Through the groggy haze of semiconsciousness, Dewey looked down at the ceiling of the wrecked Mercedes. Lying on the roof, above his head, was one of the handguns. He reached up slowly for the weapon as the sound of automatic weapon fire drew closer, as yelling from the killers became louder, more frantic.

He heard the low, dull thuds of slugs striking the seat next to him, piercing leather. His right hand could almost touch the handgun. One more inch, he thought, as salt from the blood stung his eyes. He touched the steel, but instead of pulling it closer, he accidentally pushed it farther away. He stared for what seemed like forever at his badly shaking right hand, so close to the Glock yet so far away.

Dewey saw the shadow first, running on the road. Then he saw legs, running quickly. Through the destroyed windshield, he watched as a Chinese gunman ran toward the American in the orange jacket, trying to get a clear line of fire.

Fight. It’s what you were meant to do.

Dewey stabbed his arm up at the butt of the Glock, reaching it this time, clutching it. He wheeled his arm around just as the gunman started firing. Dewey fired through the open slat of the windshield. The bullet tore into the agent’s cheek, kicking out the back of his head, dropping him to the tar.

Dewey swung the Glock around to the other side of the car, marking the other Chinese agent as he approached. All he could see was the man’s legs. They were blurry, tinted red by the blood in Dewey’s eyes, moving quickly. All Dewey could hear was the sound of bullets ripping into the Mercedes as the gunman came closer, firing.

Dewey pumped the trigger. The slug struck the gunman in the ankle. He dropped to the road, screaming, his carbine dropping to the road. The gunman looked up at Dewey, a pained expression on his face, then to his rifle. He was young, no more than twenty-five. He lurched for the rifle. Dewey fired. The bullet hit him in the chest, dead center, his white T-shirt erupting in crimson as he was kicked back to the tar.

Dewey turned to look at the American, lying on the road, just outside his window. His brown eyes stared blankly back at him. Then he blinked. He was still alive.

“Dowling,” the man whispered. “I’m Delta.”

“Hold on, Dowling,” said Dewey, mustering every ounce of strength he had left. “Hold on. Don’t fucking give up on me, man.”

“I won’t,” Dowling said quietly through the smoke, looking at Dewey.

68

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY

BEIJING

“Huong?” barked Xiao. “Chiu? Answer!”

On the opposite side of the glass conference table stood Bhang. His arms were crossed. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. As he listened to Xiao attempt to raise the agents on COMM, Bhang was studying the large electronic map of Lisbon, now imposed on the glass of the table.

There were ten flashing red lights in all. Two at the airport and four on the highway, near the 25th of April Bridge, represented the agents who weren’t responding. Bhang already knew the two at the airport were dead, based on police reports coming out of Lisbon. Now it was clear the four men sent to take out Andreas on the A2 were also gone.

Xiao completed the COMM check and looked to Bhang for guidance.

“Should we send in the others?”

“No,” said Bhang, shaking his head.

Bhang pointed to one of the flashing lights, which was close to the bridge, on a side street beneath the highway, moving toward the scene.

“Who’s this?”

“Lo,” said Xiao.

“Lo,” said Bhang into the COMM mic on the desk. “Can you see the scene?”

“Almost, Minister.”

Bhang lit the cigarette. He glanced at Xiao. “Does he have a rifle?”

Xiao nodded yes.

“I can see it now,” said Lo, over the COMM. “It’s a … well, it’s hard to describe, sir. It’s a mess. Let me put it up on video.”

One of the plasmas suddenly lit up. The view was blurry. The screen bounced around as Lo focused and framed the shot. After a few seconds, the scene sharpened. A side shot, from beneath the highway, showed the pandemonium on the roadway above. Smoke clouded the sky. Cars were strewn about haphazardly, along with several overturned motorcycles. Bodies of injured or dead people were strewn about on the ground.

All of it was clustered around an overturned sedan, which Bhang recognized as the Mercedes.

Multiple sirens could be heard. Lo panned right to show police cruisers and ambulances hurrying from up the highway.

Bhang, Xiao, and the other men in the situation room back in Beijing watched, transfixed, as a pair of green-and-white ambulances zigzagged toward the wreck, then stopped.

“Focus on the wreck!” yelled Bhang, pointing at the Mercedes. “Get us in tighter!”

The view sharpened and moved in on the overturned sedan, just as two uniformed medics sprinted to the side of the car.

The sound of a helicopter, off camera, became louder. Lo suddenly shot the camera right and up. A black military chopper rushed overhead, descending toward the chaos. Lo followed the chopper as it hovered above the roadway, then descended in a slow loop to the highway, just a few feet from the overturned Mercedes.

As the chopper touched down, the blood-covered head of Andreas emerged from through the crushed side of the car. The medics struggled to pull the driver from the wreck. A third man ran to the far side of the car. Finally, they pulled him completely out. Bhang stared expectantly, hopefully, as the American’s torso, waist, then legs were pulled through by the medics. Was he dead?

“Don’t move the camera,” ordered Bhang.

Two medics lifted Andreas up to a gurney as a third medic stuck an oxygen mask on his face then stuck an IV into his left arm. The two medics, trailed by the third, ran the gurney to the chopper. All three men climbed aboard. The chopper lifted into the smoke, then crossed the blue sky and shot away.

“See if you can track the chopper,” said Xiao.

“Don’t bother,” said Bhang.

Bhang reached forward and shut off the COMM speaker.

“Minister?”

“Andreas is gone. He’s alive, and he’s gone.”

“Are you saying the operation is over, Minister?”

“No, of course not,” snapped Bhang. “It’s simply moved to a more-complicated part of the playing field.”

Bhang turned and walked to the door. He paused there. He turned, smiling, and pointed at Xiao.

“Kill his family,” said Bhang.

69

BANGOR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

BANGOR, MAINE

US Airways flight 132 from Quebec City landed at Bangor International Airport at 8:50 A.M. There were four passengers aboard the fifty-seat Embraer jet. One of them, a Chinese woman, thanked the flight attendant, then stepped quickly down the airstairs and onto the tarmac.

Her name was Dao. She was twenty-three, had short black hair, and was a level-two operative in the paramilitary branch of the Ministry of State Security, assigned to territory U-8, eastern Canada and northern New England. U-8 included Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire.

Dao headed for the main terminal, a few hundred feet away. Inside, she found the Hertz counter.

“Good morning,” said a pretty blonde behind the counter. “How can I help you today?”

“I’d like to rent a car.” She handed the woman a credit card along with a forged Maine driver’s license.

“My pleasure,” she said, picking up her license, “Miss Dao. Let me see what we have.”

The woman typed a few keystrokes into the computer.

“Here we go. How about a Camaro? That’s a nice car, if you ask me. I also have a Dodge Challenger. That one’s fast as heck. My boyfriend has one. Sometimes he—”

“Camaro,” Dao said, interrupting her.

The Hertz woman typed away as Dao studied the map on the wall.