Eye for an Eye: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  In fact, that was about to happen anyway.

  Dewey swerved right, onto a short, empty stretch of road along the right side of the highway. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bright blue of the 911, scorching into the fast lane. A red BMW was now between Dewey and the blue Porsche.

  Dewey lowered his window, then lifted the Glock in his right hand.

  Shots suddenly echoed across the highway, above the traffic and horns. Then came the sound of glass shattering, and a faint, awful scream. The BMW popped abruptly left, spinning, glass and metal shattering as the car was riddled with slugs from the Porsche. The BMW flipped over and came to a spinning rest on its roof.

  The Porsche moved toward Dewey now, as, behind him, he caught sight of the silver Ford Taurus closing in.

  Dewey glanced left and saw the muzzle of an assault rifle in the window of the Porsche, then a long-haired Chinese man with sunglasses on.

  Dewey triggered the Glock, firing as fast as his finger would move. Bullets struck the side of the Porsche, then the back window. The driver swerved, braked, then accelerated, trying to throw Dewey off.

  In the rearview mirror, a gun emerged from the window of the Taurus. The low, dull boom of a large-caliber carbine arose above the chaos, just as the first big cartridge ripped steel at the back of the AMG. The next slug hit the back window, shattering it.

  Dewey saw a large truck in front of the Porsche, a quarter mile ahead. He memorized his position, then ducked, flooring it toward the right breakdown lane, as slugs pelted the Mercedes from the Porsche to his left and the Taurus from behind.

  The Porsche had to slow at the back of the truck, then was temporarily boxed in to the right. Dewey pressed the pedal to the ground and eyed the speedometer as the Mercedes climbed to 165 miles per hour. He put the Glock down, reached to his left, and put his seat belt on.

  In the distance, sirens grew louder and seemed to come from all directions.

  * * *

  “This is Pacheco,” came a voice over Dowling’s COMM. “I have PSP reporting a high-speed chase on the A Two, near downtown. There were multiple gunshots.”

  “Delta One, Two are on the A Two,” said Dowling. “Which direction, NSA?”

  “Southbound.”

  “I need a map, MI6,” said Dowling.

  “You got it.”

  A graphic shot up in the right corner of Dowling’s helmet, showing a map of the A2, with his position on the highway a blinking yellow light; a green circle showed where the gunfire had come from.

  “Delta One and Two have it,” said Dowling. “Where are they in relation to the A Five?”

  Dowling glanced to the lane next to him, at Athanasia. Dowling nodded, then cranked the throttle. The motorcycle rocketed forward, hitting 130 miles per hour in seconds. Athanasia moved in line behind him.

  “PSP south of the A Five, toward April Two-five Bridge.”

  Dowling knew exactly where they were. He and Athanasia were at least two miles behind them.

  “How many cars?”

  “They’ve APB’d a blue 911 and a white Mercedes AMG.”

  “Okay, Langley, I need a street-level view of the bridge.”

  “Here we go.”

  A street-level terrain view replaced the map in the upper right corner of Dowling’s helmet, showing Lisbon’s 25th of April Bridge. As Dowling moved at more than 140 miles an hour, he studied the terrain he was about to engage the enemy on.

  “Okay, shut it off, MI6.”

  Ahead, traffic had come to a dead stop. In the distance, smoke was billowing into the air.

  Athanasia swerved into the breakdown lane, with Dowling just behind him. They kept moving at more than 130 miles per hour up the breakdown lane.

  Two police officers were standing in the lane, holding traffic, which was at a complete stop.

  Ahead, in the middle of the road, was a red BMW, flipped over on its roof. The car was crushed, flames were darting out from the engine, smoke poured into the sky. Glass littered the highway. The wrecked car was flanked by the first responders—a pair of police cruisers. Two police officers were on their hands and knees, trying to pull the unconscious driver from the BMW.

  Athanasia and Dowling charged toward the police line. One of the police officers saw them coming, then raised his weapon. Dowling and Athanasia accelerated, firing past the officer.

  Past the accident scene, the highway was deserted. Dowling ripped the throttle again, moving alongside Athanasia, who also accelerated. Dowling glanced at his speedometer: 184.

  The occasional random car was stopped in the middle of the road out of fear. Dowling and Athanasia had the bikes tearing along at full speed now. Dowling could feel the force of the air trying to push him back, off the bike, as he clutched the handlebars, leaning down, flying along the hot blacktop at almost two hundred miles per hour.

  Ahead, far in the distance, Dowling caught the bright blue of a Porsche, then, to the right, a white Mercedes. Behind them was a sedan. All three cars were going blisteringly fast and swerving wildly. The Porsche and Mercedes were trading gunfire. As he gained on them, the air had a smell of gunpowder and burnt rubber. Dowling saw a man leaning from the window of the sedan, behind the Mercedes, firing a rifle toward the Mercedes.

  “We’re at surface zero,” yelled Dowling into his COMM. “We’re gonna need backup.”

  “On it, Delta,” came a British accent. “MI6 Farber northbound.”

  “Andreas is the white Mercedes,” yelled Dowling. “I see a bright blue Porsche and a second car, a silver sedan, behind him. Watch your field of fire, MI6. We’re right behind where you’ll be shooting.”

  “Roger that, Delta One and Two. Be there in approximately ninety seconds.”

  * * *

  The Mercedes’s engine was smoking now. The hood and left front of the vehicle looked like a piece of Swiss cheese, riddled with bullets. Still, it moved, and moved fast. It was responding to every demand Dewey made of it.

  In addition to managing the gunman in the Porsche to his left, Dewey had to deal with the sedan behind him. He fluttered between the AMG’s gas and brakes, quickly and unpredictably changing speeds to throw off the Porsche. For the sedan, Dewey zigzagged, trying to lead the sedan into other slower-moving vehicles. The Taurus was having a hard time keeping up with the two lead cars. Yet the unmistakable boom of the trailing car’s rifle sent a shiver through Dewey every time he heard it.

  Dewey stayed calm, his eyes darting between the rearview mirror and the terrain ahead, looking, searching, praying for an exit. He saw the arches of a bridge in the distance.

  He aimed the Glock across his body, without looking, and fired at the Porsche.

  * * *

  Huong had the Porsche at more than 150 miles an hour. He had his left hand on the steering wheel while he held a carbine in his right and aimed out the shattered window, trying to hit the American. Each time he had a clear shot, the American sensed it, then slammed his brakes or gunned it; it was hard to predict.

  Huong sensed something in front of him, glanced ahead, and saw a stopped minivan in the middle of the lane. He swerved just feet from the vehicle, barely avoiding a crash. He looked back for the Mercedes. Just as he did so, he saw him, one lane over, then heard the boom of the American’s sidearm. The slug smashed into the windshield, barely missing Huong’s head, shattering the glass. Huong slammed the brakes to avoid the next shot he knew would be coming.

  Huong wanted his machine gun, but it was in the backseat. Reaching for it would force him to drop the rifle for a few precious seconds. But he needed the field of fire the weapon offered; the carbine was just not giving him—in the conditions—the targeting power he needed.

  He dropped the assault rifle then reached in back for his FN P90.

  * * *

  Dewey watched as his slug hit the Porsche’s windshield, shattering it. The Chinese agent swerved, then recovered. He’d almost taken him down.

  The AMG’s engine made a sputtering noise. Dewey hear
d a high-pitched revving coming from it, though he felt no drop-off in performance. Smoke from the hood was growing thicker, coming up from holes in the hood and in through the dashboard.

  He glanced left. The Chinese agent clutched a different weapon in his right hand. A shiver of fear shot involuntarily up Dewey’s spine. It was a firearm he himself had used, a nasty little submachine gun called a P90. Short, lethal, with a closed-bolt system for better aim than a typical submachine gun, the P90 was capable of emptying one of its fifty-round mags of slugs in less than four seconds.

  Dewey watched as the Chinese agent lifted the submachine gun and trained it out the window. For a brief moment, Dewey stared right down the muzzle of the weapon. He floored the AMG, ducking just as the submachine gun—less than a lane away—erupted in full auto hail.

  * * *

  Huong waited until he had the Porsche at the same speed as the Mercedes, then ripped the trigger back. The P90 exploded, spraying slugs at the white sedan. He felt the blowback from the submachine gun, kicking against his hard biceps, but he held it stable and kept firing. He swung the weapon toward the midsection of the sedan, then washed the muzzle forward, spraying slugs as the two cars raced at nearly 175 miles an hour. The line of slugs tore up the body of the car, toward Andreas. Slugs pelted metal, then shattered the glass just behind the American. It was about to happen. The line of bullets would soon be at Andreas.

  Suddenly, the American accelerated, bursting ahead, hitting a speed Huong didn’t think the German car possessed. Huong’s aim was thrown off, but he managed to rip the last of the magazine’s slugs into the American’s back tire.

  * * *

  Dewey listened as slugs pocked the side of the car, moving in a line deliberately from the middle of the Mercedes toward him. He heard bullets striking the door, coming at him, getting closer with each shot. He sensed the forward momentum of the muzzle as the agent swung the submachine gun up the car.

  Still, Dewey waited, letting the line of slugs get closer, knowing it might be his last opportunity to escape.

  He listened as slugs ripped into the window just behind him, shattering the glass of the back window. Dewey glanced left again, and again saw the muzzle, sparking red and silver, the sound of auto hail mixing with the staccato echo of bullets shredding the car behind him.

  He slammed the pedal to the floor, pushing the badly smoking AMG for whatever it had left.

  For a brief, precious second, he listened as the line of bullets was interrupted. The agent kept firing, but his aim had been thrown off, and the slugs flew wide, behind the AMG. Dewey swerved right, trying to get distance. Then Dewey heard a bullet hit the back of the car, then the back tire. A low explosion ripped the air. Dewey quickly lost control of the vehicle.

  The back of the AMG bounced left, heaving violently, pulling against his weight as if the car had been grabbed by a gust of hurricane wind. Dewey heard the tires screeching wildly beneath him, then watched as the highway in front of him was torn abruptly sideways, into a breathtaking blur, and he knew he was flipping over at more than 150 miles an hour. He tried to brace himself, but even that was impossible, so fierce was the tornado that now controlled the car.

  Dewey looked left just as the car was thrown sideways and over. The black of the road shot at him, and he knew he would hit. He pulled his left arm inside the car just as the side of the Mercedes smashed brutally into the tar, his arm barely avoiding being crushed by the full weight of the now-tumbling sedan. His face went flying uncontrollably forward, into the steering wheel, his nose smashing hard against the wheel, and blood spurting out from both nostrils. And still he knew it was only just beginning.

  The momentum of the rolling car was ferocious, aided by the tremendous speed he’d had the AMG racing at. It took all of Dewey’s strength to reach forward, against the fierce torque, trying to grab something to brace himself, anything—the steering wheel, the nylon of the seat belt—while at the same time he shut his eyes and heard screaming, which after a moment he realized was his own.

  The car kept tumbling forward, in a blurring eddy of steel and pavement. The car bounced from its side to the roof, crushing it down toward Dewey’s head, then kept rolling, flipping completely upright, then rolling more, pushed by a violent momentum, until finally the destroyed car landed upside down for a second time, crushing the roof, pushing against Dewey’s head.

  As the destroyed car came to rest, upside down, it went into a slow spin. Dewey finally opened his eyes. He was strung upside down, tethered by the seat belt, dangling. He could see nothing but the spinning of the highway outside the ruined car, a dizzying scene cloaked in red, as blood gushed from his nose down into his eyes. He was close to passing out, and he fought to stay conscious. He felt for the seat-belt release, but couldn’t reach it, as the sound of gunfire abruptly rang out anew, somewhere nearby.

  * * *

  Huong watched as the back tire of the Mercedes exploded. The back of the Mercedes lurched left. Its tires made a terrible squealing. The sedan was thrown out of control. It flipped over onto its side, rolling over, then landed on its roof, then seemed to almost bounce up, carried by the momentum of the car’s original speed. It landed on its wheels and kept rolling, bouncing yet again, up into the air. It landed upside down again, on its roof, coming to a loud, jarring crash on the freeway.

  Huong slammed on the brakes. The Porsche shuddered wildly, tires screaming a high-pitched cry as the 911 spun out. When he finally stopped, Huong grabbed a fresh mag from the passenger seat. He grabbed the door handle and leapt from the car. Weapon in hand, he began a furious sprint toward the flipped-over Mercedes, which was still spinning in place, smoke chimneying up into the warm sky.

  He ripped the spent mag from the P90 and hurled it to the tar as, on the run, he slammed the new mag into the submachine gun. Huong was downrange of the wrecked Mercedes, forty feet away, running as fast as his feet would take him.

  Huong heard gunfire. To the left, he saw another man—it was Chiu—clutching an M4 and moving at the overturned Mercedes from behind. The wrecked sedan was still spinning slowly counterclockwise as the two agents converged from both directions. As he came up to the Mercedes, Huong felt almost high; adrenaline flamed in his veins, and his heart felt like it was in his throat.

  All of a sudden, he became aware of the loud roar of a motorcycle, then the telltale staccato of a submachine gun—someone else’s submachine gun—firing on full auto.

  * * *

  Dowling was less than a hundred feet behind the silver Taurus when the white Mercedes suddenly bounced into the air and spiraled into a violent, unsightly crash. The Taurus skidded to a halt behind the overturned wreck. Smoke shot from the Mercedes’s engine as the door to the silver sedan opened and a man emerged, running.

  Dowling kept the bike tearing down the highway at full speed, barely slowing, then reached behind him and pulled out his MP5 without taking his eyes off the chaotic scene ahead. He was upon the silver sedan now, just yards away, as a tall Chinese agent looked toward him, then swept a carbine through the air at him, firing.

  Dowling pulled the brake, then yanked back, sending the bike sliding down the tar, as he’d been taught, as he’d practiced so many times, in so many conditions, falling back onto his feet as the seventeen-thousand-dollar BMW went sliding on its side down the highway.

  Athanasia was still on his bike, still moving recklessly fast down the highway toward the chaos. He was the first to fire, triggering his MP5 from the moving bike, ripping slugs up the highway at the Chinese agent who’d just leapt out of the silver sedan and was shooting at Dowling. A hail of Athanasia’s bullets struck the agent in the head, destroying his skull, pummeling him forward to the ground in an awkward heap.

  Dowling sprinted up the highway toward the overturned Mercedes.

  Beyond the wreck, through clouds of thick smoke, he saw another man, a long-haired agent, running toward them, submachine gun in his right hand. The gunman caught sight of Dowling and Athanasia, th
en raised the weapon and fired just as Dowling dived to the blacktop.

  Athanasia, still on his bike, was abruptly struck, chest high, by the shooter. He was pummeled sideways, blood arcing across the road, knocked backward by the slug. Athanasia fell from the motorcycle in the same instant it cartwheeled sideways, crashing to the tar.

  Athanasia landed on the back of his head, then came to a limp, contorted stop.

  Dowling knew from the point of entry—from the way the slug ripped chest high, dead center—that Athanasia was dead. He stared, mesmerized and in horror, as his bunkmate, teammate, as his best friend took his last breath.

  But he knew he couldn’t stand still.

  Dowling jumped back up, running at the Mercedes, triggering the MP5 at the long-haired killer on the other side of the smoking, destroyed AMG.

  * * *

  Huong registered the sight, the sound, the feeling of the bullet strike, dead center, his bullet hitting the biker, knocking him backward. Huong knew he’d killed him.

  Time seemed to stand still. He felt nothing, not fatigue or fear or exultation. He was moments away, feet away, from his purpose, from the man who an entire ministry of agents was now hunting. Huong would be the one to kill him.

  Huong saw the other man, right of the fallen biker, coming toward him, weapon trained on him. Huong lurched right at the same time the man fired. Huong swept the P90, firing on auto hail, toward him.

  * * *

  Dowling fired at the oncoming agent but missed, then was kicked in the left arm by a slug, which ripped into his biceps. Dowling was thrown backward and he fell to the ground. He groaned in pain as he tumbled to the blacktop. The MP5 fell from his hands.

  Dowling looked up from the ground. He was partially shielded by the Mercedes’s frame. He reached for the MP5 with his right hand, trying to reach it before the Chinese agent had a clear line of fire on him.