to the floor, his clutching fingers seeking the other man’s neck. If he could just get his hands around the smug bastard’s throat—

Blinding white stars exploded in his vision and Liao blinked them away, only to find himself lying on the floor, clutching his head. The guard stood over him, his pistol aimed at his face.

“Stop! Do not fire!” Xu said as he picked himself up and straightened his disheveled lab coat. “I do not hold your actions against you, Mr. Liao. In your circumstances, I cannot be sure I would not have reacted in much the same way to this news. I am sure that, given a choice, you would not have wanted it to end this way. However, sometimes we do not have a choice in what happens to us.

“Double the guard on this room, and no one is to attend to him alone,” the doctor said to the guard as he left.

Pistol still aimed at Liao’s face, the guard slowly walked backward to the door and exited, leaving the man bruised, sore and very much alone.

For the next several hours all he did was lie on the floor and weep softly.

CHAPTER THREE

Forty-one hours after the briefing at Stony Man Farm, Mack Bolan sat in the back of a fifty-year-old, olive-drab military truck among a load of crated, bright green melons as it jounced along narrow mountain roads toward the outskirts of Beijing.

Unlike most insertions, this one had been much more difficult. There had to be absolutely no trace back to any US military involvement, which scratched most of the usual methods, such as a HALO drop into the boonies. There was no way the United States was going to risk sending an aircraft into Chinese airspace—it would most likely bring their air force and army down on him.

A commercial flight had been out of the question, as well. Even with an airtight cover, once he began moving through Beijing, any police attention would quickly trace him back to his entry into the country. Even if he had taken a trip through Europe, they would have backtracked him to the United States.

In the end Bolan had hopped on a commercial airliner to Moscow, changed his identity there and then caught a local flight to Irkutsk International Airport, in the middle of Russia. From there, he had taken a dizzying array of transportation modes—including a two-hundred-mile cab ride and a six-hour stretch in the back of a horse-drawn wagon—before reaching Beijing. He’d crossed Mongolia entirely; every time his Russian passport had seen him through.

Bolan had been careful to keep any answers to questions short and to the point. He didn’t have a native Russian accent, and didn’t want to give any customs officers a reason to suspect he was anything more than he was pretending to be: an ordinary Russian businessman traveling to the east.

It wasn’t the most perfect—or direct—plan, but it had gotten him here. Stiff from the many hours of sitting on things from a too short metal bench seat to a wooden wagon bed, he took a moment to stretch, careful not to dislodge any of the harvest surrounding him. Running on about ten hours of sleep total, he was still feeling pretty decent.

Bolan took a deep breath, feeling oddly naked at the moment and even more oddly free. The President had been so paranoid that he hadn’t allowed him any of his usual devices to maintain contact with Stony Man. Since he was in one of the largest cities on Earth, he would have to purchase off-the-shelf items to use for communication. What he did have, in a concealed belt around his waist, was Chinese yuan, and plenty of them. Buying most of his gear wouldn’t be a problem. Using it to find four needles in a gigantic haystack containing more than twenty-two million pieces of hay—that was going to be a problem.

And then, springing them out of wherever they were being held—another problem. Nothing exactly insurmountable, but definitely a challenge. And one Bolan was absolutely up for.

In fact, he felt as disconnected to the rest of the world as possible at the moment, a ghost floating through landscapes and small towns and villages, with no primary base of operations, no backup…and little to no options if he was captured. It was a strangely heady feeling, relying primarily on his skills and wits to sustain him.

The truck slowed and a fist thumped against the back of the cab. That was the driver’s signal—relayed through guessing and pantomime—for Bolan to climb up on top of the old 4x4, as they would be coming to a checkpoint soon. When the driver had stopped for Bolan, who had been walking at the side of the road after hitching a ride with three half-stoned college students on a driving tour through Asia, he’d blinked at Bolan’s attempt to tell his story—a stuck traveler trying to get to Beijing—and paid far more attention to the fistful of money Bolan had held out. He had scrutinized the Executioner carefully, then nodded as he fired off another burst of incomprehensible Mandarin. After a few minutes Bolan had gathered that he wasn’t supposed to have any passengers, so he would have to climb on top when the time came, which was now.

The soldier stood, careful to balance himself against the rocking truck, and headed to the open back. As he did, he wondered idly where the farmer had gotten hold of a battered and patched deuce-and-a-half.

Probably cut a deal with someone unloading surplus military hardware after Vietnam, he thought. Climbing onto the tailgate, he steadied himself against the side for a moment, then reached up and grabbed the flapping canvas roof. He pulled himself up and threw a leg over, then rolled on top, careful to situate himself between two of the metal framing ribs that gave the covering its shape. Lying down would also conceal him from any guards on the ground. Pulling out a knockoff Chicago Cubs baseball cap, he jammed it onto his head, counting on the brim to help conceal his face from security cameras.

The canvas was sun-faded and worn, but held his weight without difficulty. The truck lumbered on for a few more miles, with Bolan enjoying the spring sunlight after almost two days of being cooped up in cramped airplane seats and huddled on narrow benches. He was hungry, too—the last time he’d eaten was about twelve hours ago—and looked forward to getting a bite once they reached the city proper.

As they got closer to Beijing, Bolan noticed the smell first—a thick, acrid odor indicating they had reached the edge of the pollution zone around the city. The surrounding landscape was beginning to change from the foothills that had slowly fallen away from the mountains to the north to long sections of plains interspersed with rolling hills. Signs of habitation were becoming more common as well, with small clusters of single-room homes next to gardens or fields.

The farmer had let Bolan know that he’d be stopping on the outskirts of the city, far from its center. Given how sprawling Beijing was, Bolan knew he was at least an hour from the main city, perhaps two or more. He hoped he’d be able to find a ride into the neighborhood he needed to reach. A Caucasian hitchhiking along the road would definitely attract the wrong kind of attention.

With a grinding of worn gears and a belch of black smoke as the farmer downshifted, the truck began slowing. Bolan risked lifting his head just enough to see what they were approaching. He caught the glimpse of a large, metal-roofed, open pavilion that stretched across the entire highway, with a narrow, long building on one side. It was manned not by the standard police, but by what looked like camouflage-clad soldiers carrying assault rifles.

Damn! Bolan dropped back down, wondering if somehow the military was already on to him. The reams of data Kurtzman and Tokaido had provided had said nothing about the military manning city checkpoints.

The truck was about two hundred yards from the checkpoint and pulling into a line. Bolan gauged the height of the roof as he kept an eye on vehicles being inspected before they were allowed to move ahead. He couldn’t get caught here, before his mission had even really started.

His hope that they were doing a cursory inspection was dashed when a panel truck’s roof and underbody was checked with mirrors on poles. The next few minutes passed agonizingly slowly. There were only two positives to the situation. The first was that the soldiers seemed inclined to stay under the shade of the metal roof. The second was that most cars were content to pass the large truck and move through one of the other faster-moving lanes. Bolan divided his attention between the guards ahead and the traffic behind him. It wouldn’t do to be spotted by several civilians on their way to work.

By now the roofed structure loomed large in his vision; they would be driving under it in the next few minutes. Bolan wondered if the old farmer was sweating as much as he was at the moment, and what he would say if they detected the stowaway atop his vehicle. He wasn’t going to let that happen if he could avoid it, however.

He saw cameras mounted at the corners of the building and cursed. They appeared to be aimed below him, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe I should have stayed inside with the melons, he thought, although the odds of escaping detection there were nonexistent—the guards were doing a thorough job of checking larger vehicles.

By now he was only a few yards away from the roof, which had at least a three-foot gap between the truck’s roof and the bottom of the building’s roof. He was going to have to jump up and swing himself onto it as fast as he could. Any slip-up or hesitation and his mission would be over before it ever really began.

Rising to his hands and knees, Bolan positioned his feet on the nearest metal strut and cast a glance behind him to make sure that no one was watching the truck roof. Five yards…four…three…two… Now!

In one fluid movement he exploded up in a perfectly timed leap. Catching the edge of the roof, he kicked his leg over, rolled onto it and over toward the center. The entire action had taken maybe two seconds.

When he was a few yards in, Bolan flattened himself against the hot metal and listened for any shouts of alarm or honking horns. When he heard no alerts that he had been detected, he rose to a crouch and carefully crept to the other side, listening for the deuce-and-a-half’s diesel engine, laboring at idle underneath him.

The truck inspection seemed to take forever, and Bolan kept glanced back, expecting a shout as a uniformed soldier popped up to arrest him. No one came, however, and eventually he heard the truck’s gears grind as it lurched into motion. Now came the second problem—getting back onto its roof without attracting attention. Ideally, the guards would be facing the incoming traffic, and the other drivers would be more concerned with the soldiers than watching for the unusual sight of a man dropping from the pavilion roof onto an ancient military truck.

The old vehicle pulled out from under the roof and Bolan jumped as soon as he saw the cargo roof. He landed with a bounce, and tried to keep himself as flat as possible, splaying his body as the truck drove away from the checkpoint.

That was too close of an escape, and way too far from my objective, he thought as the skyscrapers of Beijing gradually became visible through the haze of pollution. I’m going to have to disembark and find less conspicuous transportation.

He began looking for a good spot to get off the truck and head into the suburbs.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Jesus H…” Hal Brognola tilted his head back and let the breath he’d been holding out in a long, steady stream. “Nearly scratched the whole op before it even started. That would have been embarrassing as hell.”

Just because the US government had forbidden Stony Man from assisting its man on the ground didn’t mean they weren’t going to keep an eye on him. Using a network of satellites orbiting the globe, the Farm could pinpoint Bolan’s exact location within a five-minute window. The satellite imagery was so crystal clear that they could read magazine print over someone’s shoulder if they had to.

Stony Man Farm had some of the most advanced technology in the world, including specialized computers used to advance weapons the likes of which the US military could only dream about, and yet all of that was worthless because of the parameters of their current mission.

Brognola and Price were standing in the Computer Room behind Aaron Kurtzman and Akira Tokaido, members of Stony Man’s top-notch cyber team. Kurtzman, a burly, bearded man confined to a wheelchair, had a no-nonsense attitude that could rival Brognola’s on a bad day. Tokaido was a laid-back twenty-something Japanese American who lived and breathed the twenty-first-century computing systems he worked with. They could do things with a computer that Price and Brognola could only dream about. But right now, they couldn’t do the one thing the mission controller desperately wanted to happen—somehow reach out through the monitors and wireless signals and burst transmissions to help Mack Bolan.

That was one of the worst things about being the mission controller: having to sit there, safe and sound, in a comfortable room in the United States and watch good men risk their lives fighting against the very worst kind of evil, whether it be terrorists, dictators or even the countless spying eyes of an entire nation’s government, as was happening right in front of her.

And the worst part was that if something went wrong, there wasn’t much Price could do about it. Sure, she could bring in reinforcements—usually—but that didn’t take away the agony of waiting and wondering if they were going to come out alive this time.

And the mingled anticipation and dread of knowing that the next time, they might not. While Price was an expert at weighing the risks and rewards of any given mission, the fact remained that although she didn’t look as if she was ever reacting to any of the various Stony Man operations around the world, the truth was that they always affected her, from the moment they began until the moment they ended.

But she was a professional, and the men who undertook missions for Stony Man were counting on her to do her job, which she took a lot of pride in doing very well. And she would be damned if she let them down even once—even if she had been specifically ordered not to assist.

Right now her lips were pressed tightly together and her arms folded across her chest as she watched Bolan evade the armed guards at the city checkpoint. “And why didn’t we know about these increased security measures?”

Tokaido brought up a two-week-old news article on his thirty-five-inch monitor. “Because there are no accompanying pictures with the data. The article simply stated that specially trained police officers had been assigned to the checkpoints around Beijing. We had no idea they were sending the equivalent of Chinese SWAT team members to stand around and check cars.”

Price nodded, although she would have made someone’s head roll if this had been a critical mistake. It sounded as though there simply hadn’t been a reason to follow up on a relatively innocuous bit of intel. Once again, she was reminded of the hazards of accepting things at face value, particularly when an item in question was on the other side of the world.

“This is flat-out ridiculous, Hal,” she said. “There must be something more we can do from here.”

As she spoke, Price noticed Kurtzman and Tokaido exchange a swift glance before returning their attentions to their stations.

“And that would be what?” Brognola popped two antacid tablets. “I can’t even joke about packing someone inside his suitcase, because he didn’t take one. When I say our hands are tied, our hands are tied.”

The two cyber wizards glanced at each other again and Price sighed. “What? If either one of you has anything pertinent to add to this conversation, now’s the time.”

Tokaido swept back his long hair before replying. “Well, China is one of the most heavily surveilled nations on Earth—”

“Yeah, behind only the US and maybe England,” Kurtzman added.

“Regardless, it is technically feasible to hack their systems and search for a particular face or build. It would even be possible to track said target’s movements throughout the city, allowing us to keep an eye on his movements and interactions.”

“Great, so we can see him get caught by the MSS or the military. There must be something more we can give him from here,” Price said. “Chinese hackers are battering at our firewalls every day. Surely you guys can do more than just get us a look through some cameras?”

Again the two men exchanged glances, then Kurtzman pushed his wheelchair back from his station and turned to face her. “Are you sure you want to continue down this path, Barb? We all know what the orders from Washington stated. So, what exactly would you like us to do?”

Price stared at the bearded computer genius for a few seconds, evaluating him and his question. It sounded as though he was trying to get her to drop it, but he was regarding her with a frank, open stare. She was pretty sure she knew what he was asking, but she had to kick the decision upstairs—in this case, to the man in the rumpled shirt standing next to her, before she could find out.

“Hal?”

He regarded her with a gimlet stare. “You’re the mission controller, Barb. How do you want to proceed?”

“We’re already providing data assistance as the situation develops. I want Bear and Akira to provide whatever mission-critical assistance they can to Striker without being detected.” She waited to see if either Brognola or Kurtzman had picked up on the discrepancy in the two sentences.

“Given the mission parameters, are we providing standard electronic antidetection?” Kurtzman asked. He was referring to the standard erasure that happened during stealth and infiltration missions, where the Stony Man cyber team removed all evidence that their operatives had been on site—altering vehicle logs, looping or deleting surveillance camera footage, deleting fingerprints on file or mug shots where necessary.

That was the lifeline Price needed. She grabbed it. “Yes, especially on this mission. Of course, you both will need to balance that aspect of this op with the mission-critical assistance.”

Kurtzman nodded, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. “Of course we will.”

Brognola held his gaze on Price a few seconds longer, then swiveled his head to look at Kurtzman and Tokaido. “You both heard the lady.”

The computer genius nodded once. “Understood. Now, if you’ll both excuse us—” he wheeled around to face his glowing bank of monitors “—we have work to do.”

“You will, of course, update us on the mission’s status as appropriate?” the big Fed asked.

“Of course. We always do,” Kurtzman replied without looking at him.

“Come on, let’s leave them to their work.” Price turned and headed toward the door, pausing there to make sure he was following her.

Outside, Brognola made sure to close the door to the Computer Room before turning to her. “Did what I think just happened in there happen?”

“That depends. And if you’d prefer to not get an answer you may not like, I’d suggest you not ask the question leading to it.”

“Barbara, you know I’m not against bending the rules when I think the circumstances warrant it.”

“And I can’t think of a better time for that to happen than right now,” she replied. “Aaron gave me the opening I needed to direct them to assist Striker without blowback. He also just gave us plausible deniability if we ever needed it.”

“You realize that if either of those two get caught sneaking around China’s computers, by the book we’d be forced to hang them out to dry, right?”

Price nodded. “Yes. But I don’t see that happening. First, Aaron and Akira are unmatched when it comes to breaking into enemy computer systems, no matter what country. And second, there is no way in hell I would let either of those two men go down as having done something perceived as illegal on my watch. I’ll fight for them every step of the way, if it ever comes to that.”

“Good, then we’re on the same page in that regard.” The big Fed glanced at the closed door a few feet away. “Not that I don’t appreciate what the guys are doing, but they didn’t have to go all cloak-and-dagger on us.”

“That’s what I love about this team, Hal. Everyone helps in the way they think is best.” Price smiled. “Come on. I’ll make us some decent coffee in the farmhouse. It’ll help distract me until the next update.”

“Agreed.” Brognola fell into step beside her as they headed down the hall. “You worried about Striker out there?”

“Yes,” was all she said.

Every time he leaves…

CHAPTER FIVE

Who knew it’d be so damn hard to find a car outside Beijing?

Bolan had put a couple of miles between himself and the checkpoint, staying off the main roads and avoiding anyone he saw coming his way. More than once that had necessitated ducking into the lightly wooded area near the smaller road he was traveling. One time he’d had to drop to his stomach in some tall grass as a trio of giggling girls dressed in what looked like school uniforms walked by a few yards away.

But the farther he got from the countryside, the closer he got to the more populated suburbs—and the harder it was to locate a suitable vehicle to steal. In the country, the only vehicles available were tractors and bicycles. In this area it wasn’t that there weren’t any around, it was just that vehicles were all under lock and key, kept in some kind of building, whether that was a cinder-block garage or a makeshift shack of tin panels.

While Bolan wasn’t worried about breaking into a place to steal a car, he wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible about it. It was hard enough being a six-foot-three-inch man in a country where the average height was five-seven. Add that he was a Caucasian, and it meant that any sighting of him doing anything illegal would be the kind of thing that would definitely stick in the minds of the locals.

The countryside had grown quiet again and Bolan resumed his approach toward a cluster of houses in the near distance. With luck, he could find something here to take him into the city.

The houses were simple, one-story structures with white walls and red-tiled roofs. A moped was parked outside the front doors of several homes. Keeping his head down and his cap brim low on his face, Bolan surreptitiously checked the driveways and lawns of each house as he passed.

A door slamming made him tense and he ducked behind a tree while casting around for the source of the noise. On the next block, a man in a short-sleeved shirt and black tie, and carrying a briefcase, trotted out of the largest house in the area—it had a small second story on it—and headed for his car, a medium-size, well-used sedan. Bolan looked closer and saw that the trunk was ajar, held shut by a length of white cord. Wherever the man was headed, it had to be somewhere more populated, where Bolan could acquire better transportation.

A shout sounded from the doorway and he looked back to see a heavily pregnant woman in a house coat holding what looked like a sheaf of papers in her hand. The man ran back to the doorway and snatched the papers, getting into a brief discussion with his wife, Bolan surmised. But his attention wasn’t entirely focused on them—he was moving toward the car.

The lightly forested grassy area he was creeping through ended in a small green hedge that led almost up to the back end of the sedan. With the couple still talking about something, the soldier crept along the hedge to the trunk, reaching it as the couple’s voices got louder. The rope securing the broken trunk was tied in a simple square knot. Bolan untied it in a few seconds. Now came the tricky part—opening it wide enough to get inside without attracting the couple’s attention. He carefully eased it open just enough for him to squeeze inside, folding himself around the small, bald spare tire and thanking the Universe that this guy didn’t keep his trunk full of crap.

Bolan had just gotten the trunk lid back down when he heard approaching footsteps crunch on the gravel driveway. Clenching one hand into a fist—just in case he had to subdue the guy—Bolan waited for the car to start moving, wondering if the man noticed that the back end of his car was a couple inches lower now. The car door opened then closed, and after a few seconds, Bolan felt the car begin to move underneath him.

He kept hold of the rope so he could keep the trunk from opening, yet still give himself enough of a space to view the outside. His initial suspicion had been correct—they seemed to be heading deeper into the city. Crammed like a sardine into the dusty, smelly compartment, this was by far the worst accommodation Bolan had found on his trip so far. The car had definitely seen better days, and once it accelerating to about thirty miles per hour, the rattling over the washboard road jarred his spine and ribs unmercifully. But he was making a lot better time, and wherever they ended up, it had to be a place with more possibilities than what he’d seen so far.

As long as he doesn’t get a flat tire, I’ll be fine, he thought as the car rattled and swayed onto a major arterial highway, giving Bolan hope that he would be able to find what he needed near the driver’s final destination.

An hour later the car creaked to a stop on a narrow side road. The driver spent a few minutes wedging his car in among rows of similar sedans, then got out and walked down the street toward whatever office building he worked in. Bolan gave him five more minutes—in case he forgot something in his car—then eased the trunk open and looked around.

He found himself in what looked like an anonymous business section on the outskirts of the city. The streets were lined with small shops selling everything from knockoff clothes to electronics. Pulling his cap low, Bolan checked his cash and hit the first electronics store he found.

Four stores, forty-five minutes, a lot of pointing and around fifty thousand yuan later, Bolan was set electronically, with four cheap smartphones, three small tablets, several items of clothing and a backpack to carry everything. The phones were burners; he would use each one for a day, then destroy it. The tablets were along the same lines. Changing access accounts would be a pain, but it definitely beat spending time in a Chinese prison for cyber espionage.

Finding the nearest cyber café, he got a cup of black tea and sat in an isolated corner to set up a phone and a tablet and log on to the internet. Despite being knockoffs, both devices worked well. Using an innocuous local provider and webmail account, Bolan sent a brief message confirming his safe arrival to an address that would send the message bouncing around the world until it arrived at a secure server outside the United States that could be accessed by the Stony Man team. Then he leaned back, sipped his weak tea and waited.

Seven minutes later a reply came, along with an encrypted data file. Bolan downloaded it, making sure he could save it to the tablet’s hard drive, then turned off his internet connection. Only then did he open the file.

Still aware that the local government could trace his downloads if they somehow got on his trail, Bolan opened the file only long enough to commit the information to memory, then trashed the data, overwriting it several times, hoping that nothing could be recovered. Once finished, he got up and headed outside to find a car, since he had to travel about five miles south-southwest in the next two hours to pick up a package.

Normally he would simply take a taxi to his destination. However, since his destination was in a disreputable part of town, Bolan didn’t want a driver to remember the foreigner he or she had dropped off in the area.

A light rain started to fall as he walked around looking for a suitable vehicle, something relatively small but able to carry a good deal, like a hatchback or a small truck. After casing several overcrowded parking lots, he happened on a small parking lot hidden by a high brick wall.

Inside were several small- and medium-size trucks, all several years old, including a few pickups that were exactly what he needed. Casting a quick glance around, Bolan strolled inside and up to the door to the nearest one. Three quick movements later, the door was open and he slipped behind the wheel.

The next part was trickier, but he’d hot-wired more cars than he could remember. In under a minute Bolan had the truck running was easing it onto the clogged street, where he immediately slowed to a crawl. He checked the time on his smartphone. An hour and a half remained before his meeting.

I just might make it in time, he thought as he leaned on the horn.

CHAPTER SIX

Baozhai Liao had found both success and difficulty in her relatively young life. But facing the man sitting across from her now was one of the most terrifying things she had ever done.

She had grown up on the far outskirts of Beijing, near enough to see the towering skyscrapers in the distance, yet far enough to realize at a very young age that if she ever wanted to get closer to them, she would need to find a way to do so by herself.

Growing up, her parents had been of little help. Her father was a small, local merchant, barely making ends meet by buying and selling whatever he could, and drinking up whatever profit he brought home. Her mother kept their tiny house, scrimping and saving to put food on the table and dreaming of the day when her husband would someday make a deal that would make them all rich. Baozhai slept in a cramped attic every night and dreamed of getting out of there as soon as she could.

But when the means to that end arrived, it wasn’t through any sort of brilliant business deal of her father’s. Several years earlier, the local government had come through one day and announced that their neighborhood was being rezoned for apartments and that all of the inhabitants had to move. However, they would receive compensation.

When they heard the amount—forty thousand yuan—the teenage Baozhai had felt something shift inside her. Before that day she had been a loyal family member, trying to do whatever she could to help her parents survive. But when she heard about the yuan her family would soon receive, she realized that the opportunity she had been waiting for had finally come.

Once the payment had been transferred to their bank, the next morning she had forged a withdrawal slip and her father’s signature and withdrew ten thousand yuan from the account. The bank teller didn’t even look at her twice, as they were all used to Huan’s daughter making deposits and withdrawals for her father.

But Baozhai didn’t take the money back home. Instead she had walked into the city, nervously clutching the worn satchel filled with bills, ready to make her own way.

She found a cheap room in the basement of a four-story apartment building, and hid the rest of her money, not trusting banks. Then she began looking for a job, and soon found one in a local restaurant. And it was there her luck turned again.

Baozhai’s mother had always doted on her only child, contrary to most Chinese families, which preferred sons. In particular, she had said that her daughter’s beauty could rival that of a princess. Well, apparently the man who stopped in for lunch one day thought so as well, for he gave her his card and told her to come by his office on her next day off. The company name on the card was for one of the largest modeling agencies in China.

Two days later Baozhai, wearing the best clothes she could buy in her neighborhood and made up as well as she knew how, walked into the offices of Dao International Models Management and handed the card to the well-coiffed woman at the front desk. Five minutes later she was sitting in a chair in Mr. Peng’s office, watching him watch her. He had her speak, then asked her to rise and walk across the room. Baozhai didn’t know what exactly he was looking for, but he apparently liked what he saw for he signed her to a contract and she started modeling two days later.

The next few years had passed in a blur of trips around the world, lavish parties, and meeting and mingling with the rich and famous from across China and beyond. Baozhai soaked up every bit of it and transformed herself from a meek, shy, lower-class girl into a sleek, polished model whose face made men desire her and woman envious.

To her, the funniest part was that she didn’t think she was all that attractive. The makeup artists and stylists performed miracles, transforming her from what she considered to be a plain girl into the graceful-looking, stylish woman who could sell cars, perfume or jewels with equal ease. But when the shoot was over and she wiped her face clean, the person staring back at her from the mirror was the everyday, ordinary Baozhai.

Everything had been going along perfectly—she had even arranged to repay her parents the ten thousand yuan “loan”—when tragedy struck. During a party to launch a new Chinese vodka, the company CEO had gotten very drunk and tried forcing her to have sex with him. Baozhai wouldn’t have any of it and had pushed him away—so hard that he had fallen into a glass table and severely injured himself.

The blowback was swift and severe. Neither company wanted the incident to become public, so they swept it under the rug and shunted aside any witnesses. Unfortunately that included Baozhai. Mr. Peng had retired by then, and the new head of the agency had been busy putting his own stamp on their lineup. The incident with Baozhai had given him the perfect excuse to fire her and, to ensure that she wouldn’t talk about why, he blackballed her among all the major modeling agencies.

Baozhai went from being the toast of the town to having nothing again. Locked out of her company penthouse, her Lexus taken back by the company, she was able to recover and use the funds she had saved to check into the Four Seasons while she figured out what her next steps were going to be.

And that was where she had met Zhang Liao.

Baozhai was far too worldly, or perhaps jaded, to believe in love at first sight, especially since she had seen other friends of hers in the modeling world get used, abused and discarded by men and women as often as the changing of the seasons. It was why she had avoided any sort of romantic entanglements during her modeling career, even though it brought accusations of being cold, a lesbian or just not “with it.”

But with Zhang, it was different. Divorced from the persona she had inhabited for years, Baozhai was free to be herself around him, unguarded, or perhaps less guarded. She knew his family—there was hardly anyone in Beijing who didn’t—and yet he was polite, friendly and approachable. They had first bumped into each other at the front desk, then again in the elevator. When their paths crossed at the restaurant that evening, Zhang insisted that it had to be fate and invited her to join him for dinner. Five minutes after sitting down, she realized why they were so good together—they were both from similar, isolating worlds, surrounded by sycophants and yes-men, and always not entirely sure whom to trust and whom to watch out for.

By the end of their superb meal, when he asked to see her again, Baozhai didn’t have to think about her answer.

She kept her previous life concealed for the first few months of their relationship—entertainment and politics were often a dangerous combination, and there was also the mystery of her sudden disappearance from the fashion world. She had vanished so cleanly that the media had no idea where she had gone. The tabloids spread rumors and pored over every “clue” they discovered. For her part, Baozhai read the international papers and laughed when she learned what had “happened” to her that day—she had gotten gender reassignment surgery, and was now working as “Bao” in men’s modeling; she had gotten hooked on drugs and resorted to pornography.

When she had revealed her former life, Zhang had smiled and said he’d already been aware of it—her background had been assiduously researched before their second date—and he simply figured she would tell him about it when she was ready. It was at that moment, with his trust in her revealed so easily and honestly, that Baozhai realized she was in love with him.

Their relationship progressed rapidly after that, and eight months after they first met, they were married, with their first child soon following. When Baozhai had gotten pregnant with their second, she had been concerned, but Zhang had told her not to worry. “There are rules for the majority of Chinese families, and there are rules for the rest of us,” he’d said with a smile. “But not the same rules for both.” True to his word, they hadn’t ever been bothered once by the government regarding their two children.

Zhang’s fortunes had seemed to continue climbing ever upward; trusted by people both inside and outside the bureaucracy, he ascended the political ranks with ease. But the higher he went, the more troubled he became. He grew more and more stressed, even drinking in the evening when he came home. He was always unfailingly kind and polite to his wife and children, and never raised his voice or laid a hand on them in any way. But he just as firmly refused to discuss what was causing him so much distress, despite Baozhai’s efforts to get him to confide in her.

It had all come to a head one night a few weeks earlier, when Zhang had finally spoken to her after the children were asleep. He told Baozhai enough to make her fearful for their safety; even though Zhang had assured her that she and their children were safe. But she knew better. Even in her world, she had seen men and women disappear after they had said the wrong thing, talked to the wrong person. Zhang thought his family connections would save him, that his lineage’s long, distinguished record of service to the nation would save him. But she knew he was wrong.

She had tried to warn him, tried to make plans to get out of the country. But by then it was too late. And when the man from the US Embassy had shown up at her door for her and their children, she’d known that even if the United States somehow managed to get her and her children out of the country, their life was over as she knew it.

Since the brave American’s—Carstairs was his name, she made a point of remembering—sacrifice for them had all come to naught, her next priority was to somehow protect her children. Baozhai was desperate to know where her husband was, but a colder, more rational part of her had pushed him to the back of her mind, simply because she had absolutely no idea where he was right now, but she did know where her children were.

That was how the men who questioned her every day were trying to break her—by limiting her interactions with her children. They only allowed her to see one at a time and only for about an hour each day. Baozhai could already see the toll this was taking on Zhou, her daughter, and Cheng, her son. Both quiet, polite children, Zhou was now spending hours each day playing that maddening game, and becoming more insolent and resistant during their time together, while Cheng was withdrawing further inside himself. If something didn’t change soon, she feared the emotional damage would have long-term repercussions—

“Mrs. Liao?”

The question jolted her back to the present, and the man sitting casually across from her. Despite herself, Baozhai was impressed with him. He was either military or had served, but hid it well enough to fool the average observer. Not so her—she had participated in far too many government parties to not recognize the type.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”

He smiled. That was also his problem; he looked too damn affable. In her experience there were only two types of government people: humorless elder leaders or young men who thought they could change the world. Both could be easily corrupted, with the right leverage. This one didn’t fit into either stereotype.

He was handsome—not movie-star handsome, but an honest, regular face. He wore his hair short and neat—not buzzed, like many military personnel, but short enough. She figured he got it cut every other week. He was dressed well, not well enough to be on the take, but his suit was only a year out of date and his shoes were relatively new.

It was his eyes. His warm, inviting, brown eyes that were his most dangerous weapons. The majority of government men she had met often used their stares as a weapon, to intimidate, menace, demand. He had never raised his voice to her, never threatened her, never shouted. He just asked his questions in the same steady, inviting tone, and stared at her with those eyes that made her want to believe that he wanted to help her, that if she could just say the right things, just tell him what he wanted to know, then all of this messy business would go away and she and her children would be free to leave.

There were just two problems with that scenario.

“What can you tell me about your husband’s subversive activities with the Americans?”

First, other than the vague conversation they’d had had that one evening, she had absolutely no idea of the details of what her husband had been doing with the US Embassy. Any answer she would give would have been a lie, because Zhang hadn’t wanted to tell her—for her own protection. That omission was what was now keeping her here. Trapping her here.

But, of course, if she had known the truth, it wouldn’t have helped, either. Once she told them what she knew, she would be either sent to prison or killed. There was no way out of this, not for her.

Not for her children.

And yet, Baozhai clung to some faint yet slowly dying hope that she could find some way to protect her children. She understood that it was very likely that her own life was forfeit, but she would gladly sacrifice herself if her children wouldn’t suffer because of what their father had done.

But how could she make that happen? What could she possibly offer this genial, smiling man that could guarantee her children’s lives?

Baozhai sat straighter in the wing-backed chair and flashed her best smile—the one she’d honed on hostile reporters—on her interrogator. “I wish very much to help you, Major, but I am afraid that I cannot tell you what I do not know. My husband was very secretive about his business, and never discussed it at home.”

That part was mostly true—Chinese men rarely discussed their business at home. While it wouldn’t gain her any real sympathy, she could hope for pity, perhaps?

The major nodded, his smile slipping a bit. “That may be, but tell me, how did you come to be in a United States Embassy car, with an American attaché escorting you to what I can only assume was their embassy?”

Well, she had to try. Baozhai licked her lips and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of her slacks. “I am not exactly sure why that happened myself. I had received a call from my husband earlier that evening saying to meet him at a restaurant in the vicinity.” She named a place near the American building. “Since my husband’s work had him associating with the Americans, we often went there for dinner. I didn’t think anything of it when he sent a car for us, as he planned to meet us there. It was only when we were detained outside our house that I feared something was wrong.”

“Yes, let’s talk about that, if you don’t mind.” The man shifted in his chair, still mostly radiating calm and openness. “You claim that two men from the Ministry of State Security attempted to take you into custody, and that this—Mr. Carstairs—fended them off, injuring one in the process, and then ordered his driver to leave the scene, is that right?”

Baozhai nodded, trying to stay ahead of the major long enough to weave some kind of plausible story. So far, she wasn’t coming up with anything besides her usual answers—an in-the-dark housewife caught up in larger events that she didn’t understand.

“And all the while, you had absolutely no idea as to why representatives of the Chinese government would be looking to take you and your children into custody?”

Baozhai crossed her legs to try to stop them from shaking. “I…can only assume that they were sent for my family’s protection.”

“Yet you did not go with them when ordered, but stayed with Mr. Carstairs.”

“I could not hear exactly what was said between the two men. I just saw them together, then the American did something to the other man, making him shout and move away, and he got into our car. The rest of what happened is in my statement.” Although regrettable, Baozhai thanked her lucky stars that the American had been killed in the accident, so he wouldn’t disprove her story. She had heard enough about the prisons of her homeland to know they would have gotten the truth out of him in short order.

Realizing that she, too, had nothing to lose, she decided to try being a bit more assertive. “Begging your pardon, but we have already gone over all of this several times in the past few days. I have not gotten the chance to see my children yet today. I would like to see them now.”

He snapped shut the manila folder he had been reading from and tucked it under his arm. “Rewards are granted for positive results, Mrs. Liao. Since we have not accomplished any positive results today, I am afraid that I cannot allow that. Perhaps you should think very carefully about what you had seen or discussed with your husband, and when I come tomorrow to ask these questions again, you will be more forthcoming with your answers.”

With that, he rose and walked out of the room, leaving Baozhai alone again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Blood pressure one-seventeen over seventy-five. You’re doing quite well, Mr. Liao, although your pressure has been creeping up over the past few days.”

Liao nodded blandly. “I can’t imagine why,” he deadpanned. If it hadn’t been for the circumstances, he would have thought he was in a normal hospital, undergoing a battery of tests in preparation for a normal procedure or operation. Everything fit—the efficient nurses, the bland yet nourishing hospital food, the scheduled checks by the doctors. If only the end result hadn’t been the termination of his life, he would have considered himself to be receiving very good care overall. However, there was that looming end result.

He had spent the first two or three days—he had to estimate, since there was no clock in his room—in a deep depression. He ate little, didn’t talk to anyone and just stayed in his bed for most of the day. He was depressed, it was true, but after the first twelve or fifteen hours, he had been primarily faking the symptoms to gain some time to think.

That in itself had been difficult. At first his thoughts had been consumed with where his family was and how they were doing. He dared not ask, for fear of being told the worst—at this point, he figured it was simply better that he not know.

To distract himself from that, he tried to come up with an escape plan, which proved to be extremely difficult. The guards were very professional in executing their duties. No one was ever allowed in his room by themselves, and the guard was always standing by the door, too far to reach, overpower him and seize his weapon, which Liao wasn’t even sure he knew how to use. Also, he’d learned that the main room was watched through closed-circuit television, and most likely his bathroom as well, making preparing any sort of device—not that he could come up with one—or plan unseen pretty much impossible. The one time he had inadvertently walked into the blind spot under where he thought the camera was, a pair of guards had appeared in his room within sixty seconds. The only way they could have known what was going on was because someone watching him had told them.

The other option, taking a hostage, probably wouldn’t get him anywhere, either. Although the guards probably wouldn’t actually kill a nurse or a doctor, he couldn’t assume that they didn’t have a shoot-escapees-on-sight policy. Besides, he didn’t have anything to make a weapon out of, so taking a hostage was out of the question. The tray, cup and utensils for his meals were all soft plastic, sturdy enough to use, but useless for fashioning into any sort of weapon. They were also counted before and after he ate, and Liao was certain that anything missing would be found—one way or another. He supposed he could try to fashion some kind of strangling cord out of his bedsheet, but again there was the problem of being watched. The single ventilation shaft high on the wall was bolted shut; it was too small for him to squeeze through anyway. There simply was no remotely feasible way to escape.

Therefore, with no way out, and his family most likely lost to him, Liao grew resigned to his fate. Well, not entirely. While he might not have been able to escape it, he realized that he could circumvent the reason they were keeping him here in the first place. All he had to do was to figure out a way to injure himself so that his organs would be unusable.

They may kill me, he thought while lying in bed one evening, but they damn sure aren’t going to profit from my body!

There only remained the question of how. A hunger strike wouldn’t work—he was sure that damned sociopath Dr. Xu would supervise the force-feeding himself.

Poison was a possibility, but again, how could he poison himself with only the very limited means available?

That question had occupied the next day or so. To not be put on antidepressants, Liao appeared to come out of his depression and began interacting with the staff more. But all the while he was racking his brain for a solution.

The answer, of course, was a simple one. It came to him while he was relieving himself one afternoon. He rose and turned to flush the toilet when he caught sight of his feces floating in the bowl. He stopped and stared at it as the automatic system flushed it down. Might it be that simple?

He returned to his bed and sat, mind whirling with the possibility. An educated man, he knew that simply ingesting the feces wouldn’t have the desired effect. For a moment he cursed his healthy lifestyle—an ulcer would have been perfect right now. But now, he was as healthy as a horse, more or less.

However, what if I introduce fecal bacteria to my bloodstream? All he would need is some kind of open wound and a judicious application of his own waste to the area.

Except they were watching him. They were always watching him. Only when he was asleep, he guessed, and the lights were out, were they not. The real issue was how he would conceal his infection plan from them, especially when all he had to wear was a flimsy hospital gown.

Again, the answer came while in the bathroom. He had been thinking about that problem while on the toilet when he realized that his entire body was covered by the gown when he sat. Also, he was as close to the infectious material as he was going to get right here, right now. But where to put it that wouldn’t be easily discovered?

The answer came to him with such clarity that he nearly fell off the toilet. All he had to do was to break the skin near his groin and apply feces to the wound. It was going to hurt, but he was pretty sure he could scratch open the skin near his genitals, smear his waste on it and simply wait.

He put his plan into motion that night, scratching at the skin near his scrotum under cover of the thin blanket.

If anyone’s watching, they’ll probably just think I’m masturbating, he thought.

It took a few hours and his fingers grew stiff and sore, not to mention the area he was injuring did not feel good at all. But by morning he had a raw, red, open wound near his scrotum that he figured should do the trick.

Feeling better than he had in days, Liao got up and even whistled a little as he headed for the bathroom.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Now mobile and just another person in the tide of city commuters, Bolan was looking forward to the next part of the mission.

Since he hadn’t been able to bring any weapons with him, Stony Man had reached out through encrypted web sites and list servers to various shadowy connections halfway around the world and arranged an armament package using third-party vendors.

In other words, Bolan was about to go weapons shopping on the black market.

Nobody had been pleased with that arrangement, as there were far too many things that could go wrong, the least of which included him walking into a trap or double-cross. However, bullets were going to start flying at some point during this trip and the Executioner needed some way to reply in kind.

Every building around him looked as though it had been built from neon. Glowing, flashing signs promising massage, go-go dancing, and other vague, suitably illicit pleasures lit the night. Strip clubs and the like were supposed to be illegal in Beijing, but as with most other crimes, where there was a will—which meant people willing to pay for it—there was a way. In this case, it meant they weren’t advertised openly, but if you knew the right people, then just about anything could be had for a price.

Young men and women flooded the streets, looking, buying and selling. Spotting the place he was looking for, Bolan took a moment to confirm the address. The building was three stories high and its front was covered with floor-to-ceiling windows, in which comely young women sat and beckoned passersby to come inside, or danced to lure them. Judging by the steady flow of patrons entering, business was good—the better to get lost in the crowd.

That was also good news; the neighborhood seemed to cater to a diverse clientele. The crowd appeared to be a mix of various people and races. Bolan figured he’d have a better time blending in here. He parked the truck three blocks away, hoping it wouldn’t get blocked in by the snail’s-pace traffic creeping through the streets.

Pulling his baseball cap low again, he headed through the gawking, talking, drinking crowd, heading toward the club’s entrance. Inside, he was met with a wall of noise and people, and the place was dimly lit by cheap colored-paper lanterns. Women danced on the bar to the loud approval of half-drunk men. It was hot inside, and reeked of grain alcohol, cigarette smoke, sweat and cheap perfume.

Bolan shouldered his way to the back, where a narrow stairway led to the second floor and the VIP rooms. He walked up, putting his back to the wall as a parade of young women dressed in American-label baseball jerseys, jeans and shirts paraded by. On the landing, he took out a pair of cheap sunglasses and slipped them on, blinking in the already dim red light, then walked down to the third door on the right and rapped on the frame three times.

“Yao?” The beaded curtain was pushed aside and a tiny woman with huge eyes, fake lashes and dressed in a traditional Chinese silk dress stared up at him. Her eyes widened even farther in surprise, but she quickly masked her reaction and cocked her head at him.

“Chen song wo,” Bolan replied, saying that Chen had sent him. He tapped his baseball cap, the only one he had seen in the room.

She raised a smartphone and looked at it for a moment, then nodded. “Come in,” she said in English.

Bolan entered a small room lined with bench seats and pillows, with a small serving table in the middle. As with the rest of the upstairs, the room was lit with red mood lighting. The woman pulled a sliding door closed, immediately muting the cacophony outside to a dull roar. “Would you care for some entertainment while you wait?”

“No, thank you,” Bolan replied as he chose a seat that allowed him to keep an eye on both the doorway and the woman keeping him company. “I’m here to pick up a package, and then I’ll be gone.”

“I am afraid it will be a few minutes,” she said, extending a slim hand to the table, which had a single bottle and four glasses on it. “Something to drink, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.” Bolan was well aware of the Chinese custom of sealing a business deal over alcohol, and he was just as determined not to let it interfere with his business. It was bad enough that he was in a public business, with not many escape routes if the deal went south. On the other hand, the fact that the handoff was going down here instead of in an isolated warehouse on the docks probably meant the black marketers had done this before and had a system in place.

Not inclined to make small talk, he glanced at the woman, who smiled shyly at him, then resumed watching the door. An ashtray sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by several books of matches. Bolan picked one up, studied the outline of a nude girl on it and slipped it into his pocket with a small smile.

In a few minutes the door slid open and an older woman poked her head in and rattled off a couple of sentences in rapid-fire Cantonese—at least Bolan thought it was Cantonese. He paid close attention to the young woman’s reply, which was short and to the point. The older woman nodded, said something else and then left.

“Your package will be here shortly,” she announced.

“You understand that I will wish to inspect it before I hand over the rest of the payment,” he said, resting his hands on his legs.

“Of course,” she replied. “Arrangements have already been made.”

As she said that, the door slid open again and two suited men stepped inside, filling most of the rest of the space in the room. Each one carried a large nylon gym bag slung over one shoulder.

“Here is what is to happen,” the small woman said. Bolan noticed she was now holding a stun gun in her right hand. “Under supervision, you will be allowed to inspect your purchase as you see fit. At no time will you be allowed to load or otherwise prepare any of it for firing.” She pressed the stud of the stun gun, making the metal prongs crackle with electricity, for emphasis. “Once you are satisfied with the merchandise, you will hand over the rest of the agreed-upon payment. Do you agree to these terms?”

At Bolan’s nod, the woman nodded to the man on the left, who stepped forward and set his bag on the table, then stepped back. Moving slowly, Bolan unzipped the bag and opened it to look inside before reaching in. Satisfied there were no surprises, he removed a heavy leather holster and opened it.

Inside was a stubby, matte-black pistol with crosshatched grips that resembled a knockoff Walther PPK, only not quite as small and sleek. Holding the Type 59 pistol in one hand, Bolan glanced at the woman. “This is the PPM model, as agreed?”

She nodded. “Chambered in 9 mm Parabellum.”

He nodded, pulled back the action to check the barrel and chamber, then swiftly fieldstripped it to ensure that any identifying marks or numbers had been removed—they were—that it was in decent shape, and that no parts—such as the firing pin—were missing. A cleaning kit was included, along with five magazines and two hundred rounds of 9 mm ammunition. Stony Man had promised to double the price if they could include a sound suppressor, but had no luck.

Bolan reassembled the pistol and worked the action again. It was in fair condition—the slide was a bit sticky, most likely due to lack of proper maintenance. If he had the time, he would remedy that. Under normal circumstances, he’d be more likely to throw the probably twenty-year-old gun at an enemy instead of trying to shoot them, but he had no choice in the matter. It was easily concealable, and fired one of the most common bullets in existence. He checked out the magazines, ensuring that the springs were clean and functional, and that they all fit into the pistol, then examined each box of bullets.

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