Dowling pulled the brake, then yanked back, sending the bike sliding down the tar, as he’d been taught, as he’d practiced so many times, in so many conditions, falling back onto his feet as the seventeen-thousand-dollar BMW went sliding on its side down the highway.

Athanasia was still on his bike, still moving recklessly fast down the highway toward the chaos. He was the first to fire, triggering his MP5 from the moving bike, ripping slugs up the highway at the Chinese agent who’d just leapt out of the silver sedan and was shooting at Dowling. A hail of Athanasia’s bullets struck the agent in the head, destroying his skull, pummeling him forward to the ground in an awkward heap.

Dowling sprinted up the highway toward the overturned Mercedes.

Beyond the wreck, through clouds of thick smoke, he saw another man, a long-haired agent, running toward them, submachine gun in his right hand. The gunman caught sight of Dowling and Athanasia, then raised the weapon and fired just as Dowling dived to the blacktop.

Athanasia, still on his bike, was abruptly struck, chest high, by the shooter. He was pummeled sideways, blood arcing across the road, knocked backward by the slug. Athanasia fell from the motorcycle in the same instant it cartwheeled sideways, crashing to the tar.

Athanasia landed on the back of his head, then came to a limp, contorted stop.

Dowling knew from the point of entry—from the way the slug ripped chest high, dead center—that Athanasia was dead. He stared, mesmerized and in horror, as his bunkmate, teammate, as his best friend took his last breath.

But he knew he couldn’t stand still.

Dowling jumped back up, running at the Mercedes, triggering the MP5 at the long-haired killer on the other side of the smoking, destroyed AMG.

*   *   *

Huong registered the sight, the sound, the feeling of the bullet strike, dead center, his bullet hitting the biker, knocking him backward. Huong knew he’d killed him.

Time seemed to stand still. He felt nothing, not fatigue or fear or exultation. He was moments away, feet away, from his purpose, from the man who an entire ministry of agents was now hunting. Huong would be the one to kill him.

Huong saw the other man, right of the fallen biker, coming toward him, weapon trained on him. Huong lurched right at the same time the man fired. Huong swept the P90, firing on auto hail, toward him.

*   *   *

Dowling fired at the oncoming agent but missed, then was kicked in the left arm by a slug, which ripped into his biceps. Dowling was thrown backward and he fell to the ground. He groaned in pain as he tumbled to the blacktop. The MP5 fell from his hands.

Dowling looked up from the ground. He was partially shielded by the Mercedes’s frame. He reached for the MP5 with his right hand, trying to reach it before the Chinese agent had a clear line of fire on him.

He heard multiple sirens in the distance, along with screams and gunfire.

Dowling grabbed the submachine gun as the killer approached the Mercedes. From the ground, Dowling triggered the SMG; he weaved a disjointed line of slugs across the sky, his aim unsteady, as debilitating pain, then a sense of numbness, abruptly burst in his arm, chest, and body. He struggled to avoid the blackout he knew was upon him, still firing. His line of automatic weapon fire found the agent as he came point-blank to the side of the Mercedes. Dowling watched as a slug ripped the man’s forehead, splattering crimson, kicking him backward, just a foot or two before the assassin would have enjoyed a clean shot at Andreas.

Dowling got to his knees and unzipped his orange jacket, then ripped his shirt aside. It was then that he realized he’d been hit twice, the second slug striking his chest, and he tasted blood in his mouth, bubbling up from somewhere inside him.

He stood, picked up his MP5, and moved clumsily toward Andreas. He knew there would be more men coming to kill the American. But his feet wouldn’t hold, and he tumbled to the ground. With the last of his strength, he took up position next to the overturned wreck of the Mercedes.

*   *   *

Sirens now wailed through the Lisbon air from all directions. Traffic was at a standstill. Whatever cars were on the freeway, in either direction, had stopped. Except for one.

A blue Audi S8 moved toward the wreck from the opposite direction, its engine revving above the din, tires screeching, as it hopscotched between car after stopped car, moving at more than a hundred miles per hour toward the pandemonium.

Innocent bystanders, closest to the scene, climbed frantically from their cars. A long-haired woman climbed from a station wagon, clutching a baby and screaming, running away from the carnage.

Farber, from MI6, didn’t see the woman until the very last second; he swerved the Audi, coming within a foot of hitting the hysterical woman.

Farber slammed the brakes on the Audi as he arrived at smoke-clogged ground zero.

He grabbed the car door, opened it, then leapt from the Audi in a hard sprint down the highway. He hurdled the concrete divider as the first flames danced from the AMG’s engine.

Farber registered two motorcycles behind the wrecked Mercedes, both on the ground, one of them in two pieces. He counted four men on the ground in the vicinity of the Mercedes, lying in various stages of contortion, amid growing pools of blood.

One of the men—an American in a bright orange motorcycle jacket—was still alive. Their eyes met. Blood coursed from the American’s mouth down onto the ground.

*   *   *

Dowling was close to darkness now. He saw the MI6 agent as the man jumped the concrete divider, running toward him.

Dowling’s eyes caught a white van in the background, speeding down the road, weaving through abandoned cars. Dowling lifted his left hand, pointing, trying to warn the British agent.

The agent turned. He saw the approaching van. In one smooth motion, he swept his M4 to the van, firing, ripping slugs through the windshield. A cartridge tore into the driver’s head. His head bounced sharply forward against the steering wheel. The van fishtailed and crashed into the concrete highway divider one lane away from the smoking, wrecked Mercedes.

The British agent charged at the van, firing as he ran, pelting the vehicle with slugs.

The back of the van opened, and two more men, both Chinese, jumped out, firing assault rifles from behind the van.

Dowling watched helplessly as the MI6 agent caught a slug in the head, dropping him lifeless to the highway.

With what life remained in him, Dowling moved his right index finger to the trigger of his MP5. His arm was shaking badly.

Dowling saw the first Chinese agent hurdle the divider and dash toward the Mercedes. Dowling triggered the MP5. The submachine gun made a dull clicking noise. The magazine was empty.

Dowling watched, helplessly, as the two gunmen came closer, leaping over the dead British agent.

Dowling couldn’t feel his body anymore. He was going into shock.

Dowling’s eyes drifted to the Mercedes. His eyes found the American, Andreas, who was hanging from the ceiling, helpless, upside down, his face drenched in blood.

Dowling watched as the American turned and looked in his direction, blood pouring from his ears, nose, mouth, their eyes making contact over the smoke-choked air.

*   *   *

Dewey tried to mouth words, but he couldn’t.

Run, he tried to shout. Run.

But he couldn’t.

The world was spinning badly around him as he tried to focus on the young American now lying next to him, the American he knew had come to save him.

Dewey felt the cold, wet dripping of blood, coming from his mouth, his nose, running up his cheeks and into his eyes, as he hung upside down.

He struggled to remain conscious as, outside the car, he heard the high, incomprehensible words, yelling in Mandarin. Sirens and gunfire. Hell.