Bhang took a long drag on his cigarette.

“Okay,” he said, surprisingly calm. “Do we have video?”

Cho nodded at one of his men, seated at the table, who punched some keys on his laptop. One of the fifteen squares on the right plasma screen enlarged; they were now looking at a live video feed from Huong’s camera. A late-model white van was sideways, its front smashed into a steel pole. A red taxi was perpendicular to the van and had collided into the front passenger side. Flashing police and ambulance lights were everywhere, along with various uniformed officers, security, EMTs. The shot was choppy, as Huong was jostled by others trying to get a better view. The scene was pandemonium.

“I have the others fanning out from the airport.”

Bhang stepped to the left screen. He studied the map.

“Get men to the American embassy and the train station.”

“Yes, Minister.”

Bhang stepped to the video, standing before it, studying it. He pointed with his lit cigarette at the upper left corner of the screen. A small cluster of people was standing away from the chaos of the van.

The video was silent; there was no audio.

“What is this?” asked Bhang.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Get Huong over there. Tell him to turn on his COMM.”

After a few moments, the picture focused in on the cluster of people.

*   *   *

As Huong approached, four people were standing in a group, three policemen and a large Portuguese man in a red shirt. Huong moved closer. One of the officers was explaining something to the Portuguese man as Huong approached.

“My guess is, he drove it somewhere and abandoned it, sir,” the officer said, as Huong approached from behind. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you have your car back by the end of the day.”

“Very well,” the man said. “Can someone give me a ride?”

The policeman nodded at the accident scene.

“You’d be better off getting a taxi, sir. We have your information. We’ll be in touch.”

The man started to walk away, across the street, toward the central terminal.

“Excuse me,” said Huong, approaching him. “Did something happen to your vehicle?”

“Yes,” said the big man, looking at Huong. “Someone stole it, at gunpoint.”

“Is this the man?”

Huong held up his iPhone with the photo of Dewey on the screen.

“Yes, that was him!” yelled the Portuguese man angrily, pointing at the phone. “How did you know? Show that to the policemen!”

“What kind of car was it?”

“A white Mercedes AMG.”

Huong turned away from the man, running toward the satellite lot where his 911 was parked.

*   *   *

Back in the ministry conference room, Cho leaned into the speaker.

“Why didn’t you shoot him when he stepped off the plane?” barked Cho at Huong.

“He went the other way. I never saw him.”

“Enough,” yelled Bhang, waving his arm in the air to shut Cho up. “It doesn’t matter what happened. Focus. Where is Andreas going? Why is he going there? What does he need? If we can figure that out, we will know where he’s going before even he does. And find that white Mercedes.”

*   *   *

Dewey moved the Mercedes at more than a hundred miles an hour along the A2 toward downtown Lisbon.

In America, his speed would have stood out. In Portugal, where there were no speed limits, he was just one of several other cars moving at more than a hundred. In fact, he was in the middle lane and was passed every half minute or so by a car moving much faster than he was.

He tried to think, to put the pieces together. He needed a plan. He needed it right now.

China had had a kill squad at the airport by the time they’d touched down. It was impressive and disconcerting. Dewey knew if they were able to find him in Lisbon, if they were able to figure out where he was going, they were doing things that even he couldn’t anticipate.

They might already have the make of car he was in. Maybe there were more men on the kill team than just the two he’d already gunned down.

Dewey kept an eye on the rearview mirror. He didn’t see anything suspicious. Twice, he exited the freeway then made abrupt cross-lane U-turns, swerving, then got back on the road; standard countersurveillance. He saw nothing suspicious.

Still, act as if they know. Doing just that had saved his life back at the airport.

The American embassy was the most logical destination. Next in line, train stations, then bus stations.

He felt in his pocket for the phone card. He needed an exfiltration. He could evade Bhang for only so long. With the technology they were using, the sort of tracing and hacking Dewey only vaguely understood, he knew it was only a matter of time before they found him.

He needed to get ahold of Hector.

*   *   *

Johnny Dowling had on a black motorcycle helmet with a black glass visor. It wasn’t a normal helmet that you could buy from a motorcycle shop, however. It had been modified by someone at the Pentagon, DARPA to be exact.

In addition to being wired for audio and phone, the upper right corner of the helmet’s interior glass could, with a few clicks on a small ceramic ring around his thumb, ignite a graphical user interface that enabled Dowling to connect to a remote-network feed, including the Internet.

Dowling had the black BMW S1000RR ripping down the A8 at more than 120 miles per hour.

To Dowling’s right, a few yards behind him, was Dino Athanasia, his teammate from 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta. Athanasia straddled a bright red-and-white MV Agusta F4 RR.

They hadn’t taken either bike full-out yet, but Dowling suspected that Athanasia would beat him in a race; Athanasia was slightly nuts. Most Deltas were nuts, but Athanasia was one click more so. Something suddenly caught Dowling’s attention. He looked back: Athanasia was doing a wheelie, cruising down the A8 on only the back wheel of the bike. Dowling glanced down. His speedometer read 134 miles per hour. Case in point.

In his right ear, Dowling heard the beeping of a phone call.

“Dowling.”

“Go COMM, soldier.”

Dowling clicked the ceramic ring, then saw the upper right screen of his visor light up. On it was a photograph of a man with brown hair, American, handsome, tough-looking.

“This is Colonel Black at the Pentagon,” came a voice in their helmets. “Dowling, Athanasia: you’re on a live briefing with Langley and MI6. This is a Tac One, Code Red project. You are reassigned effective immediately. Johnny, Dino: it could get messy. Watch yourselves, and good luck.”

Dowling knew Athanasia was examining the photo as well. He glanced left; Athanasia’s front tire was still in the air.

“Comm check,” came a woman’s voice, in a stern British accent.

“MI6 O’Toole.”

“MI6 Gatewood.”

“MI6 Farber.”

“MI6 Mueller.”

“CIA Lamontagne.”

“Dowling,” said Dowling. “Delta.”

“Athanasia, Delta.”

“Gentlemen, this is MI6 Smythson,” came the female British voice again, “along with Langley Polk. You are joining a live MI6, CIA, Pentagon operation with no in-theater command control. The situation you’re entering is extremely fluid and highly lethal. You’re on your own, and you need to be really careful, guys. Rules of engagement no longer apply.”

Dowling nodded at Athanasia, trying to get his attention to slow down and exit the highway. Athanasia looked back, but instead of slowing, he have him a thumbs-up and accelerated.

“The photograph you’re looking at is American Dewey Andreas,” continued Smythson. “He is a former member of U.S. Special Forces.”

“What branch?” asked Athanasia.

“Delta,” said Smythson. “Andreas landed in Lisbon less than thirty minutes ago. He is being targeted for assassination by agents from Chinese intelligence. This a Code Red exfiltration. Andreas is a high-value asset.”

“Any idea where he is?” asked Farber, one of the MI6 agents.