Eye for an Eye (32 page)

Huong first eyed the Gulfstream when its silver nose reflected a sun flash in the low western sky, coming toward the runway. The jet barreled down the runway, then moved toward the terminal. It was unmistakable; it had to be the jet.

Huong hit a few strokes on the iPhone.

“Target in sight. Do I have backup?”

Huong waited for the response, his heart beating wildly.

“Yes. Lei and Shin are outside the main terminal.”

Huong knew both men. Lei was young, early twenties. Shin was in his forties, tough as nails, the second-ranking agent in Portugal.

Huong looked one last time at Andreas’s photo, then pocketed his phone.

In addition to a compact, extremely lethal FN P90 submachine gun, Huong had a suppressed, Spanish-made Star Megastar .45 ACP tucked in a specially designed pocket of the Windbreaker. He knew it would be better to use the suppressed Megastar. Inside the terminal, he would have to go quiet. But he’d never killed someone with the P90, and he longed to do it.

He looked around and counted only two other people in the spacious, brightly lit lounge area, a woman behind the reception desk and a businessman seated in the center of the reception area, reading.

The plane came to a stop directly in front of the building, a few hundred feet away. The right side of the jet faced the building. Huong walked to the window. He searched the tarmac near the jet, looking for people, security guards, maintenance crew. But it was empty.

He felt the rectangular block of steel against his torso. He could do it outside, as he crossed the tarmac. The sound would be barely intelligible above the loud noise and confusion of the airport.

Then Huong remembered his training. To show off was frowned upon.

The sound of a gun is the sound of the soldier; silence, the signature of the professional.

He moved to a seat against the far wall, a seat removed from the line of sight of the entrance door. He put his hand in his pocket and gripped the butt of the Megastar, waiting, heart racing, the warmth of adrenaline coursing through him, warmth ten times that of the feeling off Guincho, when the front of his Tangent board slashed horizontally across the front wall of the wave.

*   *   *

Inside the main terminal, Dewey went into the first store he could find. He bought a baseball hat with a Benfica football logo on it, along with a pair of dark sunglasses and an international phone card.

In the distance, he saw a sign for the taxi stand. Against the wall, he noticed a line of public phones. He went to one of the glass semiprivate booths, put his bag down, keyed in the calling-card number, then dialed. Though he’d picked up the receiver with the intent of calling Hector, when he started to dial, his fingers struck different digits, another number he knew by heart. After nearly half a minute, the phone started to ring. It rang four times, then picked up.

“Hi, this is Jess,” said the voice. Dewey shut his eyes, picturing her face.

“I can’t come to the phone right now; please leave me a message.”

He forgot how warm her voice was, how soft and shy, and he remembered that it would have been his voice to listen to, to laugh with, for the rest of his life.

He fought to push the thoughts away. He hung up, then leaned his head against the wall.

Leave it behind, Dewey. Walk away. Get it through your head and walk away. Leave her behind. Yesterday’s gone. She’s gone.

Fight. It’s all you can do. It’s all you could ever do.

Against his better judgment, he dialed again. He listened until he felt someone’s eyes on him. He looked up. An old woman was staring at him, politely waiting for the phone. He hung up the phone and walked away from the phone booth.

Dewey walked quickly through the terminal, keeping his head down. He rode an escalator to the baggage-claim area. Near the glass doors to the outside, he saw a sign for the taxi stand.

The area outside the terminal was crowded with cars, buses, rental-car shuttles, taxis, and people. There were three separate lanes. The first was reserved for taxis. A center lane was reserved for public transportation and shuttles; a procession of buses, hotel and rental-car shuttles lined the concrete sidewalk. The far traffic lane was for everyday cars and was crowded with double-parked cars, as passengers hustled to climb in.

Dewey saw the taxi line to the left. He fell in line behind a young black couple. They were holding hands and laughing. From their accents, they sounded French. The man was tall; Dewey moved into line as close to the couple as possible, using them to provide a visual shield as he scanned the sidewalk for anyone even remotely Asian.

The airport was chaotic and crowded. This, Dewey knew, was exactly what he wanted.

Seek crowds. Blend in. Know where your weapon is.

Dewey began to relax slightly as the French couple came to the front of the taxi line. Still, he felt perspiration beneath his armpits.

“Are you here on holiday?” asked the woman behind Dewey. He turned. She looked Middle Eastern; her accent was British. She smiled at him.

“No,” said Dewey.

The line moved again. A small green taxi pulled in front of the French couple. As they climbed in back, the woman giggled watching the man attempt to squeeze into the tiny vehicle. The driver climbed out and opened the trunk of the taxi, then grabbed the couple’s bags and tossed them into the trunk. A few seconds later, the taxi sped away.

Dewey was at the front of the line now. He was exposed to anyone driving in any of the three pickup lanes. He stooped a bit, pulling the hat as low as he could without looking suspicious. He registered a long succession of buses and rental-car shuttles in the next lane. In the far lane, cars were backed up, double parked, horns honking intermittently.

Dewey glanced left, toward the airport entrance. There wasn’t a taxi in sight.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Dewey turned.

“How about you?” he asked politely, looking at the woman. He surveyed over her shoulders, to both sides, scanning the terminal entrance for spotters.

“Yes, I’m on holiday. I’m meeting my sister.”

Dewey turned from the woman, looking again for a taxi. There wasn’t one in sight.

“Would you like to share a taxi into town?” asked the woman. “It’s so frightfully expensive.”

Dewey looked into the woman’s eyes for a brief moment, saying nothing. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a bright red sedan with black checkers on its doors and a flashing yellow sign on its roof. The taxi barreled into the airport and, moments later, sped down the taxi lane.

“Thank God,” he muttered.

The red taxi moved quickly down the lane and stopped in front of Dewey.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Dewey to the woman.

Dewey reached for the taxi door and noticed, for the first time, a white van parked two lanes over, its windows tinted jet-black.

A chill spiked in the back of Dewey’s neck as the van’s lights suddenly flickered. Someone inside the van had turned the key.

“Where to?” asked the cab driver.

Dewey leaned down, into the passenger window, making eye contact with the driver.

“I have luggage,” said Dewey.

“I’m sorry,” said the driver, putting it in neutral and climbing out. “Let me help you.”

“Thanks,” said Dewey, remaining with his head down, next to the passenger window as the driver moved to the rear of the taxi.

Through the canopy of the taxi, he scanned the van. It was shiny and new. It sat still, its running lights now on. The black of the windshield and passenger window prevented Dewey from seeing anyone.

Am I being paranoid,
Dewey asked himself?

Fight. It’s all you can do. It’s all you could ever do.

The taxi driver stepped to the back of the taxi and opened the trunk.

“Where is your bag, sir?” he called in a thick accent from behind the taxi.

Dewey glanced at the driver. He was now shielded by the trunk.

Dewey ripped open the front passenger-side door. He climbed in the taxi, then moved across the passenger seat to the driver’s seat, keeping his eyes glued to the van.

Suddenly, the black passenger-side window of the van cracked, then lowered.

Dewey thrust the taxi into reverse just as the muzzle of a rifle emerged from the window. Dewey ducked and slammed the accelerator to the floor, tearing backward, just as the first slugs pelted the window, shattering it.

Unmuted automatic-weapon fire exploded out above the general din of the airport. It was followed by screams, then all-out pandemonium as anyone within earshot dived to the ground or ran for their lives.

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.