Eye for an Eye: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  66

  MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY

  BEIJING

  Bhang’s office phone buzzed. He put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then hit the button on the console.

  “What?”

  “First sighting, Minister.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Bhang hustled across his empty office, then through a door that connected to a conference room.

  At least a dozen people were in the room, either looking at laptops around the conference table or staring at one of the two massive wall-sized plasma screens.

  The left screen displayed a detailed live satellite shot of Lisbon, taken from a low-orbit Chinese military satellite in outer space. It was tied into the ministry network; flashing red lights indicated the precise location of every agent in the city. Already, eleven separate members of ministry paramilitary were in the area, along with four contractors.

  On the second wall-sized screen, a grid displayed fifteen individual squares; inside of each one was live video, coming off each agent or contractor in Lisbon, video that was being shot at various source points, including gun-mounted microcameras, on the weapons of the agents, or from cameras clipped to clothing, belts, backpacks. Several of the feeds were black, meaning the weapons were holstered or the cameras hadn’t been turned on yet.

  The room became hushed as Bhang entered.

  “We have a live report from an agent at the airport,” said Cho, one of Bhang’s deputies. “Andreas killed two men, outside the main terminal. They positioned the van across from the taxi stand. He saw them, killed them, ran.”

  Bhang took a long drag on his cigarette.

  “Okay,” he said, surprisingly calm. “Do we have video?”

  Cho nodded at one of his men, seated at the table, who punched some keys on his laptop. One of the fifteen squares on the right plasma screen enlarged; they were now looking at a live video feed from Huong’s camera. A late-model white van was sideways, its front smashed into a steel pole. A red taxi was perpendicular to the van and had collided into the front passenger side. Flashing police and ambulance lights were everywhere, along with various uniformed officers, security, EMTs. The shot was choppy, as Huong was jostled by others trying to get a better view. The scene was pandemonium.

  “I have the others fanning out from the airport.”

  Bhang stepped to the left screen. He studied the map.

  “Get men to the American embassy and the train station.”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  Bhang stepped to the video, standing before it, studying it. He pointed with his lit cigarette at the upper left corner of the screen. A small cluster of people was standing away from the chaos of the van.

  The video was silent; there was no audio.

  “What is this?” asked Bhang.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Get Huong over there. Tell him to turn on his COMM.”

  After a few moments, the picture focused in on the cluster of people.

  * * *

  As Huong approached, four people were standing in a group, three policemen and a large Portuguese man in a red shirt. Huong moved closer. One of the officers was explaining something to the Portuguese man as Huong approached.

  “My guess is, he drove it somewhere and abandoned it, sir,” the officer said, as Huong approached from behind. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you have your car back by the end of the day.”

  “Very well,” the man said. “Can someone give me a ride?”

  The policeman nodded at the accident scene.

  “You’d be better off getting a taxi, sir. We have your information. We’ll be in touch.”

  The man started to walk away, across the street, toward the central terminal.

  “Excuse me,” said Huong, approaching him. “Did something happen to your vehicle?”

  “Yes,” said the big man, looking at Huong. “Someone stole it, at gunpoint.”

  “Is this the man?”

  Huong held up his iPhone with the photo of Dewey on the screen.

  “Yes, that was him!” yelled the Portuguese man angrily, pointing at the phone. “How did you know? Show that to the policemen!”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “A white Mercedes AMG.”

  Huong turned away from the man, running toward the satellite lot where his 911 was parked.

  * * *

  Back in the ministry conference room, Cho leaned into the speaker.

  “Why didn’t you shoot him when he stepped off the plane?” barked Cho at Huong.

  “He went the other way. I never saw him.”

  “Enough,” yelled Bhang, waving his arm in the air to shut Cho up. “It doesn’t matter what happened. Focus. Where is Andreas going? Why is he going there? What does he need? If we can figure that out, we will know where he’s going before even he does. And find that white Mercedes.”

  * * *

  Dewey moved the Mercedes at more than a hundred miles an hour along the A2 toward downtown Lisbon.

  In America, his speed would have stood out. In Portugal, where there were no speed limits, he was just one of several other cars moving at more than a hundred. In fact, he was in the middle lane and was passed every half minute or so by a car moving much faster than he was.

  He tried to think, to put the pieces together. He needed a plan. He needed it right now.

  China had had a kill squad at the airport by the time they’d touched down. It was impressive and disconcerting. Dewey knew if they were able to find him in Lisbon, if they were able to figure out where he was going, they were doing things that even he couldn’t anticipate.

  They might already have the make of car he was in. Maybe there were more men on the kill team than just the two he’d already gunned down.

  Dewey kept an eye on the rearview mirror. He didn’t see anything suspicious. Twice, he exited the freeway then made abrupt cross-lane U-turns, swerving, then got back on the road; standard countersurveillance. He saw nothing suspicious.

  Still, act as if they know. Doing just that had saved his life back at the airport.

  The American embassy was the most logical destination. Next in line, train stations, then bus stations.

  He felt in his pocket for the phone card. He needed an exfiltration. He could evade Bhang for only so long. With the technology they were using, the sort of tracing and hacking Dewey only vaguely understood, he knew it was only a matter of time before they found him.

  He needed to get ahold of Hector.

  * * *

  Johnny Dowling had on a black motorcycle helmet with a black glass visor. It wasn’t a normal helmet that you could buy from a motorcycle shop, however. It had been modified by someone at the Pentagon, DARPA to be exact.

  In addition to being wired for audio and phone, the upper right corner of the helmet’s interior glass could, with a few clicks on a small ceramic ring around his thumb, ignite a graphical user interface that enabled Dowling to connect to a remote-network feed, including the Internet.

  Dowling had the black BMW S1000RR ripping down the A8 at more than 120 miles per hour.

  To Dowling’s right, a few yards behind him, was Dino Athanasia, his teammate from 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta. Athanasia straddled a bright red-and-white MV Agusta F4 RR.

  They hadn’t taken either bike full-out yet, but Dowling suspected that Athanasia would beat him in a race; Athanasia was slightly nuts. Most Deltas were nuts, but Athanasia was one click more so. Something suddenly caught Dowling’s attention. He looked back: Athanasia was doing a wheelie, cruising down the A8 on only the back wheel of the bike. Dowling glanced down. His speedometer read 134 miles per hour. Case in point.

  In his right ear, Dowling heard the beeping of a phone call.

  “Dowling.”

  “Go COMM, soldier.”

  Dowling clicked the ceramic ring, then saw the upper right screen of his visor light up. On it was a photograph of a man with brown hair, American, h
andsome, tough-looking.

  “This is Colonel Black at the Pentagon,” came a voice in their helmets. “Dowling, Athanasia: you’re on a live briefing with Langley and MI6. This is a Tac One, Code Red project. You are reassigned effective immediately. Johnny, Dino: it could get messy. Watch yourselves, and good luck.”

  Dowling knew Athanasia was examining the photo as well. He glanced left; Athanasia’s front tire was still in the air.

  “Comm check,” came a woman’s voice, in a stern British accent.

  “MI6 O’Toole.”

  “MI6 Gatewood.”

  “MI6 Farber.”

  “MI6 Mueller.”

  “CIA Lamontagne.”

  “Dowling,” said Dowling. “Delta.”

  “Athanasia, Delta.”

  “Gentlemen, this is MI6 Smythson,” came the female British voice again, “along with Langley Polk. You are joining a live MI6, CIA, Pentagon operation with no in-theater command control. The situation you’re entering is extremely fluid and highly lethal. You’re on your own, and you need to be really careful, guys. Rules of engagement no longer apply.”

  Dowling nodded at Athanasia, trying to get his attention to slow down and exit the highway. Athanasia looked back, but instead of slowing, he have him a thumbs-up and accelerated.

  “The photograph you’re looking at is American Dewey Andreas,” continued Smythson. “He is a former member of U.S. Special Forces.”

  “What branch?” asked Athanasia.

  “Delta,” said Smythson. “Andreas landed in Lisbon less than thirty minutes ago. He is being targeted for assassination by agents from Chinese intelligence. This a Code Red exfiltration. Andreas is a high-value asset.”

  “Any idea where he is?” asked Farber, one of the MI6 agents.

  “He was at the airport when we flagged him. He killed two ministry agents at the airport before fleeing.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Would he head for the embassy?”

  “He might,” said Smythson. “But we don’t know. We’re not going to speculate.”

  “Guys, Polk here in Virginia,” came the gravelly voice of Bill Polk, who Dowling knew was the top dog at CIA Special Operations Group. “Andreas ain’t necessarily gonna want to be exfiltrated. He’s a rather independent-minded fellow. I strongly suggest that if you can, you work in pairs. You might need to help convince Andreas of the need for your assistance.”

  Dowling and every other person on the call knew what Polk meant: Andreas wasn’t going to come easy.

  “Why is China trying to capture him?” asked Dowling.

  “They’re not trying to capture him,” answered Smythson. “It’s a kill squad.”

  Dowling saw an exit sign ahead. He revved the bike, pushed it to 150 miles an hour, and cut across the road in front of Athanasia. Athanasia had to slow down or else crash into him. Dowling swerved down the exit ramp, forcing Athanasia to his right, down the ramp with him.

  “Where do you want him if we get him?” asked O’Toole, another one of the MI6 agents.

  “Nearest embassy,” said Polk. “U.S., Britain, Israel, Canada, in that order. Avoid PSP. China has too many people there, and neither he, nor you, will be safe.”

  “Is anyone near the airport right now?” asked Smythson.

  “Yeah,” said Dowling. “Delta One and Two.”

  “Are you mobile?”

  “Yes,” said Dowling. “Very.”

  “I want a screen of the highways leading into the city,” said Smythson. “Run hard. Stay together. Do it quickly. Special Ops, get to the train station. I want Gatewood and Mueller over at the U.S. Embassy. Watch for snipers. O’Toole, get to a central spot downtown and work circuits, bus stations, and hotels. Farber, where are you?”

  “A Five.”

  “Head east, toward the airport.”

  “Roger.”

  “Everyone stay live on COMM. We’re looking hard for more intel, and we’ll pass it on as soon as we get it.”

  “How many on the kill team?” asked one of the MI6 agents.

  “Assume it’s at scale,” said Smythson. “Ten to fifteen guys.”

  “What this means, gentlemen,” added Polk, “is that you need to be really fucking aware of your fields of fire. There’s a shit-ton of Chinese guys running around Lisbon right now, and, as you know, they’re not very nice. They have a head start on you. If you suspect someone is Chinese intelligence, take him down.”

  “And watch yourselves,” said Smythson. “They’ll assume we’re there. I don’t have to tell you what that means. Good luck.”

  67

  BEIJING

  In Beijing, a voice abruptly interrupted the low din of conversation. It came from the speakerphone.

  “This is Chiu,” said the Chinese agent, his voice faint and scratchy. “I see him. I have him in my sights.”

  Bhang walked to the speaker.

  “What do you have, agent?” asked Bhang.

  “I have the white Mercedes, moving along the A Two,” said the agent. “I assume it’s him.”

  “How fast is he moving?” asked Bhang.

  “Very fast.”

  Bhang stepped in front of the left plasma screen, quickly assessing the live map of Lisbon proper. He found the agent’s flashing red GPS moving along the A2. Bhang studied the map, taking a drag on his cigarette. He pointed to the A2, tracing the path forward, where they were headed. A few miles ahead, he saw another flashing light, along another freeway, the A5.

  “Huong,” barked Bhang.

  “Yes, Minister,” said Huong.

  “They’re coming at you. Get ready.”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “Agent two, you have Huong in approximately five miles,” said Bhang. “I want a pinch and cut: push the Mercedes toward Huong. Don’t let him get off the road if you can help it.”

  “He marked me,” said Chiu.

  “That doesn’t matter. When you see Huong, attack the Mercedes. Watch your fields of fire, both of you. In the meantime, I want everyone else on the A2 heading north; provide backup. They will be in the opposite lane. No mistakes. Let’s finish the job.”

  * * *

  Dewey noticed a plain-looking silver sedan in the passenger-side mirror.

  He was getting close to downtown Lisbon. The highway was congested, though still moving at more than fifty miles per hour. Something about the car made him look twice. It seemed to hover back there, clinging to him but not taking him on.

  Dewey switched lanes once, then another time; after half a dozen quick lurches, he slowed up, then went faster. The sedan stayed in approximately the same position, five or six car lengths back, center lane. It was a silver Ford Taurus.

  Their tactics were good. That was obvious. The surveillance was textbook. Dewey knew they had found him and were now calling in the cavalry.

  He didn’t think about how they’d figured it out. It didn’t matter now.

  He floored the AMG, hopping into the right lane, and was soon at 110 miles an hour, swerving in and out of car traffic, horns blaring at him.

  In the rearview, the silver sedan kept pace, hovering five car lengths back.

  * * *

  Huong was moving east on the A5, his left hand on the Porsche’s steering wheel, right hand reaching behind him and pulling out his QBZ-95G Arsenal 5.8×42mm/DBP87 assault rifle.

  Huong glanced down at the speedometer. He was cruising at a relatively moderate seventy-five miles an hour; he knew precisely how far he was from the A2, and he wanted to get on the road just behind Chiu and the American.

  Huong wasn’t going to miss his chance to kill him this time.

  “I’ll be at the A Two in three minutes,” said Huong. “Chiu, stay behind him. I’ll pass him and then we’ll converge and attack.”

  “Understood.”

  A minute later, Huong saw the first sign for the A2, two miles ahead.

  “I’m two miles out,” said Huong. “Where a
re you?”

  “About to pass the exit,” said Chiu.

  At the entrance ramp to the A2, Huong barely slowed, banking around the sharp curve of the on-ramp. He swerved into the breakdown lane and passed two cars on the ramp, then surged into the heavy traffic of the A2. He slammed the pedal down, shifted with paddles on the back of the steering wheel, and ripped across three lanes into the left-hand lane, hitting ninety miles an hour in a handful of seconds.

  “Be right there,” said Huong.

  “He’s in the middle lane.”

  “I’ll approach from the driver’s side. When you see me pass you, fall in line and join me from the back. Fire on my go.”

  * * *

  Dewey kept the Mercedes throttled hard, hitting upward of one hundred miles an hour but needing to slow down quickly and often to avoid hitting other cars.

  The AMG was fast and extremely responsive. The car’s brakes were unbelievable.

  Yet no matter what he did, the silver Taurus stayed with him.

  Horns blared as he swerved in and out of the freeway’s crowded lanes.

  The bright blue Porsche appeared out of nowhere. Dewey saw it immediately. It was a shiny blue apparition in the rearview mirror, with a surfboard attached to the roof. Dewey knew it was coming for him.

  The car was tearing up the left-hand lane. When it reached a car in front of it, the Porsche simply swerved into the breakdown lane on the left, barely avoiding the concrete divider, and kept going.

  Dewey was going as fast as he could without losing control. The Porsche would be with him in no time.

  Dewey pulled the Glock from his holster. He put his left knee under the steering wheel and steered with his left thigh as he jammed a fresh mag into the sidearm.

  He saw a long straightaway without a car on it, and he slammed the pedal down hard. The AMG burst like a cannonball and was soon at 140 miles an hour.

  The 911 moved into line behind Dewey, gaining on him despite the acceleration.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Dewey said, watching as the Porsche moved to within a car’s length.

  The Porsche’s windshield was tinted black.

  In Delta, there were two core tenets to evasion when being chased in a car. The first was speed. The second, the element of surprise. Unfortunately, neither tactic was going to work: the 911 was faster than his AMG, and surprising what were clearly highly trained agents would be next to impossible. He was moving much too quickly to attempt a braked 180; and if he slowed down, the two cars would pounce and start firing at point-blank range.