Shooting Gallery

by Ben Coes

  “Where are they?” Dewey yelled, a vicious look on his sweat-covered face. He put his boot against her neck, pressing the bullet hole as she weakly tried to push his leg away. “Where are they? Tell me and I walk away. You might survive.”

  “Sayulita,” she coughed. “But it doesn’t matter. I work for someone. If the money isn’t there in the next hour, they both die.”

  14

  GUADALAJARA

  On the street in front of the hotel, Dewey ran to an idling black Ferrari 488 and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “What’s up?” said Tacoma.

  “Sayulita, on the coast.”

  “I know where it is. That’s a four-hour drive.”

  “We have an hour,” said Dewey.

  Dewey took out his phone and brought up a map.

  “Do you know how to fly an airplane?” said Dewey.

  “My dad had a plane. I watched him. I think I could.”

  “Do you have a pilot’s license?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever flown a plane?”

  “Technically, no. But I think I can. I’m not sure. I might crash it. Why?”

  “Because you need to fly me to Sayulita. There’s no other way.”

  “Dewey, even if I could do it, it’s fucking night! I’m not rated for night. Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have a plane.”

  “Drive to the airport,” said Dewey.

  Tacoma slammed the gas on the Ferrari and ripped into traffic, the throaty roar of the black sports car thundering between the concrete caverns of the Guadalajara night.

  * * *

  The private lot at Guadalajara International Airport was dark and shuttered for the night. Tacoma parked the Ferrari and left the keys in it.

  The planes ranged in size. There were jets, including several Gulfstreams, as well as small, single-engine turboprops. All were locked, the tires clamped to pre-set steel loops in the tarmac. Dewey removed a small device from his pocket—a pick gun—and stuck it against a padlock. A few seconds later, the lock popped open.

  Tacoma climbed into the cockpit and turned the plane on. It was an ancient tan-and-orange Cessna 177. It made a sudden low coughing noise, then a growl, then a loud, smoke-clogged roar as the plane’s propeller sputtered and kicked into action.

  Tacoma steered the plane forward, tires bouncing on the tarmac. Dewey climbed into the open passenger door.

  As Dewey strapped himself into the cockpit, Tacoma blew a hard exhale at the controls, creating a cloud of dust.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Tacoma asked.

  “Yeah,” said Dewey.

  “Because we’re about to risk our fucking lives. I don’t even know if I can get it off the ground. I used to shut my eyes whenever my dad was taking off.”

  “Great,” said Dewey. “Well, give it a try, will ya?”

  Tacoma glanced at Dewey.

  “Fuck, yeah I’ll do it. Just don’t get mad if we crash.”

  Tacoma steered the Cessna to the end of the line of locked-down planes and then turned into the runway. Black tarmac was spread out in front of them.

  “Shouldn’t you pull up?” said Dewey as the Cessna charged down the runway.

  “Yeah,” said Tacoma. “That was the part I wasn’t paying attention to.”

  15

  SAYULITA

  MEXICO

  Toby Brown and Dave Willoughby sat awkwardly on the wood floor, their backs against a wall. The room was empty. They could hear the ocean.

  They were shackled with nylon flex-cuffs at their ankles, knees, and wrists. Duct tape was wrapped tightly across their mouths.

  Willoughby had broken down several times, and Toby Brown did his best to attempt to comfort him by looking over, trying to say with his eyes, we’ll get out of this. But even he knew it didn’t look good.

  Brown thought of what an idiot he’d been, what an idiot he was—the fact that he’d already cost a man his life. Part of him hoped they would kill him, for he didn’t think he could face his mother, nor Dave. Above all, he didn’t think he could face the widow of the FBI agent who they shot at the airport.

  One of the guards stepped into the room and approached. He was Mexican—middle-aged, a little overweight, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. He inspected the flex-cuffs on each of them. Then he looked at Brown and smiled.

  “Spring break!” he said enthusiastically, with a Spanish accent. “Is it as much fun as you thought it would be?”

  16

  GUADALAJARA

  Tacoma revved the plane’s engine and let it surge. He stared out through the windshield, sweat dripping from the end of his nose. He glanced one last time at Dewey.

  “Hold on,” he said, pulling back.

  As the plane’s wheels bounced as it tried to get airborne, Dewey looked at Tacoma.

  “Is there a parachute on here?”

  Tacoma turned back to the yoke. Then he released the brakes, added full throttle and surged forward. The Cessna bounced mightily, at one point tipping so far left the wing almost touched the ground. Halfway down the tarmac, they were speeding fast, gaining momentum, and preparing to lift off into the air. But the end of the runway was coming at them faster and faster, a wall of buildings just beyond the airport perimeter.

  “We’re not gonna make it up,” yelled Tacoma, turning to Dewey. “I need to brake it.”

  “We’ll make it,” said Dewey, looking through the windshield at the oncoming buildings. “Hit the fucking gas!”

  They came to the end of the runway, screaming past the final red marker. The plane was still bouncing along the ground.

  “Any possibility of you maybe not hitting those buildings?” yelled Dewey as the plane moved closer and closer to the concrete-and-glass office buildings.

  Suddenly, the Cessna’s right wing kicked up slightly, along with the right tire, then the plane lifted off, aiming directly for the buildings. Glass and concrete were now imminent. There was nothing Tacoma could do to avoid them, so he looked for a gap between the buildings.

  “Hold on,” he yelled, then cranked the yoke left and stepped on the left rudder. The Cessna flipped vertical, its wings now spread in a straight line up and down. The plane climbed higher, cutting between the office buildings. They were so close to hitting it looked as if they could reach out and touch the buildings. Then, like stepping through a doorway, they emerged into the brilliant moonlight, clear of it all.

  They flew over Guadalajara to the coast, Tacoma using a cell phone to guide him and the lights of the towns and villages below to keep him in the air. After forty-five minutes of flying, they hit the black water of the Pacific Ocean. Beneath a bright half moon, the coastline was a mesmerizing sight. The water was a canopy of black, the beaches dotted with yellow lights at houses, hotels, and resorts.

  As they came closer to Sayulita, Dewey called Katie.

  “Were getting closer,” he said. “What’s the status?”

  “The president wants to pay the ransom, but you and I both know, Dewey, both of them are dead, whether they pay it or not.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “The deadline was fifteen minutes ago,” said Katie. “Bill is handling the negotiations and trying to buy time. Hold on, I’m patching in Igor.”

  A moment later, the phone clicked.

  “Igor?” said Katie.

  “Yeah. Is Dewey on?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Dewey, I think I have the location,” said Igor. “You’re coming up on it in about two miles. There will be some cliffs, then an empty stretch of beach followed by some villas. It’s one of the villas. It’s up on the rocks.”

  “How many people?”

  “I don’t know?”

  Dewey hung up, unbuckled, and moved to the cabin.

  “What are you doing?” said Tacoma.

  “Getting ready.”

  “You’re going to jump?” said Tacoma.

  “Take it lower
,” said Dewey. “Look for cliffs, then a beach.”

  “It’s fucking dark as shit,” said Tacoma.

  “Give me your two-two-six,” said Dewey. “There’s the cliffs. Get it lower.”

  Tacoma pulled his pistol from beneath his armpit and handed it to Dewey. He reached into his pocket and handed him a suppressor.

  “As low to the water as you can,” said Dewey. “Make it look like you’re a crappy weekend pilot who’s about to crash.”

  “I’ll try,” said Tacoma.

  “Shouldn’t be too hard,” said Dewey, pulling open the cabin door and getting ready to jump. He smiled at Tacoma.

  “Where the hell am I going to land this thing?” said Tacoma.

  “You’ll figure it out,” said Dewey as he looked down at the black water skipping beneath the plane. “Lower!” shouted Dewey. “Get the tires wet!”

  His eyes returned to the cliff. He counted a dozen houses, visible in the ambient light, most with a few lights on.

  Dewey felt spray, looked one last time at Tacoma, and jumped. He dropped quickly down and forward, propelled by the plane’s momentum, then slammed, feet first, into the water just behind the wave break, continuing down beneath the surface until his feet struck sand. He pushed back up. His arms moved fluidly through the water as he swam toward the rocky cliffs. A wave grabbed him and helped bring him in. When he could stand above water, he started a sprint towards the rocks and started climbing, moving up the rocky face, scaling the cliffs until he reached a wooden set of stairs. He grabbed a breath, looked up to make sure no one was looking for him, and charged up the stairs three steps at a time, his pants and shirt soaking wet.

  At the top of the wooden stairs was a dirt road. Dewey charged onto the road and went right. He came to a gray-and-black villa and could see a woman through the window, standing at a refrigerator, and he kept moving. At the next villa, a modern glass-and-concrete rectangle, Dewey could see a group of adults all sitting around a large dining room table.

  He kept running and came to a yellow-and-green villa, its lights extinguished. He raced to the front door, which was unlocked, then moved through an empty kitchen. The rest of the home was also empty as Dewey ran through it, to the deck. He sprinted from the porch, running back to the dirt road. Then he saw it, just an orange flash in the distance ahead. Someone was smoking a cigarette.

  Dewey screwed the suppressor into the muzzle of the P226 as he skulked along the edge of the dirt road. At fifty feet out, the man suddenly noticed something. He turned, looking in Dewey’s direction.

  Dewey didn’t know if he was part of the group who’d taken the boys hostage—until the man pulled a gun from a shoulder holster. Dewey stopped, knelt, then fired—two quick blasts. A pair of dull metallic thwack thwack were barely audible as bullets spat from the gun. The bullets struck the gunman in the chest. He fell backwards, barely making a groan, and Dewey began a fast sprint.

  An inclining tar driveway began just past where the dead man lay. The house was a hundred feet beyond, and Dewey moved at a sprint toward it.

  It was a modern-looking house of glass and steel, perched higher than the others, like an aerie.

  He opened the front door in and stepped into a large room. His eyes shot immediately to the two hostages, who were sitting on the floor, bound and gagged. At the sight of Dewey, one of them tried to struggle and make noise.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Dewey whispered.

  The other hostage arced his head to the right. There, Dewey saw a door leading to a deck.

  The sound of the ocean was loud and constant.

  Dewey moved silently to the door that led to the deck. Next to the door was a large window. Dewey inched to the edge of the window and spied out. On the porch, he made out the silhouette of a man. He wore a baseball hat, with dark sunglasses. He was standing alone, clutching a submachine gun.

  Dewey glanced to the black water in the distance as he raised the P226. He trained the pistol on the man—then triggered the gun. The big glass window shattered in the same moment the slug ripped into the man’s neck, knocking him sideways and down.

  Dewey went through the door as the thug crawled across the puddle of his own blood, coughing, trying to get to his submachine gun. Dewey fired again. The slug hit him in the arm, pushing him sideways. The man screamed in pain. Dewey approached and flipped him over with his foot, keeping the gun aimed at his head at all times. The man had on jeans and a polo shirt. His sunglasses were still over his eyes. A round hole marred the center of his neck. Blood coursed from it in rhythm with his breathing.

  Dewey stepped closer, straddling him, dripping salt water and perspiration on him. He leaned over and pulled the man’s sunglasses from his head and threw them. He swept the end of the suppressor to the man’s skull. The thug looked away, refusing to look into Dewey’s eyes. Dewey waited. A few seconds became ten, but Dewey didn’t move. He waited. Finally, the gunman looked up at him.

  “Adios,” said Dewey as, in the same moment, he pulled the trigger back. The bullet finished the job—puncturing a dime-sized hole in the man’s chest.

  Dewey stepped back inside the house. He took out his cell phone and dialed.

  “Hi,” said Katie. “Are you okay?”

  “I have the two students,” said Dewey as he entered the large living room and looked at Brown and Willoughby, still bound and gagged. He walked toward them, his eyes scanning for any more possible hostage takers. Seeing that there was no one, he holstered the gun and leaned over, lifting his wet pant leg and finding his knife—an eight-inch Gerber double-serrated fixed blade—sheathed above his left ankle. He moved to Willoughby and leaned down as he continued to talk on the phone.

  “I’m patching in the vice president,” said Katie.

  A moment later, after a dull monotone, she started talking.

  “Dewey,” she said. “This is is Judith Brown.”

  Her voice was emotional.

  “Are they alive?”

  “Yes,” said Dewey.

  Dewey leaned down and put the tip of his knife between Willoughby’s cheek and the duct tape. He ripped up, cutting the tape like a surgeon. He moved to Toby Brown and did the same, cutting a slash in the tape. He then cut the flex-cuffs from the boys’ ankles, knees, and wrists. He stood back and spoke.

  “Do you want to speak to your son?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Dewey. Yes.”

  He handed the phone to Brown, who was bright red, disheveled, in a state of mild shock.

  “Mom.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m … I’m sorry. It was—”

  ”Let’s not talk about that, Toby. I love you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I speak to David?” she said.

  He handed the phone to Willoughby.

  “Hi, Mrs. Brown.”

  “David, are you okay?” she said.

  “Yes. I want you to know—” Willoughby began.

  “David,” said the vice president. “I know who caused this.”

  “It was both of us.”

  “Right,” she said, laughing. “Let’s not talk about that now. I’ve spoken to your parents several times. I’ll call them right now. Don’t feel bad. The only thing that matters is that you two are okay.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brown.”

  Willoughby handed the phone back to Dewey.

  “This is Dewey again.”

  “Dewey, thank you,” said Vice President Brown.

  There was a long silence.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Dewey, it’s Katie. We’re getting a chopper down there to pick you guys up. We’ll fly them back on the RISCON jet. I’ll see you in Guadalajara.”

  17

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Calibrisi was loading up his briefcase for the night. It was nine-forty P.M. Lindsay, his assistant, and most everyone else, was gone for the evening. He heard a knock on his door.

  “Come in,”
said Calibrisi without looking up.

  The door opened and Judith Brown stepped inside.

  As governor of New York, she’d called for Calibrisi’s ouster and for a complete reorganization of both the FBI and CIA.

  “May I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  The vice president walked to Calibrisi’s desk and placed a paper bag on it. She pushed it toward him.

  “My husband saved this,” she said. “He wanted to open it the day Toby got married.”

  Calibrisi reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle. It was bourbon, Pappy Van Winkle, twenty-three years old.

  Calibrisi smiled. He gestured toward the seating area on the other side of his office, where two white leather Chesterfield sofas faced one another. He retrieved two glasses from a cabinet behind his desk, removed the casing and uncorked the bottle. He poured two small glasses of bourbon and sat down across from the vice president, handing her one of the glasses.

  She lifted her glass and clinked it against Calibrisi’s.

  “I called Senator Furr and withdrew my support for the reorganization of the CIA,” said Brown. “In addition, I called … your wife. I apologized. I like to think I did these things because I saw the CIA—because I saw you—in action. Your effectiveness in a time of crisis. But the real reason I did it is because I’m a mom.”

  Tears were slowly falling down her cheeks.

  “Thank you, Hector.”

  Read on for an excerpt of Bloody Sunday coming July 2018

  PROLOGUE

  PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA

  ONE MONTH AGO

  The plane was long, shiny, and black: a Bombardier Global 7000, owned by the Gustave Roussy Institute, one of the most advanced cancer research and treatment centers in the world. Part of the hospital’s variety of offerings was a dramatic and very expensive accouterment: remote, on-site, fully staffed, complete diagnostic biological protocols and analysis and, in turn, determination as to whether a patient has cancer—and if so, what course of action should be taken. This gave them the ability to assess any individual, anywhere in the world—provided they had the wherewithal to foot the bill.