Point of Contact

“It does,” Lian said. “About eight kilometers up the road it curves around north, and in another twenty it reconnects with the expressway.” She looked at her watch. “We can’t make it all the way to Kuala Lumpur in time, but maybe we can get within working cell-phone distance and make a call.”

“That’s the plan then. I’ll stay here and hold them—” Jack collapsed in mid-sentence. Paul caught him.

“Help me get him in the sidecar,” Paul said.

Lian jumped off the bike and lifted Jack’s feet as Paul cradled him by the upper torso. They wrestled Jack’s heavy, limp frame into the sidecar and secured him.

“We need to get him to hospital now — and make that call.” Lian jumped onto the saddle and scooted forward. “Get on behind me and let’s go!”

Paul pointed at the motorcycle. “That’s a lawnmower engine. Jack and I have over five hundred pounds between us. Those guys in the car will catch us and run us down on that thing.”

“Paul—”

Paul checked the one mag he had in his Makarov. “You’ve got three minutes max now. Get going.”

“Paul?” Lian’s eyes finished the question.

Paul shoved his cell phone into Lian’s pocket. “Gerry Hendley’s direct number is on there. Call him the second you get a signal. Tell him to contact the CIO at the Hang Seng — or anybody else in charge. He’ll make it happen — and then get Jack to a hospital. Now go!”

Lian grabbed Paul’s jowly face and kissed him on the cheek, then gunned the engine and roared out of the garage.

Paul didn’t watch her go. He hobbled to the front door, running through the plan in his mind. He knew exactly what he needed to do.

He also knew there wasn’t enough time left to do it.

73

The North Korean driver made the hard right turn onto the narrow two-lane road and gunned the engine, pointing the front of the Sorento directly at the black hole of the traffic tunnel five hundred yards up ahead.

The four of them had already worked out a plan to assault the steel building. The driver would crash the SUV through the cyclone fence, then the four of them would egress and approach the building from four sides. Besides their pistols, they carried two shotguns, an assault rifle, and a dozen flash-bangs in the trunk — more than enough to get the job done.

The Sorento bounced on the uneven pavement as it rocketed toward the narrow one-way tunnel. The other tunnel for traffic in the opposite direction was clearly flooded, as was the other road. No matter, the driver thought. I need only one.

The SUV plowed full speed into the tunnel. In a hundred yards he’d be through, then he’d have to angle the vehicle right toward the fence. He gripped the wheel tighter and pressed the accelerator—

The driver froze for just a moment as he tried to make out the hulking shape turning the corner at the far end of the tunnel. He slammed the brakes.

Too late.

* * *

Paul stomped the big forklift’s throttle into the floorboard as soon as he made the turn into the tunnel. The turbo-charged Cummins diesel engine roared, launching the big high-capacity forklift straight into the narrow passage, its long steel forks high off the ground. Paul hoped he’d guessed the height right.

He had.

The right fork plowed through the Sorento’s windshield, severing the driver’s screaming face in half, just above the bridge of his nose. The section chief in the passenger seat ducked at the last second; the right fork harmlessly sheared the headrest off his seat but nearly speared the man behind him.

The forklift slammed into the SUV with a shuddering crash that rattled Paul’s teeth and nearly snapped his neck as he gunned the motor again, powering up the lift and raising the Sorento by the roof until it smashed against the tunnel ceiling, pinning it there.

The three surviving Koreans shouted as they kicked open their doors and tumbled several feet onto the wet pavement below while Paul scrambled out of the left side of the cab. He pointed his Makarov forward and took aim at the section chief, sprawled on the pavement, his ankles broken, raising his weapon. But Paul fired first and put two rounds in the man’s skull, killing him instantly.

The two surviving Koreans fired back. Bullets ricocheted off the tunnel walls and spanged against the forklift.

Something punched Paul in the ribs. He touched his side. His hand was bloody.

The agent behind the dead driver had dropped to his knees and was trying to pass unnoticed around the far side of the forklift. Paul saw the top of his head through the cab and fired through the glass but missed. He turned and ran around the back side of the forklift where the Korean had appeared, gun up. The Korean’s weapon fired twice at close range, tearing into Paul’s shoulder, shredding muscle and shattering bone. Paul’s hand dropped the gun. But the pain turned to rage. He charged forward with a shout, thrusting his good left hand into the Korean’s throat, crushing his windpipe with his bandaged fingers and smashing his skull against the wall in a spray of blood.