van careened left, then cut right again, giving Bolan a chance to slip into a shadowy recess along the wall. He flattened against the cold bricks and the van barreled past him, its right-side mirror snapping off as it caught the edge of the alcove. Bolan waited a second more, then brought the Beretta up and fired as the front of the vehicle came into view. A series of bullet holes dappled the windshield and the driver jerked backward. The van slowed. Bolan acquired a sight picture on the front passenger and fired another three-round burst. That man slumped forward and the van decelerated, slowing to a stop.
Bolan rushed to the front of the vehicle and suddenly felt a round zoom by him. He saw movement inside the van but no muzzle flash. It had come from behind him.
Crissey.
Bolan glanced back and saw the Englishman holding a Walther PPS in his left hand and practically covering his face with his right.
“Hold your fire,” Bolan yelled, hoping Crissey could hear him.
The Executioner saw two men moving inside the back of the van. One had a rifle and the other a pistol. Bolan fired another three-round burst through the pockmarked windshield and darted to the side. He reached into the pocket of his BDU shirt and pulled out a stun grenade. Hooking the round pin on the edge of the protruding bumper, Bolan pulled the pin out and rose up, smashing the driver’s-side window with his Beretta.
A round zoomed past him, this time from inside the van.
“Crissey,” Bolan yelled, “now would be a good time to shoot.”
The Englishman rose up and fired off a volley of several rounds. Bolan tossed the grenade through the broken window and ducked down. Four seconds later the inside of the van exploded with smoke and light, accompanied by a concussive blast. Bolan moved to the rear of the vehicle and tore open the back door. The interior was filled with a cloud of smoke and the acrid smell of burned gunpowder. The last two Iranians squirmed on the floor next to the crate. Bolan grabbed the first one by the ankle and pulled him out of the van. He dropped to the ground.
Crissey was next to Bolan now, and the Executioner told him to check and secure the prisoner. Then Bolan reached for the second man’s twitching feet, but the Iranian responded with a kick. The man sat up holding a pistol with an elongated barrel, pointing it directly at Crissey. Bolan fired a round into the Iranian’s forehead, and he slumped to the floor. The Executioner stitched the man with another quick burst and pulled his body from the back of the vehicle.
“Thanks,” Crissey said. He flashed an expression somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “And I’m sorry about that near miss when you popped up before.”
“Forget it,” Bolan said, moving his head slightly, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. “You got that guy cuffed?”
“Righto.”
Bolan glanced down and saw a thin strip of plastic securing the Iranian’s wrists. Taking out another, wider flex cuff, Bolan stooped down and crisscrossed a second band over the first. He then did a quick but thorough search of the man’s pockets and body and lifted the prone Iranian back into the rear of the van. The distant, alternating blast of police sirens echoed in the night.
Bolan scooped the weapons out of the van and tossed them on the ground.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, slamming the rear doors. “Unless you want to stick around and answer twenty questions for the police.”
Crissey smiled and began trotting back toward his car. Bolan moved to the front of the van, pulled out the last two bodies and threw them into the alley. He did a quick survey of the scene. There were enough bodies, weapons and expended rounds to keep the police busy for a while. The thing to do now was vacate the area and hope no one noticed all the bullet holes in the van.
“I say,” Crissey said, pausing at the side of his vehicle. “Shouldn’t we at least move those chaps off to the side?”
“Not unless you want to do it with an audience,” Bolan said, slipping behind the wheel. The interior was slick with blood, but he had no time to clean it off. Instead he cocked his feet back and kicked the corners of the damaged windshield. The glass cracked and bulged, then separated from the frame, coming out in one piece. Instead of dropping it to the ground, Bolan pulled the glass back inside and set it in the rear section. There was no sense in leaving a clue as to what type of vehicle they might be driving or what condition it was in. “I’ll follow you to your embassy, then we can see what we’ve got.”
“Righto.” Crissey grinned. “And don’t forget we drive on the proper side of the roadway here in Hong Kong. The left side.”
“I’ll do my best to remember,” Bolan said. “Hopefully none of the cops will stop me for driving without a windshield.”
Crissey looked around at the four bodies and scattered weapons.
“Perhaps,” he said, “they’ll be a bit busy sorting this one out.”
* * *
THE MANTIS HAD finished stuffing the money into a makeshift sack he’d fashioned from the overcoat. He was calling Master Chen when he heard the sound. The slight creak of the rear door being opened. Another of Chong’s hired assassins?
“Your voice hesitates,” Master Chen said. “Is something wrong?”
“Trouble,” the Mantis whispered. “I will meet your men at the rendezvous point.”
He terminated the call and slipped the cell phone back into his pocket as he dropped the package and melted into the shadows to survey the scene. He didn’t have to wait long. Two men emerged from the corridor and into the circle of light, their arms extended and holding small, semiautomatic pistols. One of the pistols had a shiny, chrome-like finish, sparkling like a jewel in the garish light.
“Hello,” the first one said. “Look at those chaps.”
English, the Mantis thought. MI6? Regardless, they were both careless men with not long to live.
“Looks like there’s been a bit of a row,” the second added. He moved toward the bundled overcoat and kicked it. “We’d better look into this.”
“Right,” the first one said. “But let’s back off and call for assistance. We need to clear this place and that’s going to be a bit of a chore.”
The last thing the Mantis needed was a squad of British agents nosing around. The discovery of the bodies was both inevitable and desirable—the price of betrayal had to be shown—just not at this time. He felt in his vest for another dart. He would only need one. He gripped it tightly in his right hand. One of the Brits holstered his gun and took out a cell phone. The other stood holding his weapon down by his leg, the bright slide once again reflecting the overhead lighting. The Englishman squatted down next to the bundled overcoat and began untying it.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said.
“Better to wait on that,” his partner replied. The Mantis threw his first dart. It caught the man in the throat. He dropped the cell phone and grabbed at his neck. The other one quickly whirled, extending his pistol as he rose to a crouch. The Mantis was already running forward, leaping upward, his right leg cocked back. At the apex of his leap he snapped his foot outward, catching the second agent under the jaw. The man’s head jerked up and back, then his whole body bobbled drunkenly as he collapsed onto
