“You killed the woman,” said Chang.

Not only had Raul fucked up by killing the woman, he hadn’t completed the primary—the only—objective. If there was to be any mercy from Bhang, it would come by finishing off Andreas.

Raul moved the rifle, ever so slightly, staring through the scope, scanning the bedroom for signs of life. He paused on the area above where she’d fallen. He waited a few moments, then pulled the trigger, firing another cartridge, blindly, into the room.

He saw a shadow move toward the back of the room. This time he didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

*   *   *

As Dewey clutched Jessica, glass abruptly shattered just a foot above his head. The gunman was still out there.

He crawled to the armoire as another slug ripped the wall, just inches in front of him.

He yanked out the bottom drawer, dumping its contents on the ground. He searched frantically for Jessica’s tan diplomatic pouch. He found it beneath clothing. Lying on his side, shielded by the bed, he unzipped the pouch. Inside was his handgun: Colt M1911. He slammed in a mag, then aimed at the ceiling light. He pumped a bullet into the bulb. The room went black.

*   *   *

The sound of gunfire made Maria look up from the kitchen sink, where she was washing a copper pan. She dropped the pan into the soapy water, then dried her hands on her apron. A look of fear came to her face.

“Nico!” she yelled to her husband, who was on the terrace.

“What?”

“Come quickly!”

*   *   *

Raul swept the weapon slowly left, finding the light of the main house.

“We have less than an hour!” said Chang, desperately. “The guard—”

“The guard isn’t our problem,” said Raul, calmly scanning the house.

Raul saw movement on the terrace. It was a tall man. Was it Andreas?

Raul pumped the trigger. The slug hit the man in the chest, throwing him backward and down to the ground.

*   *   *

Reaching into the pouch, Dewey found two more magazines, along with his combat knife. He fastened the knife sheath to his calf, crawled to the door, and sprinted down the hallway toward the kitchen.

As he got to the main house, he heard breaking glass coming from the kitchen.

Dewey charged into the kitchen, searching for Nico and Maria.

Maria was kneeling in the corner, pointing in silence out at the terrace. Dewey crossed in a low crouch to the doors that led outside. Nico lay in a contorted heap, surrounded by a mess of food, broken plates, and blood. His chest showed a pancake of blood where the bullet had struck.

Anger fueled with sorrow, hatred, and every other dark force that had ever compelled any man to kill and it took over Dewey. It washed over him like a storm tide, and he knew in those moments it would never leave him, never again; it would always be there, forever, and every step for the rest of his life, whether they killed him tonight or he lived to be a hundred, would be scarred by the pain that now coursed through him.

He shot out the terrace light, then crawled to the wall near the French doors. He shut out the lights inside the kitchen.

Dewey moved to Maria, kneeling against the wall. He’d never seen someone as scared. Pure terror was spread across the woman’s face. Her mouth was ajar, her lips moving in a silent scream, as tears flowed down her cheeks. Her right hand was still pointing toward her dead husband.

Dewey felt his instincts taking over then. Whatever pain, whatever sorrow, whatever trauma was to come, it would have to wait.

He felt himself going back to a familiar place. He was in Panama City, in the basement of the tenement, four dead SEALs by his side, trying to fight his way out of an ambush by one of Noriega’s kill squads. He was in the cold water six hundred feet below Capitana, on the ocean floor, oxygen running out, fighting for his life against two of Alexander Fortuna’s mercenaries. He was on the tarmac at Beirut Airport, side by side with Kohl Meir, hemmed in by Hezbollah to the south and Lebanese Special Forces to the north.

It was that time he’d come to recognize, the crucible that alone was Dewey’s, a gift and a curse: the moment of the warrior.

Dewey reached his hand out and took Maria’s hand in his own. Calmly, he placed his gun on the ground, and held her hands, comforting her. He looked into her eyes, just visible in the dim light from the night sky.

“I need you to do something, Maria,” said Dewey.

She stared, eyes transfixed on nothing, into the distance.

Dewey gently squeezed her hands.

“Can you do something for me?” asked Dewey, trying to get her back.

Slowly, Maria’s head moved up and down, nodding yes.

“I need you to be strong,” said Dewey, calmly. “He needs you to be strong. Can you do that?”

She shut her eyes. She started sobbing. Her body heaved as tears came down.

“Where are Sabina and Alvaro?” asked Dewey.

At the sound of her children’s names, Maria’s eyes suddenly became more alert. She tried to stand up. Dewey put one of his hands on her shoulder and held her down.

“Where are they, Maria?”

“Her boyfriend’s, in El Brillante.”

“That’s good,” said Dewey. “What about Alvaro?”

Maria paused, thinking, then again tried to lurch up, as she suddenly let out a low scream.

“At the polo house,” said Maria, desperation in her voice. “We need to find him.”

Dewey kept his hand on Maria’s shoulder, holding her there, against the wall.

“I’ll take care of Alvaro. You need to hide. Is there a basement?”

Maria pointed to a door at the far side of the kitchen.

“Good,” said Dewey reassuringly. “Are there guns?”

“They’re in Nico’s gun safe. I don’t know the combination.”

Dewey reached for his Colt and handed it to her.

“Have you ever fired a sidearm?”

She nodded.

“This one will kick,” said Dewey. “Hold it with both hands. I want you to take the gun and go to the basement. Find a place to hide. The next people you’ll see will probably be police; don’t shoot them. But if they’re not police, you need to kill them.”

“How will I know?”

“You’ll know. If it’s the bad guys, they’ll be quiet, and they probably won’t be Argentine. The police won’t be quiet; they’ll be looking for you, calling your name.”

Maria thought for a moment, then nodded at Dewey.

“Now go,” said Dewey. “You need to move.”

Maria crawled across the kitchen floor, opened the basement door, and disappeared into the cellar.

Seconds were passing, precious moments. Dewey needed to think quickly. They could be getting away.

It had been a black-on-black design, sniper, informants, technological know-how, and, above all, audacity.

The safe thing would be to get the authorities in here. Secure the scene. Then call Hector. Get a Langley forensics team down here to analyze the slugs. But Dewey didn’t feel like doing the safe thing. He needed to find the man who triggered the rifle that killed his fiancée, and then find the men who sent him there.

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.