“It was pretty ugly.”
“My ears are still ringing from the shooting.”
Allie laid her head on his shoulder and sighed. “At least we made it.”
“No Buddha, though.”
“Least of our worries.” She closed her eyes. “You still have the camera?”
“Uncle Pete gave it to me. Wish he’d done the same with the phone. I could use a helicopter lift right about now.”
“You and me both.”
Jiao looked up as one of his men returned from where he’d been watching the Americans by the stream. The Chinese had stayed out of the battle at the factory, preferring to let the Shan soldiers spill their blood to free the senator’s daughter. Now that she was no longer protected by a contingent of armed guards, it would be child’s play to snatch her, interrogate her, and bury her in a shallow grave.
“They haven’t moved,” the man said.
Jiao looked into the brush with an annoyed expression. They were waiting for Uncle Pete to appear so he could assist them with the woman — if they had someone on the inside, the likelihood of her being killed too soon was reduced, and the Thai could learn whether she had anything that would help them without her suspecting anything. The forced interrogation would only work to a point with someone who was already badly weakened, as she clearly was.
They’d tailed the group from the factory, keeping a safe distance, but Jiao was growing impatient. He was sick of the constant rain, the heat, the insects… in short, he was done with the whole damned jungle and wanted to finish his mission and return to civilization for a decent shower and meal.
For all the Chinese technician’s confidence, the man had yet to penetrate the DOD’s network, and tolerance of his continued failure was eroding with each passing day. If the woman possessed information that would enable them to penetrate it, Xiaoping had made it painfully clear on the last call that Jiao was to obtain it and return, wasting no further time.
As if it were that easy. Jiao glanced at his wristwatch and made a decision. He stood, and his three men joined him. “We won’t wait any longer. Something must have happened to the Thai. Maybe he was wounded, or he couldn’t pick up the trail. Remember what I said — the girl must not be harmed. The rest? Kill them, but try to do so silently. We don’t want to attract attention if we don’t have to.”
The men checked their silenced weapons while Jiao screwed a suppressor onto a Ruger 9mm pistol. While the danger from the Red Moon group was now neutralized, they were getting closer to populated areas, and there were other predators in the jungle. Prudence dictated that they carry out the operation with a minimum of fanfare, so as not to invite the curious to investigate if they could help it.
Jiao shouldered his pack and nodded to his subordinates. This would be a lightning strike, in and out in seconds, leaving nobody alive but the target.
Drake blinked away his drowsiness while trying to avoid moving, lest he wake Allie. After days without sleep, he was near the end of his rope, but he comforted himself that soon they would be safe, at which point he could rest for days if he wanted. His thoughts turned to his situation with Allie — once they were home, he wanted to spend some serious time with her, renewing their connection and establishing a relationship that was more than sporadic phone calls.
He tilted his head at a sound from up the bank. It was faint, almost inaudible with the tinnitus still plaguing him from the gunfire, but unmistakable. Part of him wanted to dismiss it as the burble of the stream, but after living in constant danger, he resisted the urge and murmured to Allie.
“Get your gun and wake Spencer. I heard something.”
Allie opened her eyes and gave him an unfocused stare; then realization spread across her face and she reached for the AK by her side. “Spencer,” she whispered, and crawled toward where he was sleeping.
She shuddered when a voice called out from the dark tree line in broken English: “Drop guns. Now, or I shoot.”
Allie locked eyes with Drake, and he nodded. They both lowered their rifles slowly, with careful movements so as not to trigger gunfire. Spencer started awake at the sound of Allie’s rifle striking the stones and groped for his gun, but a warning shot, hardly more than a spit, whined off the rocks near his head and he froze.
Four black-clad forms emerged from the brush, their weapons trained on the group. Christine stirred and opened her eyes, and then cried out when she tried to rise and her shoulder bumped the tree.
“You have given me quite a bit of difficulty, young lady,” Jiao said quietly, his Chinese melodically hypnotic. He looked at Drake and Allie, and frowned. “Kill them.”
The staccato pop of rifle fire rang out from the jungle, and rounds thwacked into the two nearest Chinese. Jiao dived for the bank as the other gunman twisted and fired at where Uncle Pete stood, shooting a Kalashnikov one-handed on full auto, brass arcing in the moonlight as he fired. A bullet caught the third man in the throat, and he gave a strangled cry as he spun.
Jiao squeezed the trigger of his pistol as fast as he could, and two shots struck Uncle Pete, who fell backward and dropped the gun. Jiao brought his pistol to bear on Drake, but he was a split-second too late. Drake’s rifle barked three times, and the handgun clattered onto the rocks as Jiao clutched at the spreading red stain on his abdomen.
Spencer was up in a blink, rifle in hand, moving to where the fallen Chinese lay. He kicked their weapons away after confirming that they were dead, and stopped at Jiao, whose eyes were screwed shut with pain.
“Who is he?” Spencer asked Christine.
“I don’t know. Chinese intelligence, probably. He’s a native speaker.”
“Why would the Chinese be trying to kill us in the Myanmar jungle?” Drake demanded as he moved to Uncle Pete. The little Thai’s unblinking gaze was fixed on the new moon, and Drake knelt beside him and shut his eyes with a trembling hand. Drake bowed his head over his body for several seconds and offered a silent prayer, and then reached into his backpack to retrieve the satellite phone and camera.
“Damn,” he muttered as he pulled the ruined handset from the bag. It had split open when Uncle Pete fell and was now junk. The camera had fared better, and he pocketed it before turning to Christine. “Well? Why are the Chinese after you?”
She sighed resignedly and met Drake’s stare.
“It all started with a boy named Liu.”
Chapter 47
Reggie threw the thin sheet from his legs and groped for the phone as he eyed the LED clock readout on the hotel nightstand: twelve thirty a.m. His fingers found the call button, and he punched it to life.
“Hello?”
“Wake up. Something big just happened at the Red Moon factory.” The control officer’s voice was tight, which woke Reggie as effectively as being doused with ice water.
“What?”
“We picked it up on satellite. Blasts. Big explosions.”
“Damn. What do you think? An accident with the chemicals?”
“Anything’s possible, but we need to know for sure. How long will it take you to get there?”
“Right now?” Reggie considered the distance he’d need to travel, first by car and then on foot. “Probably… six hours.”
“By dawn?”
“Correct. When will the team arrive?”
“Right around then. I’ll arrange for them to rendezvous with you. Get moving, and report back as soon as you understand what we’re looking at.”
Reggie cleared his throat. “Are we the only player on the field on this one?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Doesn’t it strike you as a little coincidental that the site gets blown up right before we go in?”