They had him and he felt he knew who they were. They were more of Duke Sharps’s men. That French bitch had had confederates here in town, and they’d swooped down on him not in days, as he’d anticipated, but in mere minutes.
The two bikes in front of him pulled up to within feet, and then they turned off their engines. The men kept their helmets on and their mirrored visors down. The pair behind had stopped twenty yards back, their soft motors reverberating confidently, announcing to Hazelton that he had nowhere to go.
He knew he was going to have to talk his way out of this.
Hazelton looked to the closest biker, taking him for the leader. He managed a little laugh. “Figured you wouldn’t be in position till tomorrow. I underestimated the hell out of you guys.”
None of the bikers spoke.
Hazelton continued. “Well done. New York sent you in early, I guess? They expected me to waver? I’m impressed. That’s what we used to call ‘anticipating surprise.’” He chuckled again, and repeated, “Well done.”
The closest biker climbed off his motorcycle, and he stepped to within arm’s reach. His mirrored visor gave the man the appearance of a robot.
Hazelton shrugged. “Had to make a stand. You get it, right? The client this time is the DPRK. I don’t know if you knew it, but Duke is in bed with the worst people in the world.”
The biker reached to his helmet and lifted his visor now. Hazelton was surprised by this a little — the man initially seemed content to keep himself masked — but Hazelton thought it possible the man was showing his face because they were acquainted. He knew Sharps hired a lot of ex-Agency assets, after all.
Colin Hazelton leaned forward a little to get a look at the man in the light, but as soon as he saw the face, he recoiled back.
He did not know the man. It was an Asian face. Hard. Cold.
North Korean.
“Oh,” he said. “I see.” Then he faked another little laugh. “You ever had one of those days?”
“Give me the documents,” the North Korean said.
Hazelton felt around on his body. He shrugged. “Would you look at that? I left them in a briefcase back at the—”
“The case was empty!” An automatic pistol appeared in the North Korean’s right hand. Hazelton knew little about weapons, but he had no doubt it was real. The pair behind him began revving their engines, and the other man in front of him stood up taller on his bike.
After watching the entire confrontation, Jack Ryan, Jr., pulled his head back around the corner of the warehouse. He dropped down on one knee, and he tapped his PTT button. “This is Ryan with eyes on. All four followers are around the subject, and they have him at gunpoint.”
Ding replied; it was clear from his breathing he was running. “So much for this being an easy corporate gig. Stay covert. We are on Tran Xuan Soan, about ninety seconds from you.”
Jack said, “If this is a hit, Hazelton doesn’t have ninety seconds.”
Clark barked over the net now. “And if that’s a hit you aren’t stopping it unarmed. I’m en route with the car. Three to five minutes back.” Through the transmission Jack could hear Clark honking his car horn at traffic ahead of him.
Ryan’s impulse was to run headlong into the alley, but he knew Clark was right about his chances if this turned into a real fight.
But Jack had an idea. “I don’t have to engage, John. I can try a diversion.”
Clark replied quickly. “You are on your own, son. Use extreme discretion.”
Ryan did not acknowledge the instructions; he was already looking at the map on his phone, formulating a hasty plan of action. He pulled his camera from his backpack and took a few breaths to ready himself.
The North Korean biker leveled the gun at the American’s chest. He did not say a word.
Hazelton raised his hands slowly, panic welling within. “There is absolutely no need for that. I’m no threat to you. Let’s keep this civilized, at the very least.” The American looked around him. Through the fear coursing through his body he realized he’d put himself in a terrible situation. Had he not been three sheets to the wind he knew he never would have wandered down a dark street like this, especially while harboring concerns someone was after him.
Of course, had he known DPRK agents were on his tail, no amount of alcohol would have caused this breach of tradecraft.
The North Korean pulled the hammer back on his pistol. Hazelton stared into the black hole of the muzzle, not quite past the disbelief of what was happening. He’d never faced a gun, he’d never faced any real danger in his career other than an incident once when he was roughed up by street hooligans in Denmark, hardly comparable to his present circumstance. His mind was overcome with the terror of the moment, but he did retain the presence of mind to know he was beaten. With a cracking voice he said, “Money belt. Around my waist.”
Just then the door to an apartment building opened twenty-five feet from Colin Hazelton’s left shoulder. Two women stepped out carrying large bags, and they immediately glanced up at the men in the middle of the little street in front of them. The North Korean turned his pistol in their direction, and they screamed, leaping back inside the building.
The North Korean heard a shout behind him, his man there alerting him. He looked up and saw the burly American running past them up the street, lumbering toward the water.
He fired up his bike, preparing to take off after the American; the other bikers revved their engines as well.
“Hey! Hey!” someone shouted in English a half-block behind at the corner of a corrugated tin warehouse. All four bikers turned to look and they saw a young white man with dark hair and a beard. He held a camera up in their direction. “Everybody smile!” The camera flashed a dozen times, strobing the men in the dim alley.
The two bikers closest to the cameraman throttled their engines and burned rubber as they turned around on the street, then began racing toward the white man with the camera. The leader and the man with him went off in pursuit of Hazelton and his money belt.
As he accelerated, the lead North Korean stuck his pistol back into his jacket, then reached to his waistband and pulled a long stiletto from a sheath.
3
Colin Hazelton hadn’t broken into anything more than a light jog in nearly thirty years, but the adrenaline in his body put enough spring in his step to get him down to the river in twenty seconds. Here he made a right on the path, the two bikers close on his heels. He thought about running across the dock and diving into the water, but he knew nothing about the current and he felt sure the younger men after him would just fish him out soaking wet, or else drown him there and take his money belt. So he raced along the path for a block, then made a right up into another dark and narrow street.
The bikes approached confidently; he could hear that the throttles weren’t having to work very hard at all.
“Help!” he shouted to the apartment buildings around, his eyes scanning balconies and windows, desperate to find anyone who could save him. He thought about the gun behind him and wondered at any minute if he was going to take a bullet in the back of the neck. He knew he just had to get into a public space, but he also knew the area. He had several blocks to go before finding any sanctuary of community.
Domingo Chavez and Sam Driscoll sprinted through the darkened streets of District 8, closing on the gray GPS beacon on their map that represented Jack Ryan. Ding glanced down at the electronic map for the first time in thirty seconds, making sure they made the correct turn off the two-lane street, when Ryan’s voice came over his earpiece.