Dewey shut his eyes. He listened for Tino’s guttural panting. With his feet, he waited for the infinitesimal movement on the mat as Tino came closer.

He felt it behind him, then heard it, the movement, the patter, as Tino suddenly charged.

When you are the night, there is no man alive who can stop you. There is no man who you cannot kill.

Dewey waited, focusing on Tino’s low grunts as he charged, feeling the mat concave slightly, hearing the footsteps, then, at the final moment, sensing the presence of another animal as it descended.

He guessed Tino would dive for his knees.

Dewey pivoted, opened his eyes, then jumped into the air.

Tino dived across the air beneath Dewey as the crowd let out a cacophonous, spontaneous cheer. Tino braced himself for the coming fall, landing on his hands, then leapt up. He turned.

Dewey raised his fists and stepped toward Tino. Tino raised his fists. They came closer, slowly hovering in front of one another, just out of reach.

Dewey moved closer, slowly, weaving slightly, and entered Tino’s range. Tino swung, hitting Dewey in the chest. Dewey let the fist strike him, then another, this time across the chin, before swinging a brutal roundhouse at Tino’s head. But Tino ducked. In a single fluid motion, Tino kicked his left leg out sideways, a fierce boot to Dewey’s ribs, pushing Dewey backward, making him grunt in agony. Tino followed the kick with a 270-degree roundhouse recoil, left foot pivoting on the mat, right swinging clockwise toward Dewey’s head.

Dewey met Tino’s outstretched foot with a braced left forearm, which he slammed up just as the foot made contact, thrusting at Tino, sending him flying over backward. Tino’s eyes went wide, knowing what was about to happen. The crown of his skull hit the mat before his hands had the chance to stop the fall. As Tino landed, then rolled, Dewey stepped toward him. At that moment, he could’ve kicked him. He could’ve easily crushed Tino’s nose and snapped his head back hard enough to do permanent damage, the kind of damage Tino had been trying to do to him. But he didn’t. Instead, Dewey stood above him. With blood still dripping from his mouth, Dewey waited, fists clenched, in case Tino decided that he wanted more.

Daryl moved to Tino, kneeling. He grabbed his ear, lifting his head slightly so that he could see him. Tino looked up, his eyes meandering around inside the sockets. He shook his head, resigning from the fight.

The crowd was silent for a few moments. Someone started clapping. Dewey looked down to see the black kid, smiling widely, looking up at him. Soon the gym grew louder as others joined in.

Dewey moved to the rope. He lifted it and climbed down. He started to walk toward the door, but turned. Then he saw the man in the wheelchair. He nodded at Dewey. Dewey returned the gesture with a blank stare.

Near the entrance, Dewey found Bond, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“You almost just got killed,” said Bond.

“Yeah, no shit,” said Dewey, touching his eye.

“You realize you just took down the top-ranked UFC prospect in the United States?” asked Bond.

“I wish someone had told me that before I got in the ring,” said Dewey, rubbing his eye. “How the hell’d you find me?”

“I broke into your town house.”

“That’s breaking and entering. You can get a ticket for that in D.C.”

“Sue me.”

“Hector send you?”

Bond nodded.

“I can’t imagine why he’d be worried about you,” said Bond, shaking his head. “Let’s go.”

12

ABOARD THE LONELY FISHERMAN

MEDITERRANEAN SEA

Faqir stood in the wheelhouse, chain-smoking cigarettes, his eyes flashing between the rudimentary navigation equipment and the four-foot waters of a wind-driven ocean, illuminated now by halogen lights at the trawler’s foredeck. It was almost midnight.

The wooden deck of the trawler was soaked in seawater. The steel along the balustrade was rusted. Near the bow of the ship, a watch tower stood thirty feet high, put there in order to spot schools of tuna. A cable was draped between the tower and the wheelhouse. Christmas lights were wrapped around the cable, though most of the bulbs were burned out. The few that remained created a dim, murky glow on the deck.

The wheelhouse had a strong stench of fish, body odor, oil, and cigarettes.

The boat was chugging along at twenty-four knots, thick smoke spewing from a pair of stacks behind the wheelhouse. The engine was loud and made an unhealthy grinding noise. It didn’t, however, concern Faqir. Not only had he crossed the Atlantic in far less seaworthy vessels, he also had the preternatural calm of a jihadist. He didn’t care if he died, believing in his heart that whatever was next was paradise.

It had been twelve hours since they’d refueled in Bizerte, on the coast of Tunisia. By Faqir’s estimates, the trip through the Strait of Gibraltar would take another day. Until then, Faqir did not intend to leave the wheelhouse.

He heard rapid footsteps on the deck and turned as the door to the wheelhouse burst open. One of the crew stood at the door, panting.

“Vrach dolzhen vam srazu.”

The doctor needs you immediately.

“Sledit’ za ognyami,” said Faqir. “Krichat’, yesli vy vidite kakoy-libo. Vy ponimayete?”

Watch for lights. Scream if you see any. Do you understand?

The young crew member nodded and walked to the wheel.

Belowdecks, Faqir passed the engine room, then came to a large cargo hold near the middle of the ship. Outside the room hung several pink hazmat suits, designed to protect against chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear exposure. Each had a self-contained breathing apparatus. Faqir put one on, then opened the door.

The bomb lay on its side on a steel frame. A section had been removed, exposing a steel cylinder near the center of the device.

Dr. Poldark, also dressed in a hazmat suit, was standing over the bomb, looking at the cylinder.

“What is it, Doctor?”

“We have a problem,” said Poldark. “The explosives in the gun assembly are shot. They will not work.”

Faqir shook his head.

“I’m not a nuclear scientist, Dr. Poldark.”

Poldark took a deep breath, then smiled patiently. He pointed at the steel cylinder that stuck out from the bomb.

“This is a fission bomb,” he said. “That is the gun assembly. The way it works is simple. At the very end is a conventional high explosive. When that is detonated, it causes a bullet—made of highly enriched uranium—to fire down the barrel into a larger piece of highly enriched uranium at the other end. When it strikes the other piece of uranium, a chain reaction occurs. Critical mass. Boom.”

Poldark patted the steel cylinder.

“The problem is, this bomb is old. It was assembled in 1952 or ’53. I was a teenager then. Your parents, Faqir, were probably not even born yet. That’s how old it is. The uranium is, of course, pristine. It will last forever, or at least long enough for our purposes. But the conventional explosive that begins the chain reaction is, I’m afraid, useless.”

“I brought explosives, Doctor,” said Faqir.

He turned to one of the men standing against the wall.

“Guzny, gde zhe detonatorov?” he barked at the young Chechen.

Guzny, where are the blasting caps?

The Chechen’s eyes darted about nervously. Finally, he spoke, barely above a whisper.

“Ya iskal vezde. Ya, dolzhno byt’, zabyli ikh.”

I looked everywhere. I must have forgotten them.

Faqir’s face turned red as his expression flared in anger. He pulled a handgun from a holster at his waist, raised it, and fired. The slug struck the young Chechen in the center of his forehead, spattering blood across the wall of the hold. He fell to the floor.