of the gangers slowly approach the SUV, many with pistols drawn, but held at their sides. He grabbed the AUG carbine from the back and checked the load, which was still half full. “Huh, he didn’t spray and pray, I’m impressed. All right, let’s take the rest of these bangers down. Ready?”
James had grabbed Bolan’s pistol, tucking the second under his arm as he reached for the door handle. “Let’s do it.”
The two men exited on their respective sides, guns raised, catching the group by surprise. One guy raised his pistol, but Bolan was faster, and snapped off a shot that took the gunman in the chest and sent him to the ground with a strangled gasp, the pistol skittering away on the asphalt. Standing on the running boards, Bolan and James were protected by the armored doors, giving them both a height advantage and almost complete cover.
“Drop the guns or we drop you! Now!” James repeated the order in Spanish as Bolan swept the muzzle of the assault rifle across the group to reinforce his partner. First one, then the others tossed their pistols away.
“All right, everybody grab some ground,” Bolan ordered. “I’m sure you’ve all been to lockup. You know the drill.”
Bolan and James had just collected all of the pistols, patted down each gang member for other weapons and drugs and zip-tied each when three ATF cars roared up, disgorging agents with their pistols out, all shouting for Bolan and James to raise their hands.
The two men let themselves be frisked, only then letting the other agents know that they were working as undercover FBI agents on this sting. “Which,” Bolan added archly, “you boys almost screwed up royally by charging in when you did.”
The other agents weren’t impressed. “Tell your boss to inform other agencies the next time he’s got people working in the city. In fact, forget that, just tell him to keep his fuckin’ nose out of our business. We’ve been tracking this gang for three months, and you think you can just waltz in and snatch them from under our noses? Nice try, jerkoff. We’re taking the collar on these guys, and you Feebies can kiss my ass.”
James and Bolan complained a bit more about the injustice of the situation; after all, it was good for their cover, since they had been assigned to keep moving up this branch of MS-13 to the national leaders. Now, however, they’d simply have to get the interrogation transcripts from the ATF once they were sent back to headquarters. Although they’d busted up this cell of the gang, their mission wasn’t truly complete, not by a long shot. But after this, the two would have to lie low for a while, until they could reintroduce themselves into the underworld and try to find another way into the gang’s hierarchy.
After exchanging a few more choice insults about the relative efficiency of the ATF and FBI, and extracting a promise to return the crate of rifles that had been left at the buy scene, James and Bolan were finally able to get in their SUV and drive off.
Once they were a dozen miles away, Bolan leaned over and checked their prisoner. Araña lay in the backseat, his hands and feet zip-tied and duct tape covering his mouth, his brown eyes burning with hatred.
“Sorry, amigo, but you have an appointment with some different people who are very interested in what you have to tell them. And don’t even try to spew some kind of macho bullshit at me. By the time they’re done with you, you’ll be telling them the names of the people you beat up when you were a punk-ass kid back home in El Salvador.”
James took a corner, leaning back in his seat as the tension of the mission started to wear off. “What do ya think the ATF boys’ll say when they find out the leader is missing?”
“That he was smarter than his goons and rabbited out of there, found a hole in the perimeter and, if he’s smart, is three states away by now. By the time they figure out the truth of it—if they do—he’ll have vanished off the face of the earth.” Bolan reclined his seat and slouched back, pleased at accomplishing their mission and staying in one piece. For now, it was time to relax and enjoy coming out on top again.
“Hey, find us a drive-through on the way to airport. Don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
CHAPTER TWO
Hu Ji Han stood in his elegant office, staring down at the dark, gleaming water of Victoria Harbour that separated Chung Wan, Hong Kong’s central district, and Tsim Sha Tsui, the southernmost point of Kowloon Peninsula on the Chinese mainland. The neon glitter from the skyscrapers all around him reflected off the black seawater, turning what should have been a placid, still stretch into a riot of flashing blues and reds and yellows, signs exhorting those that saw them to buy, consume, spend—live for today in hedonistic, self-indulgent pleasure, with little thought of what the next day might bring.
Fifty-three stories above the ground, ensconced in the Cheung Kong Center, the artfully designed skyscraper built on the grounds of the former Hilton Hotel and Beaconsfield House, Hu stared out at the monuments to capitalism and business surrounding him. He gazed down at the crowded streets of the city that existed like a cancerous growth on an otherwise healthy living being. He lived and worked deep in the pulsing, constantly beating heart of the beast every day, surrounded by its excess, its shallow, tawdry pleasures, the souls of his countrymen adrift in a sea of overindulgent products, drowning in consumption for its own sake. Hu accepted this portion of his fate, living within this cesspool, studying it, surviving it while avoiding being drawn in by its proffered pleasures.
Even after forty years, sometimes he was surprised to find the hate still burning so strongly within him.
To the rest of the world, he was a successful businessman, respected and admired for creating a company that filled a void in the region, that of recovery and restoration after natural disasters. From his small, one-man office twenty-three years ago, the firm of Life and Property Recovery, Incorporated, now had offices all over Southeast Asia and the world, and was branching out into urban development and infrastructure planning and construction. Hu’s cost-effective solutions to humanitarian crises had made him a lauded figure throughout the region. One entire wall of his office was covered with various awards and photos of him being feted and commemorated by various groups and people, including two sitting presidents of the United States. Those meetings had galled him most of all, bowing and smiling at the haughty Americans, all of whom still strutted around as though they were the only superpower in the world, doing what they pleased, heedless of what others thought.
The U.S. companies, many of whom had headquarters in Hong Kong due to the relaxed business environment, were a particular affront to Hu, extending their poisonous influence farther into his country. They were so quick to take advantage of what the city had to offer, yet, when they had been truly needed decades ago, there had been no help forthcoming, not from them, nor from anywhere else in the world. It was this terrible failure on their part, and that of other countries, that kept Hu’s constant desire burning deep in his heart, carefully concealed by layers of politeness, business acumen and genial diplomacy. But always, always, there was the voice in the back of his mind, constantly exhorting him. His grandmother had selected his middle name, Ji, meaning to remember or keep in mind, and that was exactly what he had done all these long years.
Never forget...never forgive...
Throughout his years growing up, all through building his business over the decades, Hu had never forgotten. And now, with the first part of his plan set in motion, he was only a few days away from sending a truly divine wind down upon the complacent fools and fatuous men and women that wasted their lives in meaningless busywork—soon...it would all fall into place.
The soft whoosh of the doors to his private elevator broke through Hu’s reverie.
His
