by Ben Coes
He felt adrenaline surging inside him. His heart raced. He stood, took one last look at Nico’s corpse, then sprinted out of the kitchen.
Back at the bedroom, he paused outside the door, steeling himself for what lay inside. He stepped inside, trying not to look at Jessica.
Don’t look. You said your goodbye. Walk away. Leave her behind.
There’s only one thing you can do now, Dewey. It’s what you were made to do, what you were meant to do, the only thing you can do.
He went to the bureau and searched until he found Jessica’s sidearm, a government-issued Glock G30S. He slammed in a magazine, grabbed the other mag, then ran to the terrace, into the darkness.
* * *
“It was supposed to be surgical,” said Chang, to Raul’s right, watching through the binoculars.
“And I was supposed to be a doctor,” said Raul. “Things don’t always turn out as planned.”
Both men watched as, in the distance, the lights of the ranch went out one-by-one.
“Start packing up,” said Raul. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
“He’s still alive.”
“So are we. Now pack up the shit.”
“What about him?” asked Chang, nodding toward Hu-Shao.
“We’ll carry him. Let’s get moving.”
* * *
Dewey sprinted away from the ranch, through uncut fields, beneath the night sky. He ran at a grueling pace, ignoring the burning in his lungs.
The front of Dewey’s foot hit a root sticking up, and he went tumbling forward, landing on his chest. He paused for a moment on the ground. He scanned back toward the house. He could make out the dark silhouette of the ranch.
Dewey searched for something to hold on to, a feeling, a moment, to stave off the terrible thoughts. The darkness, the burning in his lungs—it all brought him back to Fort Bragg, to training, to Delta:
You’ll get used to the dark. It will become your ally. When it does, no man will be safe from you.
Dewey got up and began to run, harder this time, charging across the fields.
His mind flashed to a picture of Jessica in the river, swimming toward him. He took the memory, folded it up, then tucked it there, in a box, somewhere deep inside. Next to Robbie. He closed the box and shut it away.
Before him, on the ground, he saw a trail of beaten-down grass.
The tracks came from the south, toward the river. He scanned the horizon, seeing nothing but darkness and stars. Dewey fell into the path of beaten-down grass, sprinting, the Glock clutched in his right hand. His nostrils flared, sweat trickled down, and he felt it now, the warmth of the hunter.
He saw a flicker of light in the distance, then heard an engine.
Dewey ran faster, his lungs burning, aiming toward the light.
He came to a small hill and took it in five quick steps. There, less than a hundred feet away, was an SUV, headlights on. In front of it were two silhouettes, leaned over, carrying a body.
Dewey raised the Glock in stride, then fired.
The men saw him and dropped what they were carrying, both men lurching toward the SUV.
Dewey pulled the trigger as fast as his finger would let him. Bullets hit the vehicle, breaking glass. He hit one of the men, who fell to the ground. Dewey ran closer, firing again as the fallen man got up and limped toward the back of the SUV. The engine revved as Dewey came closer, suddenly peeling out and driving away from Dewey as he emptied the mag.
Dewey stopped, watching as the taillights receded in the distance. He could barely breathe. For nearly a minute, he leaned over, catching his breath.
He walked to the body. The man was lying facedown. The back of his head was missing. His shirt and the back of his pants were drenched in blood.
Dewey put his foot beneath the man’s torso and kicked him over. His face was partially destroyed. He had a mustache that was interrupted in the middle by a hole, the entry point to a bullet someone had fired at close range, a dollar’s worth of metal and gunpowder that had blown out the back of his skull. Another slug had been fired into his right eye. The left one was still in place, a bulging eye that looked blankly up at the sky. He looked Asian.
The lights from the SUV disappeared. It was eerily quiet.
Dewey ran back to the ranch. In the bedroom, he found his shoulder holster. He put it on, inserted the handgun, then looked one last time at Jessica. Her face was calm and still, like a sculpture.
In the driveway, he slid open the garage door. A Range Rover was parked inside, and he climbed in, found the keys on the dash, and started the car. When he flipped the lights on, they illuminated a bright red motorcycle which was parked in the back of the garage. It had letters in black cursive along the side:
DUCATI CORSE
1199 PANIGALE S
Dewey turned off the car, climbed out, and hopped on the bike.
He turned it on. It rumbled to life, the engine purring smoothly, low and loud. He revved it several times and let it scream in neutral. He put the bike in gear and moved slowly out of the garage.
At the gravel, he opened it up. The Ducati burst down the driveway. Within seconds, the bike was going sixty. As he approached the polo house, Dewey slowed to a stop. He put the kickstand down and ran inside.
He found Alvaro in one of the bunk rooms, asleep. Dewey placed his left hand on the boy’s mouth, waiting for him to wake up, which he did, struggling beneath Dewey’s hand, startled. He was a strong kid, but Dewey held him down with his right hand, with his left he put a finger to his mouth, telling him to be quiet.
“Come with me,” said Dewey.
Back on the Ducati, Alvaro sat behind Dewey, clutching him around the waist.
He pushed the throttle now as far as it would go. The front tire popped up from the ground. Dewey leaned in, pushing to settle it back down. He was at eighty miles an hour as he reached the end of the driveway, where, in the distance, he saw the Suburban. The front side window was shattered. He slowed as he came upon it. He saw the back of Morty’s head, slumped over the steering wheel.
Dewey revved the bike and sped toward the main road.
“Hold on,” he yelled over the engine.
He reached the end of the driveway and banked a hard left, then let the bike rip. The engine roared. In seconds, he’d cycled the gearbox and was moving at more than 120, chasing the killers of the only thing that mattered to him.
A few seconds later, he glanced at the digital pictograph on the console: 154.
The country road became more crowded as he approached Córdoba. He saw a gas station and cut in, then stopped.
“Get off,” said Dewey.
Alvaro climbed off the back of the bike. He was barefoot. He looked thoroughly confused, and scared.
“What’s going on?”
“Call your sister in El Brillante. Tell her to stay where she is.”
“What happened?”
Dewey looked into the boy’s eyes.
“Then call AFP. Tell them the ranch was attacked. Your mother is alive.”
“My mother is alive—”
“They killed your father.”
Alvaro looked as if he was about to faint.
“Tell AFP your mother is in the basement, hiding,” said Dewey, a hard, emotionless expression on his face. “Alvaro, you need to be tough. Your mom, your sister—they need you to be tough. That starts right now. Do you understand?”
Alvaro appeared daunted by the sudden realization of what was happening. Finally, he nodded at Dewey.
“Yeah, I understand.”
Dewey ripped out of the gas station on the Ducati, leaving a scorched line of smoking rubber. He cycled quickly through the gearbox, taking the bike back up to 100, 110, 130, and still, he didn’t slow.
He swerved past cars and trucks, swinging into the oncoming lane, then back again, as horns blared. At the outskirts of the city, he saw a sign with a picture of a plane on it. He banked right, feeling his knee scuff against the road, then o
pened the bike up again. He was quickly back up to 150.
Move quickly. Always have a weapon. If you’re in danger, you must be prepared to risk your own life.
Just past another sign for the airport, Dewey hit the crest of a hill he didn’t see coming. As the road dropped, the momentum of the bike thrust him forward, into the air. The bike caught air and didn’t come down for several seconds, as the engine churned furiously. Dewey fought to keep his balance, to stay straight, until, thirty feet down the road, the back tire of the bike touched down, with Dewey gripping the handlebars. The front tire hit tar a second later.
Dewey banked right into the airport entrance, again nicking his right knee on the tar as he bent the bike low.
The airport was lit up but quiet. He sped through the arrival area, looking for signs of life, then hooked around the side of the terminal, racing for the runway.
He saw two blue lights. He came on a police cruiser at the gate to the runway. The car door opened and an officer held up his hand, ordering him to stop, but Dewey kept going, past the policeman. He pushed the bike harder, pulled back, lifted the front tire, and hit the wooden gate that that led to the tarmac. It smashed into pieces.
At the far side of the tarmac, he saw a black Toyota Land Cruiser, its lights still on, a door open. He heard a low grumble from down the tarmac, then recognized the oncoming lights of a jet. It was moving down the runway, directly at him. The engine roared.
Dewey dumped the bike, climbed off, then pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster.
* * *
“Raul!” yelled one of the pilots from the cockpit.
Chang was seated in the cabin of the Gulfstream. He looked across the aisle at Raul, who lay on his side across two of the leather cabin chairs. The mercenary held his hand against his stomach, where the bullet from Andreas had hit him.
“They’re trying to stop the plane,” yelled the pilot.
Raul’s dull eyes met Chang’s. He tried to say something. Blood seeped over his lips as his mouth moved.
“Take off,” he coughed. “Get off the ground.”
At that moment, Chang thought about killing Raul, but he wouldn’t need to. The Mexican would be dead within the hour. Blood oozed out over his fingers as he clutched his stomach.
The plane’s engines roared. The jet started moving down the tarmac.
“You need to remove the bullet,” said Raul, blood dribbling out the sides of his mouth.
Chang said nothing. He stood and walked to the cabin. He stood behind the two pilots as the Gulfstream barreled down the runway.
“He has a gun!” yelled one of the pilots, pointing out the window.
* * *
The jet came faster now, down the runway, directly at Dewey. He raised his right arm and stepped into the path of the oncoming jet. He trained the muzzle of the Glock at the front of the plane. Then he started firing. The slugs hit the cockpit glass in front of the pilot. One, two, three, then the rest of the magazine: Dewey emptied all his ammunition into the glass. As the front wheel lifted off just feet from where he stood, he realized the glass was bulletproof.
“Stop!” screamed a police officer behind him.
The blue-and-white jet lifted off. As Dewey was tackled from behind, he watched as Jessica’s killers escaped into the dark sky.
* * *
Chang leaned forward, looking out the cockpit window. At the end of the runway, a shirtless man was walking down the middle of the tarmac. The jet sped closer to him. The engines roared. The man’s arm was raised. He had his gun trained up at the plane. Above the din, Chang heard the faint sound of gunfire, then the chink of the slug hitting the plane. Reflexively, he flinched.
They came closer and closer to the figure. Chang knew it was Andreas. Even without looking, he knew it was him. A slug hit the glass of the window, pockmarking it. Andreas kept firing as the jet moved closer, dotting the glass with small indents.
The jet’s wheels began to lift off as they came right upon Andreas, who didn’t move. Chang craned his neck to see him. He was big, wearing only jeans, his expression angry and unflinching. Then the Gulfstream climbed fully off the tarmac.
Chang’s heart raced as he felt the smooth embrace of liftoff. He stood at the edge of the cabin for several moments.
In one day, his life had changed entirely, and not for the better. He couldn’t begin to imagine how he could fix it. Andreas was alive. The woman was dead. Hu-Shao was back at the ranch with a pair of holes in his head. He had no friends or allies. Whatever money he had was being monitored by the ministry. He had nothing.
He knew he should report in and tell the truth. After all, he wasn’t the one who killed the woman. He wasn’t the one who shot Hu-Shao. It was Raul.
But none of that mattered. The ministry didn’t tolerate failure. He was a dead man.
Chang returned to the cabin.
Raul lay still, his eyes wide open, staring permanently into oblivion.
Chang ransacked his pockets for cash, finding nearly four thousand dollars in cash.
He sat down and looked out the window, trying to think. From his pocket, he removed his ministry-issued SAT phone. He was at a crossroads. He could call in to Beijing and confess to everything that had happened. Or he could run.
He’d seen firsthand how Bhang treated people who failed him.
He smashed the SAT phone against the floor. He removed the tracking device from the phone and stomped on it until it was pulverized.
He went to the cabin.
“Give me a map,” he said.
Both pilots turned. Their eyes drifted down to the handgun that Chang now clutched, moving it back and forth between the two men.
The pilot on the left pulled a navigational chart from a pocket on the side of the cockpit. Chang flipped through it, then studied the area.
“What’s the nearest city?” he asked.
“Santiago.”
“Head for Valparaiso,” said Chang, pointing, “on the coast.”
21
UNITED STATES TREASURY DEPARTMENT
WASHINGTON, D.C.
From outside the closed office door of U.S. Treasury Secretary Woodrow Uhlrich, a passerby could, on occasion, hear a mysterious thumping sound.
Those who were close to Wood Uhlrich knew that it only happened toward the end of the day, a stressful day, a day in which Uhlrich, sometime past eight or nine in the evening, would venture to the sideboard in his office and fill a highball glass a quarter full with Pappy Van Winkle’s. The dull thuds that echoed in the entrance foyer, through Uhlrich’s closed door, were the sounds of darts striking the cork of the dartboard that hung on the back of the door.
To say that Uhlrich’s staff loved him would have been an understatement. In fact, each and every one of them would have gone to war for Uhlrich. Joanna Traaten, his beautiful executive assistant; Bobby Grace, his overweight but capable chief of staff, and all of the others who’d come along on Uhlrich’s wild ride, from mayor of Lexington, to governor of Kentucky, to United States senator, and, upon the election of his best friend Rob Allaire to the presidency, to his appointment as treasury secretary, they had all been there, through thick and thin.
It was Grace who kept the bourbon in ample supply. It was Traaten who made sure his schedule was wiped clean by 6:00 P.M. And both knew that when the darts started hitting, to leave Uhlrich alone.
None of them had ever seen him angry. Even his wife, Daisy, couldn’t remember a time when Uhlrich had raised his voice. He was laid-back to the point of being taciturn. He simply couldn’t be fazed, didn’t like to talk, and yet somehow lured people in with a quiet sort of charisma.
Hitting the dartboard was Uhlrich at his most emotional. Everyone knew that when he started throwing darts, he had something on his mind. After a half hour or so, it was Grace’s job to politely knock on the door and see what was going on.
“Wood?” Grace asked as he pushed the door in, a few minutes after eight. “Hold your fire, Mr. Secretary.”
Grace stepped inside, then closed the large door behind him.
“Hi, Bobby.”
Uhlrich’s tie was off. He was standing halfway between his desk and the door, where the dartboard hung. In his left hand was a glass of bourbon. In his right, a green-and-red-tailed dart. Grace glanced at the dartboard. One of the darts was in the center.
“Nice shot.”
“I did that one yesterday. Left it there. It reminds me that every once in a while I do something right.”
Grace walked to one of the two large black leather sofas, next to where Uhlrich stood, and sat down.
“What’s on your mind?” asked Grace.
Uhlrich was quiet. He tossed the dart toward the board, where it stuck into the cork a few inches from the center.
“You want a drink?” Uhlrich asked.
“Certainly.” Grace started to get up.
“You sit,” said Uhlrich. “I’ll get it.”
Uhlrich went to the sideboard and pulled out a glass, then poured it a quarter full with bourbon. He walked to the sofas and sat down across from Grace.
“Baum?” asked Grace, referring to Richard Baum, the chairman of the Federal Reserve.
“Yes.”
“How much do we need to borrow?”
“Five hundred billion.”
“Mamma mia,” said Grace. “That would be the largest bond sale ever, if memory serves.”
Uhlrich took a sip from his glass, then brushed his hand back through his mop of curly blond hair.
“The strategy of trying to force Congress to cut spending has backfired,” said Uhlrich. “Frankly, Richard is right about one thing. As long as Congress refuses to cut spending, we need to borrow more money. He doesn’t spend the money. Congress is playing chicken with the Fed and with the president. They know Dellenbaugh won’t raise taxes. So what they’re going to do is keep spending and force us to borrow more money from China.”
