hand outstretched to keep her balance.
Her empty left hand.
“She left the briefcase behind.” He peered more closely at the picture, but it faded into static as the satellite passed out of range. His head snapped up, his ice-blue eyes staring back at his computer hacker with steely resolve. “They’re up to something, and I want to find out what.”
“I’m forwarding you Trent’s number right now.”
“Good. Meanwhile, continue expediting the arrangement for Morocco. There’ll be a few unexpected guests attending the convention this year.”
“What, you mean you’re not going to pose as an MS-13 member looking for hardware?”
Bolan shook his head. “No, I want you to spoof that invite to a mercenary leader cover identity I’ve been wanting to get out there for a while. I discussed it with Gary Manning a while back, he can fill you in on the details.”
“Okay, I’ll give him a call and get to work. No rest for the wicked, apparently.”
“Nor for the righteous, either. Striker out.” He signed off and brought up John Trent’s home number, letting the internet dialer connect him.
* * *
JOHN TRENT FACED OFF against his five opponents, all of whom were arrayed around him in a loose circle. Confident and loose, he stood right where he was, not moving a muscle. He was aware of the position and likely initial attack method of each of his foes, and was ready to counter whatever they might throw at him.
As if on an unseen signal, all of them charged at him at once, intending to overwhelm him with their superior numbers. John blocked the forward punch of the one in front of him and moved aside just enough to redirect the force of his blow, knocking the man off-balance and sending him stumbling into the thug next to him—taking both of them out of the fight for a moment. Trent stepped forward into the opening they left even as he felt a hand grab the collar of his jacket.
Instantly he spun into the man’s attempt to grapple with him, confusing his attacker for a moment, and also interrupting the other two men’s attacks. Face-to-face with the third man, Trent wrapped his left arm around the man’s right, breaking his grip while bringing his right hand, fingers stiffened, up into the man’s throat before he could block it. The man would have staggered backward, except for Trent’s hold on him. He used his control of the man to push him into the other two, making them dodge their ally instead of attack him.
By now the first two had recovered, and were coming after Trent again. He ducked the overhand strike of one and punched him in the groin, sending him to the ground. His partner tried bringing his interlaced
hands down on Trent’s head, but he avoided the blow by leaning to one side, then grabbed the man’s hands and pulled him into a throw over his leg, ending the takedown with two lightning-quick strikes to the man’s left temple.
Two down, three to go.
Trent rose to his feet as the three eyed him warily, aware of what he could do, but not willing to give up just yet. The three sized him up for another moment, then all came at him at once. Trent met the one on the left’s front kick with a block that levered his foot up and into the middle man’s arm, knocking his punch away. Trent pushed up higher and away, making the man fall backward on his buttocks. Without stopping, he shot his elbow into the temple of the middle man, dropping him, then ducked a knife slash from the last man, coming up inside his reach and trapping the weapon hand in a wrist lock that let him control his attacker’s movement, taking him down to the ground. Trent disarmed the man, popping him in the jaw with the butt of the knife, then rose to take on the first guy again, who had gotten to his feet and was coming after him again, this time with a leaping high kick.
Again Trent moved into the attack, stabbing the man in the groin with the blade of the knife and taking him out of the fight.
The whole encounter had taken less than ten seconds.
Trent’s five “attackers” all got up from the ground and bowed him, straightening their gis as they did. Trent bowed back to them before turning to the other students of his advanced ninjitsu class.
“As you have been learning ever since you began this martial art path, ninjitsu is no one way, it is using whatever method, move or means that is effective to defeat one’s opponent. In the demonstration you just saw, I used a variety of moves to keep my opponents off balance and off target. Usually, however, when faced with five-to-one odds, I would disable them enough to escape and find the nearest police officer.”
That comment brought chuckles from the class. “Okay, let’s split into groups of three and practice two-on-one sparring. Use everything you’ve been taught, both as attackers and defenders. Do fifteen rounds, five for each person in each position, then move up to knives and clubs. I’ll be coming around to instruct as you work.”
The class split into smaller groups as Trent’s assistant approached him, holding a cell phone. “Sensei, I’m afraid you have an urgent phone call. The caller says he is an old friend from the farm.”
Trent looked at him, black eyebrows raised in surprise. “Hmm. I’ll take it.” He took the cell phone and walked to a corner of the dojo. “This is John Trent.”
“Mack Bolan here, John. I won’t bore you with small talk and will get right to the point. How would you feel about helping me out again?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hu Ji Han positioned himself and addressed the ball on his tee, a four iron held firmly in his gloved hands. A momentary pause, then inhale as he swung the club back and exhale as he brought it down, the power flowing from his shoulders and waist into the club head, smacking the ball into the clear blue sky. It sailed over the azure ocean water to land in the center of the fairway, roughly two hundred yards from the green.
“Excellent shot, Mr. Hu.” His golfing partner, an impeccably dressed man with a polished Oxford accent, inclined his head in approval. The two men, along with their caddies and a junior member from each company, were on the third hole of the ocean nine at the Clearwater Bay Golf and Country Club. The day was perfect for the challenging course, including this par four, 460-yard hole that required the players to angle a shot over a stretch of the South China Sea to even have a chance to line up their approach to the green and make par.
“Thank you.” Golf normally calmed Hu’s mind, although this day his thoughts were in disarray. He was meeting with the representative of this particular company to ensure that the final pieces of his opening gambit were ready to be introduced into play. He was playing well enough, but the course was merciless, and the slightest lapse of concentration could cost him.
His partner, one Rhys Davis-Smythe, took his position and addressed his ball. He was several inches taller than the short Chinese man, and whipcord-lean. Hu couldn’t tell if he had always been in sales, since he had noticed scars on Davis-Smythe’s hands before he had pulled his gloves on. Plus, he was always alert to everything that was going on around them, from other groups playing in front and behind them to even the noisy call of a seagull as it took off into the stiff breeze. None of this seemed to affect his game in the slightest, as evidenced by the crushing shot he hit, following the same route Hu had, and winding up fifty yards closer to the green.
“A superb shot, as well, Mr. Davis-Smythe.” Usually fiercely competitive, Hu was willing to lose this round, as long as it ensured that he got what
