Authors: Mike Maden
MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS
NINGBO, ZHEJIANG PROVINCE, CHINA
14 MAY 2017
B
right light exploded in Pearce's eyes beneath the hood. An illusion. The second strike against his face in as many seconds. The hand was soft, but heavy, like a dead fish. It belonged to the shouting woman hitting him. He couldn't see her but he sure as hell could smell her.
WHACK!
Another blow, more lights. He assumed the flashing lights meant his retinas were detaching.
“C'mon, lady. That all you got?” Pearce shouted, almost grateful for the beating. He needed the distraction. He was half out of his mind with claustrophobia beneath the hood.
Someone snatched it off. Pearce blinked. Wanted to cry out of sheer joy. He hadn't seen real light since he'd been cuffed and tossed into the back of that truck. His eyes adjusted as he squinted. A big Mongolian goon stood off to the side, the hood in his hands, a pistol on his hip. Feng stood back, smiling, smoking a cigarette. The woman looked familiar. She had been at the test facility. Wasn't wearing a lab coat now. A lady's peasant coat, like Feng's, but not tailored. She looked like Chairman Mao with small breasts, only uglier. Now she stood just a foot away from him, leaning over, red faced, squawking in Mandarin.
“Zhao! Zhao!”
“Sorry lady, me no hablo Esperanto.”
Another slap of her hand.
Pearce shook it off. Swore he felt his brain knocking around in his throbbing skull. He already had a headache from dehydration and lack of sleep. The pounding from the angry lady was only making it worse.
“What's her problem?” Pearce asked.
Feng blew out a long, thoughtful cloud of smoke as he twisted the cigarette in his fingers. “She hates you.” He took another drag.
“If she only knew me. Then she'd really hate me.”
WHACK!
“Guo? Zhao!” the woman shouted.
“Shit! Lady, seriously?”
She raised her hand again. Pearce stiffened for the blow. Feng spoke a single word. Her hand stopped in midair. She muttered curses under her breath.
“So what does she want from me?”
“She wants to know if you knew two men named Guo and Zhao.”
Pearce had to decide what cards to play. He knew he was seriously hosed and it worried him. He tried to calculate the speed of the truck and the time he spent riding in the back of it from the moment they tossed him into it, but for all he knew, they could have been driving in slow circles around the base. The only thing he knew for sure was that once they arrived wherever they were they descended forty-two steel steps that clanged beneath his boots. The descent spiraled in a long, slow circle, and the air was cooler. But that was about it.
In Iraq he'd been in some bad places in the hands of some real shitbirds, but what kept his spirits up back then was knowing that even badder friends with evil intent always came to rescue him. Pearce knew nobody was looking for him now, at least not on the ground.
He could try talking his way out of this thing but that was a long shot at best. He didn't have any leverage, and the only Mandarin he knew were the menu items at the Chinese buffet near his condo in Coronado.
The only real question in Pearce's mind was: How much damage was going to be inflicted, and could he keep his wits about him in order to keep from revealing Myers's real mission? No telling, especially if they resorted to chemical interrogation or something even less civilized. His
only hope was that they would knock him unconscious or, better yet, beat him to death before he accidentally spilled the beans.
Pearce shrugged his aching shoulders. His hands were still cuffed behind his back. The only time he hadn't been cuffed in the last few hours was in order to relieve himself, but that had been a while ago.
Here goes nothing.
“She said Guo? Zhao?” Pearce asked, frowning at Feng through a swelling eye.
Feng nodded. “Yes.”
The woman stared daggers at Pearce, listening intently.
“Hard to say. I've killed a lot of Chi-coms in my day. You kinda all look the same to me.”
The woman slapped him three more times. One of her jagged fingernails scraped across Pearce's cheek, drawing blood. Her face was so close to his he could smell her rancid breath.
“Crikey, lady. Ever heard of Listerine?”
“Have you ever heard of manners, you filthy white bastard?” she asked in faultless English.
Pearce was shocked. Should've guessed she was bilingual. “What?”
WHACK!
The hulking Mongolian goon laughed at Pearce, muttered something in Mandarin.
Pearce tasted copper. He spit. Bloody drops hit the cement floor. He turned to the goon. “What's so funny, numb nuts?”
“You,” Feng said. “He thinks a middle-aged woman is going to beat the big American to death with her bare hands. He's probably right.”
Pearce flashed a bloody grin.
That's the idea
.
The woman got in Pearce's face and screamed, clenching her fists. Veins bulged in her forehead as flecks of her spittle splattered on his chin. He stared at her crooked yellow teeth with an insolent smile.
The barrel-shaped woman deftly reached inside a coat pocket and produced a spring-loaded blade. In a single move, she snicked it open and plunged it straight at Pearce's throat. He stared hard at her. Wouldn't let her see him flinch.
Fuck you, lady. See you in hell
.
Feng's hand caught her wrist at the last possible second, the blade an inch from Pearce's jugular. She howled in protest as Feng pried the knife out of her hand. The security guard rushed over and wrapped a massive arm around her throat, twisting her other flailing hand behind her back. Firm enough to restrain her but gentle enough to not cause the prominent scientist injury.
Feng barked an order and the goon wrestled her toward the steps, but not before the woman managed a swift kick into Pearce's shin, cursing in Mandarin at the top of her lungs. Even after the heavy metal door clanged shut at the top of the winding staircase, Pearce could hear her howling.
“You need to teach your wife some manners, Feng.”
“Dr. Weng is not my wife.”
Pearce looked Feng up and down, grinned. “Yeah. You look like the kind of guy who eats his noodles from the other side of the bowl.”
“Excuse me?”
“Doesn't matter. What was her problem?”
“You killed two of her colleagues while in Africa, Guo and Zhao.”
“An occupational hazard. For them, I mean.”
“It is written, âHe that lives by the sword, dies by the sword.'”
“Depends who's got the bigger sword. Want to compare?”
“We both know you're CIA.”
“Former. I'm a private contractor now.”
“A convenient cover. The CIA doesn't let field agents quit. This is well-known.”
“Well-known? Where? In comic books?”
“You came here to spy.”
“On what? The Wu-14? You invited us here, remember? Bad way to keep a secret, inviting a former American president and a former CIA operative to see the damn thing. But we both know you don't want it kept secret. Just the opposite.”
“You came here to steal the Wu-14.”
“Steal it? How? By shoving it up my poop chute and waddling out of
here?” Pearce flashed a mischievous grin. “That's more up your alley, isn't it? Pardon the pun.”
Feng's eyes narrowed, waiting for his rage to pass.
“Why are you here, then?”
“I'm providing security for President Myers. She refuses Secret Service protection.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She likes her privacy.”
“If you're her security, I'd say you failed.”
“Me? You're the one in deep shit. President Lane won't take kindly to kidnapping an American citizen.”
“A citizen? I thought you were his friend.”
Pearce shrugged, wincing at the pain in his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“A friend of the president's who happens to be a CIA agent on a secret mission, spying on the People's Republic.”
“I think we covered that already.”
“Do you think I'm stupid?” Feng asked.
“If you don't already know, I'm sure as hell not going to break the bad news to youâ”
WHACK!
Feng's delicate, well-manicured hand slapped Pearce's face.
“Dr. Weng wants to kill you,” Feng said. “I'm tempted to let her.”
“Why don't you?”
“I personally abhor violence. I'm a businessman. I prefer to negotiate.”
“So let's negotiate. Let me out of these cuffs, and we can talk.”
“If you don't tell me what I want to know, I'll let Dr. Weng slit your throat. Or worse.”
“Go ahead, but only if you want the wrath of the U.S. military to fall on your head.”
The vice chairman laughed. “Now who's the idiot? Ever heard of Dr. Afridi? Sergeant Hekmati? Reverend Abedini? Your government is notorious for leaving their people behind, sometimes indefinitely.”
Pearce knew the names well. The first was the Muslim doctor
sentenced for treason and left to rot in a Pakistani jail after helping the United States find and kill Osama bin Laden. The second was an American marine sergeant abandoned in an Iranian jail for years. The third was an American Christian cleric seized and tortured by Iranian thugs. All three incidents were stains on America's honor. In each case, the American government held the cards it needed to play to win their release. Pakistan was a corrupt regime heavily dependent on American largesse to survive. Iran had other vulnerabilities.
“A previous administration. Lane is different. Think Teddy Roosevelt.”
“We both know who really runs your government. The puppet masters who pull the strings would never allow Lane to upset the apple cart.”
“You don't know Lane. And you shouldn't mix metaphors.”
“I know that trillions of dollars in trade, loans, and profits all depend upon a healthy relationship between China and the United States. Do you think the worthless life of a single American CIA spy is worth all that?”
“There are things even more valuable than money, even in a capitalist society.”
“You're quite right. Knowledge is far more valuable than money, in any society. And you have some of the most valuable knowledge of all.”
The heavy steel door swung open. The security goon slipped back in and shut it behind him. One of his eyes was shut and purpling.
Pearce laughed. “Hey, tough guy. Punching above your weight class again?”
The Mongolian glowered at Pearce as he trotted down the staircase.
Pearce motioned with his pinned wrists. “Yeah, Lurch. C'mon, untie my hands. Let me show you what a real punch feels like.”
The security guard muttered under his breath and stepped toward Pearce, flexing his massive hands.
Feng shouted an order and the Mongolian froze in his tracks, then retreated to his spot in the corner. Feng turned back to Pearce. “You're a drone expert. There's much you can teach us.”
“I'm no expert. I don't invent the damn things. I just run a contracting company. We deploy drones, sure, but mostly off-the-shelf stuff.”
“Dr. Weng told me your company is the best in the world at what it does.”
“And she'd be right.”
“Is that why you're in Japan? To give Japan advanced drone technology?”
“Like I told you, I just came to provide President Myers with personal security.”
“And what is her mission?”
“You'd have to ask her. Far as I could tell, it was just business. You know, filthy capitalism. Just like you billionaire commie bastards love.”
“You're not going to leave this place, ever. You do understand that, don't you?”
“If you're going to shoot me, do it now.” Pearce flexed his shoulders. “I've got an itch I can't scratch that's killing me.”
Feng laughed. “Kill you? No. You are too valuable alive. I'm going to extract every last secret you're hiding in that thick skull of yours. We both know you can't stop it. And unlike you, I'm not constrained by the Geneva Convention or the ACLU. I have no qualms about crippling you for life or blinding you. Even if I decide to let you go, you'd still be maimed and your government wouldn't be able to do a thing about it, nor would I suffer the least consequence. Do you understand how perilous your situation truly is?”
“I think I've caught the gist of it. But I'm not much of a talker. So stop wasting your breath.”
“I have a technician who will not only make you talk but also, perhaps, even sing, as the saying goes. I should like that.”
“Don't get your panties in a wad. I don't do Broadway show tunes if that's what you're hoping for.”
Feng barked a command to his security guard. The big Mongolian slapped the black bag back over Pearce's head.
Pearce wanted to scream. His mind clawed at the claustrophobic fear rising in his throat; only a sheer act of will kept him silent. For now.
“I'll be back in a few hours and we'll begin our first session. Until
then, I want you to imagine the worst of all possible pain and know that it will pale in comparison to what I have in store for you.”
“Room service is that bad, eh?”
Feng's cell phone chirped. He checked the screen and motioned violently toward the stairs. A few moments later Feng and the Mongolian disappeared, slamming the steel door behind them.
Pearce sat in the rickety chair, shoulders aching, shrouded in the lightless bag. The room was silent now except for his heavy breathing. He didn't want to hyperventilate. Fought to control it. The bag was stuffy, close. But that wasn't the worst. He felt like a miner trapped a thousand feet below the earth when the lights go out and the roof caves in. He prayed Ian would find him before the sightless black dragged him down into madness. He focused his mind on the one possible thing that could save him: the Pearce Systems tracker embedded in his gut.