“Fuckin’ A,” Dewey said, watching as the Porsche moved to within a car’s length.

The Porsche’s windshield was tinted black.

In Delta, there were two core tenets to evasion when being chased in a car. The first was speed. The second, the element of surprise. Unfortunately, neither tactic was going to work: the 911 was faster than his AMG, and surprising what were clearly highly trained agents would be next to impossible. He was moving much too quickly to attempt a braked 180; and if he slowed down, the two cars would pounce and start firing at point-blank range.

In fact, that was about to happen anyway.

Dewey swerved right, onto a short, empty stretch of road along the right side of the highway. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bright blue of the 911, scorching into the fast lane. A red BMW was now between Dewey and the blue Porsche.

Dewey lowered his window, then lifted the Glock in his right hand.

Shots suddenly echoed across the highway, above the traffic and horns. Then came the sound of glass shattering, and a faint, awful scream. The BMW popped abruptly left, spinning, glass and metal shattering as the car was riddled with slugs from the Porsche. The BMW flipped over and came to a spinning rest on its roof.

The Porsche moved toward Dewey now, as, behind him, he caught sight of the silver Ford Taurus closing in.

Dewey glanced left and saw the muzzle of an assault rifle in the window of the Porsche, then a long-haired Chinese man with sunglasses on.

Dewey triggered the Glock, firing as fast as his finger would move. Bullets struck the side of the Porsche, then the back window. The driver swerved, braked, then accelerated, trying to throw Dewey off.

In the rearview mirror, a gun emerged from the window of the Taurus. The low, dull boom of a large-caliber carbine arose above the chaos, just as the first big cartridge ripped steel at the back of the AMG. The next slug hit the back window, shattering it.

Dewey saw a large truck in front of the Porsche, a quarter mile ahead. He memorized his position, then ducked, flooring it toward the right breakdown lane, as slugs pelted the Mercedes from the Porsche to his left and the Taurus from behind.

The Porsche had to slow at the back of the truck, then was temporarily boxed in to the right. Dewey pressed the pedal to the ground and eyed the speedometer as the Mercedes climbed to 165 miles per hour. He put the Glock down, reached to his left, and put his seat belt on.

In the distance, sirens grew louder and seemed to come from all directions.

*   *   *

“This is Pacheco,” came a voice over Dowling’s COMM. “I have PSP reporting a high-speed chase on the A Two, near downtown. There were multiple gunshots.”

“Delta One, Two are on the A Two,” said Dowling. “Which direction, NSA?”

“Southbound.”

“I need a map, MI6,” said Dowling.

“You got it.”

A graphic shot up in the right corner of Dowling’s helmet, showing a map of the A2, with his position on the highway a blinking yellow light; a green circle showed where the gunfire had come from.

“Delta One and Two have it,” said Dowling. “Where are they in relation to the A Five?”

Dowling glanced to the lane next to him, at Athanasia. Dowling nodded, then cranked the throttle. The motorcycle rocketed forward, hitting 130 miles per hour in seconds. Athanasia moved in line behind him.

“PSP south of the A Five, toward April Two-five Bridge.”

Dowling knew exactly where they were. He and Athanasia were at least two miles behind them.

“How many cars?”

“They’ve APB’d a blue 911 and a white Mercedes AMG.”

“Okay, Langley, I need a street-level view of the bridge.”

“Here we go.”

A street-level terrain view replaced the map in the upper right corner of Dowling’s helmet, showing Lisbon’s 25th of April Bridge. As Dowling moved at more than 140 miles an hour, he studied the terrain he was about to engage the enemy on.

“Okay, shut it off, MI6.”

Ahead, traffic had come to a dead stop. In the distance, smoke was billowing into the air.

Athanasia swerved into the breakdown lane, with Dowling just behind him. They kept moving at more than 130 miles per hour up the breakdown lane.

Two police officers were standing in the lane, holding traffic, which was at a complete stop.

Ahead, in the middle of the road, was a red BMW, flipped over on its roof. The car was crushed, flames were darting out from the engine, smoke poured into the sky. Glass littered the highway. The wrecked car was flanked by the first responders—a pair of police cruisers. Two police officers were on their hands and knees, trying to pull the unconscious driver from the BMW.

Athanasia and Dowling charged toward the police line. One of the police officers saw them coming, then raised his weapon. Dowling and Athanasia accelerated, firing past the officer.

Past the accident scene, the highway was deserted. Dowling ripped the throttle again, moving alongside Athanasia, who also accelerated. Dowling glanced at his speedometer: 184.

The occasional random car was stopped in the middle of the road out of fear. Dowling and Athanasia had the bikes tearing along at full speed now. Dowling could feel the force of the air trying to push him back, off the bike, as he clutched the handlebars, leaning down, flying along the hot blacktop at almost two hundred miles per hour.

Ahead, far in the distance, Dowling caught the bright blue of a Porsche, then, to the right, a white Mercedes. Behind them was a sedan. All three cars were going blisteringly fast and swerving wildly. The Porsche and Mercedes were trading gunfire. As he gained on them, the air had a smell of gunpowder and burnt rubber. Dowling saw a man leaning from the window of the sedan, behind the Mercedes, firing a rifle toward the Mercedes.

“We’re at surface zero,” yelled Dowling into his COMM. “We’re gonna need backup.”

“On it, Delta,” came a British accent. “MI6 Farber northbound.”

“Andreas is the white Mercedes,” yelled Dowling. “I see a bright blue Porsche and a second car, a silver sedan, behind him. Watch your field of fire, MI6. We’re right behind where you’ll be shooting.”

“Roger that, Delta One and Two. Be there in approximately ninety seconds.”

*   *   *

The Mercedes’s engine was smoking now. The hood and left front of the vehicle looked like a piece of Swiss cheese, riddled with bullets. Still, it moved, and moved fast. It was responding to every demand Dewey made of it.

In addition to managing the gunman in the Porsche to his left, Dewey had to deal with the sedan behind him. He fluttered between the AMG’s gas and brakes, quickly and unpredictably changing speeds to throw off the Porsche. For the sedan, Dewey zigzagged, trying to lead the sedan into other slower-moving vehicles. The Taurus was having a hard time keeping up with the two lead cars. Yet the unmistakable boom of the trailing car’s rifle sent a shiver through Dewey every time he heard it.

Dewey stayed calm, his eyes darting between the rearview mirror and the terrain ahead, looking, searching, praying for an exit. He saw the arches of a bridge in the distance.

He aimed the Glock across his body, without looking, and fired at the Porsche.

*   *   *

Huong had the Porsche at more than 150 miles an hour. He had his left hand on the steering wheel while he held a carbine in his right and aimed out the shattered window, trying to hit the American. Each time he had a clear shot, the American sensed it, then slammed his brakes or gunned it; it was hard to predict.

Huong sensed something in front of him, glanced ahead, and saw a stopped minivan in the middle of the lane. He swerved just feet from the vehicle, barely avoiding a crash. He looked back for the Mercedes. Just as he did so, he saw him, one lane over, then heard the boom of the American’s sidearm. The slug smashed into the windshield, barely missing Huong’s head, shattering the glass. Huong slammed the brakes to avoid the next shot he knew would be coming.