Independence Day (11 page)

“He froze up,” said Bond, “just like you said he would.”

Calibrisi nodded.

“Where is he?”

“I dropped him off in Georgetown.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

Calibrisi turned to leave.

“Chief, you need to know something.”

“What?”

“Gant met us at Andrews. He was waiting for the plane to land.”

Calibrisi’s head turned sharply back to Bond.

“
What?
”

“He was waiting on the tarmac,” said Bond. “He asked for a first look on the debrief. Gave me a rash of shit.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t have done this, but I told him I report to Bill and he could get my brief from him.”

“That’s exactly what you should’ve done. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Calibrisi reached for the door, then turned.

“Bring him in,” said Calibrisi. “Whatever condition he’s in.”

Bond nodded at Calibrisi.

“Will do, J.P.”

Calibrisi walked to the fire stairs, then descended, two steps at a time, to the fourth floor. He moved down a curving glass-walled hallway to the offices of Josh Gant, deputy director of the CIA.

Unlike Calibrisi, Gant had a fancy set of offices, complete with a large entry foyer adorned with framed photographs of Gant posing with President J. P. Dellenbaugh.

Gant’s assistant stood up as Calibrisi marched into the outer office and brushed past her. He stepped into Gant’s office and shut the door.

Gant held his hand over the phone. Gant had on a bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses. He was tan. His hair was brown and neatly coiffed. He had on a seersucker suit, a yellow button-down, and cordovan loafers.

“I’m on a call,” said Gant.

“Get off it.”

Gant stared at Calibrisi. He put the phone back to his ear.

“I’ll call you back.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Calibrisi.

“I was trying to convince my daughter not to change her major from economics to French literature, if you want to know the truth.”

“I’m talking about Dewey Andreas.”

“Sinaloa is in my matrix, Chief. You’re the one who assigned it to me, remember?”

“I’m talking about that psych eval you got Furr to order up,” said Calibrisi.

“He’s got a screw loose, Hector, and I don’t like it when NOCs have loose screws. You shouldn’t either.”

“I’m not going to dignify what you just said,” said Calibrisi, barely controlling his temper. “You
stay the fuck away
from Dewey. Do you understand me? What you did—using the Senate Intelligence Committee to try and build an incarceration order on Dewey, on U.S. soil—is against the law.”

Calibrisi noted a slightly surprised look on Gant’s face.

“You’re not trying to incarcerate him, are you?” said Calibrisi, studying Gant. “You want a hit order on the man who stopped Alexander Fortuna?”

“That’s absurd,” said Gant. “I don’t want him dead. I just want the right thing to be done. If that means sending Dewey back out in the field, great, I have no issue with that. It’s not personal. If it means removing him to a clinic for a few months, or years, until his value as a breach target is diminished, then that’s what I’m for. We’ve had two NOCs punctured in the last year. It has to stop.”

Calibrisi walked over to Gant’s desk.

“Either you stay away from Dewey, or I’ll call Dellenbaugh and tell him what his little political hack has been doing. You’ll go straight back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

Gant stared at Calibrisi.

“The president is aware of my concerns and my actions,” said Gant calmly.

Gant held up a small electronic recording device.

“In addition, you need to understand that if Dewey ends up going sideways, I’m documenting every single thing you’re doing to prevent me from stopping it.”

“You’ve been recording this—” said Calibrisi, momentarily stunned.

“EPPA 7664, section H91, paragraph 2,” said Gant. “‘
All employees of the Central Intelligence Agency agree to certain waivers of constitutional rights, including the right not to be electronically recorded without prior knowledge and consent
.’”

Gant paused, letting his words sink in.

“National Security Act of 1947,” Calibrisi shot back. “‘
The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency may, in the discretion of the Director, terminate the employment of any officer or employee of the Central Intelligence Agency whenever the Director deems the termination of employment of such officer or employee necessary or advisable.
’”

“‘
In the interests of the United States
,’” added Gant, finishing the citation. “An operator like Andreas could do a lot of damage to the United States of America.”

Calibrisi turned toward the door.

“One last thing, Hector,” said Gant.

Calibrisi paused at the door.

“Where is he?” asked Gant.

“Fuck you.”

11

WHITEWATER MMA

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The man in the wheelchair stared at Dewey, then turned to Daryl.

“Where’s Tino?”

Daryl leaned forward, between the ropes.

“You think that’s a good idea?” Daryl asked quietly.

“Get him,” he snarled.

Daryl stood up and searched the crowd. His eyes settled on the window at the rear of the room. A dark-skinned man was seated on the windowsill. He had earbuds in, seemingly oblivious. Daryl motioned for him, but he wasn’t paying attention. Someone reached up and tapped him on the arm. The kid looked up, found Daryl, then stood.

People started to shout and clap as Tino made his way to the ring, unbuttoning a sleeveless flannel shirt as he came close and dropping it to the floor. Reflexively, people stepped aside to let him through.

Tino wasn’t overloaded with muscles, but what he did have looked sculpted, as if he managed his muscle tone around fitness, speed and, above all, violence. He walked bowlegged, bending his head side to side as he walked, stretching his neck. His chest was bare. As he climbed into the ring, and the cheering picked up, Dewey saw his one and only tattoo, a foot-wide picture of Jesus across his back.

He wore long nylon shorts that came below his knees. He climbed into the ring and walked to the corner, ignoring Dewey.

The crowd was amped. They called out Tino’s name in a prideful chorus.

“
Tee-no! Tee-no!
”

Dewey glanced at Daryl.

“I’ll make the same offer as before, man,” he said to Dewey, “but I know what you’re gonna say.”

Dewey didn’t respond. The truth is, though he heard what Daryl said this time, the meaning of the words seemed to sail over his head, as if they were in a different language.

All Dewey could hear now was the warmth. It had gotten there, to that level he’d grown to know and trust, when it guided him, when it spoke to him.

He’ll try to kill you. He wants to kill you. The question is, are you going to let him?

Daryl stepped to the center of the ring, motioning for Dewey and Tino to meet him there.

Tino continued to ignore Dewey as the two approached Daryl. Then he looked up and their eyes met. They were dark eyes, almost black. He smiled. He had no upper front teeth, just a big gaping hole. He stared at Dewey, studying him.

“What branch?” Tino asked, barely above a whisper.

Dewey didn’t answer. He was in a different place. He couldn’t even hear the din of the gym. The shouting was loud now. There was a sense of riot and chaos. He heard only his own thoughts.

It’s time to return. Now is that time.

“Three-minute rounds,” said Daryl, yelling so that Dewey and Tino could hear him above the clamor of the crowd, now five deep around the ring.

Daryl leaned toward Tino.

“When I say stop, you stop, and I’m fuckin’ serious, Tino.”

Tino smiled and began to bounce on his feet, back and forth, left right, staring at Dewey.

“Other than that, well, have at it, motherfuckers,” said Daryl, stepping back, motioning to the corners.

Daryl nodded to someone seated ringside. Suddenly the bell sounded, and the fight began.

Dewey stepped toward the center of the ring. Tino remained in his corner, adjusting his mouth guard. He seemed nonchalant as he did so, not even looking at Dewey. Dewey moved closer, and yet Tino seemed oblivious; he made eye contact with someone in the audience, smiled, then removed his mouth guard. He yelled something to him. His head was turned sideways to Dewey. Dewey came closer now, his fists raised, clenched, waiting for Tino to turn back to him, and in that momentary pause, Tino burst left—like a lion hurling itself through the bush at unsuspecting prey.

Dewey caught the move, but too late. He tried to block the attack, swinging at Tino’s head, but by the time his fist slashed right to left, Tino’s head was gone, dropped down beneath Dewey’s arm as he charged at Dewey’s legs—lurching viciously headfirst at Dewey’s thighs. The moment of anticipation, caused by his own error, was painful. Tino’s skull slammed his left thigh, as hard as a sledgehammer. The shock of the attack was unexpected, the pain brutal and immediate. Dewey felt lightness as Tino drove him hard, backward, then, for an awful second, into clear air. Before he hit the mat, Tino’s arms were around his legs, his sharp fingers ripping at the back of his legs, trying to break the skin. Then Dewey landed, Tino atop him. His back struck the mat, followed by the back of his head. In the fiery moment, he heard Tino’s grunt, a terrible sound, intermingled with pain in the front of his thigh and the dull, deep migraine that shot out from the back of his skull.

The gym erupted in screaming and cheers.

It took all of ten seconds, and Dewey knew he was in deep trouble.

The crowd moved closer, bunching up the sides of the ring, yelling at Tino, egging him on.

“
Break it!
”

“
Bury ’em, Tino!
”

Dewey lay on his back, locked at the thighs in a viselike grip. He slammed his fists into the back of Tino’s skull, his neck, and the upper part of his back, eliciting not even a grunt. Then Tino’s knee shot up from beneath him and hit Dewey squarely in the balls. A half second later, Tino’s right arm sprang loose from around Dewey, swinging wildly for Dewey’s face.

Dewey anticipated the move, raising his left arm, blocking Tino’s swing. Then, with his right hand, Dewey grabbed whatever he could of Tino’s moving fist, finding Tino’s middle and index fingers, then snapping back, breaking both fingers at the knuckle just as Tino’s other fist slammed hard into Dewey’s right biceps.

Tino grunted in pain as he swung again with his left, striking Dewey in the shoulder. Dewey’s right arm shot out, then under Tino’s elbow, locking Tino in an awkward position. Dewey yanked upward with his right arm, trying to snap Tino’s arm at the elbow. But Tino moved to escape. From atop Dewey, he pushed with his head, his right hand, and his legs, then jumped up into the air in a controlled pirouette, a 270-degree sideways leap that freed him from Dewey’s grip. He landed on his feet.

Dewey rolled left, but not in time to avoid Tino’s bare left foot, which kicked him viciously in the mouth. Blood shot out. Tino followed the first kick with another, his right. Dewey blocked it, then swept his legs across the mat, beneath Tino, kicking Tino hard at the ankle, dropping him.

Nauseous, dizzy, badly bleeding, Dewey climbed to his feet.

Daryl, the referee, stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching with a blank expression on his face.

It felt like they’d been at it for hours, but for the first time Daryl made a motion: two fingers. Two minutes left in round one. Only a minute had passed.

“Motherfucker,” Dewey panted, blood coursing down his chin and onto his chest as he regained his knowledge of what it felt like to stand on his own two feet.

*   *   *

Bond parked his Audi S6 on a quiet residential street off Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. He found the alley that ran behind the line of town houses that included Dewey’s. He scaled a brick wall that bordered the small backyard, slipping quietly over the top without making a noise.

Once inside the darkened property, he climbed a tree until he came to a branch that hung over a third-floor eave, then jumped to the terrace. He took a thin, hard titanium card from his wallet and slid it into the seam between upper and lower windowpanes. Bond jimmied the latch open, climbed in, and took the stairs to the first floor. There he found the case of beer along with a small collection of empties. Next to it was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a third of it depleted. On the side of the bag, he saw a word scrawled in chicken-scratch handwriting:
WHITEWATER.

Bond sighed. He took out his cell and started to dial Calibrisi. Before he hit Send, however, he stopped. He put the phone back in his pocket and stepped to the front door. He didn’t want to pass it off to Calibrisi. He wanted to help.

Back on Wisconsin, he hailed a taxi instead of driving. He knew if he drove his Audi to Whitewater he’d likely never see it again.

*   *   *

After the first big scrum, Dewey and Tino were squared off along the edge of the ring, Dewey catching his breath, Tino studying an opponent he should’ve already beaten. They didn’t bother circling each other. Dewey had his left hand on the rope, clutching it for stability. Blood poured from his mouth. Splatters of fresh crimson dotted the mat.

Tino’s face was bright red and drenched in sweat. His left fist was shut. His right fist was open. A pair of broken fingers jutted unnaturally into the air.

The crowd was in a frenzy. In unison, they chanted Tino’s name, urging him on.

Dewey glanced to his left, ringside, through the opening in the ropes. The man in the wheelchair was staring at him.

As much as Dewey wanted the rest that would come with the end of the round, he knew that if he didn’t end the fight now, he would likely die in the second round or, worse, have to forfeit.

Don’t be afraid to die.

Dewey stepped into Tino’s range, slowly and deliberately. As he did, his eye was drawn to the wall near the door at the back of what was now a standing-room-only crowd. There, he saw Bond, his arms crossed, watching. Bond noticed Dewey’s glance. He nodded at him but remained in back.