will,” he said, and squeezed the handles of the balisong tightly.
Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong, commercial waterfront district
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, watched as four men removed a large wooden crate from a black truck. A fifth man stood guard, holding a pistol with a sound suppressor by his side. Bolan was standing in the shadows perhaps forty feet away, flattened against the edge of an abutment. He could hear the men speaking Farsi. So far Brognola’s intel had panned out: these Iranians were up to something in Hong Kong. The five of them had met with a group of Chinese men, Triads from the looks of them, and exchanged a suitcase for the small black truck. Then both groups had gone their separate ways. It had been a juggling act for Bolan to keep both groups under surveillance, even with an assist from MI6. At this point, the lead British agent, John Crissey, had no choice but to split up his team, sending two of his men to follow the Triads with the suitcase while he and Bolan continued with the Iranians.
Crissey kept in radio contact with his men as he and Bolan trailed the truck through the busy night traffic. When the Iranians suddenly pulled into a back alley, Bolan got out of the car and tailed them on foot. They pulled up beside a parked van facing the opposite direction and Bolan gave Crissey a heads-up.
“Get on the other side of this alley,” Bolan said into his throat mic. “They’ve got another vehicle, a blue van, ready to head out.”
“Righto, Cooper,” the Englishman said. As usual, Bolan was using his Matt Cooper alias. Once again he pondered the wisdom of working with MI6, but this time he’d had little choice. They were the established agency in what was once the British territory of Hong Kong, and according to Hal Brognola, Bolan was the only effective asset in the area. If he was in the neighborhood, a nearby assignment was usually waiting in the wings. But all things considered, Crissey and his guys were turning out to be competent and trustworthy.
The Iranians carried the long crate to the rear of the van. It took all of their focus, and Bolan used the opportunity to sneak closer. The Iranians slid the wooden crate inside and three of them hopped in the back with it. The other two slammed the van’s rear doors. They spoke again and looked back at the small truck they’d gotten from the Triads before going around to the front of the van and getting in. It appeared they were going to abandon the black truck. A good move, just in case the Triad had rigged it with an IED or GPS. The van’s engine rolled over and caught. They were taking off. It would be nicer to follow them to their ultimate destination, but Bolan figured it was time to move, in case they lost the van in the Hong Kong traffic. Bolan keyed his radio and spoke into his throat mic.
“Crissey, target’s getting ready to move. You in position?”
“Affirmative.”
“Let’s hit them now.”
“Agreed. Heading in from the far end.”
That was all Bolan needed to hear. It was risky for the two of them to tackle five men who were no doubt armed, but it was also necessary if the intel Stony Man Farm had received was correct: the Iranians were purportedly buying the guidance system for one of China’s DF-21D anti-ship ballistic missiles. The kind the US designated as a “carrier killer.”
Hal Brognola had been most persuasive. “I don’t need to tell you how worried the Navy is about this one. It’s bad enough that the Chinese have them, but if they’re selling the technology to the Iranians, our ships will be sitting ducks in the Persian Gulf.”
Bolan knew Brognola was right. They couldn’t afford to let that kind of technology fall into the Ayatollah’s hands. Still, from what Bolan knew of the Chinese, the possibility that they’d export their technology to the Muslims seemed dubious.
“Cooper,” Crissey said over the radio. “I’m pulling my vehicle up to block the mouth of the alley. Are you ready?”
“Roger that,” Bolan said, and sprang from the shadows. “Moving in now.”
He was wearing black cargo pants and a BDU shirt that fit loosely enough to hide the shoulder rig with his Beretta 93R. He’d forgone combat boots for a lighter sport tactical boot, which afforded him traction and mobility as well as soundless movement. They also packed a pretty good wallop. Bolan pulled the Beretta out of its holster and increased his pace, centering himself directly behind the windowless van so he’d be less visible in the side mirrors. The van began to accelerate toward the mouth of the alley. Bolan ran faster, nearing an all-out sprint. If Crissey wasn’t in position, or if the Iranians decided to ram the Englishman’s car, things could get dicey.
Then the red flashes of brake lights glowed ahead and the van began to slow down. Bolan flipped the selector to auto as he got within two feet of the back of the van. Reaching out, he grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, raising the Beretta at the same time. The door popped open, but the van jerked to a stop, sending the Executioner slamming against the rear door. The impact felt like a body blow from a wrecking ball. Bolan fell to the ground, rolling to minimize the impact. Just as he came to a stop, he glanced toward the van. Bolan could see the illumination from a pair of headlights. Crissey had pulled his damn car front first into the alley. Tactically, it wasn’t a bad move, if you were in the car. The engine block would provide the maximum ballistic cover from any gunfire emanating from the van, and it would certainly be more difficult for the van to knock the car out of the way, but the flip side was that Bolan’s position was now lit up like a Hong Kong business district. And there was nowhere to go on either side.
The right rear door opened a crack and the barrel of an SKS rifle emerged. The muzzle flash burst like an exploding star as Bolan rolled away from the rounds bouncing off the pavement. He aimed the Beretta at the solid top of the door, approximating where he thought the assailant’s upper body might be, and fired off three quick bursts. Luckily he’d loaded this magazine with armor-piercing bullets.
Neat round holes perforated the door in a semicircular pattern. Seconds later the rifle dropped to the ground, followed by a slumping body.
One down and three to go, Bolan thought. He wanted at least one of the Iranians alive.
As the van began backing up, the left rear door opened and the barrel of another SKS poked out.
Alive—only if possible, Bolan thought, and began rolling again.
The van’s front wheels twisted, and it veered toward him, its side striking the wall of the building next to Bolan. The rifle began spitting a deadly stream of bullets, but the rounds went wide as the vehicle abraded the brick wall.
No place to hide now. Bolan sprang to his feet, firing off another burst from his Beretta. He began running. If he could get back to the small truck the Iranians had abandoned he might be able to avoid getting run over or crushed.
Or shot, he thought as another staccato burst sounded behind him. He extended his arm back to fire another burst, buying a few seconds respite.
But the van was right behind him, maybe ten feet away now, sending out a shower of sparks as it scraped against the stone wall.
Five feet.
Three.
Just as he thought it was over, the top of the van collided with a protruding section of bricks, sending out a shower of debris like pellets in a hailstorm. The van careened left, then
