LITMIR.BIZ

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and crisscrossed a second band over the first. He then did a quick but thorough search of the man’s pockets and body and lifted the prone Iranian back into the rear of the van. The distant, alternating blast of police sirens echoed in the night.

      Bolan scooped the weapons out of the van and tossed them on the ground.

      “Let’s get out of here,” he said, slamming the rear doors. “Unless you want to stick around and answer twenty questions for the police.”

      Crissey smiled and began trotting back toward his car. Bolan moved to the front of the van, pulled out the last two bodies and threw them into the alley. He did a quick survey of the scene. There were enough bodies, weapons and expended rounds to keep the police busy for a while. The thing to do now was vacate the area and hope no one noticed all the bullet holes in the van.

      “I say,” Crissey said, pausing at the side of his vehicle. “Shouldn’t we at least move those chaps off to the side?”

      “Not unless you want to do it with an audience,” Bolan said, slipping behind the wheel. The interior was slick with blood, but he had no time to clean it off. Instead he cocked his feet back and kicked the corners of the damaged windshield. The glass cracked and bulged, then separated from the frame, coming out in one piece. Instead of dropping it to the ground, Bolan pulled the glass back inside and set it in the rear section. There was no sense in leaving a clue as to what type of vehicle they might be driving or what condition it was in. “I’ll follow you to your embassy, then we can see what we’ve got.”

      “Righto.” Crissey grinned. “And don’t forget we drive on the proper side of the roadway here in Hong Kong. The left side.”

      “I’ll do my best to remember,” Bolan said. “Hopefully none of the cops will stop me for driving without a windshield.”

      Crissey looked around at the four bodies and scattered weapons.

      “Perhaps,” he said, “they’ll be a bit busy sorting this one out.”

      * * *

      THE MANTIS HAD finished stuffing the money into a makeshift sack he’d fashioned from the overcoat. He was calling Master Chen when he heard the sound. The slight creak of the rear door being opened. Another of Chong’s hired assassins?

      “Your voice hesitates,” Master Chen said. “Is something wrong?”

      “Trouble,” the Mantis whispered. “I will meet your men at the rendezvous point.”

      He terminated the call and slipped the cell phone back into his pocket as he dropped the package and melted into the shadows to survey the scene. He didn’t have to wait long. Two men emerged from the corridor and into the circle of light, their arms extended and holding small, semiautomatic pistols. One of the pistols had a shiny, chrome-like finish, sparkling like a jewel in the garish light.

      “Hello,” the first one said. “Look at those chaps.”

      English, the Mantis thought. MI6? Regardless, they were both careless men with not long to live.

      “Looks like there’s been a bit of a row,” the second added. He moved toward the bundled overcoat and kicked it. “We’d better look into this.”

      “Right,” the first one said. “But let’s back off and call for assistance. We need to clear this place and that’s going to be a bit of a chore.”

      The last thing the Mantis needed was a squad of British agents nosing around. The discovery of the bodies was both inevitable and desirable—the price of betrayal had to be shown—just not at this time. He felt in his vest for another dart. He would only need one. He gripped it tightly in his right hand. One of the Brits holstered his gun and took out a cell phone. The other stood holding his weapon down by his leg, the bright slide once again reflecting the overhead lighting. The Englishman squatted down next to the bundled overcoat and began untying it.

      “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said.

      “Better to wait on that,” his partner replied. The Mantis threw his first dart. It caught the man in the throat. He dropped the cell phone and grabbed at his neck. The other one quickly whirled, extending his pistol as he rose to a crouch. The Mantis was already running forward, leaping upward, his right leg cocked back. At the apex of his leap he snapped his foot outward, catching the second agent under the jaw. The man’s head jerked up and back, then his whole body bobbled drunkenly as he collapsed onto his stomach. The Mantis landed on the man’s back, using the edge of his foot in a downward stomp to assure that the neck was indeed broken. Satisfied that it was, he whirled, caught the staggering first man with an arcing hook kick. This one fell as if he’d been poleaxed.

      The Mantis retrieved his dart, wiped the blood on the dead man’s jacket and replaced the dart in his vest. The shiny Walther PPS lay a few inches from the second agent’s fingers. The Mantis picked it up. Some fancy English letters, TNT, were engraved on the slide. He would give Chong’s .380 to the master, but why not take something for himself? It would make a nice souvenir. He pocketed the pistol, grabbed the bundled overcoat and took out his cell phone.

      Master Chen answered after the first ring. “All is well?”

      “All is well,” the Mantis said.

      “It grieves me that you encountered unexpected trouble.”

      “It was nothing,” the Mantis said as he surveyed the scene with satisfaction, “that I could not handle.”

      * * *

      BY THE TIME they got close to the British embassy, Bolan’s eyes were stinging from driving the truck with no windshield. His cell phone rang and he glanced at the screen: Crissey.

      “Turn left at the next corner, will you?” the Englishman said. “I’ve got a couple blokes standing by with a truck so none of our omnipresent embassy watchers see us bringing that wretched van inside.”

      Bolan watched as Crissey’s car made the quick left turn. Pulling in after him, Bolan found himself on a semidark side street. Ahead he saw a parked truck with Chinese lettering on the side and an open back end. He parked next to the truck and got out. Three men rushed over to the van and began removing the crate. He gave them a hand, and in about sixty seconds they had it transferred to the new truck. They took the trussed-up prisoner next. The man was still unconscious but would hopefully awaken and give them some good intel. If not, Bolan was sure Stony Man could put the guy on ice somewhere.

      Crissey had been standing a few feet away holding his cell phone to his ear. He turned to the three new men. “Would one of you be so kind as to dump the van down the way?” he said. “And do take our friend and his little package to the designated drop point at your leisure.”

      The other men nodded and hurried away.

      Bolan watched as the truck with the prisoner and the crate drove off down the street, followed by the damaged van. He figured the Brits were perfectly capable of getting whatever was in the crate to a safe location for further review as well as interrogating the prisoner. The Agency could tag up with them later and decide if the Iranians had bought the real deal or not.

      Bolan looked at Crissey, who still stood holding his cell phone with a worried expression on his face. “What’s up?”

      Crissey heaved a sigh. “We’ve lost contact with two of my men—the ones who followed the Chinese with the briefcase.” He bit his lower lip. “They haven’t called in and I can’t seem to raise them.”

      “Let’s go find them,” Bolan said, heading for the Englishman’s car.

      Crissey nodded and hurried to the driver’s side. As Crissey drove to the warehouse district where they’d left the other two agents, Bolan felt his satellite phone vibrate. He took it out, glanced at the screen and answered the call with “Don’t you ever sleep?”

      Brognola’s deep chuckle came from the other side of the world. “Hell, it’s zero-eight-fifteen here. Time for my midmorning snack while I get ready to watch Let’s

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