I glanced at Paul to make sure he was listening and said, “Both Fly Boy and Pirate? Confirm.”
I used our original callsign for Jake Shu and had deferred to Paul’s callsign for Colonel Ryan Won, because if anyone was listening, I wanted to ensure they had no idea who we were talking about.
“Yep. Both of them. Pirate looks a little green in the gills, but Fly Boy is all smiles. Whatever they did, Fly Boy thinks it was successful.”
Which really made me rethink my decision from this morning. I’d considered taking them out once we left the main highway, but then for further intelligence had decided to see where they were headed. Now I knew, but I might have just allowed them to complete whatever nefarious mission they had planned.
It was the usual counterterrorist dilemma of develop or strike. I’d decided to develop, and now a strike might be too little, too late. But I knew that second-guessing was pointless.
After fleeing the Grand Hotel like a teenager caught in the bedroom with the farmer’s daughter, we’d relocated to one of the more modern establishments downtown—this time without allowing Paul to use his credit card. I’d end up paying the bill, but I was fairly sure I could charge the U.S. government when it was all over.
We’d reconsolidated, with me pulling out my team from the Grand Hotel, and as the darkness grew, so did the protests. They had grown stronger during the day and a half we’d spent at the Grand, beginning as soon as the sun went down. We’d ignored the chanting while we planned for the next phase, which was following Colonel Ryan Won—AKA Fly Boy.
We’d waited until his GPS beacon had alerted, and then launched in a three-car surveillance effort, shocked to see that the protests from the night before now included property damage, with multiple buildings having had their windows shattered, glass and other debris littering the streets—although it seemed the majority of action was still centered away from us near the presidential palace and other government buildings.
I had Paul with me, Knuckles and Brett in another car, and Jennifer with Veep. Not unexpectedly, Fly Boy had returned to the Taipei 101 garage, and I’d set up a box around the place, with Veep and Jennifer acting as the trigger.
Sitting in our car, killing time while we waited on the call, I’d asked Paul what he thought about the protests.
“They’re tearing the country apart, and they’re supported by the Triads, paid for by China. I’m sure of it—and Fly Boy is the link.”
“You don’t think it’ll just burn itself out?”
“I hope so—but it hasn’t in Hong Kong. China is consolidating its grip there, and I’m sure they want to do the same here. I mean, any unrest is good for them. Best case, their preferred candidate wins the upcoming election. Worst case, they cause the government to fall. Either way, it’s a win for them.”
And then Jennifer had interrupted with the trigger. Fly Boy was leaving the garage, and he now had Pirate with him. I’d expected to see the beacon move before we actually had a visual, but that hadn’t happened. Fly Boy had exited the garage in a different vehicle.
Thank God I hadn’t relied on technology.
I said, “Give me a description.”
“Late-model Hyundai SUV, black. I don’t have the plates.”
I said, “Good enough. Knuckles, Blood, you copy?”
“We got it. I see the vehicle. We have the eye.”
And then my team had given chase, ignoring the beacon. The target had traveled an hour south, leaving the main highway and winding through the mountains on back roads, eventually ending up at some complex called the National Chung-Shan Institute of Science and Technology.
We’d pulled aside and let them enter. I’d repositioned everyone with bumper positions up and down the entrance road, because I was fairly sure there wasn’t a back way out of the place. The complex was locked down like Fort Knox, so I knew they were coming out through the same gate they’d entered.
During our wait, Paul told me the facility was apparently a research arm of the ROC defense forces, used to develop missiles and other technology, not unlike our own U.S. Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—or DARPA—which scared the hell out of me, given what I thought Jake Shu was doing.
Eventually, Jennifer had triggered again, confirming that both Fly Boy and Pirate were in the car. I had no idea what they’d done inside the facility, but I was sorely regretting not taking them down before they arrived.
Sometimes developing the situation is the way to go, sometimes it’s the strike, but it was too late now.
She said, “Vehicle intending north. I say again, vehicle intending north, both packages inside.”
Which was to me. I glanced at Paul and said, “We’re on station. Knuckles, Blood, you copy?”
“Moving now.”
Five seconds later the SUV passed us, headed back up the lonely road we were on. I put the car in gear and began to follow. We wound through the mountains outside the compound on the narrow blacktop, snaking through switchbacks every hundred meters as the road tried to get back down to the valley where it could run flat out. And it gave me an idea.
We had about seven minutes before this car reached the valley floor and the main highway. Seven minutes of switchbacks that I could use, while they were all alone.
I got on the net and said, “I’m going to PIT these guys. Knuckles, get on me now. Close the far end after I interdict.”
Knuckles said, “I’m thirty seconds out. Give me the call.”
Jennifer said, “This is Koko. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. You are the extract. I’m going to take him at the next turn. Knuckles and Blood are security. You’re extract.”
I heard Jennifer say, “Roger all,” and knew she was now furiously trying to catch up.
The car wound around another mountain switchback, the road twisting back on itself as it descended to the valley floor, and I goosed my car, Paul saying, “What’s a PIT?”
I saw the vehicle ahead of me and said, “It’s basically where I crash the shit out of the car, forcing it to stop.”
The vehicle reached another hairpin turn and slowed, giving me an advantage. I heard him say, “What? What do you mean, a crash?”
I sped up, sailing down the slope and hitting the curve at thirty miles an hour. I saw a look of fear from Jake Shu in the passenger seat as I pulled abreast of them. I swung the wheel right and kissed the left rear quarter panel of the SUV, causing its tires to break free from the pavement. I hit the gas while still steering to the right and their vehicle slid sideways for a moment, then spun around, hammering into a guardrail and stopping, its back end hanging over a cliff.
We sped past the wreck and I slammed on the brakes. I threw the car in park and jumped out just as another vehicle came from the other direction. I shouted, “Paul! Get on the target car!” then held my hands in the air as if I was flagging someone for an accident. Paul leapt out and began jogging to the car I’d wrecked. The vehicle stopped, and two men exited.
Two I’d seen before. The MSS assassins from the hotel.
They started shooting as soon as they set foot on the asphalt. I dove behind the back of my car, pulling my own weapon out and saying, “Paul! Threat!”
He flung himself to the ground and I started shooting back, not very accurately, but giving them a reason to duck. They flopped down behind the open doors of their car and Jake Shu entered my peripheral vision, running up the road with his hands in the air.