Eye for an Eye: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  Raul sighted the sniper nest atop the knoll, setting the Dragunov on its bipod. He spent several minutes calibrating the scope as well as adjusting for bullet drop. Once he had the rifle good to go, he moved it slowly back and forth along the back of the rambling stucco mansion.

  Chang pulled an MRE from his pack and ripped the tinfoil lid from it, then stuffed the food into his face.

  “We have three hours before the dead guard is discovered,” said Hu-Shao.

  Raul listened, studying the house, looking for signs of life.

  “What if I don’t get a shot?” asked Raul.

  “Then we hit the house. If you haven’t killed Andreas in two hours, we move in.”

  Raul pulled his eye from the end of the rifle scope. He stood up.

  “Where the hell are you going?” said Hu-Shao angrily.

  “To take a piss,” said Raul, pointing to his crotch. “I might work for you, Chinaman, but he doesn’t.”

  * * *

  As Raul walked off into the darkness to pee, Hu-Shao put the scope to his eye, pretending to study the house; but his eye glanced sideways, watching Raul as he walked away.

  Hu-Shao removed a 9mm Strike One from his shoulder holster. He reached into his front pocket for a suppressor, screwing it into the muzzle of the handgun.

  Chang, on his back, looked up from his MRE.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Following orders,” answered Hu-Shao, checking the magazine. “Eat your dog food and shut the fuck up.”

  He gripped the weapon and stuck it into the pocket of his Windbreaker, clutching the grip, prepared to fire.

  “What did he do?” whispered Chang.

  Hu-Shao sat down on the ground, against a rock, behind the sniper rifle. He was directly behind where Raul would be after he shot the American.

  “That’s the wrong question,” said Hu-Shao.

  “What’s the right question?”

  “The right question is, am I going to kill you too?” Hu-Shao whispered, smiling viciously.

  Chang laughed nervously.

  “When will you do it?” whispered Chang.

  “After he shoots the American.”

  * * *

  Raul walked behind the hill for several hundred feet, whistling. The sky was black and blue and dotted with stars. He unzipped his pants and peed on the ground, then began a slow walk back toward Hu-Shao and Chang. He walked nonchalantly over the hill, to the right of where he’d left. The dark outline of the ranch house was visible in the far distance, the lights from windows casting dull yellow into the evening.

  He saw Chang first, lying on the ground, next to the Dragunov. He was staring through his night optics at the ranch house.

  Hu-Shao was behind Chang and the rifle, reclined against a rock. His hand was stuffed inside the pocket of his Windbreaker. He was looking in the opposite direction, waiting for Raul to return.

  Raul removed the Colt from his jeans. He moved the safety off. He walked in silence down the slope of the hill. He aimed the gun at the back of Hu-Shao’s head. He paused for a moment, then two. Finally, as if by instinct, Hu-Shao turned.

  Hu-Shao’s eyes met Raul’s. Hu-Shao’s mouth went agape. He tried to say something but couldn’t. Then he ripped his hand—clutching the weapon—from the Windbreaker and swung it up at Raul.

  Raul pumped the trigger. There was a low mechanical thud as a slug tore a hole just above Hu-Shao’s lip, at the center of his mustache. The back of his skull exploded across the rock. Raul fired again, this time ripping a hole into Hu-Shao’s right eye, destroying the front of his face.

  Chang turned at the sound. He stared in silence and horror at the destroyed skull of Hu-Shao.

  Raul knelt and picked up the spent cartridges from his gun. He moved to Hu-Shao, picked up his weapon, then began to search for the slugs that had ripped through him.

  “It goes without saying,” said Raul, patting the grass in the twilight, not even looking up from the ground, “don’t do anything stupid or you’ll end up the same way.”

  Raul stood up and stuck the gun between his belt and back.

  “What do we do with him?”

  “Carry him out,” said Raul. “Tell them Andreas shot back.”

  Chang nodded in stunned agreement.

  “How did you know?” Chang asked.

  “I knew it the moment he stepped on the plane. In fact, I knew it before you stepped on the plane. Now let’s kill the gringo and get the fuck out of Argentina.”

  19

  ESTANCIA EL COLIBRI

  CÓRDOBA

  On the terrace outside the main house, Dewey and Jessica ate a dinner of trout, fresh tomatoes, and rice with toasted pine nuts. They shared a bottle of wine. Candles, and the stars above the Argentine sky, provided the only light.

  After dinner was done, Nico and Maria sat down and had a glass of wine with them. At some point, Maria brought out homemade strawberry shortcake.

  The couples sat talking for a long time, laughing, finishing off the bottle of wine. Finally, Nico and Maria stood to clear off plates.

  Dewey felt his eyelids getting heavy.

  “You tired?” Jessica asked.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” he said.

  Jessica shook her head, giggling.

  “Too old for what?” she asked. “Luxury ranches half a world away from anyone or anything? Sex on demand with a smoking-hot Irish girl? Gourmet dinners by candlelight?”

  “All of the above,” he said. “Especially the sex part. I think we need to slow things down a little.”

  Jessica rolled her eyes.

  “You really are not funny.”

  * * *

  Raul lay on his stomach, his right eye against the rifle scope, studying the terrace. The dim light made it hard to discern between the figures sitting at the table. Despite the relatively short firing distance, all he could see was silhouettes. There were at least four people, and while he knew he could take out several of them, he didn’t like the odds of shooting all four. So he waited, as patiently as possible. But time was running out. The guard would soon return. When he did, any chance of killing the American would be gone.

  “How long do we have?” asked Raul, keeping his eye glued to the scope.

  “It’s nearly eleven,” said Chang, trying not to sound worried. “We have an hour.”

  Raul felt his heart pick up a beat, and he shut his eyes for a brief moment, trying to calm down.

  * * *

  At eleven, Dewey and Jessica said goodnight to the Sabellas and walked to their suite.

  Jessica went to the French doors, opening them to the nighttime air. The moon and stars created a golden hue of ambient light.

  Dewey went to the armoire and took off his shirt. From the top drawer, he removed two small shiny gold objects, which he’d been hiding from Jessica. He examined them in the palm of his hand.

  He’d bought them in Manhattan. Each had cost ten thousand dollars at Tiffany’s. He could’ve bought them for half the price from a less well known jeweler, but it’s what Jessica wanted, and that was all he cared about. Dewey smiled as he looked down at the two rings.

  “Can I show you something?” he asked.

  Jessica turned from the doors, tilted her head, and smiled.

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  “It’s eleven fifteen,” said Chang, whispering urgently. “We can’t wait any longer.”

  Raul, on his stomach, breathed very slowly now, as he’d been trained to do. He looked in utter stillness through the high-powered PSO-1 scope at the woman standing in the middle of the French doors. She was facing him. Her mouth was centered in the crosshairs of the scope.

  Behind her was a man. He was tall. He stood with his back turned at the far side of the room. Andreas. Raul pressed his finger against the trigger, almost hard enough to fire the rifle but not quite.

  “She’s too close.”

  “You hit the guard from a mile out,” said Chang, encouragin
g him. “You can do it, Raul.”

  A tremor of fear made Raul shiver for a brief moment.

  “Be quiet, please,” said Raul.

  He slowed his breathing to the point of holding his breath. He studied Andreas in the scope, just to the right of the woman.

  Raul became aware of movement—to the left, back on the terrace off the kitchen. He moved the rifle ever so slightly, finding the terrace. Someone had flipped lights on. He registered a tall man with dark skin along with a woman. He moved the weapon back to the bedroom, reacquiring the sight of the woman, standing in the middle of the doorway.

  Suddenly, the woman turned, moving away from the French doors. Raul had a clean shot.

  He yanked back the trigger. The low boom of the Dragunov echoed across the dark plain, then kicked back as the rifle sent a slug through the night.

  * * *

  Dewey went to open his hand and show Jessica the two rings, just as the bedroom was interrupted by a sharp noise—abrupt, violent, an unnatural sound—the fracturing of wood, the sound combining, in a terrible second, with the smell of sawdust.

  Dewey’s head jerked right. The armoire lay mauled, a large hole cleaved, just inches from where he stood, splintering in a web of slivers and wood dust.

  His eyes turned to Jessica. She looked panicked and lost.

  Dewey, instincts suddenly taking over, lurched toward her.

  “Get down!” he screamed.

  * * *

  Raul retargeted the rifle, finding the bedroom, then Andreas. He was still standing. Raul fired again.

  * * *

  The second slug tore into Jessica’s back. The bullet kicked her sideways and down. Dewey caught her as she fell, his eyes meeting hers. He laid her on the ground, out of the way of the open doors. He looked down at her white dress. A pool of blood grew quickly, forming a neat crimson circle above her heart.

  Dewey leaned down to her. Her lips moved as she tried to say something, but no sounds came out, only a small trickle of red at the corner of her mouth.

  Dewey held her gaze as tears came to his eyes and a terrible look crossed his face. He began to cry as he held her. He kissed her forehead, unable to say or do anything. He held his lips against her forehead for several moments as his body slowly heaved. When, finally, he lifted his lips away from her, she was gone, her eyes blank pools of green that stared straight up past him.

  Dewey opened his hand. He slid one of the two rings onto her finger. He reached up and closed her eyelids.

  Dewey shut his eyes as tears came down. He was gripped by pain and grief, paralyzed; but then he heard words, a voice, speaking to him:

  Leave her now. Walk away. Leave her behind. Now isn’t the time. No you have to do the thing you were trained to do. What you were meant to do. The only thing you can do.

  Fight.

  20

  CÓRDOBA

  Through binoculars, Raul watched in horror as the woman was pummeled to the ground.

  He’d hit her—the do-not-touch—and missed Andreas. The slug had ripped her dead center in the back. She was dead.

  It didn’t take Raul too long to do the math. If Bhang was willing to kill him before, for no reason other than to frame him, he couldn’t imagine what lay in store for him now.

  “You killed the woman,” said Chang.

  Not only had Raul fucked up by killing the woman, he hadn’t completed the primary—the only—objective. If there was to be any mercy from Bhang, it would come by finishing off Andreas.

  Raul moved the rifle, ever so slightly, staring through the scope, scanning the bedroom for signs of life. He paused on the area above where she’d fallen. He waited a few moments, then pulled the trigger, firing another cartridge, blindly, into the room.

  He saw a shadow move toward the back of the room. This time he didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  As Dewey clutched Jessica, glass abruptly shattered just a foot above his head. The gunman was still out there.

  He crawled to the armoire as another slug ripped the wall, just inches in front of him.

  He yanked out the bottom drawer, dumping its contents on the ground. He searched frantically for Jessica’s tan diplomatic pouch. He found it beneath clothing. Lying on his side, shielded by the bed, he unzipped the pouch. Inside was his handgun: Colt M1911. He slammed in a mag, then aimed at the ceiling light. He pumped a bullet into the bulb. The room went black.

  * * *

  The sound of gunfire made Maria look up from the kitchen sink, where she was washing a copper pan. She dropped the pan into the soapy water, then dried her hands on her apron. A look of fear came to her face.

  “Nico!” she yelled to her husband, who was on the terrace.

  “What?”

  “Come quickly!”

  * * *

  Raul swept the weapon slowly left, finding the light of the main house.

  “We have less than an hour!” said Chang, desperately. “The guard—”

  “The guard isn’t our problem,” said Raul, calmly scanning the house.

  Raul saw movement on the terrace. It was a tall man. Was it Andreas?

  Raul pumped the trigger. The slug hit the man in the chest, throwing him backward and down to the ground.

  * * *

  Reaching into the pouch, Dewey found two more magazines, along with his combat knife. He fastened the knife sheath to his calf, crawled to the door, and sprinted down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  As he got to the main house, he heard breaking glass coming from the kitchen.

  Dewey charged into the kitchen, searching for Nico and Maria.

  Maria was kneeling in the corner, pointing in silence out at the terrace. Dewey crossed in a low crouch to the doors that led outside. Nico lay in a contorted heap, surrounded by a mess of food, broken plates, and blood. His chest showed a pancake of blood where the bullet had struck.

  Anger fueled with sorrow, hatred, and every other dark force that had ever compelled any man to kill and it took over Dewey. It washed over him like a storm tide, and he knew in those moments it would never leave him, never again; it would always be there, forever, and every step for the rest of his life, whether they killed him tonight or he lived to be a hundred, would be scarred by the pain that now coursed through him.

  He shot out the terrace light, then crawled to the wall near the French doors. He shut out the lights inside the kitchen.

  Dewey moved to Maria, kneeling against the wall. He’d never seen someone as scared. Pure terror was spread across the woman’s face. Her mouth was ajar, her lips moving in a silent scream, as tears flowed down her cheeks. Her right hand was still pointing toward her dead husband.

  Dewey felt his instincts taking over then. Whatever pain, whatever sorrow, whatever trauma was to come, it would have to wait.

  He felt himself going back to a familiar place. He was in Panama City, in the basement of the tenement, four dead SEALs by his side, trying to fight his way out of an ambush by one of Noriega’s kill squads. He was in the cold water six hundred feet below Capitana, on the ocean floor, oxygen running out, fighting for his life against two of Alexander Fortuna’s mercenaries. He was on the tarmac at Beirut Airport, side by side with Kohl Meir, hemmed in by Hezbollah to the south and Lebanese Special Forces to the north.

  It was that time he’d come to recognize, the crucible that alone was Dewey’s, a gift and a curse: the moment of the warrior.

  Dewey reached his hand out and took Maria’s hand in his own. Calmly, he placed his gun on the ground, and held her hands, comforting her. He looked into her eyes, just visible in the dim light from the night sky.

  “I need you to do something, Maria,” said Dewey.

  She stared, eyes transfixed on nothing, into the distance.

  Dewey gently squeezed her hands.

  “Can you do something for me?” asked Dewey, trying to get her back.

  Slowly, Maria’s head moved up and down, nodding yes.

  “I need
you to be strong,” said Dewey, calmly. “He needs you to be strong. Can you do that?”

  She shut her eyes. She started sobbing. Her body heaved as tears came down.

  “Where are Sabina and Alvaro?” asked Dewey.

  At the sound of her children’s names, Maria’s eyes suddenly became more alert. She tried to stand up. Dewey put one of his hands on her shoulder and held her down.

  “Where are they, Maria?”

  “Her boyfriend’s, in El Brillante.”

  “That’s good,” said Dewey. “What about Alvaro?”

  Maria paused, thinking, then again tried to lurch up, as she suddenly let out a low scream.

  “At the polo house,” said Maria, desperation in her voice. “We need to find him.”

  Dewey kept his hand on Maria’s shoulder, holding her there, against the wall.

  “I’ll take care of Alvaro. You need to hide. Is there a basement?”

  Maria pointed to a door at the far side of the kitchen.

  “Good,” said Dewey reassuringly. “Are there guns?”

  “They’re in Nico’s gun safe. I don’t know the combination.”

  Dewey reached for his Colt and handed it to her.

  “Have you ever fired a sidearm?”

  She nodded.

  “This one will kick,” said Dewey. “Hold it with both hands. I want you to take the gun and go to the basement. Find a place to hide. The next people you’ll see will probably be police; don’t shoot them. But if they’re not police, you need to kill them.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You’ll know. If it’s the bad guys, they’ll be quiet, and they probably won’t be Argentine. The police won’t be quiet; they’ll be looking for you, calling your name.”

  Maria thought for a moment, then nodded at Dewey.

  “Now go,” said Dewey. “You need to move.”

  Maria crawled across the kitchen floor, opened the basement door, and disappeared into the cellar.

  Seconds were passing, precious moments. Dewey needed to think quickly. They could be getting away.

  It had been a black-on-black design, sniper, informants, technological know-how, and, above all, audacity.

  The safe thing would be to get the authorities in here. Secure the scene. Then call Hector. Get a Langley forensics team down here to analyze the slugs. But Dewey didn’t feel like doing the safe thing. He needed to find the man who triggered the rifle that killed his fiancée, and then find the men who sent him there.