Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  With one gun, Dewey pumped bullets at the doorway as the first soldier barreled through, hitting him in the chest. He triggered the second gun at the chopper overhead, dinging and banging the fuselage, causing the chopper to again spin around and carve left, out of the way.

  Another soldier emerged from the doorway and Dewey fired, striking him squarely in the forehead. When a third soldier attempted to duck back inside the stairwell, Dewey fired twice, missing the first time, hitting the back of his head with the second bullet.

  He reached into the ruck and pulled out a grenade just as the chopper spun around again and lit him up in bright white. He pulled the pin and hurled the grenade toward the roof across the alley, then triggered the gun at the chopper. The chopper’s minigun erupted, pelting the roof just feet from where he lay tucked against the eave. He heard glass shatter and then a faint scream. The chopper lifted up—and then the air shook as the grenade exploded on the other roof. Screams and shouting echoed in the wind-chopped air. A man emerged onto the rooftop near Dewey—Dewey fired, ripping a slug into the soldier’s chest, dropping him.

  Dewey looked over the parapet for a brief instant, again registering the idling sedan in the alley.

  Dewey was surrounded by chaos, trying to simply last until the next second, but he was outnumbered and outgunned.

  He fired at the chopper but heard the click of the spent mag. He popped it out and reached into the ruck, searching for another mag. He found the last one. He pulled it out and slammed it in.

  Gunfire started up again from the neighboring roof. Bullets thudded against the concrete and whizzed just over his head. The grenade had killed a few of them but there were more.

  Dewey was almost out of ammo.

  He crawled along the roof, hidden by the eave, a dozen feet from where the gunmen on the neighboring roof thought he was. He reached into the ruck and grabbed the low-jump chute he hadn’t had time to use in the forest. He quickly attached the chute to a steel ring on his weapons vest, and pulled straps across his chest, then stood—both guns out and trained across the alley—just as the chopper again lit him up and the minigun erupted above. In that brief quarter second of surprise, Dewey counted four gunmen across the alleyway. He started running toward the roof edge, pumping both triggers as fast as his fingers could flex, surprising the men, who swiveled their rifles toward Dewey but too late. A dull staccato of metallic thuds was barely audible. He cut down the remaining gunmen as he ran fast, reaching the eave of the roof, hitting it with his right foot and leaping out into the open air just as the chopper pelted the ground near him with bullets. Dewey tumbled falling toward the ground—gaining speed—then ripped the chute. It popped open even as he descended faster and faster toward the tar below. The chute ruffled a sec and then burst open, arresting Dewey’s descent just as he reached the ground. Bullets rained from the sky as the minigun tracked him in the alley, but Dewey was already running, yanking off the chute and diving into the open front door of the idling sedan. He slammed the gas just as two soldiers charged around the corner, rifles out, firing at the car. Dewey ducked as bullets tore into the windshield, then felt the car strike one of the men in the same moment a terrible scream came from below. Dewey turned the wheel as the car hit the main road and then sat up, weaving through the military vehicles and then tearing down the dark Pyongyang street.

  64

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  Tacoma’s flight from Paris landed at 6:40 P.M. Moscow time. He rented an orange Lamborghini Huracan and drove into Moscow. He didn’t need a map.

  After checking into his suite at the Four Seasons, Tacoma opened the folder. He studied the information available about the man.

  Derek Chalmers had hired Tacoma and Katie Foxx’s firm—RISCON—to investigate him. According to available data, he was American. Billy Thompson, Stanford, Harvard Business School. The problem is, he wasn’t Billy Thompson, Stanford, Harvard Business School.

  “Your job, Rob, is to find this man,” Chalmers had said, holding out a photo. “Is he Russian? Is it a case of mistaken identity? If he is Russian, is he high level? GRU? The most important thing: Did he kill Charles Hartford? That is really all that matters, because if he did, all the other questions answer themselves.”

  Tacoma put the folder down and undressed. He looked in the mirror. His skin was a deep tan. After going to Tangiers, Tacoma had spent the last two days in Portugal—Praia do Norte in Nazaré—surfing with a couple teammates from his UVA lacrosse team. He took a shower and dried off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and sat on the bed, picking up his cell and scrolling through his contacts, finally finding the one he was looking for.

  “Rob,” came the voice. “It’s been too long.”

  “Grigor, I’m in Moscow.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “It’s business,” said Tacoma.

  “You’re obviously calling for a reason? What can I do for you?”

  “Can we go out to a nightclub?”

  “Seriously? That’s what I’d do with you if it wasn’t business.”

  “A place that has a certain clientele,” said Tacoma.

  “Government?”

  “GRU. Operators. Assets.”

  The man on the line started laughing. “I know the places,” he said.

  “I’ll swing by and pick you up,” said Tacoma.

  “I’ll send a limo, Rob.”

  “I’ll pick you up, Grigor. I might need to get out of here quickly.”

  * * *

  Grigor Sarkov was the third-wealthiest man in Russia. At thirty-three, Sarkov had acquired mining rights in an area of Siberia that was thought to hold oil. Sarkov had not only discovered massive quantities of oil, but had—somewhat accidentally—found rich gold deposits and, in a separate part of the 900,000-acre piece of land, struck a diamond vein, now the most productive single diamond mine in the world.

  Sarkov was now fifty-four. A year ago, his fifteen-year-old daughter had been kidnapped from a Swiss boarding school while getting a drink of water during a field hockey match. Sarkov was a close friend of Putin and the government had searched high and low for the girl. They were unsuccessful. The ransom note had come in after three weeks. It was an email—with a chilling proof-of-life video showing Sarkov’s daughter, Irina, strapped to a ladder, and a demand for $250 million.

  Through intermediaries, Sarkov heard about Katie Foxx and Rob Tacoma. RISCON’s fees were exorbitant. For this project, their cost was $3.5 million a week with a six-month minimum engagement, along with expenses. They also required a $30 million success fee. Sarkov didn’t care. He just wanted Irina back.

  They told Sarkov to wire the money to the anonymous Swiss bank account the hostage takers had given for the payment, a 22-digit-alpha-numeric account that was not traceable due to Swiss banking laws. From there, it had been relatively easy. RISCON’s hackers had long ago penetrated the Swiss banking system and its member banks. They detected when the wire arrived, when it was moved from the central bank balance sheets and was in the member bank’s possession, and finally, when the funds were placed in the account owner’s possession. There was no way to know who the account owner was, but they didn’t need that. Instead, they tracked the account and awaited its first disbursement—an electronic wire to an account in Barbados for a local real estate firm. The amount was material: $18 million.

  Within twelve hours, Tacoma, alone, was in Barbados. A quick conversation with a local Realtor revealed the information he needed: Was there a property that recently went under contract, a rather large property? Tacoma waited until dark to come up from the ocean. The former Navy SEAL loved the feeling of being in the water. He’d swum two miles to the property, swimming along the coast of the island, fifty feet offshore. He had on a midthigh black-and-blue tactical wet suit, a pair of SIG P226s in watertight pockets at his left waist and right thigh. There, inside an astonishing, huge, boldly modern, all-glass house, Tacoma had found the
man—a Russian—sipping a glass of vodka as two naked women kept him company and music blared. Tacoma didn’t have to break in. The glass door was open to the Caribbean air.

  Tacoma had entered with only one gun. He would need his free hand. He was still wet, his face flushed. He walked in and for a few moments the three drunken partiers didn’t even notice him with the music blaring. Tacoma told the two girls to disappear, then shot the Russian in the knee. As he screamed, Tacoma worked out of him the country, then town, then address of the house where his co-conspirators had the girl. Tacoma then shot the man in the head and called Katie, who was waiting in Geneva, near the boarding school the girl had been taken from. Within two hours, Katie entered a small house in Stuttgart, shooting the three other hostage takers and freeing Irina.

  Grigor Sarkov liked Tacoma. More than liked. Tacoma had saved his daughter’s life.

  * * *

  The first two nightclubs were equally packed with people, dancing under strobe lights, and loud music. It took Tacoma an hour to sweep each one. He didn’t see Billy Thompson at either. At the third club Sarkov took him to, a place called Troyka Multispace, Tacoma spied Thompson in the first five minutes, seated in a booth near the bar.

  Tacoma crossed the dance floor to the bar, closer to his target. His mind flashed to someone in his fraternity at UVA—James Godfrey—who went to Harvard Business School after Virginia. Even though Thompson’s story was fabricated—he never attended Harvard Business School or even stepped foot in the United States—all Tacoma could think of was what an asshole Godfrey was. A small grin crossed his face as he thought about finding Billy Thompson.

  Still, Tacoma needed to be smart. Thompson was GRU or some other branch of the Russian military/intelligence world. They fired first and asked questions later, or else they didn’t even ask the questions. They were highly trained in all manner of weapons—firearms, cold weapons, explosives. But it was their training in martial arts, compounded by their large size, that made them truly dangerous. Fortunately, thought Tacoma as he reached the bar and ordered a vodka, there was one country with slightly tougher soldiers.

  Thompson was seated in a round booth with three other men, smoking cigars and drinking. He was laughing. Tacoma watched him from the mirror behind the bar, sipping a vodka as he waited.

  When Thompson got up, Tacoma moved ahead of him, walking where he could tell Thompson was headed, down a dark hallway lined with women to a set of stairs that led to a lower level of the club. A few people were scattered about the stairs, smoking marijuana or cigarettes and talking. The music from below echoed up the stairs. Tacoma descended, looking for egress, eyeing Thompson in his peripheral, seeing a door at the bottom of the stairs. He pushed it open. Outside was an alley filled with exotic sports cars, parked while their owners partied inside. Tacoma shut the door to the alley only partway, leaving it slightly ajar, and turned around and started moving back up the stairs. He passed Thompson, then turned around again, following Thompson down the stairs. When Thompson was at the bottom of the stairs, Tacoma took two running steps down and charged. His shoulder slammed Thompson in the middle of his back. Thompson’s head struck the door, he let out a pained grunt, and the door pushed open. Tacoma followed with a sharp kick to the back of Thompson’s knee and he fell down into the alley. Tacoma slammed the door shut and the two men were alone in the alley.

  Tacoma removed his leather coat—which held both his gun and blade—and dropped it on the tar just as Thompson got to his feet and lunged. Tacoma didn’t have time to react. Thompson slashed a blade, which Tacoma ducked. Thompson slashed again. This time, Tacoma blocked Thompson’s forearm and kicked him in the torso, sending the Russian back.

  Thompson’s dark eyes found Tacoma as the Russian spat. He lurched again, blade extended, stabbing at Tacoma’s head. Tacoma ducked his head to the right, barely avoiding the blade, then slammed his left fist into the Russian’s neck. As Thompson tried to absorb the brutal strike, Tacoma slammed his right fist into Thompson’s exposed chin, sending him flying back into the brick wall. Thompson’s head struck the wall and Tacoma lunged, but the Russian absorbed it. He used the wall as leverage, and as his head slammed into the wall, he immediately pushed forward, getting a precious half second. Tacoma was several feet away. Thompson hurled the knife at the charging Tacoma.

  The blade somersaulted toward Tacoma’s chest but he lurched right. The knife hit his forearm, spiking in and then bouncing to the alley, but it had struck. Blood surged from the gash. It caused Tacoma to reel slightly. Thompson surged, moving closer, both fists in the air, then he lay into Tacoma. Thompson slammed a left fist into Tacoma’s stomach and a right into his face, striking just below Tacoma’s eye, bumping him back. Tacoma swung but by then the Russian unleashed a vicious kick to Tacoma’s stomach, followed by a series of punches Tacoma could only absorb as he stepped backwards, his back suddenly hitting the brick wall. Thompson reared back and swung for Tacoma’s neck, going for the kill. But Tacoma ducked and lashed out desperately, delivering a hard right fist to the Russian’s neck, then a left to his chin, and another right, sending Thompson back on his heels. But Thompson caught his balance almost immediately, charging at Tacoma, his fist covered in blood.

  Tacoma had a few feet and saw the space between them. He ducked right and swung his leg in a trained wheelhouse 270. His boot swept the air. By the time it hit the Russian’s jaw it was moving fast and had power. The boot hammered the Russian’s jaw. Thompson let out a pained grunt as he stumbled sideways and fell to the tar, facedown, blood bubbling up from his mouth and nose. Tacoma didn’t wait. He pounced on the Russian and slammed his boot on his neck. He stepped down hard, pressing him against the alley as his hand shot to Thompson’s mane of black hair, grabbing it and tugging to the point just before breaking his neck.

  “I want information,” said Tacoma, breathing hard, trying to catch his breath.

  “Fuck you,” said Thompson in perfect English, coughing up blood.

  “I’ll let you live,” said Tacoma.

  The Russian let out a pained laugh.

  “Bullshit.”

  Tacoma ripped up on his head, pulling it to a ninety-degree angle.

  “I’ll walk away. I don’t care if you live. But if you don’t start talking I will kill you and then I’ll go through your phone and your wallet,” said Tacoma, as the Russian bled in crimson trickles from his nose and mouth. “I’m guessing within an hour we’ll have everything and then some. You, meanwhile, will be dead as a goddam doornail, Ivan. I’m interested in one thing. You tell me and I won’t kill you.”

  Thompson’s eyes were swirling around in the sockets. The kick from Tacoma had done serious damage. Tacoma didn’t need to kill him. He was dying no matter what.

  “What?” he said in a slurred mumble.

  “Why did you kill Charles Hartford?”

  “I was told to.”

  “Why him?”

  “I don’t know. I liked Charles. I was told to kill him, that’s it. That’s business, isn’t it?”

  “Was he GRU?”

  The Russian coughed as he laughed.

  “No.”

  “Was Jenna the target?”

  “Yes, but not to kill her. It was a warning.”

  “Why? Is she involved with Russia?”

  “Even I don’t know why,” said the Russian, looking up at Tacoma with lifeless eyes. “Please,” he whispered.

  Tacoma dropped the Russian’s hair and put his right hand beneath his forehead, still on top of his neck, then yanked up. A dull snap echoed in the alleyway.

  “I had my fingers crossed,” Tacoma said as he let the dead man’s head drop to the pavement. Tacoma found his coat and pulled it on, covering his wound. He pried the door to the building back open and moved quickly up the stairs. He found Sarkov in a booth, already surrounded by several beautiful women.

  Tacoma came in front of the table and caught Sarkov’s attention.

  “I need to go.”

  One of t
he women to Sarkov’s left, a brunette in a sheer white blouse, leaned forward.

  “Please, have a drink with us.”

  Tacoma ignored her.

  “Can I borrow one of your planes?” said Tacoma.

  Sarkov, who was leaning back, relaxing, leaned forward with a serious look. “Of course. Where do you need to go?”

  “London.”

  “Anything, Rob, you know this.”

  Beneath the leather jacket, Tacoma felt his arm growing wet from the knife wound.

  “Is there a medical kit on board? I need sutures.”

  “Yes,” said Sarkov. “Do you want me to get a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Will you have one more drink with me, Rob?” said Sarkov. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will wait.”

  Tacoma eyed the brunette and smiled at her.

  “No, I’m gonna go,” said Tacoma as, somewhere behind him, a scream arose over the music of the club, then shouting from the stairs. He reached out and shook Sarkov’s hand, gripping it for an extra moment. “You might want to leave too, Grigor. It’s about to get a little hectic around here.”

  65

  CHUNGSAN, NORTH KOREA

  Two miles from North Korea’s coast, four men sat on the edge of a custom-built, heavy-duty Zodiac. Each man wore a tactical combat wet suit, self-contained breathing apparatus (SCBA), and carried an airtight weapons cache. One of the men nodded to the other three. This was Mark Fusco. He was team leader. He knew the other three men—Moses Barrazza, John Kolackovsky, and Nick Truax—better than he knew his own brother.

  They were U.S. Navy SEALs.

  Fusco leaned back over the edge of the Zodiac and let gravity deposit him in the cold, dark waters of the Yellow Sea. Barrazza, Kolackovsky, and Truax followed Fusco into the water. A second later, the Zodiac’s pair of 350-HP engines revved hard and the boat ripped away, speeding west, back to the USS Benfold.