Lethal Risk. Don Pendleton

time blending in here. He parked the truck three blocks away, hoping it wouldn’t get blocked in by the snail’s-pace traffic creeping through the streets.

      Pulling his baseball cap low again, he headed through the gawking, talking, drinking crowd, heading toward the club’s entrance. Inside, he was met with a wall of noise and people, and the place was dimly lit by cheap colored-paper lanterns. Women danced on the bar to the loud approval of half-drunk men. It was hot inside, and reeked of grain alcohol, cigarette smoke, sweat and cheap perfume.

      Bolan shouldered his way to the back, where a narrow stairway led to the second floor and the VIP rooms. He walked up, putting his back to the wall as a parade of young women dressed in American-label baseball jerseys, jeans and shirts paraded by. On the landing, he took out a pair of cheap sunglasses and slipped them on, blinking in the already dim red light, then walked down to the third door on the right and rapped on the frame three times.

      “Yao?” The beaded curtain was pushed aside and a tiny woman with huge eyes, fake lashes and dressed in a traditional Chinese silk dress stared up at him. Her eyes widened even farther in surprise, but she quickly masked her reaction and cocked her head at him.

      “Chen song wo,” Bolan replied, saying that Chen had sent him. He tapped his baseball cap, the only one he had seen in the room.

      She raised a smartphone and looked at it for a moment, then nodded. “Come in,” she said in English.

      Bolan entered a small room lined with bench seats and pillows, with a small serving table in the middle. As with the rest of the upstairs, the room was lit with red mood lighting. The woman pulled a sliding door closed, immediately muting the cacophony outside to a dull roar. “Would you care for some entertainment while you wait?”

      “No, thank you,” Bolan replied as he chose a seat that allowed him to keep an eye on both the doorway and the woman keeping him company. “I’m here to pick up a package, and then I’ll be gone.”

      “I am afraid it will be a few minutes,” she said, extending a slim hand to the table, which had a single bottle and four glasses on it. “Something to drink, perhaps?”

      “No, thank you.” Bolan was well aware of the Chinese custom of sealing a business deal over alcohol, and he was just as determined not to let it interfere with his business. It was bad enough that he was in a public business, with not many escape routes if the deal went south. On the other hand, the fact that the handoff was going down here instead of in an isolated warehouse on the docks probably meant the black marketers had done this before and had a system in place.

      Not inclined to make small talk, he glanced at the woman, who smiled shyly at him, then resumed watching the door. An ashtray sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by several books of matches. Bolan picked one up, studied the outline of a nude girl on it and slipped it into his pocket with a small smile.

      In a few minutes the door slid open and an older woman poked her head in and rattled off a couple of sentences in rapid-fire Cantonese—at least Bolan thought it was Cantonese. He paid close attention to the young woman’s reply, which was short and to the point. The older woman nodded, said something else and then left.

      “Your package will be here shortly,” she announced.

      “You understand that I will wish to inspect it before I hand over the rest of the payment,” he said, resting his hands on his legs.

      “Of course,” she replied. “Arrangements have already been made.”

      As she said that, the door slid open again and two suited men stepped inside, filling most of the rest of the space in the room. Each one carried a large nylon gym bag slung over one shoulder.

      “Here is what is to happen,” the small woman said. Bolan noticed she was now holding a stun gun in her right hand. “Under supervision, you will be allowed to inspect your purchase as you see fit. At no time will you be allowed to load or otherwise prepare any of it for firing.” She pressed the stud of the stun gun, making the metal prongs crackle with electricity, for emphasis. “Once you are satisfied with the merchandise, you will hand over the rest of the agreed-upon payment. Do you agree to these terms?”

      At Bolan’s nod, the woman nodded to the man on the left, who stepped forward and set his bag on the table, then stepped back. Moving slowly, Bolan unzipped the bag and opened it to look inside before reaching in. Satisfied there were no surprises, he removed a heavy leather holster and opened it.

      Inside was a stubby, matte-black pistol with crosshatched grips that resembled a knockoff Walther PPK, only not quite as small and sleek. Holding the Type 59 pistol in one hand, Bolan glanced at the woman. “This is the PPM model, as agreed?”

      She nodded. “Chambered in 9 mm Parabellum.”

      He nodded, pulled back the action to check the barrel and chamber, then swiftly fieldstripped it to ensure that any identifying marks or numbers had been removed—they were—that it was in decent shape, and that no parts—such as the firing pin—were missing. A cleaning kit was included, along with five magazines and two hundred rounds of 9 mm ammunition. Stony Man had promised to double the price if they could include a sound suppressor, but had no luck.

      Bolan reassembled the pistol and worked the action again. It was in fair condition—the slide was a bit sticky, most likely due to lack of proper maintenance. If he had the time, he would remedy that. Under normal circumstances, he’d be more likely to throw the probably twenty-year-old gun at an enemy instead of trying to shoot them, but he had no choice in the matter. It was easily concealable, and fired one of the most common bullets in existence. He checked out the magazines, ensuring that the springs were clean and functional, and that they all fit into the pistol, then examined each box of bullets.