Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  “What do you mean, ‘unarmed’?”

  “Leave the guns. Dewey, you’re going to be scanned and patted down by experts,” said Jenna. “If they find a weapon on you, they’ll kill you.”

  “How many men are we talking about?”

  “Four or five would be my guess, though we don’t know for sure. Now listen up. There are two electric shuffling machines,” said Jenna, “though you shouldn’t even need to deal any cards. The syringe will be taped to the underside of the card table. A gun will be hidden next to it. Yong-sik gambles alone. If his goons are outside, you need to poison him without him calling for help. If any of his men stay in the suite while he plays, you need to kill them.”

  “Fine, I got it.”

  “Just remember, Dewey, be careful with the poison,” said Jenna. “There’s one antidote and it’s in Pyongyang. You can’t play around.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Now get moving,” said Jenna. “He should be finishing dinner any minute. Good luck.”

  “Was there anything more on Paria?” said Dewey.

  “No, nothing.”

  * * *

  Yong-sik took a sip of wine and looked at Paria. Paria was talking on his phone, saying something in Arabic. Finally, he hung up the phone. He looked at Yong-sik’s interpreter.

  “The objects we discussed are moving toward the Port of Nampo,” said Paria quietly. “They’ll be there in a few hours.”

  “I will make sure we’re ready to receive them.”

  “What about the”—Paria paused, looking around, then whispered—“objects?”

  Yong-sik glanced to a table nearby. A man in a dark suit met his eyes and nodded.

  “They’ve been put aboard your plane,” said Yong-sik.

  “Excellent,” said Paria, smiling.

  “I’m grateful,” said Yong-sik, reaching out and shaking Paria’s hand. “My country is grateful.”

  “As are we,” said Paria. “The … objects are all capable of hitting the United States,” he whispered. “Just put them on the launchpad, hit the button, and say bye-bye Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, Boston. You get the picture. Now, I must go.”

  “Why such a rush?” said Yong-sik.

  “I am flying back tonight.”

  Paria quietly scanned the dimly lit restaurant.

  “Too many people want me dead,” said Paria, standing. “Macau isn’t safe, not for anyone.”

  22

  GRAND HYATT HOTEL

  MACAU

  Dewey mixed the tubes of black hair color and massaged it back through his hair. He took the electric razor and shaved off his beard but left his mustache intact, using the last of the hair dye to color that as well. He took a quick shower, put on the tuxedo, and locked everything—weapons, commo, his real identification—in the safe.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. It had been an easy set of alterations—drugstore hair color and an electric razor—yet he was surprised at how different he looked. The rich brown tan of his skin helped. He looked Spanish—like a bullfighter, or a model.

  As he stepped toward the door, his eyes were drawn to a table next to the bed. There was a small pad of paper there, along with a pen. He took the pen and put it in his jacket pocket, then left the room.

  Always know where your weapon is.

  He walked the two blocks from the Grand Hyatt to the Mandarin. As he was about to go inside, he looked at his watch. It was a few minutes before ten. He still had an hour before he was to meet the casino crew chief, a man named Yao, who would insert him into Yong-sik’s card crew.

  * * *

  Paria said good-bye to Yong-sik and arose from the table. As he walked to the lobby of the Mandarin, he put his phone to his ear and dialed.

  “Kaivan,” he said. “I’m just leaving now. Have the plane ready to go.”

  “Yes, General,” said Kaivan.

  Paria walked through the lobby of the hotel. His eyes were drawn to a man in a tuxedo who was coming in through the hotel’s main entrance. He was large and walked with the calm demeanor of an athlete, his eyes scanning the lobby as if hunting for prey. He had a mustache and neatly combed dark hair. He looked, for a brief series of moments, Spanish. But Paria saw through the subtle disguise. It was a man who, for three years, had crowned the list of enemies of the Islamic Republic of Iran, two of Paria’s VEVAK agents had died a few months before in the French Alps trying to kill. It was the man who stole Iran’s first—and only—fully operational nuclear device. An American. The American.

  By God, it was Dewey Andreas.

  Paria immediately stopped and scanned the lobby. He turned and walked toward the concierge desk. It was a small miracle the American hadn’t seen him first.

  Paria turned sharply and moved past the concierge’s desk, out of sight line. He pulled out his phone and dialed Kaivan.

  “Get over here,” said Paria. “Immediately!”

  “What is it?” said Kaivan.

  “Andreas is at the hotel,” said Paria.

  There was a long pause, then Kaivan spoke.

  “Do you think…” Kaivan started. “Do you think he knows you’re here?”

  “No,” seethed Paria. “He’s not here for me. It’s some sort of operation, perhaps involving Yong-sik.”

  “We need to warn him—”

  “Shut up,” said Paria, watching from behind a pillar as Andreas walked into the Mandarin’s lobby bar. “We don’t need to warn anyone. We need to kill Dewey Andreas.”

  * * *

  Dewey entered the lobby of the Mandarin. It was modern and elegant, busy yet hushed. On the other side of the lobby, he heard the din of voices and laughter coming from the hotel bar. He looked at his watch one more time and walked to the bar, taking a seat at the bar.

  “Puedo tomar su orden, señor?” said the bartender in Spanish.

  “Dos borbones americano y dos cervezas, por favor,” said Dewey.

  “En seguida, señor.”

  The bar was crowded and, as Dewey waited for his drinks, he glanced around. It was mostly couples, along with a few groups of men. All of them, no doubt, getting ready to go out for a night of gambling.

  When the drinks came, Dewey took one of the bourbons and threw it back. He then drank the beer down in three or four large gulps. He paused for a few moments, looked at his watch, then took a small sip from the second beer, nursing it as he bided time. He got the bartender’s attention.

  “El baño, señor?” Dewey said.

  “Allá, por el pasillo, señor.”

  Dewey walked through the bar to a dimly lit hallway, then entered the empty, brightly lit restroom.

  At the sink across from the door, he turned on the water as he pushed his hand back through his hair. His eyes looked glassy and a little bloodshot, but he was alert.

  The door burst open.

  Reflected in the mirror, Dewey caught the black, murderous eyes of a very large man. He barely had time to register the man’s face, barely had time to remember. He was coming too fast. Whoever it was was coming to kill him.

  Paria.

  The Iranian lurched through the door and charged like a madman at Dewey. In his right hand, Paria clutched a knife. He sprinted at Dewey, who kept his back turned. An animalistic grunt came from Paria as he lunged across the restroom.

  In the mirror, Dewey registered a second man just behind Paria, a tall, thin Iranian in a business suit. Dewey left the water running and reached to his chest, removing the pen from his blazer pocket.

  Paria raised the blade to his right and swung at Dewey—from behind—slashing the silver steel in the direction of Dewey’s neck.

  Dewey waited, watching in the mirror, timing his next move. At the last possible instant, Dewey ducked, rotated a quarter turn, then burst back toward Paria with his shoulder, slamming Paria just above his waist. Paria’s legs went out from underneath him before he could stab the knife into Dewey. He was airborne for a second, then fell on his back onto the hard marble floor.


  Dewey kept moving, surging across the bathroom toward the second killer. The man was already moving toward Dewey, swinging at him with another knife.

  Dewey anticipated it, ducking sideways. The knife missed, the blade cut the air just inches from Dewey’s face. The Iranian was exposed.

  Dewey swung the pen viciously through the air, but the Iranian was quick, ducking, avoiding Dewey’s swing. He swiped at Dewey a second time, a violent, trained slash. The blade struck Dewey at his left forearm, but Dewey struck in the same moment, swinging the pen viciously through the air. The killer’s combat blade grazed Dewey’s arm in the same moment the pen’s steel tip thrust into his skull. Dewey gored the pen tip deep into the man’s temple. The pen penetrated skin, then deeper. Blood shot left as the pen broke through the membrane.

  The thug collapsed to the ground as Dewey swiveled—facing Paria.

  Paria was on his feet again. He squared off against Dewey, a combat knife in his right hand. Paria flicked it at Dewey, stalking toward him. Paria lurched, swinging with his right arm. Dewey blocked Paria’s forearm with his left hand as the blade ripped toward him, then punched Paria in the nose, jerking Paria’s skull abruptly backwards. Blood shot from Paria’s nostrils.

  Paria shuffled back and put his fingers to his nose. His fingers came away covered in blood. He eyed Dewey with hatred.

  Paria moved toward Dewey and swung again, a vicious slash at Dewey’s neck. Dewey jerked his head back, evading the knife, then sent a vicious kick up into Paria’s neck, snapping his head backwards. He followed the kick with a savage strike of the pen, stabbing it through Paria’s left cheek, then yanking it back out.

  Paria staggered backwards, stepping toward the urinals, trying to settle down, trying to slow things down. In his right hand Paria still clutched a knife. He felt for his left cheek with his other hand. Again, his hand came back covered in blood.

  “They taught you well,” said Paria, breathing rapidly, his nose and cheek gushing blood. “Tell me, Dewey, why are you in Macau?”

  It had been many years since the endless, monotonous training; KAPAP, Eskrima, Brazilian jujitsu. All of it had been taught to Dewey and the other members of his Delta class by a South African named Johannes and his small team of martial arts experts. Dewey had fought for hours on end, for days on end, for weeks and months on end, with hands and face covered in blood, had sometimes been beaten unconscious. He’d fought so much it had eventually become part of him. It all came back to him now as he stared down Paria, whose face ran red with crimson.

  Calmly, Paria wiped his blood-soaked fingers on his shirt as his left cheek ran red down to his short collar.

  Dewey stared like a hunter at Paria, who was backed up against the wall.

  Over Paria’s shoulder, Dewey eyed the door—

  Paria shook his head. The message was clear:

  Only one of us leaves this bathroom alive.

  Dewey clutched the pen in his right hand. He stepped back and squared off against Paria, who still gripped the knife.

  Paria came at him, holding the blade out in front of him. He took one step, then another. He leapt at Dewey, spearing the knife blade at Dewey’s torso. Dewey dodged left, avoiding the blade, then swung the tip of the pen at Paria’s mauled face.

  Paria caught Dewey’s wrist with his left hand as the pen tip came within a quarter inch of his left eye. Paria’s hand was big and gripped Dewey’s wrist like a vise.

  Paria yanked hard—his strength was tremendous—and sent Dewey tumbling to the ground. Dewey’s head struck the base of the corner of the sink. The pen popped from Dewey’s hand and careened toward the door, away from him.

  Paria descended onto Dewey, who lay on the ground, faceup. The blade was in Paria’s right hand. Bleeding badly from his nose and cheek, Paria was smiling. He raised his right hand and took a hatchet swing from above. Dewey saw the blade as it glinted in the light. He pushed with his hand against the sink, then kicked up at Paria’s head. Dewey’s foot landed squarely in Paria’s badly damaged nose, crushing it. Dewey felt bones break as his foot made contact.

  For the first time, Paria screamed out in agony, an animal moan, dropping the knife. Blood poured from both nostrils as Paria stumbled backwards, but somehow managed to remain on his feet.

  Dewey climbed to his feet. He charged at Paria, punched Paria’s chest with his right fist; it was like hitting a tree. He swung again, this time lower, at his rib cage, with everything he had. But still, Paria remained standing.

  Paria hammered a left fist into Dewey’s chest, pushing Dewey back. Paria swung again, catching Dewey in the rib cage, as Dewey flailed a punch that caught nothing but air, and then Paria swung yet again, his right fist in a roundhouse blow that caught Dewey squarely in the chin, sending his head sharply backwards.

  Dewey remained standing, his vision momentarily blurred and dizzy. He could feel it then, the surge of warmth. It started in his neck and shot out concentrically, like a drug. It was the feeling he knew. The feeling that was behind it all. It spread across Dewey as the figure of the hulkish Paria moved toward him:

  No man can kill you.

  Paria swung again, right fist to the ribs, then left. Dewey absorbed the blows as Paria moved him backwards, against the wall. Paria swung at Dewey’s head, striking him behind the ear with a painful punch. He swung again, this time with all his might. He wanted a knockout blow to Dewey’s head. Paria’s feet left the floor.

  Dewey ducked. Paria’s fist struck the marble wall, his fingers cracked against the hard stone, and he recoiled.

  Dewey kicked Paria in the groin, bending him forward, then followed the kick with a punch to the forehead, jerking Paria back.

  Paria caught himself, letting the jab push his head to an upright position. He leapt at Dewey, tackling him at the waist and wrestling him to the ground. Dewey landed hard, on his back, next to a growing pool of blood. Paria landed on top of him. He seized Dewey’s arm and twisted, causing Dewey to wince in pain, but Paria wouldn’t let go of it as he moved his other hand to Dewey’s neck.

  The Iranian was now on top of him, at least 275 pounds of muscle and hatred.

  Paria let go of Dewey’s arm and wrapped both hands around Dewey’s neck now, gripping it tightly, strangling him.

  Dewey tried to punch at Paria but it was useless, like striking a wall. He struggled for air as the Iranian dug his fingers deeply into his trachea, choking him, trying to break his neck. Dewey was weakening, struggling for air, and he stopped punching at Paria. He searched desperately with his hands. He felt for one of the knives, slapping at the blood-covered marble in vain.

  He felt blackness coming on through the lack of air.

  Through intense pain, Dewey searched with his arms. He slapped the ground, feeling along the wet floor. But he found nothing. Still, he kept searching as Paria choked him, staring with black fury into Dewey’s eyes. Paria kneaded the neck, watching Dewey turn blue, choking him violently.

  Dewey felt something then. It was the pen. It was there, just beyond his fingertips. It was against the wall. It was just out of reach, but he kept fingering the ground as he felt the lack of oxygen, and the sheer weight on top of him.

  And then Dewey’s fingers found the pen and picked it up.

  He was weak now. He gripped the pen, trying to simply muster the strength to swing at Paria, but he could not.

  Don’t give up.

  Dewey felt a strange sense of calm. He studied Paria’s neck. A big vein bulged on the right side of it as he choked Dewey. Dewey closed his eyes and swung as hard as he could, slashing the tip of the pen into the side of Paria’s neck. The tip gored through skin and muscle, ripping deeply into Paria’s neck, penetrating flesh, veins, and Dewey’s target, Paria’s carotid artery. Blood shot right from Paria’s neck as if from a hose. The pen stuck out from the side of Paria’s neck and blood poured out. Paria’s hands went abruptly weak. He let go of Dewey’s neck and fell to the floor.

  Dewey fought for breath, wat
ching as Paria pulled the pen from his neck, screaming, then held his hand against his neck to try and stop the current of dark blood that flowed.

  Dewey lay on the floor, barely able to move. Paria attempted to hold his neck as blood poured down over his fingers. Dewey pushed himself up. He climbed to his feet and stood. He straightened his tie and then looked down at Paria, as Paria attempted to speak.

  “What is it, Abu?” said Dewey, trying to catch his breath. “Still wondering why I’m in Macau?”

  Through clotted throat, Paria moved his head.

  Yes.

  Dewey reached down and grabbed the neck of Paria’s shirt and ripped it up. He took the strip of cotton and removed his tuxedo coat. He wrapped the piece of material around his forearm, over his white tuxedo shirt, where he’d been grazed with the blade. He put the coat back on and looked at Paria. Dewey removed a cell and opened the camera. He snapped a few photos of Paria bleeding out on the bathroom floor, then texted them to Calibrisi.

  “Maybe I was here to kill you,” said Dewey. “Have you ever considered that?”

  Paria’s eyes fluttered. They turned white for a split second as they rolled back up into his head and he died.

  Dewey looked to his right, at the long row of stalls, each with full doors. He dragged Paria into one of the stalls and shoved his gargantuan corpse into the corner, wedged next to the toilet. He retrieved the second man, dragged him to the stall, then lifted him up and threw him on top of Paria. He went inside the stall, locked the door from the inside, then stood on the toilet and climbed out over the door.

  Dewey went to the mirror and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at his tuxedo. He could see blood in the bright lights of the bathroom. He took a hand towel and wetted it, then dabbed it where he saw blood. The jacket was also badly wrinkled, but there was nothing he could do about that. He saw a few blotches of red on the front of the shirt. There was nothing he could do about those either.

  Dewey glanced at the ground. The floor was spattered in blood, with several large pools. But there were no bodies. Someone entering the restroom wouldn’t discover the corpses immediately.