“John,” he said. “You got a visual on our six? I’ve got movement out our back window.”
Clark’s slightly muffled voice came back a moment later, giving a play-by-play. Ryan could visualize the man’s cheek welded to the comb of his suppressed .308 Winchester model 70, his eye peering through the reticle of a night-vision scope.
“Two Hispanic males,” Clark said. “One female. Males have pistols tucked in their pants . . . One is carrying a cane or stick . . . Scratch that. It’s a golf club . . . The males just left the girl standing at the wall. They’re creeping your way, Jack, ten meters and closing.”
“We’re moving in from the west,” Chavez said. He was in the crew-cab pickup with Adara, a little more than a block away.
Dom was parked farther out, five blocks up the street in the direction of the next nearest strip club with Hispanic or Asian ties. The location was another educated guess, since Eddie Feng had been working, more or less, along a zigzagging line of such places all day.
“Stay sharp,” Clark hissed. “These guys are moving slow, tactical . . . Always a chance they could be undercover cops—hang on, the female decided she’s coming with them now . . .” From the tone of his voice it was clear he remained on his rifle.
Clark exhaled fast, like a boxer taking a body blow.
“Shit! Not cops. Guy with the golf club just whipped the shit out of the girl.”
“’Bout time to unass the car, partner,” Midas said, drawing his sidearm.
“Hold up,” Jack said, his hand on the ignition. “I got an idea.”
“They’re coming up on either side,” Clark said.
He could see the man on his side moving up now, almost at the back of the Taurus.
Ryan looked across the center console at Midas. “Fling your door open on my mark.”
Midas grinned. “I like your style.”
Ryan turned the key as the image of a man filled his side mirror. He used his left hand to push his door wide open while at the same moment using his right to throw the Taurus into reverse.
The engine roared to life. Tires chattered on the grimy asphalt and the car shot backward down the alley. The open doors acted like wings catching the two approaching men, knocking them off their feet and dragging them along with the car. Ryan stomped the brakes just after impact. Physics and inertia kept the doors traveling rearward, slamming them shut and pinching the two men between the unforgiving pieces of steel.
Ryan and Midas bolted out of the Taurus on top of their respective assailants. Ryan’s was unconscious but still breathing. The broken shaft of a golf club stuck from his right thigh. Midas’s man was a little more coherent, but the retired Delta operator solved that by bouncing the man’s head off the doorpost.
Ryan and Midas each secured the pistols and did a quick pat-down for other weapons before calling “clear.”
“No movement from Casita Roja,” Clark said, his voice cool and detached, as if they were still on routine surveillance. “Ryan, Midas, pull those guys back behind the sewing-machine shop. Ding, you and Adara check on the girl.”
Gravel crunched as Chavez rolled up with Adara Sherman and loaded an unconscious Asian female into their ratty four-door Silverado. Adara’s sure voice came over the radio. She’d served as a Navy corpsman in a past life and had seen more than her fair share of wounds and death. “The girl’s still alive, but that asshole broke her nose. Pretty sure her orbital bone is shattered. Good chance she’ll have some swelling in her brain.”
“Parkland Hospital is just south of us,” Dom Caruso said. It was his job to keep up with things like emergency rooms and police stations during this rolling surveillance. He gave the complete address of Parkland.
“Roll up to the emergency department,” Clark said. “Watch for surveillance cameras but drop her off by the door and haul ass out of there before anyone sees you. They’ll be used to it around here.”
“Roger that,” Ding said.
Adara climbed into the backseat with the unconscious woman and the pickup backed out of the alley, taking a quick but quiet left toward Parkland Hospital.
“Don’t forget to grab her ID,” Clark said. He didn’t have to say it would come in handy to build their picture of Eddie Feng’s web of associates.
“Way ahead of you, boss,” Adara said. “No ID, but she does have some kind of brand on the side of her neck. It’s covered with blood, but I’ll get a photo.”
Clark came over the net again. “You about done, Jack? We could have company anytime.”
“Just about,” Ryan said.
Both he and Midas donned blue nitrile gloves and leaned the unconscious men against the graffiti-covered back wall of the sewing-machine shop. Neither man carried ID, which was not surprising. Tattoos identifying them both as Tres Equis affiliates were clearly visible on their necks and shoulders.
Ryan and Midas took the rolls of cash from each man’s pocket to make it look like a robbery and jumped back into the Taurus. They’d voucher the money and turn it over to Gerry Hendley, who’d find some charity that needed it. Four and a half minutes after Ryan first saw the men coming up behind them, wind whistled through the bent doorframes as he sped toward Harry Hines Boulevard.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Clark said. “We’ll stay up on the phone and check in tomorrow. This guy has an inside scoop on a terrorist action in the PRC and now he’s involved with drug cartels and the Sun Yee On triad. Something’s going on here, boys and girls. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s enough to do some more digging into Eddie Feng.”
2
Captain Leong Tang, a thirty-two-year veteran of China Global Shipping Lines, pressed the small of his weary back against a leaning post on the bridge of Orion. It was dark outside, but his running lights pushed back the night and illuminated the expansive deck of the great ship.