The airport was lit up but quiet. He sped through the arrival area, looking for signs of life, then hooked around the side of the terminal, racing for the runway.

He saw two blue lights. He came on a police cruiser at the gate to the runway. The car door opened and an officer held up his hand, ordering him to stop, but Dewey kept going, past the policeman. He pushed the bike harder, pulled back, lifted the front tire, and hit the wooden gate that that led to the tarmac. It smashed into pieces.

At the far side of the tarmac, he saw a black Toyota Land Cruiser, its lights still on, a door open. He heard a low grumble from down the tarmac, then recognized the oncoming lights of a jet. It was moving down the runway, directly at him. The engine roared.

Dewey dumped the bike, climbed off, then pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster.

*   *   *

“Raul!” yelled one of the pilots from the cockpit.

Chang was seated in the cabin of the Gulfstream. He looked across the aisle at Raul, who lay on his side across two of the leather cabin chairs. The mercenary held his hand against his stomach, where the bullet from Andreas had hit him.

“They’re trying to stop the plane,” yelled the pilot.

Raul’s dull eyes met Chang’s. He tried to say something. Blood seeped over his lips as his mouth moved.

“Take off,” he coughed. “Get off the ground.”

At that moment, Chang thought about killing Raul, but he wouldn’t need to. The Mexican would be dead within the hour. Blood oozed out over his fingers as he clutched his stomach.

The plane’s engines roared. The jet started moving down the tarmac.

“You need to remove the bullet,” said Raul, blood dribbling out the sides of his mouth.

Chang said nothing. He stood and walked to the cabin. He stood behind the two pilots as the Gulfstream barreled down the runway.

“He has a gun!” yelled one of the pilots, pointing out the window.

*   *   *

The jet came faster now, down the runway, directly at Dewey. He raised his right arm and stepped into the path of the oncoming jet. He trained the muzzle of the Glock at the front of the plane. Then he started firing. The slugs hit the cockpit glass in front of the pilot. One, two, three, then the rest of the magazine: Dewey emptied all his ammunition into the glass. As the front wheel lifted off just feet from where he stood, he realized the glass was bulletproof.

“Stop!” screamed a police officer behind him.

The blue-and-white jet lifted off. As Dewey was tackled from behind, he watched as Jessica’s killers escaped into the dark sky.

*   *   *

Chang leaned forward, looking out the cockpit window. At the end of the runway, a shirtless man was walking down the middle of the tarmac. The jet sped closer to him. The engines roared. The man’s arm was raised. He had his gun trained up at the plane. Above the din, Chang heard the faint sound of gunfire, then the chink of the slug hitting the plane. Reflexively, he flinched.

They came closer and closer to the figure. Chang knew it was Andreas. Even without looking, he knew it was him. A slug hit the glass of the window, pockmarking it. Andreas kept firing as the jet moved closer, dotting the glass with small indents.

The jet’s wheels began to lift off as they came right upon Andreas, who didn’t move. Chang craned his neck to see him. He was big, wearing only jeans, his expression angry and unflinching. Then the Gulfstream climbed fully off the tarmac.

Chang’s heart raced as he felt the smooth embrace of liftoff. He stood at the edge of the cabin for several moments.

In one day, his life had changed entirely, and not for the better. He couldn’t begin to imagine how he could fix it. Andreas was alive. The woman was dead. Hu-Shao was back at the ranch with a pair of holes in his head. He had no friends or allies. Whatever money he had was being monitored by the ministry. He had nothing.

He knew he should report in and tell the truth. After all, he wasn’t the one who killed the woman. He wasn’t the one who shot Hu-Shao. It was Raul.

But none of that mattered. The ministry didn’t tolerate failure. He was a dead man.

Chang returned to the cabin.

Raul lay still, his eyes wide open, staring permanently into oblivion.

Chang ransacked his pockets for cash, finding nearly four thousand dollars in cash.

He sat down and looked out the window, trying to think. From his pocket, he removed his ministry-issued SAT phone. He was at a crossroads. He could call in to Beijing and confess to everything that had happened. Or he could run.

He’d seen firsthand how Bhang treated people who failed him.

He smashed the SAT phone against the floor. He removed the tracking device from the phone and stomped on it until it was pulverized.

He went to the cabin.

“Give me a map,” he said.

Both pilots turned. Their eyes drifted down to the handgun that Chang now clutched, moving it back and forth between the two men.

The pilot on the left pulled a navigational chart from a pocket on the side of the cockpit. Chang flipped through it, then studied the area.

“What’s the nearest city?” he asked.

“Santiago.”

“Head for Valparaiso,” said Chang, pointing, “on the coast.”

21

UNITED STATES TREASURY DEPARTMENT

WASHINGTON, D.C.

From outside the closed office door of U.S. Treasury Secretary Woodrow Uhlrich, a passerby could, on occasion, hear a mysterious thumping sound.

Those who were close to Wood Uhlrich knew that it only happened toward the end of the day, a stressful day, a day in which Uhlrich, sometime past eight or nine in the evening, would venture to the sideboard in his office and fill a highball glass a quarter full with Pappy Van Winkle’s. The dull thuds that echoed in the entrance foyer, through Uhlrich’s closed door, were the sounds of darts striking the cork of the dartboard that hung on the back of the door.

To say that Uhlrich’s staff loved him would have been an understatement. In fact, each and every one of them would have gone to war for Uhlrich. Joanna Traaten, his beautiful executive assistant; Bobby Grace, his overweight but capable chief of staff, and all of the others who’d come along on Uhlrich’s wild ride, from mayor of Lexington, to governor of Kentucky, to United States senator, and, upon the election of his best friend Rob Allaire to the presidency, to his appointment as treasury secretary, they had all been there, through thick and thin.

It was Grace who kept the bourbon in ample supply. It was Traaten who made sure his schedule was wiped clean by 6:00 P.M. And both knew that when the darts started hitting, to leave Uhlrich alone.

None of them had ever seen him angry. Even his wife, Daisy, couldn’t remember a time when Uhlrich had raised his voice. He was laid-back to the point of being taciturn. He simply couldn’t be fazed, didn’t like to talk, and yet somehow lured people in with a quiet sort of charisma.

Hitting the dartboard was Uhlrich at his most emotional. Everyone knew that when he started throwing darts, he had something on his mind. After a half hour or so, it was Grace’s job to politely knock on the door and see what was going on.

“Wood?” Grace asked as he pushed the door in, a few minutes after eight. “Hold your fire, Mr. Secretary.”

Grace stepped inside, then closed the large door behind him.

“Hi, Bobby.”

Uhlrich’s tie was off. He was standing halfway between his desk and the door, where the dartboard hung. In his left hand was a glass of bourbon. In his right, a green-and-red-tailed dart. Grace glanced at the dartboard. One of the darts was in the center.

“Nice shot.”

“I did that one yesterday. Left it there. It reminds me that every once in a while I do something right.”