When Cheng was convinced that Lee would make it, he pulled a nine-millimeter Beretta pistol from beneath his coat and instructed a nearby security guard to watch over his partner and radio for medical attention right away. Then Cheng turned angrily to Harvath, “First we find him, and then we kill him.”
“We’ve got to take him alive, Sammy,” said Harvath as they stood up and began searching for Jamek. He knew Cheng understood why. Harvath had filled him in before the mission began. He’d explained that when President Rutledge had first been kidnapped, the operation launched to recover him. It turned out to be a trap. The entire team the U.S. had sent in was killed. Harvath knew the Lions had contracted it out, but he didn’t know to whom. The Lions’ former leader, Gerhard Miner, was awaiting trial in Switzerland, but refused to answer any questions. The only other surviving member of the organization was Gerhard Miner’s moneyman, Philip Jamek, who had just tried to kill them. Harvath was certain the man knew something. Even the smallest detail might help illuminate the dark abyss in which the American intelligence community was working. Without Jamek, no one would ever know who had been behind the ambush of the Special Operations team and Harvath couldn’t let that happen. He had made those fallen men a promise.
He looked directly at Cheng, and awaited his response. He hadn’t noticed it before, but apparently Cheng’s arm had been injured in the explosion.
“What happened to your arm?”
“It’s not my arm, its my shoulder, and don’t worry about it. If there’s a chance to bring Jamek down without killing him, I’ll try that first, but if I have to go for the kill, I won’t hesitate.”
“Can you even shoot?” asked Harvath.
“I said don’t worry about it. Now, where the hell do we start?” asked Cheng as they moved cautiously forward. “This place is enormous. He could be anywhere by now.”
Cheng’s question was immediately answered by the sound of gunfire from the front of the casino.
As the pair reached the entrance, they noticed bullet holes everywhere. What, or who, the hell was this guy shooting at? The casino’s ornate glass doors were completely shattered, and a carpet of broken glass lay across the threshold. Wind and rain whipped inside from the ferocious storm. Harvath had to hold up his arm to shield his face from the weather.
He could barely make out the sky outside. It was an eerie purplish black. Though the hotel had not made any announcements, he knew the storm must now be up to a signal 9, meaning it would be passing close, or possibly even a signal 10, which indicated the typhoon would make a direct hit.
As he continued to peer outside, the movement of a figure under the awning caught his eye. It was Jamek and he had his back to them. Harvath signaled Cheng and tightened his grip around his SDU-issued Glock. They hugged the side of the building and fought against the wind as they crept closer.
Ten meters away, Cheng yelled for Jamek to drop his weapon. Thinking maybe he couldn’t hear him above the roar of the wind, Cheng yelled again. There was something that sounded like thunder, but the two claps came too close together. Jamek spun, and both Harvath and Cheng readied to fire. Jamek was holding an MP5K submachine gun. In the violence of his spin, his arm careened strangely above his head, and he emptied the weapon’s magazine into the awning above. Before either Scot or Sammy could return fire, the man fell facedown onto the pavement.
Confused, they moved cautiously over to Jamek, their weapons ready. When they were close enough, Cheng kicked the man’s submachine gun away and Scot turned him over. Blood poured from large bullet wounds to his chest and forehead. Harvath’s examination was cut short by the sound of heavy tires spinning on the wet pavement as a large, silver Mercedes sedan headed right for them.
The driver was dressed completely in black and wore some sort of ski mask over his face. In the instant that he had, Scot saw only the driver’s eyes. Their color, even through the glass of the Mercedes, was like nothing he had ever seen. They were a shade of silver, almost like mercury, that bordered on being black. Harvath was convinced it was a trick of the light, yet he was instantly drawn to them, into them. He shook the feeling off just in time to spin away from the speeding car as Sammy Cheng opened fire. His bullets went wide. Only two managed to reach their target, and even then, all they hit was the trunk of the Mercedes as it sped away.
“Who the hell was that?” yelled Cheng against the wind as he painfully lowered his weapon.
“Looks like we’re not the only people hunting lions today,” Scot yelled back.
“Let’s grab our car and go after him.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Scot as he motioned Sammy to follow.
Under the awning and off to the side was the valet’s padlocked key box. With the butt of his pistol, Harvath hammered the padlock and broke it off with one blow. He quickly looked inside and grabbed the key he wanted. Fifteen feet away was a black Audi TT Roadster.
Harvath unlocked the doors with the remote, and he and Cheng jumped in.
“Good choice,” said Sam.
“No kidding.”
Harvath tore after the Mercedes and its mysterious assassin. He was on the street and in fifth gear before Cheng even had his seat belt on. There were absolutely no cars on the roads. People were already home with their storm shutters drawn or were camped out in one of Macau’s typhoon shelters.
The wind was incredibly strong and it was all Harvath could do to keep them from spinning out of control. Finally, by San Francisco Hill, they caught sight of the Mercedes. Harvath downshifted into fourth and stepped on the pedal, sending the tachometer into the red. Cheng replaced his spent magazine with a fresh one.
Harvath was gaining on the Mercedes when a series of tight turns made him fall behind.
“He’s playing with us,” said Cheng.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, our grand tour continues. Only now, you’re getting to see the route the Macau Grand Prix takes.”
Harvath had been getting the runaround all day and was now officially pissed off. It was time for it to stop.
“Any good straightaways in this race, Sammy?” he asked.
“Right after the Fisherman’s Bend. It’ll be coming up soon.”
“Fine, when we hit it, I want you to grab the wheel.”
“Why?”
“Because with your shoulder you can’t shoot worth shit and I’ve got an idea.”
“Whatever you’re going to do, I hope it works.”
Harvath pulled a pair of Cyclone glasses from the pocket of his cargo pants. The wraparound glasses had padded eyecups, which like goggles, protected eyes from wind, debris, and even water at full throttle.
“We’re coming up to the straightaway now,” said Cheng.
Harvath downshifted and redlined the tachometer once again. He set the cruise control and hit the automatic window button as he popped on the Cyclone glasses and tightened the foam safety band around his head. He let go of the wheel and crawled out the window until he was sitting on the sill.
He kept his face turned into the wind, which helped keep the glasses plastered to his face and the rain out of his eyes. The Glock pistol felt as light as a feather as the wind threatened to tear it from his hands. Summoning all of his strength, he managed to rest it on the roadster’s canvas top and point it at the speeding Mercedes. He took aim and let loose a thunderous volley of fire. The Mercedes’s rear window shattered, and the left rear tire exploded in a maelstrom of screaming black rubber. For a moment, Harvath thought he could make out the driver’s silver-black eyes in the rearview mirror before the Mercedes swerved out of control.
Totally drenched, Harvath quickly slid back inside the Audi.
The driver of the Mercedes had regained some control and was now speeding ahead of them on only three tires and a rim. When they neared the Mandarin Oriental hotel, the Mercedes fishtailed wildly in a hard right, and Scot realized he had come full circle.