“I have luggage,” said Dewey.

“I’m sorry,” said the driver, putting it in neutral and climbing out. “Let me help you.”

“Thanks,” said Dewey, remaining with his head down, next to the passenger window as the driver moved to the rear of the taxi.

Through the canopy of the taxi, he scanned the van. It was shiny and new. It sat still, its running lights now on. The black of the windshield and passenger window prevented Dewey from seeing anyone.

Am I being paranoid, Dewey asked himself?

Fight. It’s all you can do. It’s all you could ever do.

The taxi driver stepped to the back of the taxi and opened the trunk.

“Where is your bag, sir?” he called in a thick accent from behind the taxi.

Dewey glanced at the driver. He was now shielded by the trunk.

Dewey ripped open the front passenger-side door. He climbed in the taxi, then moved across the passenger seat to the driver’s seat, keeping his eyes glued to the van.

Suddenly, the black passenger-side window of the van cracked, then lowered.

Dewey thrust the taxi into reverse just as the muzzle of a rifle emerged from the window. Dewey ducked and slammed the accelerator to the floor, tearing backward, just as the first slugs pelted the window, shattering it.

Unmuted automatic-weapon fire exploded out above the general din of the airport. It was followed by screams, then all-out pandemonium as anyone within earshot dived to the ground or ran for their lives.

The taxi driver screamed as Dewey burst backward, leaping out of the way as the taxi accelerated up the lane, in reverse, the back bumper barely missing him.

Dewey kept the gas pedal slammed against the floor. Tires screeched and thick black smoke clouded the air as Dewey let the tires rip across the hot tar. The taxi hurled backward, trunk open, back up the taxi lane, wrong direction, smoke from burning rubber darkening the air around the cab.

Slugs pelted the side of the taxi as the gunman in the van fired at Dewey.

Screams blended with the sound of gunfire and screeching tires.

Dewey ripped the vehicle backward, speeding in reverse for a hundred feet, then slammed the brakes. He was now behind the van.

Dewey jammed the car into gear and slammed the gas pedal to the floor as hard as he could. The tires screeched even louder this time, creating more black smoke. The rear of the taxi fishtailed slightly. Dewey jacked the steering wheel left as the taxi fired dead ahead, toward the van, accelerating. With his right hand, Dewey pulled the G19 from under his armpit. People scrambled, screaming, dropping bags, trying to get out of the way of the speeding taxi, which Dewey targeted toward the white van, two lanes away.

Dewey hit the low concrete curb at fifty miles an hour, then barreled over it.

A line of people waiting for a bus was directly in front of him. He slammed the horn but didn’t slow down a bit, keeping the gas floored as he flipped the safety off the 9mm. People scattered, screaming, as Dewey accelerated through the line, leaving hysterical people on both sides of the taxi, now blazing at seventy-five miles an hour and climbing.

Ahead, now only one lane away, Dewey could see the unmistakable face of a Chinese gunman on the passenger side of the van, as he triggered an assault rifle at the taxi.

Several people were struck by errant bullets. They tumbled to the concrete sidewalk, blood spraying the ground. Hysterical bystanders dived to the ground, fortunate enough to be spared from the fusillade.

Dewey kept low, tucked against the door, his foot hard on the gas pedal, his right hand clutching the G19.

Suddenly, the rear double doors of the van flew open. The Chinese agent appeared. He went into a crouch, military style, on one knee. He clutched a short, stubby black assault rifle, which Dewey recognized: FN F2000, a bullpup assault rifle that was easy to handle and blisteringly lethal. A moment later, the muzzle erupted as the gunman triggered the 5.56x.45mm assault rifle at Dewey, who was now moving at almost ninety miles an hour straight at him.

The first slugs pelted the steel hood of the taxi. The line of big holes moved in a jagged line up the hood, toward Dewey, hitting what was left of the shattered window.

Dewey reached left and opened his door. He ducked lower, away from the spray of lead. He tucked against the front of the door, near the hinges, next to the steering wheel, shielded by the dashboard, as slugs tore the seat next to him.

The engine revved furiously as he charged ever closer to the van. Dewey braced himself as yards turned to feet turned to inches. The sound of the F2000, firing full auto, combined with a hurricane of slugs. The air between the two vehicles was drowned in chaos.

Dewey heard the gunman shout, a panicked scream in Mandarin. Then, a moment later, the taxi slammed into the back of the van. Metal crushed against metal as the gunman was launched into the air. He tumbled out the back of the van, thrown to the taxi hood, where he landed just in front of Dewey. Dewey moved the Glock, then fired a slug into the man’s skull, just as—ahead of Dewey—the van peeled out, the driver now desperate to get away.

Dewey hit the gas again and burst right, accelerating to the side of the now-screeching van, which was running for the airport exit. Both vehicles were accelerating down the lane, Dewey trying to catch up in the badly hobbled taxi. Smoke billowed from the taxi’s engine, rising up through the pockmarked hood.

Dewey had the accelerator hard against the floor. He looked down and saw the speedometer hit sixty. Screams mixed with the sound of screeching tires and revving engines. For the first time, Dewey heard a siren in the distance.

Dewey pushed the taxi until it finally reached the back bumper of the van. He was gaining on the slower vehicle as, up ahead, cars swerved out of the way. Inch by inch, the taxi came abreast of the van. When he was finally parallel to the front tire of the van, Dewey jacked the wheel left, aiming at the van. A second later, the taxi slammed into the passenger door. The van jerked abruptly to its left, careering toward a thick steel pole. The van slammed dead center into the pole, crushing into the engine, in the same moment the taxi smashed into the door. Both vehicles came to a grinding halt, the dead gunman tumbling off the hood.

Dewey punched up at the shattered windshield, then climbed up onto the hood, clutching the Glock. He raised the gun as he leapt toward the van. He started firing. Unmuted gunfire sounded above more screams and an approaching chorus of sirens. He fired into the black glass of the passenger-door window, shattering it. Another agent sat in the driver’s seat. The man’s head was forward, against the steering wheel, though he was still alive. He turned his head to look at Dewey. Blood covered his forehead.

Dewey fired. A bullet tore into the man’s forehead, spraying the far glass with blood and skull.

Dewey leapt from the hood of the cab and sprinted toward the parking garage, as, behind him, sirens wailed in the distance and screams continued to echo through the warm air.

Inside the parking garage, he sprinted down an aisle of cars, Glock clutched in his right hand, searching for an escape vehicle. Dewey came upon a large man climbing into a white Mercedes E63 AMG.

“Keys,” said Dewey.

The man turned, shocked, saw Dewey’s sidearm, then tossed Dewey the keys.

He climbed inside the sedan, jammed the key in the ignition, started the car, then peeled out of the parking space. He turned the wheel and headed toward the garage entrance, quickly removing his sunglasses and hat. Dewey fell into the airport exit line, driving cautiously, scanning for more agents.

At least half a dozen police cars descended upon the terminal, their blue and red lights flashing, their sirens blasting the air, as they barreled past buses, taxis, and cars, all of whom pulled over to let them pass by, including Dewey.