Operation Barracuda sc-2 Read online

  Now that my two sparring partners are lying on either side of me and preparing to defend themselves, I figure it’s best for me to take out one of them completely so I don’t have to split my attention. I turn slightly and deliver a whammy kick to the guy on my right, catching him square in the sternum. Before his pal can stop me, I leap over the stunned man, get behind him, crouch, and grab him in a headlock. I twist hard and hear the sweet melody of singing vertebrae. I then drop him, a lifeless blob of dead weight.

  The last guy now realizes he’s in trouble. Instead of attacking me, he plays it safe and runs toward the front door. He thinks fast, too, for he knocks over an old wooden ladder that was standing by the exit. The ladder falls and blocks my way before I can retrieve my handgun and get through the threshold myself. It takes me a mere second and a half to toss the ladder aside, but by then the guy is climbing into one of the cars — a Toyota Camry — and starting it up.

  I run out, draw my Five-seveN, and aim at the hoodlum through the windshield. But instead of backing away, like I expect him to do, he slams his foot on the accelerator and drives straight at me. I have to dive to the right to avoid being bisected, dropping my gun in the process. The Toyota’s tires screech, spraying gravel into my face, as the driver reverses, turns around, and speeds away from the building.

  I retrieve my weapon and run to the other car, a Nissan Altima, and can’t believe my good fortune — the keys are in the ignition. I get in, start her up, and take off in pursuit of the Toyota.

  “Sam?” I hear a woman’s voice in my ear. Someone at Third Echelon.

  “Sam, are you there?” she says again. “Are you all right?”

  I concentrate on pulling out into the street to follow my prey before I answer. “Yeah, I’m here. Who are you?”

  “It’s Frances Coen.”

  “Oh. Right.” The business with my implants temporarily threw me. I didn’t recognize her voice. “What do you want?”

  “What’s going on? What are you doing? We lost your homing signal for a few minutes. I’m afraid your implants are malfunctioning.”

  “No, they’re not,” I answer. “The bastards had some kind of transmitter that did something to them. I don’t know what it was, but I swear it almost killed me. I’m all right now.”

  The Toyota heads for the expressway, known as Prince Edward Road, merges onto the eastbound side, and nearly collides with a truck carrying new cars. I follow him at seventy miles per hour, barely missing the truck as it swerves to get out of the way. Even though it’s after midnight, the expressway is crowded. This is going to take some concentration.

  “Frances, I can’t talk right now. I’ll get back to you later.”

  “Colonel Lambert wants a report. He says—”

  “Tell the colonel I’m in a situation here and—”

  Shit! Some jerk in a Volkswagen doing fifty miles an hour just pulled into the lane in front of me. I have to jerk the Altima’s steering wheel hard to the left to avoid hitting him, but that puts me in front of a BMW going faster than I am. The horn blares as the car slams into the back of my car. I accelerate to eighty-five and get away from him since he’s probably not too happy with me.

  “I heard that,” Coen says. “I can see you now on the GPS. Check back when you can. For God’s sake, be careful.”

  I play zigzag through the maze of automobiles as I attempt to catch up with the Toyota. He’s ahead nearly ten car lengths and is moving dangerously fast. I push the pedal to ninety, which is about the limit I dare to speed through the thick traffic.

  We go over a bridge and head east into San Po Kong, a suburb just north of the old airport. The highway forks up ahead — we can stay on this road, which bends to the southeast, or there’s an alternate route directly south onto the Kwun Tong Bypass. The Toyota elects the bypass and makes a jarring exit across two lanes. I lean on my horn and turn the wheel in pursuit. A taxicab nearly hits me but the driver slams on the brakes. His tires screech, the car swerves, and he smashes into the rail.

  Sorry about that, I say to myself.

  I’m on the new highway now and it’s even more crowded than the first. But the Toyota is now five car lengths ahead and I’m gaining on him. Unfortunately, we pass a police car. The cop turns on his lights and picks up speed behind me. I floor the accelerator and push the Altima to a hundred as I pass a couple of SUVs. Within seconds I’m running side by side with the Toyota. The driver looks at me, scowls, and then he points a pistol out his window. The bullets smash my passenger side, spraying broken glass over the front seat and me. Two can play at that game, so I draw the Five-seveN, aim it across the passenger seat, and squeeze the trigger. The Triad accelerates just enough so that my round smashes the driver’s side rear window, missing him completely.

  The cop behind us has apparently radioed for backup because another patrol car enters the expressway just past the Richland Gardens exit. I can’t be bothered with the police; I focus solely on catching my prey. The gloves are off now and no prisoners will be taken.

  I speed up to position my car parallel to the Toyota again and then I swerve to the left, ramming him. The Toyota screeches and scoots into the far left lane. Changing lanes to stay beside him, I take another shot at the driver. This time his back windshield shatters and I hit him in the shoulder, I think. The car skids into the rail, bounces off, and wavers perilously in front of me. The guy manages to gain control of the car and moves around a slow-moving bus. The damned thing is now between us, and the two police cars are right behind me. I attempt to pass the bus on the right but a van moves into the lane. My only option is to pass on the far left, a lane crowded with vehicles entering and exiting the expressway. I wait until I pass another taxi and then push the speedometer to the breaking point. The Altima speeds to a hundred and ten as I zoom alongside the bus and eventually overtake it. The problem is that the two police cars do the same thing. Alas, the bus driver doesn’t see them because they’re in his blind spot. He blasts his horn as he changes lanes behind me and the two police cars are forced against the rail. One of them smashes through it and dives off the expressway onto the streets below. The other one spins, overturns, and slides into the center of the expressway.

  I hear the sounds of car horns, crashing metal, and squealing tires. The pileup behind me involves at least twenty automobiles but I can’t let it bother me. My prey is making a move toward an exit and I must stay on top of him.

  The Toyota takes the ramp to Kowloon Bay and I follow him off the expressway. If he thinks he’s going to lose me in the crowded narrow streets of the city, he’s got another think coming. Traffic essentially halts to a standstill as soon as we’re at street level. There’s nowhere for him to go. What a dumb move on his part. I’m right behind him and we’re sitting in a line of cars waiting for a red light to change. So what does he do? He gets out of the car and begins to run.

  Hell, it ain’t my Altima, so I get out and chase after him. More car horns blast annoyance as we maneuver through the traffic and onto a sidewalk. The Triad, who’s holding his wounded right shoulder, cuts around a corner and into a dark alley. When I get to the entrance I lower my goggles, flip on the night vision, spot him, crouch, and aim the Five-seveN. I squeeze the trigger and he goes down in a tumble.

  As I walk toward the wounded man I hear so many police sirens that it’s difficult to tell where they are. Most of them are probably on the expressway, dealing with the pileup. But some could be after me as well, so I have to make this fast and get the hell out of here.

  My Triad friend is crawling on the ground, bleeding to death. I place my right boot on the wound in his back and say in Chinese, “Talk to me.”

  He curses at me in English. It’s funny how some words are universal.

  “How did you know I would be at the warehouse tonight?” I ask.

  The man curses again so I apply a little more pressure to the wound. He screams and I let up a bit. “Well?”

  “It’s just what we were told,” he says.


  “So it’s true you were expecting me to be there?”

  He moans but doesn’t answer. I apply pressure and he cries, “Yes!”

  “Good. Now tell me: Was there an arms deal going down tonight? Anywhere?”

  He curses at me again so this time I practically stand on the guy’s back. I don’t normally go in for torturing an enemy to get information, but when time is of the essence and there’s no other way around it then I’ll do whatever it takes.

  When he finishes screaming and I let up, he says, “It’s in the morning. At Kwai Chung.”

  Kwai Chung is the big container port for all of Hong Kong.

  “Where? What time?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  The sirens are really close now. I can hear policemen on foot shouting to each other on the street beyond the alley entrance. They’ll be here any second.

  I crouch, pull the man’s head up by his hair, and ask again, “Where?”

  He mutters a number.

  “Is that a terminal?”

  He nods and coughs. Blood spurts out of his mouth.

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” I ask.

  His eyes flutter, he coughs again, then chokes on the blood and mucus in his throat. I know he’s a goner. He won’t last more than a few seconds longer and I’m not going to get much else out of him. I stand and begin to run down the alley just as two policemen appear at the entrance behind me. They shout for me to stop but I’m in the shadows now. They can’t see me. When I reach the end of the alley, I dart into the street, run across traffic, and duck into another dark alley. I repeat this strategy three more times and by then I’ve lost the cops. The only thing to do now is go back to my hotel and wait until morning. I just hope my late Triad friend was telling me the truth.

  16

  “Someone set me up, damn it!” I shout to the empty hotel room in Kowloon.

  Colonel Lambert, Frances Coen, and Anna Grimsdottir are all online with me through my implants. I’ve given a full report on what went down at the warehouse and I’m hopping mad.

  “Calm down, Sam,” Lambert says. “Why do you think you were set up?”

  “Because they knew I would be there. They brought along that contraption that screwed with my implants for that very purpose. The Triad I interrogated in the alley confirmed it. Someone told them to expect me. They knew I was a Splinter Cell and that I had those communication implants. I was set up!”

  Grimsdottir speaks up. “This device, Sam, what did it look like?” She has a soft voice but one can sense intelligence behind it.

  “Kinda like a boom box. There was a tiny satellite dish they pulled out of it and set on the floor.”

  “I think I understand how it was done,” she says. “They would have had to understand the technology behind the implants and how they work. If you’re right, then they must have had inside information from Third Echelon. It’s the only way.”

  “Mike Chan again?” Lambert asks.

  “Possibly. If he’s the traitor.”

  “Of course he’s the traitor,” I say. “He killed Carly, didn’t he? Have you caught that bastard yet?”

  “No, the FBI is on his trail,” Lambert replies.

  “Well, it still doesn’t answer how the Triad knew I’d be at the building. The only person who knew what I was doing was Mason Hen—”

  That has to be it. Hendricks.

  “Um, I think I need to pay a little visit to Hendricks, Colonel.” I look at my watch. There are a few hours left before I have to be at the Kwai Chung container port.

  “Mason Hendricks has been one of our most trusted field agents, Sam,” Lambert says. “His record is impeccable.”

  “Then maybe he knows how there might have been a link. His source was bad or something. It’s worth pursuing. Besides, I gave him a piece of evidence that needs to go to a lab. Some blood I found at the Triad’s nightclub. Who knows, it might belong to Jeinsen.”

  “All right, Sam.”

  “Anything else, Colonel?”

  “Yes. We’ve finished the analysis of General Prokofiev’s materials you found in his house.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know that list of missing nuclear devices? The notes he scribbled next to some of them?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Frances Coen continues. “It’s a code, all right. And it’s very strange.”

  “Well?”

  “When the code is broken, it’s a recipe for Russian borscht.”

  “What?”

  “Well, that’s a guess. The words specifically decode as ‘Formanova Cylindra beets, beef stock, water, vinegar, butter, cabbage, and tomato sauce.’ Those are the ingredients of borscht. It leaves out a few spices and perhaps some other vegetables, but that’s what it is.”

  “What the hell does borscht have to do with nuclear bombs?”

  “We don’t know. That’s just what the code says when it’s broken.”

  “I think you guys have gone loony,” I say.

  “We were hoping you might know what it means,” Lambert says. “Was there anything in Prokofiev’s house that might give us a clue as to what it’s all about?”

  “I can’t think of anything, unless that battle-ax of a wife puts plutonium in her cooking. Which I wouldn’t put past her. Look, I’m going back to Hendricks’s place before the sun comes up. I’ll let you know what he has to say.”

  “We’ll talk later, Sam,” Lambert says, and then we sign off.

  * * *

  Dressed in my workout clothes and carrying my uniform in a gym bag, I take the ferry to the island, grab a taxi, and go back to the Mid-Levels just as the sun begins to rise. But the driver can’t get through to Hendricks’s street. A policeman tells us that only local traffic is allowed in.

  “What’s the problem, Officer?” I ask in Chinese.

  “Fire,” he replies.

  I pay the cabbie and get out. Once I’m on the street I can see the thick smoke billowing up ahead. A couple of fire trucks, an ambulance, and two police cars are blocking the middle of the road. And they’re in front of Hendricks’s small house.

  I walk up the pavement and take a look. Sure enough, his place is black, still smoldering from what was apparently an intense blaze. I move closer to the policemen who are talking with the fireman in charge. Even though they’re speaking in Chinese, I’m able to catch a few words and phrases.

  “Firebomb… through the front window… one in the back… possible Triad work… two bodies…”

  I observe in fascination as firemen bring out two covered corpses on stretchers. One charred, black-and-red arm sticks out from under a sheet. I catch the words “man and woman in bedroom” before the corpses are loaded into the ambulance.

  Hendricks had boasted about expecting female companionship for the night. Well, he got lucky, all right. Lucky as in Lucky Dragons. And I guess his lady friend got more than she bargained for as well. It’s a shame.

  Now I’m at a loss as to how I was set up at the warehouse. Apparently Hendricks was betrayed too. The Triad must have found out what he was up to, somehow intercepting the information he got from his source. Maybe it was the source who tipped them off.

  And so much for the piece of evidence I took from the nightclub. It’s probably long gone now.

  I walk away, realizing I must disengage myself from Hendricks, finish what I came to Hong Kong to do, and get the hell out. As the new rising sun bathes the island in warmth, I make my way back to the ferry so I can get to my appointment at the container port on time.

  17

  FBI Special Agent Jeff Kehoe sat in the Empress Pavilion Restaurant enjoying somewhat authentic dim sum as he kept an eye on Eddie Wu, the brother of wanted fugitive Mike Wu, aka Mike Chan. Kehoe had arrived in Los Angeles a day earlier and, with the help of the local FBI branch, had tracked Eddie Wu to L.A.’s historic Chinatown. Kehoe had staked out Wu’s apartment on Alameda and had seen the man come and go twice. The first trip Wu made was to the Phoe
nix Bakery on Broadway, the main drag through the district. The second outing was to the Wing Hop Fung Ginseng and China Products Center, also on Broadway, where Wu purchased tea and a few other groceries. So far the Triad had displayed innocuous activity. But it was still early in the day.

  Alan Nudelman, the FBI chief in Los Angeles, had briefed Kehoe upon his arrival in the city. Nudelman confirmed that Eddie Wu was a known Triad member but had never been tied to any of the more serious crimes connected with the Chinese gangs operating in southern California. The L.A. branch of the Lucky Dragons was a small organization consisting of less than a dozen members. Wu was either the top man of the clan or one of the enforcers. He had been arrested twice for narcotics possession but he had a very good lawyer who got him off with fines and short jail time. Intention to distribute wasn’t proven but the L.A. police were sure that Wu was dealing the drugs for the Triad. A more serious charge cropped up involving stolen property, including weapons, for which Wu served three years in the nineties. Since then he had stayed clean, although he was on the FBI watch list. Nudelman suspected Wu of being an accomplished thief, smuggler, and killer. Currently Wu was unemployed, yet he lived in a very nice apartment building, drove an expensive car, and always had cash to spend.

  The Triads in southern California operated much like small-time Mafia families. They specialized in protection rackets, mostly among the Chinese populations in the city, ran gambling and prostitution houses, and trafficked in illegal arms and drugs. Most gangland violence that occurred was between rival Triads and rarely spilled out into the mainstream. Nevertheless, the Chinatown district’s police precinct was kept very busy escorting the gang members in and out of its justice system. Most of the Caucasian officers could care less if the Chinese criminals killed each other; their main concern was for the innocent families trying to make an honest dollar in democratic America.