Читать книгу: «Dragon Key»
DRAGON’S LAIR
When an American operative is jailed, Mack Bolan must finish the agent’s mission to smuggle a Chinese activist and his family out of the country. But getting the dissident away alive becomes a logistical nightmare for Bolan and the two inexperienced CIA agents assisting him. Not only are the Chinese authorities on their tail, but the activist insists on retrieving a stolen flash drive in Shanghai.
The memory key contains sensitive information belonging to a renegade general. As determined to recover the data as the dissident is, the general has hired a legendary assassin famous for eliminating anyone who gets in his way. In a battle where only one champion can survive, Bolan may have met his match. But the Executioner is used to fighting against overwhelming odds and has something much more important on his side—justice.
“Do you have any weapons?”
Huang pulled back his jacket, exposing a Walther PPK .380.
“I’ve got one, too.” Kelly began to dig through her handbag.
Bolan glanced at his watch. It was 16:25. They had a few more hours until Grimaldi’s flight was scheduled to land. “Let’s go check out the prison. I want to see what we’re dealing with.”
Huang and Kelly exchanged a look. Bolan sensed they were holding something back. He stared at Huang. “What else do you want to tell me?”
Huang glanced at the woman again, licked his lips, then said, “When Wayne and I were talking to Han, he refused to go with us. He insisted he has to stay in China until he gets some issues resolved. He just wants to make sure his family is safe.”
“He’s not worried about his impending arrest?”
Huang shrugged. “He said he had some kind of...insurance policy.”
Dragon Key
Don Pendleton
Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
—Benjamin Franklin,
Poor Richard’s Almanack
Nothing is more dangerous than someone whose ugly secrets are about to be revealed. But once the truth comes out, it’s time for justice.
—Mack Bolan
THE
LEGEND
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Title Page
Quote
Legend
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Copyright
Prologue
Hong Kong, warehouse district
It was a matter of honor, the Praying Mantis thought as he moved in the semidarkness of the alley. That was how Mr. Chen, his master, had described this mission to him. Honor and tradition... Two things that were very important to the Triad, and thus to the Mantis, as well.
Duty is preceded by honor, he thought.
He dragged his left foot and leaned heavily on a long walking stick. Just another Hong Kong beggar out for a night’s work, going through garbage cans and asking for handouts. The long overcoat felt cumbersome, but it was a necessary disguise. He mimicked a limp as he drew nearer to the rear entrance of the warehouse, closer to the two guards who stood there in their casual contempt. They were young Chinese, cocky and full of themselves. Chong should have chosen better. They both wore finely tailored navy suits with black silk ties and sunglasses, even though it was close to midnight and the sun would not shine again for hours. For these two it was all about the image. Chinese gangsters trying to emulate what they saw in some John Woo movie. All image and no substance. The Mantis flexed his abdominal muscles in anticipation, but he doubted these two would present much of a problem. Vanity was not a desirable quality in an enforcer or bodyguard. Sunglasses at night.
It doesn’t matter, the Mantis thought. The sun will never shine upon them again.
He stepped closer, leaning on the long stick, still dragging his left foot, his face streaked like a tiger with black camo paint.
“Can you spare some change for a poor, old, crippled man?” he said in a distorted voice, imbuing the Mandarin with a rural twang. He let his lips creep into a smile as he moved within striking distance, holding out his cupped palm.
The closest one twisted his mouth into a snarl as he stepped out from the doorway and cocked back his hand, ready to deliver a harsh blow to the old beggar.
“Get out of here, you peasant son-of-a—”
The Mantis thrust the fingers of his cupped hand upward into the soft area at the base of the guard’s neck. As the man made a gurgling sound and stumbled to the side, the Mantis pivoted to the left, bringing the stick upward with three consecutive blows, striking the second guard’s groin, abdomen and throat. The Mantis pivoted again, this time to the right, using a spinning back kick. The heel of his right foot smashed into the first guard’s face and the man crumpled. The second guard was on his knees, struggling to reach under the lapel of his finely tailored suit when the Mantis delivered a lightning-quick blow—a palm strike to the side of the man’s head—sending his temple crashing into the sharp edges of the brick doorway. He collapsed to the ground, as well.
After assuring himself that both men were dead, the Mantis dragged the bodies behind a pair of garbage cans and quickly went through their pockets. He removed a pistol from each and a radio from the second man. The Mantis dropped the weapons into the pockets of his overcoat and held the radio in his hand as he went back to the door. It was unlocked.
He slipped into the dark interior and divested himself of the heavy overcoat and stick. It would be close quarters from this point onward. Underneath the overcoat he wore his customary working clothes: a black jumpsuit made of soft, double-knit fabric that allowed for his high kicks and quick movements. Over the jumpsuit was a leather vest equipped with several slit-like pockets, each pocket containing a special weapon. The Mantis had heard that in olden times, a Triad enforcer’s vest would be lined with finely wrought iron mesh. Despite his affinity for tradition, this vest was lined with Kevlar. As he stood in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust, he thought about taking the guns but decided to leave them. This was, after all, a matter of honor. The traditional ways should dominate.
The Mantis stepped forward, the soles of his shoes making virtually no sound as he moved over the solid concrete floor. The warehouse was fully stocked with barrels of rice, but devoid of workers. He imagined Chong had paid off any security guards so the meeting could continue unobstructed. Chong was thorough, but like most traitors, not thorough enough. Following the five of them from the docks had been almost too easy.
He heard their voices now.... Low, guttural sounds interspersed with laughter. Several men were talking, more concerned with money than vigilance. The Mantis moved soundlessly down an aisle with metal barrels stacked on either side.
The voices grew louder. More laughing. One of them was Chong. The Mantis was sure of it. At the corner he paused and flattened against the barrels, tilting his head slightly so he could glance down the aisle. A man stood at the other end, perhaps ten meters away, his silhouette in a position of alertness, holding a submachine gun.
The Mantis smiled. This guard, too, was wearing sunglasses.
Moving behind the wall of barrels, the Mantis flicked the outside pocket of the vest and felt the sharpened edge of a throwing dart. This guard was a large man, probably chosen for intimidation rather than his skill, but size did not always matter. The Mantis cocked his arm and closed his eyes for a moment of concentration.
He opened his eyes, stepped to his left using a smooth, fluid movement and threw the dart. A split second later the guard’s head jerked back, the jagged edge of the throwing dart protruding from the opaque lens over his left eye. His hand started up toward his head but stopped. His mouth sagged open, dribbling a trail of blood. As the big guard began to fall forward, the Mantis covered the distance between them and caught the man before he hit the floor. With a quick finger jab to the man’s throat, the Mantis made sure the guard would not recover. The guard made a short choking sound, a death rattle, and was silent. The Mantis laid him onto the cold concrete floor and removed the machine gun from the dead man’s hands. It was an HK MP5. A fine weapon, but he set it aside.
“Make them suffer for their treachery,” Master Chen had said. “Make an example of them.”
The Mantis peered around the edge of the stacked barrels. One more guard stood perhaps fifteen meters away, holding another MP5. A portable light had been set up in the middle of a clear section of the floor. Chong and another man sat in the bright circle of light at a small folding table piled with stacks of money. This second man wore tiny oval glasses as his fingers worked nimbly over an abacus. Leo Kim, Mr. Chen’s personal accountant in Hong Kong. This was an unexpected development. Two traitors would die tonight.
The Mantis removed another dart then scanned the surroundings. Nothing moved in the shadows of the warehouse. The two men’s voices, their laughter, their squeals of delight as they counted the money, floated from the table like joyful butterflies.
This guard should be the last one, the Mantis thought. Kim would be too scared to bring any associates. He was a mouse, feeding on the crumbs left by others.
The Mantis traced his thumb over the sharpened point of the dart, the finely honed edge grating softly against each minute ridgeline. He breathed in and out, listening, melting into the darkness and shadows, watching, waiting...
Something flickered on the other side of the room. A man, another guard, stood in the shadows. He stepped forward and the Mantis appraised him: well muscled, dark clothing and no sunglasses decorating his pockmarked face. This one was obviously in charge. The boss guard. He raised a portable radio to his mouth and asked, “Deng, do you see anything?”
The Mantis stepped back. Perhaps it would be prudent to use one of the guns after all. This new guard was obviously more competent than the others. Kim must have brought him along, just in case. The mouse bringing a cat to keep him safe. The irony was obvious. This bastard would probably just as soon cut Kim’s throat and steal his money as protect him.
The room grew silent. No one had responded. The boss guard spoke into the radio again. “Deng, you idiot, where the hell are you?”
The seconds ticked by with no answer.
The Mantis thought again about picking up the submachine gun. But his master’s honor was at stake. Mr. Chen was not his sifu, but Chen had taken him in from the streets, raised him, taught him the way of the Triad and the code of the warrior and had made sure he had the best schooling in all manners of martial combat.
The Mantis took out another dart.
The boss guard reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stainless steel, semiauto Norinco Type 54 pistol as he stepped into the circle of light and toward the other guard, who was now gripping his submachine gun with both hands.
The Norinco’s shiny finish gleamed in the harsh light. The Mantis liked shiny things.
“See if everything’s all right,” the boss guard said. “Find out why they aren’t answering. And take off those damn sunglasses.”
The other guard nodded and turned, his dominant hand pulling the glasses off. As he did so, the Mantis stepped forward and threw the first dart. The guard’s hand froze in front of his face, still holding the glasses, the end of the dart protruding from his right eye socket. He sunk to his knees and fell forward, his face smacking against the concrete.
The boss guard raised his pistol, but it was too late. The second dart was already on its way, striking him in the neck, just below his jawbone. He twisted and reached for the dart, firing off a few quick but random shots.
The Mantis burst forward, taking three long, running steps and jumping in the air. He sailed past Kim and clipped Chong with a flying kick. Landing on the other side of the table, the Mantis delivered a three-kick combination to the gurgling boss guard. The last roundhouse kick smacked against the man’s throat, driving the dart in deeper and sending him toppling backward. The Mantis glanced at the two traitors. Chong was shaking his head, trying to clear it. Kim, the mouse, just sat there holding his hands in front of his face, which held an image of frozen horror. Shifting on the balls of his feet, the Mantis delivered three successive back-fist blows to Chong’s face, and then he swept a knife-hand back and smashed Kim’s nose, sending his glasses askew and knocking him to the ground.
The Mantis flicked his hand to another pocket of the vest and withdrew a folding knife. A butterfly, or balisong, as the Filipinos called it. It was not a Chinese weapon, but it was one of the Mantis’s favorites. He’d grown up watching Hong Kong actors manipulate the handles and blades in martial arts movies, and had adopted the knife as his own.
Flipping the balisong open with one hand, he whirled and stepped over the boss guard’s supine body. The man appeared to be dead, but the Mantis slashed his throat just to be sure.
Chong was on all fours, groaning and trying to get to his feet. The Mantis stepped back and sent a quick, thrusting front kick to the side of Chong’s head. He collapsed. The traitor appeared to be unconscious as the Mantis checked him for weapons and found a small, silver-colored .380 in his jacket pocket. The Mantis recognized the gun. Chen had given it to Chong when he’d first joined the Triad.
I will return it to the master, the Mantis thought.
Dropping Chong’s limp form, the Mantis reached down and grabbed the front of Kim’s shirt, pulling the accountant toward him.
“You had Mr. Chen’s trust,” the Mantis said, twisting the shirt so it choked off Kim’s air supply. “He will not be pleased when he hears of your betrayal.”
“I did not know,” Kim said, his voice creaking between gasps.
The Mantis cast a quick glance at the stacks of money, the open briefcases and the abacus. “You didn’t know...”
Kim nodded rapidly, his head bobbling up and down like a toy doll on a spring.
“So you brought your abacus to count roaches in this warehouse?” the Mantis said. He pulled the accountant closer. “You have betrayed my master, and you’ve offended me with your puerile lies.” He put the point of his knife to the accountant’s neck. “You deserve to die slowly for your treachery, but luck has favored you tonight, old man.”
Kim blinked and his lips twisted into something resembling a hopeful smile.
“You’ll spare me?” he asked. His eyes glowed with a sudden hopefulness.
The Mantis stared back. “No, you will die quickly instead of slowly.” He plunged the blade into the softness of Kim’s neck, watching the expression of hope fall away, accompanied by the fading light in the other man’s eyes.
The Mantis dropped the accountant and turned to Chong, who had regained consciousness but was still on the floor. He looked upward with an expression of terror, then his mouth twitched slightly.
“Lee Son Shin?” Chong said. “Is that you?”
The Mantis said nothing.
“Lee, it’s me. Chong Se Hu.” He flashed a nervous smile.
The Mantis remained silent.
“Help me,” Chong said. “Please. Let me go.”
The Mantis did not move.
“Please, Lee.” Chong managed to sit up, get to his hands and knees. “We’re friends. Like brothers.”
“Brothers do not disgrace themselves for a bowl of rice,” the Mantis said. “Stay on your knees.”
Chong’s face twisted into a grimace. His eyes stared up at the Mantis, then his lips parted in a sly smile. “You’re angry, aren’t you? I don’t blame you. But look.” He managed to steady himself and gestured toward the stacks of money. “There’s enough there for both of us. Enough to start over, in another place. We can both be rich men. No more taking orders, risking our lives. A chance to start over. For Son Yin, as well.”
The Mantis glared down at him. “Do not mention her name.”
Chong looked up, his eyes widening. “Don’t you see?”
“I see a traitor,” the Mantis said. “One who must be punished.”
“Lee, no. Please. No.” Chong bowed his head. “I beg you.”
Tears rolled down the other man’s cheeks.
“How much did they pay you?” the Mantis asked. “The Iranians.”
Chong shook his head. “More than you can imagine. Take the money, Lee. Take it all, but please, let me live. We’re friends.”
The Mantis watched Chong grovel, remembering their shared childhood in Beijing. The long journey together... After his parents died, the Mantis, his sister and Chong had sneaked onto train after train until they’d arrived in Hong Kong. They’d lived on the streets before Master Chen had found them. Chong had been the first one Chen had discovered and assisted, then Chong had opened the door for Lee. But now none of that was important. All that mattered was duty and honor.
“Do not disgrace yourself further,” the Mantis said. “Show me your fidelity.”
Chong, the tears still streaming down his face, raised his left hand, curving his little finger under and extending the other three in a gesture indicating loyalty. The Mantis watched the traitor, letting the gravity of his betrayal, and the knowledge of what was to come, settle over him like a shroud.
“Please, Lee,” Chong said. “At least make it quick.”
The Mantis watched the blade gleaming in the artificial light a few seconds more, and then grabbed the three extended fingers with his left hand.
“I will,” he said, and squeezed the handles of the balisong tightly.
Chapter One
Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong, commercial waterfront district
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, watched as four men removed a large wooden crate from a black truck. A fifth man stood guard, holding a pistol with a sound suppressor by his side. Bolan was standing in the shadows perhaps forty feet away, flattened against the edge of an abutment. He could hear the men speaking Farsi. So far Brognola’s intel had panned out: these Iranians were up to something in Hong Kong. The five of them had met with a group of Chinese men, Triads from the looks of them, and exchanged a suitcase for the small black truck. Then both groups had gone their separate ways. It had been a juggling act for Bolan to keep both groups under surveillance, even with an assist from MI6. At this point, the lead British agent, John Crissey, had no choice but to split up his team, sending two of his men to follow the Triads with the suitcase while he and Bolan continued with the Iranians.
Crissey kept in radio contact with his men as he and Bolan trailed the truck through the busy night traffic. When the Iranians suddenly pulled into a back alley, Bolan got out of the car and tailed them on foot. They pulled up beside a parked van facing the opposite direction and Bolan gave Crissey a heads-up.
“Get on the other side of this alley,” Bolan said into his throat mic. “They’ve got another vehicle, a blue van, ready to head out.”
“Righto, Cooper,” the Englishman said. As usual, Bolan was using his Matt Cooper alias. Once again he pondered the wisdom of working with MI6, but this time he’d had little choice. They were the established agency in what was once the British territory of Hong Kong, and according to Hal Brognola, Bolan was the only effective asset in the area. If he was in the neighborhood, a nearby assignment was usually waiting in the wings. But all things considered, Crissey and his guys were turning out to be competent and trustworthy.
The Iranians carried the long crate to the rear of the van. It took all of their focus, and Bolan used the opportunity to sneak closer. The Iranians slid the wooden crate inside and three of them hopped in the back with it. The other two slammed the van’s rear doors. They spoke again and looked back at the small truck they’d gotten from the Triads before going around to the front of the van and getting in. It appeared they were going to abandon the black truck. A good move, just in case the Triad had rigged it with an IED or GPS. The van’s engine rolled over and caught. They were taking off. It would be nicer to follow them to their ultimate destination, but Bolan figured it was time to move, in case they lost the van in the Hong Kong traffic. Bolan keyed his radio and spoke into his throat mic.
“Crissey, target’s getting ready to move. You in position?”
“Affirmative.”
“Let’s hit them now.”
“Agreed. Heading in from the far end.”
That was all Bolan needed to hear. It was risky for the two of them to tackle five men who were no doubt armed, but it was also necessary if the intel Stony Man Farm had received was correct: the Iranians were purportedly buying the guidance system for one of China’s DF-21D anti-ship ballistic missiles. The kind the US designated as a “carrier killer.”
Hal Brognola had been most persuasive. “I don’t need to tell you how worried the Navy is about this one. It’s bad enough that the Chinese have them, but if they’re selling the technology to the Iranians, our ships will be sitting ducks in the Persian Gulf.”
Bolan knew Brognola was right. They couldn’t afford to let that kind of technology fall into the Ayatollah’s hands. Still, from what Bolan knew of the Chinese, the possibility that they’d export their technology to the Muslims seemed dubious.
“Cooper,” Crissey said over the radio. “I’m pulling my vehicle up to block the mouth of the alley. Are you ready?”
“Roger that,” Bolan said, and sprang from the shadows. “Moving in now.”
He was wearing black cargo pants and a BDU shirt that fit loosely enough to hide the shoulder rig with his Beretta 93R. He’d forgone combat boots for a lighter sport tactical boot, which afforded him traction and mobility as well as soundless movement. They also packed a pretty good wallop. Bolan pulled the Beretta out of its holster and increased his pace, centering himself directly behind the windowless van so he’d be less visible in the side mirrors. The van began to accelerate toward the mouth of the alley. Bolan ran faster, nearing an all-out sprint. If Crissey wasn’t in position, or if the Iranians decided to ram the Englishman’s car, things could get dicey.
Then the red flashes of brake lights glowed ahead and the van began to slow down. Bolan flipped the selector to auto as he got within two feet of the back of the van. Reaching out, he grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, raising the Beretta at the same time. The door popped open, but the van jerked to a stop, sending the Executioner slamming against the rear door. The impact felt like a body blow from a wrecking ball. Bolan fell to the ground, rolling to minimize the impact. Just as he came to a stop, he glanced toward the van. Bolan could see the illumination from a pair of headlights. Crissey had pulled his damn car front first into the alley. Tactically, it wasn’t a bad move, if you were in the car. The engine block would provide the maximum ballistic cover from any gunfire emanating from the van, and it would certainly be more difficult for the van to knock the car out of the way, but the flip side was that Bolan’s position was now lit up like a Hong Kong business district. And there was nowhere to go on either side.
The right rear door opened a crack and the barrel of an SKS rifle emerged. The muzzle flash burst like an exploding star as Bolan rolled away from the rounds bouncing off the pavement. He aimed the Beretta at the solid top of the door, approximating where he thought the assailant’s upper body might be, and fired off three quick bursts. Luckily he’d loaded this magazine with armor-piercing bullets.
Neat round holes perforated the door in a semicircular pattern. Seconds later the rifle dropped to the ground, followed by a slumping body.
One down and three to go, Bolan thought. He wanted at least one of the Iranians alive.
As the van began backing up, the left rear door opened and the barrel of another SKS poked out.
Alive—only if possible, Bolan thought, and began rolling again.
The van’s front wheels twisted, and it veered toward him, its side striking the wall of the building next to Bolan. The rifle began spitting a deadly stream of bullets, but the rounds went wide as the vehicle abraded the brick wall.
No place to hide now. Bolan sprang to his feet, firing off another burst from his Beretta. He began running. If he could get back to the small truck the Iranians had abandoned he might be able to avoid getting run over or crushed.
Or shot, he thought as another staccato burst sounded behind him. He extended his arm back to fire another burst, buying a few seconds respite.
But the van was right behind him, maybe ten feet away now, sending out a shower of sparks as it scraped against the stone wall.
Five feet.
Three.
Just as he thought it was over, the top of the van collided with a protruding section of bricks, sending out a shower of debris like pellets in a hailstorm. The van careened left, then cut right again, giving Bolan a chance to slip into a shadowy recess along the wall. He flattened against the cold bricks and the van barreled past him, its right-side mirror snapping off as it caught the edge of the alcove. Bolan waited a second more, then brought the Beretta up and fired as the front of the vehicle came into view. A series of bullet holes dappled the windshield and the driver jerked backward. The van slowed. Bolan acquired a sight picture on the front passenger and fired another three-round burst. That man slumped forward and the van decelerated, slowing to a stop.
Bolan rushed to the front of the vehicle and suddenly felt a round zoom by him. He saw movement inside the van but no muzzle flash. It had come from behind him.
Crissey.
Bolan glanced back and saw the Englishman holding a Walther PPS in his left hand and practically covering his face with his right.
“Hold your fire,” Bolan yelled, hoping Crissey could hear him.
The Executioner saw two men moving inside the back of the van. One had a rifle and the other a pistol. Bolan fired another three-round burst through the pockmarked windshield and darted to the side. He reached into the pocket of his BDU shirt and pulled out a stun grenade. Hooking the round pin on the edge of the protruding bumper, Bolan pulled the pin out and rose up, smashing the driver’s-side window with his Beretta.
A round zoomed past him, this time from inside the van.
“Crissey,” Bolan yelled, “now would be a good time to shoot.”
The Englishman rose up and fired off a volley of several rounds. Bolan tossed the grenade through the broken window and ducked down. Four seconds later the inside of the van exploded with smoke and light, accompanied by a concussive blast. Bolan moved to the rear of the vehicle and tore open the back door. The interior was filled with a cloud of smoke and the acrid smell of burned gunpowder. The last two Iranians squirmed on the floor next to the crate. Bolan grabbed the first one by the ankle and pulled him out of the van. He dropped to the ground.
Crissey was next to Bolan now, and the Executioner told him to check and secure the prisoner. Then Bolan reached for the second man’s twitching feet, but the Iranian responded with a kick. The man sat up holding a pistol with an elongated barrel, pointing it directly at Crissey. Bolan fired a round into the Iranian’s forehead, and he slumped to the floor. The Executioner stitched the man with another quick burst and pulled his body from the back of the vehicle.
“Thanks,” Crissey said. He flashed an expression somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “And I’m sorry about that near miss when you popped up before.”
“Forget it,” Bolan said, moving his head slightly, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. “You got that guy cuffed?”
“Righto.”
Bolan glanced down and saw a thin strip of plastic securing the Iranian’s wrists. Taking out another, wider flex cuff, Bolan stooped down 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.
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