Текст книги "Eye for an Eye"

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

The taxi driver screamed as Dewey burst backward, leaping out of the way as the taxi accelerated up the lane, in reverse, the back bumper barely missing him.

Dewey kept the gas pedal slammed against the floor. Tires screeched and thick black smoke clouded the air as Dewey let the tires rip across the hot tar. The taxi hurled backward, trunk open, back up the taxi lane, wrong direction, smoke from burning rubber darkening the air around the cab.

Slugs pelted the side of the taxi as the gunman in the van fired at Dewey.

Screams blended with the sound of gunfire and screeching tires.

Dewey ripped the vehicle backward, speeding in reverse for a hundred feet, then slammed the brakes. He was now behind the van.

Dewey jammed the car into gear and slammed the gas pedal to the floor as hard as he could. The tires screeched even louder this time, creating more black smoke. The rear of the taxi fishtailed slightly. Dewey jacked the steering wheel left as the taxi fired dead ahead, toward the van, accelerating. With his right hand, Dewey pulled the G19 from under his armpit. People scrambled, screaming, dropping bags, trying to get out of the way of the speeding taxi, which Dewey targeted toward the white van, two lanes away.

Dewey hit the low concrete curb at fifty miles an hour, then barreled over it.

A line of people waiting for a bus was directly in front of him. He slammed the horn but didn’t slow down a bit, keeping the gas floored as he flipped the safety off the 9mm. People scattered, screaming, as Dewey accelerated through the line, leaving hysterical people on both sides of the taxi, now blazing at seventy-five miles an hour and climbing.

Ahead, now only one lane away, Dewey could see the unmistakable face of a Chinese gunman on the passenger side of the van, as he triggered an assault rifle at the taxi.

Several people were struck by errant bullets. They tumbled to the concrete sidewalk, blood spraying the ground. Hysterical bystanders dived to the ground, fortunate enough to be spared from the fusillade.

Dewey kept low, tucked against the door, his foot hard on the gas pedal, his right hand clutching the G19.

Suddenly, the rear double doors of the van flew open. The Chinese agent appeared. He went into a crouch, military style, on one knee. He clutched a short, stubby black assault rifle, which Dewey recognized: FN F2000, a bullpup assault rifle that was easy to handle and blisteringly lethal. A moment later, the muzzle erupted as the gunman triggered the 5.56x.45mm assault rifle at Dewey, who was now moving at almost ninety miles an hour straight at him.

The first slugs pelted the steel hood of the taxi. The line of big holes moved in a jagged line up the hood, toward Dewey, hitting what was left of the shattered window.

Dewey reached left and opened his door. He ducked lower, away from the spray of lead. He tucked against the front of the door, near the hinges, next to the steering wheel, shielded by the dashboard, as slugs tore the seat next to him.

The engine revved furiously as he charged ever closer to the van. Dewey braced himself as yards turned to feet turned to inches. The sound of the F2000, firing full auto, combined with a hurricane of slugs. The air between the two vehicles was drowned in chaos.

Dewey heard the gunman shout, a panicked scream in Mandarin. Then, a moment later, the taxi slammed into the back of the van. Metal crushed against metal as the gunman was launched into the air. He tumbled out the back of the van, thrown to the taxi hood, where he landed just in front of Dewey. Dewey moved the Glock, then fired a slug into the man’s skull, just as—ahead of Dewey—the van peeled out, the driver now desperate to get away.

Dewey hit the gas again and burst right, accelerating to the side of the now-screeching van, which was running for the airport exit. Both vehicles were accelerating down the lane, Dewey trying to catch up in the badly hobbled taxi. Smoke billowed from the taxi’s engine, rising up through the pockmarked hood.

Dewey had the accelerator hard against the floor. He looked down and saw the speedometer hit sixty. Screams mixed with the sound of screeching tires and revving engines. For the first time, Dewey heard a siren in the distance.

Dewey pushed the taxi until it finally reached the back bumper of the van. He was gaining on the slower vehicle as, up ahead, cars swerved out of the way. Inch by inch, the taxi came abreast of the van. When he was finally parallel to the front tire of the van, Dewey jacked the wheel left, aiming at the van. A second later, the taxi slammed into the passenger door. The van jerked abruptly to its left, careering toward a thick steel pole. The van slammed dead center into the pole, crushing into the engine, in the same moment the taxi smashed into the door. Both vehicles came to a grinding halt, the dead gunman tumbling off the hood.

Dewey punched up at the shattered windshield, then climbed up onto the hood, clutching the Glock. He raised the gun as he leapt toward the van. He started firing. Unmuted gunfire sounded above more screams and an approaching chorus of sirens. He fired into the black glass of the passenger-door window, shattering it. Another agent sat in the driver’s seat. The man’s head was forward, against the steering wheel, though he was still alive. He turned his head to look at Dewey. Blood covered his forehead.

Dewey fired. A bullet tore into the man’s forehead, spraying the far glass with blood and skull.

Dewey leapt from the hood of the cab and sprinted toward the parking garage, as, behind him, sirens wailed in the distance and screams continued to echo through the warm air.

Inside the parking garage, he sprinted down an aisle of cars, Glock clutched in his right hand, searching for an escape vehicle. Dewey came upon a large man climbing into a white Mercedes E63 AMG.

“Keys,” said Dewey.

The man turned, shocked, saw Dewey’s sidearm, then tossed Dewey the keys.

He climbed inside the sedan, jammed the key in the ignition, started the car, then peeled out of the parking space. He turned the wheel and headed toward the garage entrance, quickly removing his sunglasses and hat. Dewey fell into the airport exit line, driving cautiously, scanning for more agents.

At least half a dozen police cars descended upon the terminal, their blue and red lights flashing, their sirens blasting the air, as they barreled past buses, taxis, and cars, all of whom pulled over to let them pass by, including Dewey.

He drove through the airport exit. He kept a calm eye on the rearview mirror, looking for trailers. He saw nothing. Dewey moved onto the freeway, heading for downtown. He glanced up at a large green sign:

BEM-VINDO A PORTUGAL.

65

NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

Jesus June sat in front of two large computer screens, angled in front of him, watching, waiting. Thirty-one separate applications were running on the SID mainframe, all of them visible and accessible on his two screens, icons layered like tiles on a checkerboard.

ThinThread had still not produced anything on Dewey. June had strategized with one of the other analysts inside SID about other programs that might possibly be able to trace Dewey’s whereabouts. June’s main hope, at the moment, rested on a facial-recognition program that allowed Dewey’s photo to be analyzed by ThinThread and compared to the database’s massive electronic warehouse. If a security camera anywhere in the world was tied into any sort of network that NSA had access to—legally or not—and Dewey stepped in front of the camera, ThinThread would call it out, and they would have their location.

So far, however, only four sightings had occurred, and none were Dewey. Two of them had been photos of the same man, someone in Kiev, videotaped twice at a train station in Kiev.

Like all successful NSA hackers, June was patient. Patience was perhaps the most important quality in an NSA employee. That, curiosity, and persistence. June, like Pacheco and Bruckheimer himself, had all three qualities, along with a big brain.

On the right-hand plasma screen, a small red-and-gold triangle abruptly lit up on the screen, signifying activity of some sort, then made a short burst of chiming noises. The program wasn’t related to ThinThread. In fact, it was an old program called FireBite, developed in the 1970s, which allowed NSA programmers to wiretap within the United States but not listen to the calls. In other words, if NSA was monitoring a phone number, and that number received a call, the number of the caller was immediately cataloged. Beyond that, the program was “dumb”; FireBite couldn’t eavesdrop.

He double-clicked the triangle, and the FireBite user interface appeared on the screen. June had set the program up to monitor a handful of phone numbers he thought Dewey might call. The home, cell, and work numbers of Calibrisi, Katie, Tacoma; his parents’ home in Castine; his brother’s home in Blue Hill.

On the screen, one of the numbers was boldened and had two messages. The calls had just occurred. June clicked the number. Then he did a double take. It was a number he’d stuck into FireBite as an after-thought; after all, Jessica Tanzer was dead.

His eyes bulged as he looked at the numbers, then hit the trace feature. A few moments later, the location of the calls appeared.

“I found him!” screamed June. “I got Dewey!”

*   *   *

At MI6, June’s yelling boomed over the speakerphone.

“Where is he?” asked Calibrisi.

“Lisbon. Hard location four minutes ago. He made two calls from a public pay phone at Lisbon Portela Airport.”

Smythson snapped her fingers, ordering one of her staffers to run down the hall and retrieve Chalmers.

“How do we know it was Dewey?” asked Calibrisi.

“We don’t,” said June. “But who else would call Jessica Tanzer twice in a row from halfway around the world?”

“Nice work,” said Calibrisi. “Langley, patch in Polk.”

Chalmers entered the glass conference room.

“What do we got?”

“Lisbon,” said Smythson.

Polk, the head of Special Operations Group, came on speaker.

“Hi, guys,” he said. “Whaddya got?”

“Lisbon,” said Calibrisi.

“Let me see what I have in theater. Hold on.”

Smythson pointed at one of her staffers, seated at the table in front of his laptop.

“Hurry, James,” she said. “Tell me what sort of manpower we have down there.”

“I’m already on it, Ronny,” he said, staring into his screen.

He banged the enter button, then pointed at the large plasma in the corner of the room, which lit up with what looked like a lineup from the roster of a football team. There were four photographs in a grid and names, ranks, current operations beneath each photo.

Chalmers and Smythson stepped to the screen.

Polk returned on speaker.

“I got one paramilitary in Lisbon,” said Polk. “I have a full black squad in Madrid, but I assume we don’t have the time to haul them down there.”

“No. What about Delta or SEAL?”

“Hold on.”

Polk went off the line again.

“Gatewood, O’Toole, Farber, Mueller,” said Smythson, turning, barking over her shoulder. “Get them over to the airport right now. Brief them en route, get them Andreas’s photo, and tell them to watch the hell out for counterfire. They’ll be swarming.”

Polk came back on speaker.

“I got a couple Deltas,” said Polk. “Where do you want ’em?”

“Airport,” said Calibrisi. “CIA, patch those Deltas into the MI6 feed; same with Special Ops; we’ll brief all of them at the same time. Billy, get them moving, safeties off. We’re goin’ in hot.”

“On it, chief.”

“I have a ton of police activity coming out of the airport,” said Serena Pacheco from Fort Meade, on speaker. “Gunfire.”

Calibrisi took his blazer from the back of a chair. He looked at Katie and Tacoma.

“I’m getting on a plane,” said Calibrisi.

“Let’s go,” said Tacoma.

“Hector,” came Pacheco again, “ThinThread is hitting hard. There were at least two killings, both Asian males, just happened. It’s a mess. They’re shutting down the airport.”

Calibrisi looked at Smythson, then Chalmers.

“He won’t be at the airport,” said Smythson.

“You guys and Billy figure out where to send the Deltas. We’re heading for the plane. You got a chopper we can borrow, Derek?”

“Absolutely. I’ll walk you there.”

Chalmers opened the door and exited, followed by Katie, Tacoma, then Calibrisi, who stopped just before leaving and turned back to the room.

“Thank you, MI6, for your work,” Calibrisi said, smiling at Smythson and her staffers, before turning and hustling to catch up with the others, who were running toward the elevator.

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, handsome, 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.”