A photographer approached. He took several photos of Dewey as he walked to a podium that had been set up. Did they want him to say something?

He walked closer, nodding politely to the crowd, who cheered his every step. A man in a suit approached him and bowed before him, then shook his hand. Dewey guessed he ran the place.

There was a sudden commotion as, at the far side of the lobby, the doors opened and in stepped four men in paramilitary attire, walking two by two, shoulder holsters visible. One of the men held a carbine, which Dewey recognized: Beretta CX4 Storm, with Picatinny rails, forward grip, red-dot sight, and tactical light. The man had the deadlylooking firearm trained at the ground.

Dewey’s eyes shot left, then right, looking for an escape route. The four members of the security detail parted, and a short man in a black suit emerged from behind them.

The man was clapping as he entered the lobby and walked toward Dewey. He was shorter than Dewey expected, thinner, older, more frail-looking. But his eyes told a different story. He stared at Dewey as he drew closer; in their blackness, their focus, their cold assessment of Dewey, he saw the man who’d murdered Jessica.

Dewey’s heart raced. He scanned the lobby as, around him, the crowd began to applaud even louder, watching as Bhang approached. He was looking straight at Dewey as he walked across the shiny white floor. A wide smile was plastered across his lips. Under his arm was a beautiful mahogany box.

Bhang bowed as he stopped before him and looked up into his eyes.

Dewey eyed the gunmen with the carbine. The gunman was studying Dewey as hard as Dewey was studying him; Dewey registered the man’s finger was on the trigger of the Beretta.

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

You died doing something you believed in. You died for Jessica.

He didn’t want to die, but he knew he would never be able to live knowing he’d let the evil creature in front of him get away with it.

Bhang stepped in front of Dewey. The applause grew louder. Bhang opened the wooden box to the cacophonous cheering of the crowd. Inside the box was a large gold medallion attached to a beautiful red ribbon.

Dewey’s hair was soaking wet; his face was covered in perspiration. He stepped toward Bhang as Bhang held out the medal to wrap around his neck.

Dewey looked down at the medal, admiring it as Bhang smiled and started clapping. Slowly, Dewey leaned forward, bowing before Bhang. Pain shot from his shoulder. Time stood still.

Dewey remained bowed and reached to his ankle as the crowd continued to clap and cheer. He ripped his knife from the ankle holster, then stood up.

Bhang’s smile disappeared. A confused look shot across his face as he alone could see the black steel of the Gerber combat blade in Dewey’s hand. Bhang scanned Dewey’s eyes, his clothing, his shirt. Then Bhang’s black eyes flashed anger.

Bhang pointed at Dewey and started yelling in Mandarin.

Dewey lifted his arm above his head. He lurched for Bhang as Bhang turned to run, ripping the knife down, swinging with all his strength, slashing into the center of Bhang’s chest. Dewey felt the blade puncture Bhang’s tissue just as he was tackled from behind. They were too late. The strike ripped deep into Bhang’s chest as the two men went down, Dewey on top of him, beneath a horde of people, which pushed the Gerber straight through Bhang’s chest. Dewey felt the tip of the blade hit the hard marble of the hospital floor beneath Bhang.

Dewey’s face was above Bhang’s. Their eyes were just inches apart. Dewey watched as Bhang’s eyes fluttered. Their anger seemed to dissipate, replaced by calm, even resignation. Blood started pouring in thick, dark bursts from his nostrils, ears, and mouth. They stared at each other, eyes locked, as chaos gripped the hospital lobby and screams filled the air.

Bhang’s lips moved, but no sound came out, just blood, which poured from his lips in dark crimson. He coughed, struggling to get out his final words:

“Well done, Mr. Andreas,” he whispered, in English. Then his eyes shut.

86

BEIJING HOSPITAL

BEIJING

The hard staccato of automatic-weapon fire cracked the air. People dispersed, running in terror. More screams echoed through the atrium.

Dewey turned his head in time to see the gunman sprinting toward him, the muzzle of the Beretta CX4 trained at his head, the red laser beam from the red-dot sight flashing across his eyes. Terror enveloped the room. The man fired.

Dewey ducked as slugs tore out of the carbine, but he felt nothing except sharp pain in his shoulder. He looked behind him; one of the other guards was pummeled backward by the slugs.

A third gunman, to the right, charged at Dewey, pulling a sidearm from his shoulder holster. The gunman with the Beretta swiveled and pumped more slugs, which struck the other gunman in the forehead and kicked him backward in the air.

“If you want to live,” the gunman shouted at Dewey, “get the fuck up.”

*   *   *

Dewey followed the gunman, sprinting, through the lobby. Outside, a white Toyota Land Cruiser idled. The gunman sprinted to the back passenger door and opened it for Dewey.

“Hurry up,” shouted the gunman.

Dewey climbed in back as the gunman covered the SUV. He slammed the door and climbed into the front passenger seat. They sped away.

Seated in the front seat was another man, young and tall, dressed in paramilitary gear. In the backseat, next to Dewey, was a man in a suit. He had slightly longish black hair and was smoking a cigarette.

“Who are you?” asked Dewey.

The man stared forward, not responding, then took another drag from the cigarette.

“Where am I going?” asked Dewey. “Where are you taking me?”

Dewey reached up and touched his shoulder. His fingers came back red.

The Chinese man in the suit slapped the back of the passenger seat. He said something in Mandarin. The gunman reached into the center console and found a small box of tissue, which he handed to Dewey.

Dewey sat back, for the first time noticing a dark sedan just in front of them. He turned and saw another just behind them.

They moved through the crowded city center of Beijing, then climbed onto the highway. They moved fast, at least a hundred miles per hour, in the left lane.

They drove for an hour in total silence. Throughout the trip, none of the men so much as glanced at Dewey.

Somewhere in the country, where the highway cut through endless hills of green trees with seemingly no inhabitants, they exited the highway. They drove for several more miles. At some point, Dewey’s eyes caught the sight of tall, foreboding metal fencing with large cables of razor wire unfurled across the top. They drove alongside the fencing for what felt like an eternity. Finally they came to gates and passed through. Two soldiers saluted as they swept inside. Past the gates was an enormous military base that looked as if it ran to the horizon, crowded with soldiers, camouflaged troop carriers, and barracks.

On a tarmac deep inside the base, the Land Cruiser stopped beneath the wing of an old medium-sized tan-and-blue four-prop transport plane, which Dewey knew was a Shaanxi Y-8. The plane’s engines were already running.

A soldier opened Dewey’s door. He followed him to the plane and climbed aboard the plane. Before he even had time to sit down, the Shaanxi was moving down the runway. They were airborne a few moments later. Other than the two pilots, Dewey was alone.

Dewey found a restroom. For more than an hour, he peeled silicone and glue from his eyes, nose, and forehead. He scrubbed his face, then sat down in one of the plane’s canvas seats.

It wasn’t until then that he let himself try to figure out what had happened. It had to have been Calibrisi or Chalmers; and yet, he was brought to a military base. It didn’t add up.