Shooting Gallery: A Dewey Andreas Short Story

by Ben Coes

  He cut right, down a thin alley only a few feet wide, passing blue shutters that were latched shut, always moving downhill in the direction of the water. After several more turns, he came to the end of a small street and was across from the water.

  He came to the end of a small alley. He was across from the ocean.

  A long, sandy beach ran across the waterfront. It was deserted, empty, and dark, with tall wooden lifeguard stations every hundred feet. The area just in front of the beach was cordoned off for swimmers. Beyond, the waters were dotted with small fishing scows, motorboats, and a few sailboats. Looming behind them were a half-dozen larger yachts, moored off the beautiful coastal village. One in particular stood out: a long white yacht at least two hundred feet in length, beyond the rest of the boats.

  A pair of jetties stuck out from the shore to the left.

  Dewey moved past shops and restaurants, skulking in the shadows until he came to the beach. In darkness, Dewey removed the backpack, windbreaker, and then his shoes and pants. Beneath, he had on a short-sleeved tactical wet suit that came down to the middle of his thighs. He pulled on a set of waterproof four-quads, night-vision optics, pulling them down over his head and leaving them dangling around his neck. He retrieved a pair of flippers from the backpack and walked to water’s edge, pulling them on, then dived silently into the water.

  Dewey swam sidestroke to his right, keeping his head above water, weaving through the various boats that were moored close to shore. His quiet swim took twenty minutes until finally he passed the last line of moorings. He kept going, paddling quietly out into the dark waters way beyond all the boats.

  In front of him, several hundred feet away, he could see the transom of the massive yacht. A few dim lights were visible, shining a wan yellow onto the façade of the yacht where its name was painted in fanciful script. He was too far away to read it. He pulled the four-quads up over his eyes and flipped them on so he could see better.

  ЗАКОН ДЖУНΓЛЕЙ was painted on the back of the boat. Roughly translated, it meant “law of the jungle.”

  Dewey scanned the yacht with the four-quads in normal mode, the same as a set of high-powered binoculars. He saw no one. He flipped the four-quads into thermal mode. Where before he’d seen only blackness, he now saw two white skeletons on deck, moving in military-like fashion along the port side of the yacht, looking for intruders.

  Dewey kept swimming until he was several hundred feet out beyond the yacht. Then he turned, cutting left, aiming for an area far past the yacht on its starboard side, the furthest and thus darkest side of the boat. He needed to be out beyond the watchful eyes of whatever guards were patrolling the deck.

  After ten minutes of silent swimming, he arrived at a point approximately a hundred feet out beyond the large yacht. He reached to a pocket on the chest of the wet suit and removed a small silver canister the size of a cigar. This was a ditch pipe, designed to give its user a few blasts of oxygen beneath the water.

  Dewey dived down and swam beneath the water toward the yacht, kicking his feet furiously. He moved beneath the water until he was able to see the white of the hull. Instead of surfacing for air, he kept swimming, putting the ditch pipe in his mouth and pressing the end. A large burst of oxygen filled his mouth and lungs. He kept moving until he was directly below the boat. He let himself float up toward the hull, taking one last kick of oxygen then letting the device drop and sink as his hands found the fiberglass of the hull. He brought himself slowly up the curve of the hull along the starboard side of the boat until finally he breached the surface, quietly catching his breath.

  Dewey treaded water a few inches out from the hull. He pulled the four-quads up from his neck and left them wrapped across his forehead.

  The yacht’s gunnel ran a few feet above the waterline. Small red lights dotted the gunnel every ten feet or so. Above that was a shiny brass railing. A long line of porthole windows reflected above the waterline, each one dark except one to the far right, near the bow, which glowed a dull yellow.

  Reaching up and grabbing the railing was out of the question—it would make too much noise.

  Dewey pulled the optics down over his eyes and scanned along the railing, looking for gunmen. He didn’t see anyone. He treaded gently back to the hull, placing his hands against the smooth fiber-glass, cloaking himself beneath it, then inched his way toward the stern of the yacht. Suddenly, he heard a voice. It was a man’s voice—deep and staccato, the words Russian. He sounded as if he was just above him. A muted response came from the far side of the boat. The other gunman, also speaking Russian.

  Dewey took a deep breath and slipped silently beneath the water. He pushed his hands against the hull to create leverage, enabling him to move lower and lower beneath the boat. When he was deep enough to kick, he pushed one last time and aimed toward the sea floor, swimming underneath the hull of the boat, which loomed a spectral white above him. When he came to the stern, he stopped kicking and let himself drift up to the surface. He reached his hand out as he arose, grabbing the corner of the yacht. A stainless steel ladder for swimming jutted down beneath the waterline. He held it for a few moments and then moved around to the front of the ladder. He held himself below the waterline, trying to look up through the water. But as he was about to surface he saw a dark figure—one of the gunmen—moving slowly along the stern of the boat. Dewey waited, still holding his breath, watching as the man moved lackadaisically back and forth. He could make out the outline of a rifle in his hands, black steel catching a glint of what little light emanated from the yacht’s running lights. The gunman seemed to pause for a few moments. Dewey felt his lungs tighten. When, finally, the gunman didn’t move, Dewey had no choice. He clutched the ladder and let his nose and mouth surface for the briefest of moments, exhaling quietly, taking a breath, then submerging again.

  For the next fifteen minutes, the pattern repeated itself as the gunman remained poised along the stern of the ship. Had the man heard something? Finally, Dewey watched as he moved to the left and walked along the port deck away from the stern.

  Dewey climbed silently up the ladder and crawled onto a low, flat teak swimming platform. He removed his fins and scanned quickly, seeing no one. Dewey unzipped one of the airtight pockets on the wet suit, removing the pistol. He chambered a round then pushed the safety off. He screwed in the suppressor. He remained on one knee, crouching on the swim platform.

  The yacht was two stories high, not to mention whatever lay below the waterline. On the roof, the spiny outline of a helicopter could be seen.

  A short set of stairs led from the swimming platform to the deck, where lounge chairs and tables were neatly arrayed beneath a white sailcloth canopy. Beyond was a door.

  He heard footsteps and then saw the light to the left suddenly shift as one of the gunmen approached. Still kneeling, Dewey swept the gun left just as the gunman came into view. The man’s eyes registered Dewey just as Dewey pumped the trigger. A dull thud mixed with the sound of the ocean. The bullet struck the gunman in the left eye, kicking him backwards. He grunted as he fell to the deck. Dewey charged up the stairs to the deck and cut right, along the starboard side of the boat, running barefoot along the thin wood gunnel. He heard a shout from the back of the yacht just as he reached an opening beneath the sailcloth canopy and cut left, charging across the deck to the port side of the boat, hoping to take the other thug by surprise. But just as he came to the far edge of the yacht he caught the faint sound of a boot hitting against a hard surface behind him. Dewey stopped, pivoted, and dropped to his chest just as the second gunman emerged from the opening Dewey had just come through. Dewey fired, two silenced bullets, a dull, metallic thwack thwack followed by a heaving groan as the bullets struck the man in the chest, cutting him down and dropping him over the side of the boat, where he made a dull splash.

  Dewey moved to the door and stepped inside the yacht. All the lights were extinguished except for a lamp in the corner. Dewey went to it and turned it off. He
pulled the four-quads down over his eyes and flipped them on, flaming the night optics. Suddenly, the yacht’s interior was illuminated in eerie, apocalyptic orange.

  He stepped through the room, a dining room with a massive round table in the middle. He clutched his weapon in his right hand as he stepped around the table, dripping water as he made his way deeper into the yacht.

  Beyond the dining room was a large kitchen. A stairwell in the corner led to the second floor. He ascended quietly and stepped into a long, darkened hallway, guided only by the four-quads.

  He counted seven stateroom doors in all, three on each side and one at the end of the hallway.

  Dewey unzipped the pocket on his left thigh, removing the two cubes of SEMTEX.

  He took out the detonator-small and black. Each side of it was adorned with a button—one orange, one gray.

  Dewey took one of the explosives and peeled off the adhesive covering the back, then knelt and stuck it against the wall just a few feet into the hallway. He moved down the hallway to the last door on the right. Dewey paused outside the door. Gently, he jiggled the door handle. It was locked. He unzipped a pocket on the right thigh of his wet suit and removed a pick gun, then stuck it against the small keyhole and pressed the trigger. The device, designed to pick all manner of locks, made a low humming noise. He watched impatiently for several seconds, precious moments, expecting to hear the lock turn. Instead, the pick gun continued a low grinding hum and then abruptly stopped.

  Dewey heard a voice coming from somewhere outside, and then another. Someone was yelling out on the deck.

  Someone had discovered the first guard’s body.

  Quickly, Dewey took the other explosive and peeled off the plastic covering the back. He reached out and stuck the device on the door.

  A second later, a shrill alarm pierced the corridor. Bright red strobe lights started flashing, flooding the corridor with light.

  Dewey walked back toward the entrance to the hallway, not too fast. He removed the four-quads and dropped them on the ground, then unzipped a pocket beneath his right armpit. He removed a second handgun—SIG P226. He spread his arms, training the gun in his left hand on the entrance to the hallway and the weapon in his right hand in the opposite direction—back down the hallway toward the two bedroom doors. The detonator was in his right hand, along with the butt of the P226.

  He heard footsteps on the staircase to his left just as the door at the end of the hall to his right opened and a large, bald man emerged, a pistol in his hand. He aimed at Dewey, even as Dewey held him in the firing line of the P226.

  A second later, a frantic gunman entered the hallway, clutching a submachine gun and training it on Dewey. He was joined by a second man, who also held a submachine gun. The two men flanked the entrance to the hallway.

  Dewey was hemmed in.

  Dewey stood approximately halfway down the hallway, arms spread, one gun aimed at the Russian, the other at the gunmen.

  “Turn off the fucking alarm!” barked the Russian.

  A moment later, the hallway went silent. The red strobes continued to flash. No one moved.

  “I’m not here for you,” said Dewey, turning and glancing at the oligarch. “I’m here for Flaherty.”

  “Do you have any idea who the fuck I am–”

  “No, and I don’t care,” said Dewey. “I’m here for Flaherty. Tell your men to lower their guns.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Dewey triggered both guns, one after the other, the one in his left hand twice. Three dull metallic thuds—spit spit spit—echoed in the corridor. Both gunmen at the head of the hallway were hit by bullets, the man on the right in the forehead, the other in the mouth, both falling backwards. In the same moment, the oligarch let out a pained grunt, the lone bullet fired in his direction striking him in the right shoulder. He dropped to the ground, his handgun falling from his grip.

  Dewey checked to make sure the guards weren’t moving, then glanced at the Russian.

  “I didn’t kill you,” said Dewey, “and I won’t kill you if you cooperate. Where’s the key to Flaherty’s room?”

  The oligarch’s face was beet red. He clutched his right shoulder. Blood seeped out over his fingers.

  “What did he do?”

  “He killed my wife. Now where’s the key?”

  Dewey heard the metallic friction from behind him—the slat action of someone chambering a round.

  “Drop the gun,” came a voice from behind him.

  It was an American, a voice Dewey recognized. Dewey didn’t know Flaherty’s voice, but he knew this man’s. A voice from his past. Nasally and vicious.

  “I said drop it,” the man repeated.

  Dewey turned his head. The man was thin, dressed in a silk bath-robe, glasses on. He held a handgun which was aimed at Dewey’s back.

  “Gant,” said Dewey.

  Josh Gant, the former CIA deputy director, a traitor who’d tried but failed to have Hector Calibrisi—and Dewey—murdered.

  “Very good,” said Gant. “Now drop the guns, both of them.”

  Dewey lowered both his arms and placed the weapons on the ground. The oligarch grabbed his own weapon from the ground with his left hand.

  “Your timing is impeccable, Josh,” said the Russian, who stood and aimed the gun at Dewey.

  “With your permission, Constantin,” said Gant, “I’d like to be the one to kill him.”

  Dewey watched the oligarch’s face. He nodded, staring hatefully at Dewey as blood poured down from his shoulder.

  “By all means,” said the oligarch. “You just saved my life.”

  Dewey turned to face Gant. In his hand, Dewey still held the detonator, and he cupped his hand, shielding it from view. Gant trained the gun on Dewey. Gant looked nervous. His eyes fixated on one of the submachine guns. A maniacal smile crept across his lips. He kept the pistol aimed at Dewey as he slowly knelt down and picked up the MP7. He left the handgun on the ground and slowly stood up.

  Dewey knew Peter Flaherty had taken refuge in the employ of the oligarch, but Josh Gant was a surprise. Gant had once been the CIA’s youngest deputy director in history. But like Flaherty, Gant had chosen a treacherous path, attempting to kill Hector Calibrisi, the director of the CIA, and take over the Agency. Dewey had traveled half a world away to hunt down Flaherty. Before tonight, he wouldn’t have traveled a hundred yards to kill Gant—but now that he had the chance, well, why not?

  “Any last words, Dewey?” said Gant as he aimed the submachine gun at Dewey’s head.

  “Yes,” said Dewey, his eyes pivoting between Gant, the muzzle of the submachine gun, and the Russian behind him. “I want to apologize, Josh.”

  Gant laughed—a humorless cackle.

  “For getting me removed from Langley?” said Gant angrily. “Exiled? Arrest warrants issued by twenty-seven different countries? Is that why you want to apologize to me, Dewey?”

  “No,” said Dewey. “For this.”

  He clenched his fist, depressing both buttons on the detonator—and the air was abruptly pulverized. The explosions ripped the air at both ends of the corridor in a fiery burst of dust and fire. The ground shook. The noise was deafening.

  Gant was just a few feet from the device when the bomb behind him detonated. He was blown hard and sideways, the bomb eviscerating his legs, tearing one off at the knee, along with part of his torso and arm. He flew into the wall and down. He screamed in agony, a bloodcurdling cry.

  Dewey picked up the Colt from the ground. He walked toward the end of the hallway. The Russian oligarch was facedown against the wall, dead, part of his back cratered away by the explosion. Blood was everywhere. The door to the suite next to the oligarch’s was off its hinges, kicked inward. Dewey came to the opening and waited a brief moment, then—with the weapon extended in front of him—entered, firing. A loud scream followed one of the shots. Dewey stopped firing. He saw Flaherty on the ground. His neck was bleeding badly. The bullet had struck him dead center in the larynx.


  Dewey stepped over Flaherty, a leg on each side of him. He trained his gun on Flaherty’s head. A light by the bed cast a low yellow hue in the room.

  Flaherty struggled to breathe. Both of his hands clutched his throat, as if he could prevent what was happening.

  “That was for killing my wife,” said Dewey.

  “I didn’t kill her,” he coughed. “Kyrie did.”

  “Anyone who had anything to do with that program killed her.”

  “We were taking orders.”

  “Oh,” said Dewey. “I didn’t know. In that case, let me get a doctor.”

  Dewey lowered the gun away from Flaherty’s head, then triggered it. The bullet ripped into Flaherty’s thigh. Flaherty’s eyes went wide in the same moment he let out a horrific scream.

  “You know, if you had just said I’m sorry I might’ve let you live,” said Dewey. He fired again, sending a bullet into Flaherty’s chest, killing him. “Actually, that’s not true.”

  Dewey walked down the hallway, finding the P226 and sticking it back in one of the watertight pockets on the wet suit. He came to Gant, who was on the ground, his eyes open, dead. Dewey triggered the gun once, twice, three times, three point-blank shots in the center of Gant’s chest.

  He moved quickly down the hallway, charging down the stairs and through the kitchen and dining room. He found his fins on the swim platform and pulled them on, then put the other gun in one of the airtight pockets. He glanced one last time at the massive yacht, then dived silently into the warm water.

  3

  PUNGGYE-RI, NORTH KOREA

  The town of Punggye-ri spread out over more than fifty square miles. Despite its vast size, Punggye-ri had precisely zero inhabitants.

  A long, winding dirt road cut through an area at Punggye-ri’s eastern border. The land in this part of the town was barren and flat. What little vegetation there was consisted of a few patches of scraggly looking scrub brush. Because of this, the small building at the end of the winding dirt road could be seen—on a clear day—from miles away. This was no accident.