Borchardt shut his eyes. He took another sip of his drink, trying to quell the guilt he now felt.

“Tell me about the party,” said Borchardt. “How was it? Did the guests enjoy themselves?”

“Yes, Rolf,” said Mă, smiling, attempting to relax. “It was a wonderful evening. The food was absolutely out of this world.”

*   *   *

Dewey climbed back out through Borchardt’s bedroom window. He stepped up to the railing. He reached up to the eave and pulled himself to the third floor. From the third floor landing, he grabbed the eave and lifted himself back onto the roof.

He sprinted in the darkness to the rear of the roof.

The terrace and gardens were empty. A staff member carried a tray of glasses toward the house.

Dewey leaned down to the edge of the roof.

*   *   *

The lead agent scanned the video screens one last time. He unlatched his night optics from his belt and pulled them over his head, then down over his eyes. He walked to the door and exited into a darkened basement. He flipped on the optics.

“Go,” he said.

*   *   *

The order came to the four agents in the truck. The agent closest to the rear of the truck opened the door.

He pointed at the agent across from him. That man jumped from the truck to the ground. He scanned the alley, then moved to the gate. He opened it and skulked in silence along the right edge of the property, clinging to the shadows. He came to a swimming pool, moved around it, and entered the mansion through a glass door.

In one-minute intervals, the other agents followed.

The four men gathered inside a darkened greenhouse, next to the swimming pool. They waited in silence.

Lead one, the agent from the basement, arrived a few seconds after the last man from the truck. He signaled for the agents to follow him.

They moved two by two, with one man trailing, down a dark hallway to a stairwell, then climbed quietly, one step at a time, up the stairs. At the third floor, the lead agent halted the others with a hand signal. They listened for more than a minute, hearing nothing except the occasional clink of glasses or a faint voice from downstairs.

*   *   *

Dewey stood next to the bed. He was drenched in sweat and breathing hard.

He untied the sling from around his neck, then the shoelace, putting the Glock between his jeans and his back.

He went to the bed and stuffed pillows under the sheets to make it look like he was asleep.

He moved to the corner, feeling the wall for a light switch. Just before the corner of the room, he found it.

To his left, six feet away, was the door. In front of him was the bed. He checked the magazine on the MP7, then moved the safety off. He set the fire selector to full auto. He spread his feet and waited.

He gripped the SMG in his hands, right finger on the ceramic trigger, and thought of Jessica. He could never get her back. But tonight would begin the healing process. He heard his own breathing, counting as he breathed in and out, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.

He heard a noise from the hallway. The distant creaking of wood, like someone had stepped on a loose board. Dewey suddenly heard the metal of the doorknob as it turned. Dim light came in through the crack as the door opened.

He counted the first man, then another, and still a third. They moved in silence, like ghosts. He saw the outline of suppressors sticking out from machine guns, then the telltale geometrics of the night optics on their heads.

The three agents moved to the end of the bed, raising their weapons, preparing to fire.

A fourth man entered and stood at the door.

It’s all you can do, Dewey. It’s all you could ever do.

Dewey put his left hand to the light switch. One of the gunman, at the back of the bed, nodded to the others. The metallic thuds of suppressed submachine-gun fire echoed softly in the room as they triggered their weapons at the bed, full auto, sweeping across the mattress, leaving no area unscathed.

Dewey flipped the switch. The room burst yellow as light filled the room.

He pulled the trigger. The MP7 didn’t have a suppressor. The staccato peal of submachine-gun fire was shocking. Dewey took down the agent at the door, then swept the MP7 right, head-high, across the three gunman, who, in the confusion and in the sudden light, started pelting the walls with slugs. The three men tumbled to the ground amid the sound of shattering glass and gunfire.

Dewey sprinted to the door and, clutching the butt of the MP7, reached around the doorframe, trigger depressed, firing on full auto. He caught the last killer at the end of the hallway, ripping slugs through his legs, sending him tumbling to the ground.

He stepped into the hallway and walked to the fallen agent, who lay on his back groaning, trying to clutch at his legs. Dewey stood over him. He leaned forward and, with his left foot, kicked the night-vision goggles from the man’s head. He was Chinese. Dewey triggered the gun one more time, sending a quick burst into his neck, killing him instantly.

Dewey walked back down the hallway, past his room, to the service stairwell. He descended two flights, then moved down a thin back hallway to the library. The door was slightly ajar. He could see Borchardt seated inside the room. There were two other men with him. One Dewey recognized from his last trip, a member of Borchardt’s security detail. The other man was Chinese, dressed in a tuxedo.

Dewey pushed the door in with his left hand, MP7 trained in front of him.

Borchardt was seated at the far side of the large room. The guard stood in the middle of the room. The Chinese man was at the bar, to the right, mixing a drink.

For a moment or two, none of the men noticed Dewey.

Dewey stepped forward. He caught the eye of the security man, who turned, made eye contact with him, then reached for his shoulder holster. Dewey waited a split second, long enough for the guard to get the handgun out of the holster, long enough for him to begin the sweep of the weapon across the room, toward Dewey. Dewey watched it all. Then, as the muzzle moved closer, he fired. A hail of slugs from the MP7 ripped the man across the chest and pummeled him back against the wall.

The Chinese man jerked around from the bar, dropping a glass on the ground. Borchardt merely looked up, a calm, slightly bemused look on his pale face.

“Hi, Rolf,” said Dewey.

Borchardt stared in disbelief. His eyes drifted down to the muzzle of the MP7.

“I take it this is the Chinese ambassador?” asked Dewey.

“Yes,” said the Chinese man, indignant. “I am Sūn Mă.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Dewey fired. Bullets ripped into Mă’s chest, knocking him off his feet, kicking him backward.

He stepped toward Borchardt, weapon trained on his skull.

“Ready to stop fucking around?”

Borchardt’s lips moved, but no words came out.

“Let me give you the correct answer,” said Dewey: “Yes, Dewey, I’m ready to stop fucking around.”

“I’m ready to stop fucking around, Dewey.”

“Attaboy. Now go get your Depends and your toupée glue. And wake up your pilots. Tell them to fuel up the plane. We’re leaving town tonight.”

“Where are we going?”

“You know damn well where we’re going.”

48

BEIJING

Bhang and Ming-huá stared at the screen in anticipation, trying to control their excitement as they awaited the arrival of the kill team.

Ming-huá had punched the picture up for better viewing, and the view of the dark bedroom in Borchardt’s mansion occupied the entire screen, like a movie.

For several tense minutes, they watched in silence, both men standing, both smoking. The audio had been shut down by the lead agent, only adding to a sense of unease.

Then it started.

A furious spray of red, orange, yellow, and silver abruptly appeared, like firecrackers at night, as the muzzles of the machine guns erupted in a fusillade of sparks.