Bond, the lead CIA agent, watched helplessly as Oliveri was killed. He tried to reach for his commo to say something, but he was paralyzed by the highly lethal, fast-acting toxin in the dart. A few seconds later, unable to breathe, he suffocated to death.

The injured girl climbed over the front seat, pulling Oliveri to the passenger side, pushing his large frame to the floor.

She took up position behind the wheel, then turned.

“I can’t see,” she said in Russian, her view blocked by the blood on the windshield.

The girl in the backseat handed her a handkerchief to wipe what she could from the windshield. A few moments later, she hit the gas pedal and tore down Reki Fontanki.

36

REKI FONTANKI

SAINT PETERSBURG

“This is an Emergency Priority operation. I repeat, Emergency Priority. Safeties off. Take whatever action is required to get the girl.”

Dewey heard Polk’s frantic words just as the final act was nearing its conclusion.

Moscow had gone bad.

Stay calm.

He stood and moved quickly up the aisle, then heard Bond’s voice over commo for the first time.

“Roger that, Bill. We’re moving into position. We’ll recon as soon as she exits the theater. What about the SEALs?”

Dewey exited through the front of the Mariinsky Theatre as, behind him, clapping and cheering echoed out from the theater.

“Roger, Langley, this is Jacobsson, over.”

“Are you guys ready?”

Dewey went left, then crossed the side street. A few yards from the corner was a bench, part of it occupied by an elderly couple. Dewey walked past it and stood near the corner. From there, he could see down the street that ran alongside the theater. Halfway down the block, outside the private stage entrance, a line of limousines and dark sedans idled, their drivers waiting for VIPs and cast members to emerge. Dewey registered the red Mercedes a block behind the line of cars, but moving quickly.

“Roger that. We’re in harbor awaiting your recon. Repeat we are in harbor and good to go. Over.”

Dewey felt his heart racing. He reached inside his coat, feeling the butt of his gun, as he scanned the mission zone.

It was coming again. The paralysis he’d first experienced in Mexico was coming. He felt it. He tried to think of Tino and the fight at Whitewater, but all he could see now was his shaking hand, frozen in the Iguala air, unable to open the door to the cocaine refinery.

Dewey watched the Mercedes move toward the line of limousines outside the theater. He heard the old woman on the bench say something. He turned. The couple was holding hands, sitting peacefully, enjoying the warm evening. He watched them for an extra moment, trying to calm down and get his emotions under control.

Polk had been right all along. He did need help. He would’ve frozen up all over again.

At that moment, Dewey felt self-loathing as powerful and intense as he’d ever felt it before. Everything he’d built, all of it, was gone.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll hit you up when we’re go. Out.”

Dewey walked away from the scene. He drifted toward the canal, lost in thought, lost in self-hatred and doubt, a knot in his stomach. He would drop his gun in the canal, along with his earbud. He’d find a hotel room, then the bar at the hotel, and drink until he couldn’t walk, or think. Tomorrow, he’d fly home. He’d return to Castine. He’d stay there until he was an old man.

He turned back one last time to the theater. At the stage entrance, a commotion ensued as Katya emerged. Autograph seekers, mostly squealing teenage girls, cheered and yelled at the sight of the famous ballerina.

His eyes scanned the scene. He watched as the red Mercedes moved into position.

Then his eyes were drawn to two girls walking along the sidewalk, weaving slightly, alongside the Mercedes. Dewey looked away, thinking nothing of it.

Dewey was now at the granite abutment above the canal. He put his hand inside his jacket and found the butt of his gun. He pulled it out, clutching it by the barrel. He started to toss the gun into the dark water below …

The sound of screeching brakes was like a thunder clap, interrupting the quiet scene, awakening Dewey from his reverie.

He held on to the gun, then turned.

A cold chill emanated from the base of Dewey’s spine. He stared in disbelief, then horror, as one of the girls pretended to slip and fall, then was struck by the limo.

“Decoy,” he said.

Bond and Oliveri were in extreme danger.

Dewey moved back toward the theater. A crowd was gathering to help the fallen girl. Bond stepped out of the limo and went to her, helping her up, then led her to the back door of the limo.

Dewey crossed the street, watching as the girl reached her hands out then leapt inside the Mercedes. Just as he reached the corner, blood splashed across the inside of the windshield, like mud being thrown.

A few seconds later, the limo lurched away.

Bond and Oliveri were dead.

The Mercedes sped away from the theater. It was now coming directly toward where Dewey stood. The limo was accelerating, fleeing from the scene. As it was about to reach him, Dewey stepped into the street, directly into the path of oncoming vehicle. His hand was already inside his coat, clutching the hockey-tape-covered grip of his .45-caliber Colt M1911A1. The driver didn’t slow down or attempt to avoid him.

Just before the Mercedes struck him, Dewey tore the gun out, then leaned right. He fired the gun as fast as his finger could pump the trigger. Unmuted gunfire punctuated an already chaotic scene. Slug after slug tore into the driver’s-side window, shattering glass, then the girl’s head; her skull bounced sharply to the right as a bullet entered just above her ear. Blood sprayed across the front seat as the limo sped by, tires screeching, the back bumper barely missing Dewey as it swerved wildly. A moment later, it veered right and smashed violently into a parked delivery truck.

The first sirens sounded from a few blocks away.

Dewey charged, coming from behind the limo, knowing the other assassin would be targeting him. In stride, sprinting for the cover of the back bumper, Dewey popped the mag from his Colt and slammed a new one in just as bullets from the other assassin shattered the back window. Dewey lurched left, then dived to the street just as bullets pocked the tar near his feet.

He scrambled beneath the rear bumper, sheltered from the fusillade. He crawled beneath the car, feeling the heat of the engine on his back. He crawled until he reached the front passenger-side door. He came out from under the limo, then quietly opened the door as sirens grew louder. Two dead bodies, Oliveri and one of the girls, along with a sniper rifle, and a riot of blood covering the white leather seat. He climbed into the vehicle, skulking soundlessly, weapon out, trained at the back of the girl’s head, loaded, safety off, and cocked to fire.

Through a crack in the seat, Dewey could see the other girl’s back as she searched frantically for him behind the limo.

Dewey leapt over the seat and smashed the girl’s head down. With his other hand, he grabbed her shooting arm, yanking it behind her back.

“Where’s Katya going?”

“I don’t know.”

Dewey yanked up her arm until it snapped. She screamed.

The sirens were within a block now.

“Where is Katya going?”

Dewey grabbed the woman’s neck and choked her. Her face turned bright red.

“Tell me where and I won’t kill you.”

“Four…” she groaned.

“Seasons?”

She nodded.

Dewey snapped the girl’s neck, ripped open the door, and jumped out, running, just as police cruisers descended upon the scene.

He disappeared down Reki Fontanki, blending into the crowds that were fleeing the crash scene, making their way toward Nevsky Prospekt.