Dragon Key

  DRAGON’S LAIR

  When an American operative is jailed, Mack Bolan must finish the agent’s mission to smuggle a Chinese activist and his family out of the country. But getting the dissident away alive becomes a logistical nightmare for Bolan and the two inexperienced CIA agents assisting him. Not only are the Chinese authorities on their tail, but the activist insists on retrieving a stolen flash drive in Shanghai.

  The memory key contains sensitive information belonging to a renegade general. As determined to recover the data as the dissident is, the general has hired a legendary assassin famous for eliminating anyone who gets in his way. In a battle where only one champion can survive, Bolan may have met his match. But the Executioner is used to fighting against overwhelming odds and has something much more important on his side—justice.

  “Do you have any weapons?”

  Huang pulled back his jacket, exposing a Walther PPK .380.

  “I’ve got one, too.” Kelly began to dig through her handbag.

  Bolan glanced at his watch. It was 16:25. They had a few more hours until Grimaldi’s flight was scheduled to land. “Let’s go check out the prison. I want to see what we’re dealing with.”

  Huang and Kelly exchanged a look. Bolan sensed they were holding something back. He stared at Huang. “What else do you want to tell me?”

  Huang glanced at the woman again, licked his lips, then said, “When Wayne and I were talking to Han, he refused to go with us. He insisted he has to stay in China until he gets some issues resolved. He just wants to make sure his family is safe.”

  “He’s not worried about his impending arrest?”

  Huang shrugged. “He said he had some kind of...insurance policy.”

  The Executioner

  #360 Mission to Burma

  #361 Final Resort

  #362 Patriot Acts

  #363 Face of Terror

  #364 Hostile Odds

  #365 Collision Course

  #366 Pele’s Fire

  #367 Loose Cannon

  #368 Crisis Nation

  #369 Dangerous Tides

  #370 Dark Alliance

  #371 Fire Zone

  #372 Lethal Compound

  #373 Code of Honor

  #374 System Corruption

  #375 Salvador Strike

  #376 Frontier Fury

  #377 Desperate Cargo

  #378 Death Run

  #379 Deep Recon

  #380 Silent Threat

  #381 Killing Ground

  #382 Threat Factor

  #383 Raw Fury

  #384 Cartel Clash

  #385 Recovery Force

  #386 Crucial Intercept

  #387 Powder Burn

  #388 Final Coup

  #389 Deadly Command

  #390 Toxic Terrain

  #391 Enemy Agents

  #392 Shadow Hunt

  #393 Stand Down

  #394 Trial by Fire

  #395 Hazard Zone

  #396 Fatal Combat

  #397 Damage Radius

  #398 Battle Cry

  #399 Nuclear Storm

  #400 Blind Justice

  #401 Jungle Hunt

  #402 Rebel Trade

  #403 Line of Honor

  #404 Final Judgment

  #405 Lethal Diversion

  #406 Survival Mission

  #407 Throw Down

  #408 Border Offensive

  #409 Blood Vendetta

  #410 Hostile Force

  #411 Cold Fusion

  #412 Night’s Reckoning

  #413 Double Cross

  #414 Prison Code

  #415 Ivory Wave

  #416 Extraction

  #417 Rogue Assault

  #418 Viral Siege

  #419 Sleeping Dragons

  #420 Rebel Blast

  #421 Hard Targets

  #422 Nigeria Meltdown

  #423 Breakout

  #424 Amazon Impunity

  #425 Patriot Strike

  #426 Pirate Offensive

  #427 Pacific Creed

  #428 Desert Impact

  #429 Arctic Kill

  #430 Deadly Salvage

  #431 Maximum Chaos

  #432 Slayground

  #433 Point Blank

  #434 Savage Deadlock

  #435 Dragon Key

  DRAGON KEY

  Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

  —Benjamin Franklin,

  Poor Richard’s Almanack

  Nothing is more dangerous than someone whose ugly secrets are about to be revealed. But once the truth comes out, it’s time for justice.

  —Mack Bolan

  THE

  LEGEND

  Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

  But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

  Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

  He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

  So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

  But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

  Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

  Contents

  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

  Prologue

  Hong Kong, warehouse district

  It was a matter of honor, the Praying Mantis thought as he moved in the semidarkness of the alley. That was how Mr. Chen, his master, had described this mission to him. Honor and tradition... Two things that were very important to the Triad, and thus to the Mantis, as well.

  Duty is preceded by honor, he thought.

  He dragged his left foot and leaned heavily on a long walking stick. Just another Hong Kong beggar out for a night’s work, going through garbage cans and asking for handouts. The long overcoat felt cumbersome, but it was a necessary disguise. He mimicked a limp as he drew nearer to the rear entrance of the warehouse, closer to the two guards who stood there in their casual contempt. They were young Chinese, cocky and full of themselves. Chong should have chosen better. They both wore finely tailored navy suits with black silk ties and sunglasses, even though it was close to midnight and the sun would not shine again for hours. For these two it was all about the image. Chinese gangsters trying to emulate what they saw in some John Woo movie. All image and no substance. The Mantis flexed his abdominal muscles in anticipation, but
he doubted these two would present much of a problem. Vanity was not a desirable quality in an enforcer or bodyguard. Sunglasses at night.

  It doesn’t matter, the Mantis thought. The sun will never shine upon them again.

  He stepped closer, leaning on the long stick, still dragging his left foot, his face streaked like a tiger with black camo paint.

  “Can you spare some change for a poor, old, crippled man?” he said in a distorted voice, imbuing the Mandarin with a rural twang. He let his lips creep into a smile as he moved within striking distance, holding out his cupped palm.

  The closest one twisted his mouth into a snarl as he stepped out from the doorway and cocked back his hand, ready to deliver a harsh blow to the old beggar.

  “Get out of here, you peasant son-of-a—”

  The Mantis thrust the fingers of his cupped hand upward into the soft area at the base of the guard’s neck. As the man made a gurgling sound and stumbled to the side, the Mantis pivoted to the left, bringing the stick upward with three consecutive blows, striking the second guard’s groin, abdomen and throat. The Mantis pivoted again, this time to the right, using a spinning back kick. The heel of his right foot smashed into the first guard’s face and the man crumpled. The second guard was on his knees, struggling to reach under the lapel of his finely tailored suit when the Mantis delivered a lightning-quick blow—a palm strike to the side of the man’s head—sending his temple crashing into the sharp edges of the brick doorway. He collapsed to the ground, as well.

  After assuring himself that both men were dead, the Mantis dragged the bodies behind a pair of garbage cans and quickly went through their pockets. He removed a pistol from each and a radio from the second man. The Mantis dropped the weapons into the pockets of his overcoat and held the radio in his hand as he went back to the door. It was unlocked.

  He slipped into the dark interior and divested himself of the heavy overcoat and stick. It would be close quarters from this point onward. Underneath the overcoat he wore his customary working clothes: a black jumpsuit made of soft, double-knit fabric that allowed for his high kicks and quick movements. Over the jumpsuit was a leather vest equipped with several slit-like pockets, each pocket containing a special weapon. The Mantis had heard that in olden times, a Triad enforcer’s vest would be lined with finely wrought iron mesh. Despite his affinity for tradition, this vest was lined with Kevlar. As he stood in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust, he thought about taking the guns but decided to leave them. This was, after all, a matter of honor. The traditional ways should dominate.

  The Mantis stepped forward, the soles of his shoes making virtually no sound as he moved over the solid concrete floor. The warehouse was fully stocked with barrels of rice, but devoid of workers. He imagined Chong had paid off any security guards so the meeting could continue unobstructed. Chong was thorough, but like most traitors, not thorough enough. Following the five of them from the docks had been almost too easy.

  He heard their voices now.... Low, guttural sounds interspersed with laughter. Several men were talking, more concerned with money than vigilance. The Mantis moved soundlessly down an aisle with metal barrels stacked on either side.

  The voices grew louder. More laughing. One of them was Chong. The Mantis was sure of it. At the corner he paused and flattened against the barrels, tilting his head slightly so he could glance down the aisle. A man stood at the other end, perhaps ten meters away, his silhouette in a position of alertness, holding a submachine gun.

  The Mantis smiled. This guard, too, was wearing sunglasses.

  Moving behind the wall of barrels, the Mantis flicked the outside pocket of the vest and felt the sharpened edge of a throwing dart. This guard was a large man, probably chosen for intimidation rather than his skill, but size did not always matter. The Mantis cocked his arm and closed his eyes for a moment of concentration.

  He opened his eyes, stepped to his left using a smooth, fluid movement and threw the dart. A split second later the guard’s head jerked back, the jagged edge of the throwing dart protruding from the opaque lens over his left eye. His hand started up toward his head but stopped. His mouth sagged open, dribbling a trail of blood. As the big guard began to fall forward, the Mantis covered the distance between them and caught the man before he hit the floor. With a quick finger jab to the man’s throat, the Mantis made sure the guard would not recover. The guard made a short choking sound, a death rattle, and was silent. The Mantis laid him onto the cold concrete floor and removed the machine gun from the dead man’s hands. It was an HK MP5. A fine weapon, but he set it aside.

  “Make them suffer for their treachery,” Master Chen had said. “Make an example of them.”

  The Mantis peered around the edge of the stacked barrels. One more guard stood perhaps fifteen meters away, holding another MP5. A portable light had been set up in the middle of a clear section of the floor. Chong and another man sat in the bright circle of light at a small folding table piled with stacks of money. This second man wore tiny oval glasses as his fingers worked nimbly over an abacus. Leo Kim, Mr. Chen’s personal accountant in Hong Kong. This was an unexpected development. Two traitors would die tonight.

  The Mantis removed another dart then scanned the surroundings. Nothing moved in the shadows of the warehouse. The two men’s voices, their laughter, their squeals of delight as they counted the money, floated from the table like joyful butterflies.

  This guard should be the last one, the Mantis thought. Kim would be too scared to bring any associates. He was a mouse, feeding on the crumbs left by others.

  The Mantis traced his thumb over the sharpened point of the dart, the finely honed edge grating softly against each minute ridgeline. He breathed in and out, listening, melting into the darkness and shadows, watching, waiting...

  Something flickered on the other side of the room. A man, another guard, stood in the shadows. He stepped forward and the Mantis appraised him: well muscled, dark clothing and no sunglasses decorating his pockmarked face. This one was obviously in charge. The boss guard. He raised a portable radio to his mouth and asked, “Deng, do you see anything?”

  The Mantis stepped back. Perhaps it would be prudent to use one of the guns after all. This new guard was obviously more competent than the others. Kim must have brought him along, just in case. The mouse bringing a cat to keep him safe. The irony was obvious. This bastard would probably just as soon cut Kim’s throat and steal his money as protect him.

  The room grew silent. No one had responded. The boss guard spoke into the radio again. “Deng, you idiot, where the hell are you?”

  The seconds ticked by with no answer.

  The Mantis thought again about picking up the submachine gun. But his master’s honor was at stake. Mr. Chen was not his sifu, but Chen had taken him in from the streets, raised him, taught him the way of the Triad and the code of the warrior and had made sure he had the best schooling in all manners of martial combat.

  The Mantis took out another dart.

  The boss guard reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stainless steel, semiauto Norinco Type 54 pistol as he stepped into the circle of light and toward the other guard, who was now gripping his submachine gun with both hands.

  The Norinco’s shiny finish gleamed in the harsh light. The Mantis liked shiny things.

  “See if everything’s all right,” the boss guard said. “Find out why they aren’t answering. And take off those damn sunglasses.”

  The other guard nodded and turned, his dominant hand pulling the glasses off. As he did so, the Mantis stepped forward and threw the first dart. The guard’s hand froze in front of his face, still holding the glasses, the end of the dart protruding from his right eye socket. He sunk to his knees and fell forward, his face smacking against the concrete.

  The boss guard raised his pistol, but it was too late. The second dart was already on its way, strik
ing him in the neck, just below his jawbone. He twisted and reached for the dart, firing off a few quick but random shots.

  The Mantis burst forward, taking three long, running steps and jumping in the air. He sailed past Kim and clipped Chong with a flying kick. Landing on the other side of the table, the Mantis delivered a three-kick combination to the gurgling boss guard. The last roundhouse kick smacked against the man’s throat, driving the dart in deeper and sending him toppling backward. The Mantis glanced at the two traitors. Chong was shaking his head, trying to clear it. Kim, the mouse, just sat there holding his hands in front of his face, which held an image of frozen horror. Shifting on the balls of his feet, the Mantis delivered three successive back-fist blows to Chong’s face, and then he swept a knife-hand back and smashed Kim’s nose, sending his glasses askew and knocking him to the ground.

  The Mantis flicked his hand to another pocket of the vest and withdrew a folding knife. A butterfly, or balisong, as the Filipinos called it. It was not a Chinese weapon, but it was one of the Mantis’s favorites. He’d grown up watching Hong Kong actors manipulate the handles and blades in martial arts movies, and had adopted the knife as his own.

  Flipping the balisong open with one hand, he whirled and stepped over the boss guard’s supine body. The man appeared to be dead, but the Mantis slashed his throat just to be sure.

  Chong was on all fours, groaning and trying to get to his feet. The Mantis stepped back and sent a quick, thrusting front kick to the side of Chong’s head. He collapsed. The traitor appeared to be unconscious as the Mantis checked him for weapons and found a small, silver-colored .380 in his jacket pocket. The Mantis recognized the gun. Chen had given it to Chong when he’d first joined the Triad.

  I will return it to the master, the Mantis thought.

  Dropping Chong’s limp form, the Mantis reached down and grabbed the front of Kim’s shirt, pulling the accountant toward him.

  “You had Mr. Chen’s trust,” the Mantis said, twisting the shirt so it choked off Kim’s air supply. “He will not be pleased when he hears of your betrayal.”