Operation Caribe

14

NOLAN COULDN’T BELIEVE what was happening.

Nor was he sure he should believe it. Because of the ketamine making its way through his system, he was having a hard time telling reality from drug-induced fantasy, real life from hallucination.

Have we just been kidnapped? he thought.

It was as if Twitch heard him, because he roared back in reply: “Who the f*ck would kidnap us?”

Yet here they were, in the back of the SUV, roaring down the dark and dirty alley, prisoners of somebody.

The man who shot the drug den goon turned around and pointed his massive handgun at them. Two more men, hiding in the storage area behind, pulled strips of duct tape tight around their necks awkwardly, adhering them to the rear seat. All four of their captors were laughing hysterically.

Nolan just couldn’t absorb how the driver could go so fast, through such narrow alleyways. The buildings and the faces and the handcarts and the Chinese lanterns were all going by in a mind-blowing blur, broken only by the occasional flash of a neon sign, which to Nolan’s distorted vision seemed like the sun exploding.

It was terrifying and crazy—but was it real?

“You f*ck up!” the man with the gun was yelling at them in slurred English. “You hurt my grandmother? You bite her on her ass? You have big mouths. Now, we gonna make you pay!”

Once again, Nolan was unable to process any of this. Grandmother? Biting someone’s ass? What the hell was he talking about?

The man never stopped screaming at them. “You don’t eat her candy? You don’t like her candy? We make you eat her candy!”

That’s when Twitch went ballistic

“We f*cked up?” he screamed back at the gunman. “You f*cked up, you mean! Your grandmother’s a whore!”

Nolan was horrified. Without thinking, he screamed at Twitch to shut up.

But nothing came out.

He tried again—but just like back in the drug den, nothing happened. He tried a third time. Nothing.

Nolan was stunned. Panic washed over him.

He really couldn’t talk.

The gunman, meanwhile, had turned beet red. “You’re gonna kick my ass, Joe?” he yelled back at Twitch. “Then how about this?”

He pointed his gun right at Twitch’s brow—but then that’s when the SUV driver yelled, “Don’t shoot him in the eyes!”

The man raised his aim slightly—and began to pull the trigger.

But somehow Twitch was quicker. Despite the tape holding him to the seat, he grabbed the gunman’s hand, clamped his teeth onto it and would not let go. The gunman screamed in pain, and Twitch only bit down harder. The gun fell out of his hand and went beneath the front seat. Not missing a beat, Twitch grabbed the gunman from behind and around the throat. He pinned him against the front seat with his left hand, then began pummeling him viciously with his right.

“I banged your grandmother!” Twitch was yelling at the man as he pounded him on his face and the top of his skull. “And she was a lousy f*ck—for a midget!”

Twitch reached in his coat pocket, retrieved the candy the dwarf had given them back at the Sea Witch and jammed it into the gunman’s mouth.

“Here’s your f*cking candy!” he bellowed at the man, choking him. “You eat it, a*shole! How do you like it?”

The man fought back fiercely—and all the while, the SUV was still speeding through the narrow alleyways and the three other kidnappers were laughing hysterically.

But an instant after Twitch forced the candy into the man’s mouth, the victim screamed in excruciating pain. A huge red bubble exploded from his nose. Blood began foaming from his ears and lips. He let out one more scream—and then died.

That’s when all the laughing stopped. Even Twitch was shocked.

“That f*cking candy?” he gasped. “That little bitch tried to poison us? Why?”

Before anyone could say a word, there was a huge crash! Something had hit the rear of the speeding SUV with such force, the impact shattered the back window and crushed one of the two men who’d restrained Nolan and Twitch from behind. It had also ripped the duct tape holding Nolan and Twitch to the seat. The other man tried to climb over the seat to get away, but a second, more powerful impact hit, propelled him into the front windshield, cracking his skull.

It was only then that Nolan realized someone was behind the SUV and trying to run them off the road.

He grabbed Twitch and they both fell to the floorboard. The man driving the SUV had retrieved his dead partner’s pistol by this time and was firing over their heads, shooting back at the pursuing vehicle.

Nolan was able to look up into the passenger side rearview mirror. He could see a white Ford Bronco right on their bumper, and its two occupants with wild looks in their eyes. Who were these guys? Were they gunmen from the opium den? Were they associates of the goons in the cathouse? Or friends of the Ugly Twins?

They were pushing the SUV along the narrow alley now. The noise was earsplitting. The SUV was filled with smoke. Nolan was doing his best to protect himself and Twitch. But his colleague was lying so limp, Nolan suddenly wondered if he was even still alive.

He started pounding Twitch hard on the back.

“Stop hitting me!” Twitch finally yelled up at him. “For Christ’s sake, let me enjoy this!”

Nolan almost hit him again, this time right in the jaw.

Can this get any more f*cked up? he thought.

He looked back up at the rearview mirror and saw a strange sight: the expression on the Bronco driver’s face had suddenly changed from fierce determination to utter fear.

What’s the matter with him?

He found out an instant later.

The SUV rocketed out of the alley and onto the main street, just in time to broadside a fully loaded produce truck that had turned into their lane. The collision was so violent the SUV flipped over and started skidding along the sidewalk, creating a storm of sparks and broken glass. The interior filled with chunks of cabbage, celery and water beets—that is, until the SUV went through the plate glass window of a nearby butcher shop. This added chickens and chicken parts to the vegetable stew swirling around them. An instant after that, the pursuing Bronco slammed into the rear of the SUV for good, killing both its driver and his passenger and sending the SUV even deeper into the butchery, throwing chunks of bloody red beef into the mix.

Only then did the SUV finally come to a stop. Lying against one door and looking up at the other, Nolan could see all their kidnappers were now dead. He kicked out the side door’s window, shattering it into millions of pieces. Boosting Twitch out this opening, he watched as he slipped down the outside of the wrecked SUV, falling to the dirty street below. Nolan followed, slipping as well, and landing heavily on top of his colleague.

They were bruised, battered and bloodied—but Twitch was laughing again.

“Free at last, motherf*cker!” he bellowed. “Thank God almighty, we’re free at last.”

Or so they thought.

The collision had sent everyone on the crowded street running for cover. Knowing this was the break they needed, Nolan tried to get Twitch to his feet, but they both kept slipping on the greasy, gas-stained pavement.

That’s when a white and orange van roared up to the scene, lights flashing, siren blaring.

An ambulance …

“This must be my ride home,” Twitch laughed, still flat out on the street.

A man got out of the vehicle. He was dressed in hospital scrubs and had a surgeon’s mask covering his nose and mouth.

He grabbed Nolan around his shoulders.

“You OK now, Joe,” he said to Nolan. “We fix you up good.”

The man took a damp cloth from his pocket and put it under Nolan’s nose. It had the unmistakable stink of chloroform.

The last thing Nolan remembered the man saying was: “Breath deep, Joe. Count backwards from one hundred…”

* * *

NOLAN WOKE UP to the smell of blood.

It seemed to be all over him, in his mouth, his neck, his hands.

He was lying in the back of the orange and white van, the sound of its siren blasting in his ears, his body wracked with pain. His good eye was bleary and he could barely turn his head. But still, through the van’s back window, he could see the reflection of the trouble lights spinning on top. He was also being tossed around violently as they were traveling very fast—again. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but guessed it was only a few minutes. Twitch was sprawled beside him, still out cold.

Though groggy and aching badly, Nolan was nevertheless formulating a new plan. It would be a simple one. Once they got to the hospital, he would grab Twitch and run. Back to the ship to regroup and escape. There was nothing wrong with this approach. When the shit has unquestionably hit the fan, you take what you’ve learned, correct your mistakes, adjust your tactics, and live to fight again—that had been the old Delta Force way. Translation: They would come back to whack Sunny Hi another day.

Nolan opened his eye again. His vision cleared a little and he realized some things didn’t seem right. Neither he nor Twitch was on a stretcher, and no one was attending them. They weren’t bandaged; no IVs were stuck in their arms. And hanging on the interior walls of the van were not medical devices, but rows of carving knives and meat cleavers.

What the hell kind of ambulance is this? Nolan thought.

He saw more unusual things around him. Styrofoam coolers. Bags of ice. Boxes of rubber gloves—not the kind surgeons might wear, but industrial-strength gloves that a clean-up crew might wear.

That’s when it hit him.

Jesus Christ …

How tall are you? How much do you weigh? Do you pee regularly? How’s your eyesight?

He painfully reached around his back and made sure there wasn’t a gaping hole where his kidney should be. He did the same thing to his good eye, as nonsensical as that might have been. He was bruised and battered and still under the influence of the Chinese LSD—but he knew what was happening here.

Your liver is worth more than a kilo of cocaine. Your kidney is worth its weight in gold.

Humans hunting humans …

Looking for body parts.

He started shaking Twitch, but this only alerted the two men riding up front in the van. The man in the passenger seat looked back at him and saw Nolan was awake. He tapped the driver and pointed back at him. The driver grunted once and sped up, turning up the volume of the siren as well.

Then the first man started to crawl back toward Nolan. He was holding a large carving knife.

Again, Nolan could barely move, could barely see, and was without a weapon. The man with the knife looked fierce, determined and capable of carving him up. This would not be a fair fight.

But then—Nolan heard a strange pinging noise.

In his altered state, he didn’t recognize the sound at first.

Ping … ping … ping.

It was loud enough to stop the man with the knife from crawling into the back of the van, at least for a moment.

Ping … ping … ping.

Then a shaft of light fell on Nolan’s face. It was alternating blue and red. Another shaft of light appeared—same colors, same frequency. Then came another and another.

Nolan looked up at the van’s walls and saw a dozen holes that weren’t there just a few seconds ago.

There was more pinging, and more holes appeared. They were big enough to stick a finger through and they were smoking around the edges.

Ping … ping … ping.

Nolan managed to sit up a little—and that changed the whole acoustic dynamic.

Suddenly the pings sounded more like bombs going off and the holes were getting bigger and bigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Even Nolan was able to figure this out. Someone was shooting at them.

The driver increased the already-breakneck speed, but it did no good. In seconds, the van had been absolutely perforated by some kind of high-powered weapon.

The plan to relieve Nolan and Twitch of their kidneys, their eyes and their spleens had been interrupted. And now there was much confusion inside the van. The driver was no longer expertly cruising at high speed through the narrow streets; he was in a full-blown panic, weaving wildly around people, trucks and other cars.

A brutal crash—Nolan’s second this long night—seemed just microseconds away.

Shanghai? he thought. What an odd place to die.…

Suddenly the van’s windshield disappeared in an explosion of glass. The driver took the full brunt of the incoming barrage of bullets. Torn to shreds, he died instantly. His partner did the only sensible thing. He pushed his door open and jumped out.

But the van kept going.

And people kept shooting at it.

It seemed to take forever, but then came one more mighty crash. Nolan and Twitch were thrown to the roof of the van and then slammed back down again. Dirty water began filling the interior. It immersed the two front seats and stopped. From what Nolan could see, they had come to rest in a small canal.

Now he could hear people yelling—and the gunfire had yet to stop.

That’s when Twitch finally woke up.

“Are we at the hospital yet?” he asked simply.

The back doors of the van suddenly flew open and Nolan saw the faces of two Asian men looking in at them, guns drawn. Nolan was sure they were Shanghai gangsters, goons who would probably finish them off for good.

But after wiping the grit from his eye, Nolan was surprised to see the two men were actually uniformed police officers.

And surprisingly, they weren’t repulsed by his distorted features or his mightily disheveled condition.

In fact, they seemed very concerned.

“You have twisted face,” one cop said to him in broken English. “You cannot talk. You can barely see?”

Nolan could only shrug.

Then the cop looked at Twitch and said, “And you have big mouth and talk like a mental patient?”

Twitch nodded slowly.

Both cops got very excited.

One said: “You are the Shatang nan ren?”

Twitch had to think a moment. “The ‘Sugar Men?’ ” he finally asked.

“Yes … you are them?”

Twitch shouted back: “Yes, we are!”

The cops immediately put away their guns and started laughing.

One said, “Where have you crazy guys been? We’ve been looking for you all night.”

* * *

THEY WERE SOON speeding through the crowded streets of Old Shanghai again.

Nolan was holding on for dear life, the g-forces pressing him against his seat. Even Twitch was nervous, his knuckles turning white—this from a guy with a permanent Hawaiian tan.

The cops were crazier than the opium addicts, crazier than the kidnappers, even crazier than the ambulance-driving body snatchers. They were driving at least 90 mph on the tiny, crowded back streets of the old city, sending hundreds of people diving for cover and leaving a long, oily contrail in their wake.

There was no way Nolan or Twitch could ask the cops to slow down or even ask where they were going, because while one cop was driving like a madman, the other was shouting nonstop into the car’s two-way radio: Shatang nan ren!

The Sugar Men. We have the Sugar Men.

Only one thing was for sure—they weren’t heading for the docks. In fact, at one point, Nolan glimpsed a part of old harbor as they were screaming down one particularly narrow street, and they were heading in the opposite direction.

We’ll never live through this, he kept thinking as the police car went even faster. After all this, we don’t have a chance.

Nolan detected a glimmer of hope, though, when the cop car climbed out of the back streets and onto an elevated highway, pointing them toward the new part of Shanghai. But any thoughts the policemen would suddenly drive more safely up here were quickly dashed. If anything, the man behind the wheel became crazier—topping 110 mph and weaving in and out of heavy traffic like a drunken Indy 500 driver. He even used the car’s heavy front bumper—intended for moving disabled cars off the road—to push cars out of their way.

The wild ride came to a sudden end, and not with them wrapped around a light pole or crushed beneath a tanker truck. The cops took an off-ramp and screeched to a halt in front of the Shanghai version of a Mister Donuts coffee shop.

“Cops? Doughnuts?” Twitch moaned. “What are the chances?”

The cop manning the radio jumped out, ran into the shop, and returned not with doughnuts or coffee, but with a tiny plastic bowl of sugar.

He gave the bowl to Twitch as if it were made of gold.

“You must have this,” he said again in bad English. “You must have this with you.”

Before Twitch could ask why, the police car took off again and resumed its mad dash through the crowded, twisting streets.

Salvation came just three miles later—a distance the cops covered in about two minutes. The police car stopped at the top of a towering hill that overlooked the slums of Shanghai. A huge house teetered on the edge of its cliff. It had an ornate gate out front and a driveway that seemed a mile long.

“Who lives here?” Twitch asked.

“Your friend,” one cop replied. “The Shang Si. The Boss.”

Nolan and Twitch just eyed each other. Sunny Hi.

The cop doing the driving got out and spoke to someone inside the huge house via an intercom on the gate. Then he waved Nolan and Twitch over.

They climbed out of the cop car just as the huge gates started opening. Beyond were a half-dozen armed men, none of whom looked happy.

“Go ahead,” the cop urged Nolan and Twitch. “They’re expecting you. Give them that cup of sugar and everything will be OK.”

With that, the cop returned to his car and roared away, lights flashing, siren wailing.

Nolan didn’t know what to do. The guards were eying them very suspiciously. Yet if he and Twitch chose to leave now, he doubted these guys would just let them walk away.

It was the catch-22 all over again. They were suddenly back inside their secret mission, again with no support, no communications and, most distressing, no weapon. And no longer any good reason to be here.

Nolan and Twitch finally walked through the open gate and were met by the small army of bodyguards. They were searched three times, but all they had on them at this point was the little bowl of sugar and the clothes on their backs. Still, the frisking process took more than five minutes, interspersed with a lot of back and forth on the bodyguards’ walkie-talkies.

Finally, the guards simply told them to go.

Nolan and Twitch walked up the long driveway, a journey that took them almost five minutes. It was like walking into a dream, colors everywhere, trees swaying in unison. Water fountains rising up from nowhere, throwing up huge sprays in the mist and then disappearing just as quickly. Piped-in music was all around them, wafting on the breeze.

At last, they found themselves at the front entrance to the house, looking at two wooden doors so tall they seemed to get lost in the stars.

The mansion itself looked like something on the California coast. A palatial, two-floor beach house, half of it leaning out on stilts dug into the side of the tall hill. It had huge windows all around, most of them looking down on the expanse of Old Shanghai below.

It was impressive, no matter who owned it.

Nolan noticed one odd thing, though: a large pipe at the bottom of the house that went straight down like an elevator shaft until it disappeared into the shadows and dull lights below.

Escape hatch? he wondered.

They knocked, meekly. The huge door opened on its own. They took a peek inside and were relieved to find no drugged-out gunmen or hookers here, at least not in plain view. Instead they found themselves gazing at a grand entranceway with a long, curving path passing through a vast multi-story indoor garden. Only at the end of this pathway could they see the actual front of the house.

They stepped into the garden room, which seemed as big as Grand Central Station—but of course, both of them were still tripping mightily. The ceiling and walls were made of brilliant, emerald-tinged glass. Exotic plants were everywhere, and a stream of sparkling water fell from a balcony two stories high. A pond the size of an Olympic swimming pool sat halfway down the pathway. Spanned by a bamboo bridge, the pond was filled not with plain old koi, but with strange and exotic saltwater fish such as wrasse, flame angels and cat sharks.

Dozens of cameras looked down at them from every angle, and no doubt the place was thick with hidden microphones, too. Nolan nudged Twitch and put his finger to his lips as casually as he could. Twitch got the message. Definitely no talking here.

A servant dressed in ancient Mandarin-style silks met them on the bridge. Old and gray, with a long, stringy beard, he seemed to have walked out of a 1930s movie.

He bowed. They bowed back. He bowed again, then said in Wu: “My employer is looking forward to meeting you.”

He made no comment on their rather ragged condition. He took them out of the garden, through the front entrance of the house, and into a grand room that looked like a real Mandarin throne room. The soaring columns, the gilding, the artwork and architecture—it was as if they’d been transported back in time to ancient China, except for one thing. In one corner of this huge room was a McDonald’s hamburger stand.

Nolan had to close his good eye for a moment. Was this real—or was the ketamine tricking him?

He opened his eye again—and yes, sandwiched between the giant ancient Yuan Dynasty pottery and the pair of authentic terracotta soldiers from the Huang era was a McDonald’s. It had a small counter with two uniformed servers behind it. A huge menu board hung over their heads, and behind them were smoky grills and the crackling oil to make the fries. Off to the side was a self-service soft drink dispenser.

The servant turned to them and smiled. “My employer believed his son would have loved this. So he built it here for him.”

Nolan was so amazed that he almost didn’t notice the servant’s use of the past tense when referring to Sunny Hi’s son.

A beautiful Asian woman walked by them, holding a packet of french fries. The servant bowed to her; Nolan and Twitch politely nodded. The woman smiled at them, sadly, then disappeared deeper into the house.

The servant said to them: “My employer’s wife. It’s been hard on her.”

They left the throne area and were led through a series of rooms. One was a library full of books, dark polished wood and low-lit lamps. It looked like something at Oxford, yet everything was built at half scale, as if it had been designed solely for a young child.

The next room featured a home movie theater and a massive array of video games that were all up and running. But again, judging by the cartoonish wallpaper and the types of video games on display, this room, too, appeared to have been intended for a child.

After this was a sizable gymnasium with a soccer net on one end and a baseball batting cage at the other. Yet walking through it, Nolan noticed plastic wrapping still on the baseball bats, and that the twine on the soccer net was so tight it had obviously never been used.

They were finally led to a large but very subdued nursery. There were a few toys scattered about, the largest a life-size, overstuffed teddy bear gathering dust in one corner. The walls of the nursery were covered with minimalist murals of peaceful Chinese forests, mountains and rivers. Calming music was being piped in from somewhere.

Next to a large window stood a pearl-white, king-size bed, with sides like a crib. Two nurses stood in the shadows nearby.

Sitting in a chair next to the bed was the Shang Si himself, Sunny Hi.

He was younger than Nolan had imagined him. This man, who until only recently had refused to be photographed, who reportedly tortured and killed anyone who dared point a camera in his direction, was maybe a couple years shy of forty. If this man had achieved so much at such a young age, Nolan thought, maybe by the age of fifty or so, he would be running the world.

He was dressed plainly, in a shirt and slacks and Italian loafers. He was unremarkable facially, and seemed if at all only slightly buff. He really didn’t look like much of a pirate. But looks were frequently deceiving.

There were no introductions; none were needed. Sunny Hi knew who they were by now. But how ironic, Nolan thought. This was how the mission was supposed to play out. Their job had been to get as close as possible to the mob boss. But no way did they think it would be like this—in a nursery—and without any weapons or assassination device, with no way to get out and no way to call for help.

At a gentle wave from Sunny Hi, the servant disappeared, as did the nurses. This left Nolan and Twitch standing there, uncomfortable beyond belief, with Twitch still clutching the tiny bowl of sugar.

Nolan gave Twitch a subtle nudge. He stumbled forward, holding out the sugar bowl like a magi offering a cup of myrrh.

“A present,” Twitch said in English, adding quickly, “A birthday gift—for your son.”

He said the last word almost with the inflection of a question, sending a chill down Nolan’s spine. He was certain this room was under surveillance by heavily armed goons. He was also sure that, with one wrong move, both he and Twitch would be reduced to a pile of ash in a matter of seconds.

Sunny Hi motioned them forward. He took the bowl from Twitch—and seemed genuinely affected. Nolan even saw the man’s eyes well up.

“There’s many tons more where that came from,” Twitch told him. “In a ship we brought for you. It’s down on the docks.”

Sunny Hi nodded almost absentmindedly, his eyes still gazing on the tiny bowl of sugar. He was getting mistier by the second.

“Your present means a lot to me,” he said, in near perfect English. “Only true friends would think of giving this to me.”

He bowed again—and Nolan was more confused than ever.

Finally Sunny Hi said, “Would you like to see him? My son?”

They could only say yes.

The pirate indicated they should come over to the bed. He drew back a blanket and revealed not an infant, but a young boy. He was at least five years old, maybe older. But it was obvious he had health issues. His arms and legs were moving, but not in any coordinated fashion; they seemed disconnected from one another. His skin, too, looked unhealthy, pale and weak. He was wearing a soft plastic helmet to protect his skull.

More shocking, though, the boy’s left eye was glazed over and apparently blind, and he had a small scar running across his neck, the result of some childhood operation.

The boy looked up at them with a kind of confused, blank expression, as if he could see them, but just didn’t know what to do about it.

Then he started to cry—which made Nolan and Twitch very nervous.

But Sunny Hi immediately took a pinch of sugar from the bowl and put it to the child’s lips—and suddenly, the boy went from crying to smiling, and then to gurgling, more as an infant would.

“Sha tang,” Sunny Hi said, looking down at his son. “That’s his nickname—Sugar. Because it’s the only thing I can give him to make him know that I love him.”

Nolan’s knees got shaky. He looked over at Twitch, and wasn’t surprised to see him wiping his eyes. The last thing they expected was this.

Working the sugar with his tongue, the child turned away from his father, looked directly at Nolan—and started laughing. He held his hands out as if he wanted Nolan to pick him up.

Nolan froze—he wanted nothing to do with this.

But Sunny Hi was beaming. “He never wants anyone to hold him,” he said. “He doesn’t speak, and neither do you. His eye doesn’t work, and neither does yours. His neck, his skin. He must see you as a kindred spirit. So … please?”

Awkward didn’t come close to describing the next few minutes. Nolan picked the boy up and held him in his arms and the kid became extremely animated, laughing and touching Nolan’s bruised and swollen face.

Sunny Hi was astonished—and so was Twitch.

“I waited for him all my life,” the pirate boss said softly. “I built this house for him. Not everything works out as you’ve planned, though. But I’ve never seen him laugh like this. This birthday is a very special day for me—and him.”

Nolan eventually put the boy back down on the bed. Sunny Hi gave him one more fingertip of sugar, and the boy went right off to sleep, a smile on his face.

Sunny Hi then looked at Nolan and said, “You have given me a gift worth more than all the sugar in the world.

“Now, I must repay you.”