Point of Contact

73

The North Korean driver made the hard right turn onto the narrow two-lane road and gunned the engine, pointing the front of the Sorento directly at the black hole of the traffic tunnel five hundred yards up ahead.

The four of them had already worked out a plan to assault the steel building. The driver would crash the SUV through the cyclone fence, then the four of them would egress and approach the building from four sides. Besides their pistols, they carried two shotguns, an assault rifle, and a dozen flash-bangs in the trunk — more than enough to get the job done.

The Sorento bounced on the uneven pavement as it rocketed toward the narrow one-way tunnel. The other tunnel for traffic in the opposite direction was clearly flooded, as was the other road. No matter, the driver thought. I need only one.

The SUV plowed full speed into the tunnel. In a hundred yards he’d be through, then he’d have to angle the vehicle right toward the fence. He gripped the wheel tighter and pressed the accelerator—

The driver froze for just a moment as he tried to make out the hulking shape turning the corner at the far end of the tunnel. He slammed the brakes.

Too late.

Paul stomped the big forklift’s throttle into the floorboard as soon as he made the turn into the tunnel. The turbo-charged Cummins diesel engine roared, launching the big high-capacity forklift straight into the narrow passage, its long steel forks high off the ground. Paul hoped he’d guessed the height right.

He had.

The right fork plowed through the Sorento’s windshield, severing the driver’s screaming face in half, just above the bridge of his nose. The section chief in the passenger seat ducked at the last second; the right fork harmlessly sheared the headrest off his seat but nearly speared the man behind him.

The forklift slammed into the SUV with a shuddering crash that rattled Paul’s teeth and nearly snapped his neck as he gunned the motor again, powering up the lift and raising the Sorento by the roof until it smashed against the tunnel ceiling, pinning it there.

The three surviving Koreans shouted as they kicked open their doors and tumbled several feet onto the wet pavement below while Paul scrambled out of the left side of the cab. He pointed his Makarov forward and took aim at the section chief, sprawled on the pavement, his ankles broken, raising his weapon. But Paul fired first and put two rounds in the man’s skull, killing him instantly.

The two surviving Koreans fired back. Bullets ricocheted off the tunnel walls and spanged against the forklift.

Something punched Paul in the ribs. He touched his side. His hand was bloody.

The agent behind the dead driver had dropped to his knees and was trying to pass unnoticed around the far side of the forklift. Paul saw the top of his head through the cab and fired through the glass but missed. He turned and ran around the back side of the forklift where the Korean had appeared, gun up. The Korean’s weapon fired twice at close range, tearing into Paul’s shoulder, shredding muscle and shattering bone. Paul’s hand dropped the gun. But the pain turned to rage. He charged forward with a shout, thrusting his good left hand into the Korean’s throat, crushing his windpipe with his bandaged fingers and smashing his skull against the wall in a spray of blood.

Gunshots exploded from the back of the tunnel. Paul lifted the Korean and held him like a shield as he charged back into the tunnel toward the gunfire. Bullets thudded against the corpse as Paul lunged forward. But copper-jacketed rounds chopped into his shins like a fire ax until his legs collapsed beneath him. He tumbled to the asphalt with his shattered cargo.

Paul rolled over onto his back in time to see the gaping black muzzle of a pistol in his face, and the final, deafening flash—

The surviving Korean spat on Paul’s corpse, then holstered his pistol. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and wiped the bloody gore off his face. His ears rang from the gunfight, the sound magnified in the tunnel. He could hardly think. He walked to the edge of the tunnel and lit a cigarette to clear his head, staring at the empty road and the endless rain.

Now what?

No car, no cell signal, and the other two spies were nowhere to be seen. He’d failed the mission.

His life was over.

He turned around and stood over the corpse of the fat American, a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He flicked the cigarette away and knelt down close to the body, examining the face.

The Korean shook his head, haunted by the dead man’s smile.