Dragon Key. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.”
“I did not know,” Kim said, his voice creaking between gasps.
The Mantis cast a quick glance at the stacks of money, the open briefcases and the abacus. “You didn’t know...”
Kim nodded rapidly, his head bobbling up and down like a toy doll on a spring.
“So you brought your abacus to count roaches in this warehouse?” the Mantis said. He pulled the accountant closer. “You have betrayed my master, and you’ve offended me with your puerile lies.” He put the point of his knife to the accountant’s neck. “You deserve to die slowly for your treachery, but luck has favored you tonight, old man.”
Kim blinked and his lips twisted into something resembling a hopeful smile.
“You’ll spare me?” he asked. His eyes glowed with a sudden hopefulness.
The Mantis stared back. “No, you will die quickly instead of slowly.” He plunged the blade into the softness of Kim’s neck, watching the expression of hope fall away, accompanied by the fading light in the other man’s eyes.
The Mantis dropped the accountant and turned to Chong, who had regained consciousness but was still on the floor. He looked upward with an expression of terror, then his mouth twitched slightly.
“Lee Son Shin?” Chong said. “Is that you?”
The Mantis said nothing.
“Lee, it’s me. Chong Se Hu.” He flashed a nervous smile.
The Mantis remained silent.
“Help me,” Chong said. “Please. Let me go.”
The Mantis did not move.
“Please, Lee.” Chong managed to sit up, get to his hands and knees. “We’re friends. Like brothers.”
“Brothers do not disgrace themselves for a bowl of rice,” the Mantis said. “Stay on your knees.”
Chong’s face twisted into a grimace. His eyes stared up at the Mantis, then his lips parted in a sly smile. “You’re angry, aren’t you? I don’t blame you. But look.” He managed to steady himself and gestured toward the stacks of money. “There’s enough there for both of us. Enough to start over, in another place. We can both be rich men. No more taking orders, risking our lives. A chance to start over. For Son Yin, as well.”
The Mantis glared down at him. “Do not mention her name.”
Chong looked up, his eyes widening. “Don’t you see?”
“I see a traitor,” the Mantis said. “One who must be punished.”
“Lee, no. Please. No.” Chong bowed his head. “I beg you.”
Tears rolled down the other man’s cheeks.
“How much did they pay you?” the Mantis asked. “The Iranians.”
Chong shook his head. “More than you can imagine. Take the money, Lee. Take it all, but please, let me live. We’re friends.”
The Mantis watched Chong grovel, remembering their shared childhood in Beijing. The long journey together... After his parents died, the Mantis, his sister and Chong had sneaked onto train after train until they’d arrived in Hong Kong. They’d lived on the streets before Master Chen had found them. Chong had been the first one Chen had discovered and assisted, then Chong had opened the door for Lee. But now none of that was important. All that mattered was duty and honor.
“Do not disgrace yourself further,” the Mantis said. “Show me your fidelity.”
Chong, the tears still streaming down his face, raised his left hand, curving his little finger under and extending the other three in a gesture indicating loyalty. The Mantis watched the traitor, letting the gravity of his betrayal, and the knowledge of what was to come, settle over him like a shroud.
“Please, Lee,” Chong said. “At least make it quick.”
The Mantis watched the blade gleaming in the artificial light a few seconds more, and then grabbed the three extended fingers with his left hand.
“I 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