RYONGSONG RESIDENCE
PYONGYANG
Fusco felt a small rumble and heard distant thunder. Someone had triggered the grenades, he guessed.
Barrazza, on point, stopped mid-run, holding up his hand.
He smelled the faint aroma of cigarette smoke somewhere ahead. He kept moving, going slower, taking each step in silence. He saw a shadow dance across the concrete wall ahead. It was a soldier smoking. He was just past a slight curve in the tunnel.
Barrazza switched weapons and got down on his stomach. He skulked slowly along the ground, inching around the bend, holding the M4 out in front of him as he crawled. Before he saw the gunman he saw the entrance to the side tunnel. The soldier was stationed there, absentmindedly guarding the juncture between the main artery to the palace and the side tunnel.
He heard the low din of a radio playing some sort of music.
Then, the walkie-talkie in the man’s pocket crackled. Someone came on and started speaking in a panicked voice.
Barrazza knew what it meant.
They know.
He got to his feet and charged forward just as the soldier swung his submachine gun toward him and triggered the weapon. But Barrazza was already triggering the rifle by the time the soldier reacted. The suppressed bullets spat from the rifle—thwap thwap—and they ripped into the soldier’s stomach, kicking him forward. Barrazza pumped one more bullet at point-blank range into the soldier’s forehead.
“Very nice,” said Dewey, looking down at the mangled, bullet-ridden corpse. “Martha Stewart–esque.”
Dewey and Barrazza both shot their eyes down the tunnel in the same moment. They heard the faint drumbeat of footsteps coming from somewhere ahead. They stepped into the side tunnel, taking a few steps back in order to get out of the direct sight line. They heard the crackle of the walkie-talkie, this time the one in Dewey’s pocket. The words were urgent. A man was yelling into the walkie-talkie. The phrases were short and clipped: orders.
Dewey understood soldiers were coming from somewhere ahead—somewhere closer to the palace.
He looked at his watch. If he and Barrazza tried to take an alternative route through the side tunnel, they might get away. But time was their enemy. Time was all that mattered now.
“Follow my lead. Get your HK.”
Dewey went to the dead soldier and flipped him onto his stomach. He lifted the dead man by the material at the back of his neck. The North Korean was light. Dewey held him up with his left hand, facing the corpse at the soldiers he could now hear running down the tunnel toward him.
Barrazza switched weapons again, bringing out his MP7, a long, round suppressor jutting from the muzzle. He moved behind the dead soldier as Dewey held him up. Barrazza aimed up the tunnel, tucking the suppressor beneath the arm of the dead man, trying to conceal himself behind him.
The sound of boots grew louder. The point soldier ran headlong into the tunnel just fifty feet away. Barrazza held his fire. As the soldier yelled something to the dead man, a second soldier came into view, and then a third.
Barrazza triggered the silenced submachine gun. The dull metallic rat-a-tat-tat of the weapon was like hornets as Barrazza sprayed the tunnel in a killing line. There were pained groans and a sharp scream, but it all was drowned out by the sound of weapon fire. Even suppressed, it cut through the din.
The tunnel was quickly clogged in dust and debris from the pulverized concrete, from the soldiers’ uniforms as they were shredded, and from blood and body parts. Other than a short burst of bullets from one of the gunmen which struck the ceiling, none of the men had time to do anything as Barrazza mowed them down. Barrazza stopped firing when he heard the click click of the empty mag.
Dewey and Barrazza started running as fast as they could. Dewey was on point when suddenly …
A black flash—a lightning bolt—a dark ember—
It came at him from an egress in the wall, an alcove to the left.
Dewey saw the glint of the blade just as it darted from the wall. It was trained at his torso, and he was moving so fast he was running directly at it. Dewey lurched, trying to block the arm the blade was attached to. It was a soldier, lunging, slashing at Dewey. Dewey slammed his left wrist down on the hand clutching the knife just as the tip of the blade struck Dewey’s stomach, cutting through material and skin before Dewey could do anything. Dewey groaned and slammed the butt of his pistol into the killer’s skull, a vicious swing so hard he could hear the crack of bone breaking.
The soldier dropped, still clutching the blade. Dewey finally could make him out in the low light. He was young, with an angry look. He wore a black uniform, an elite branch of KPA, he guessed. His hand clutched a silver steel blade. He suddenly lunged again, this time at Dewey’s neck. Dewey ducked, grabbed the man’s wrist, and twisted it hard, snapping it at the elbow. Dewey wrapped his other arm around the killer’s neck. He yanked back, snapping his neck.
Barrazza watched as Dewey let the corpse drop.
“You’re one to talk.”
They were getting closer.
They ran for another few minutes without seeing any signs of life. Suddenly, two soldiers emerged from the shadows. Dewey fired twice as Barrazza stepped clear of Dewey and added a second round of slugs. The man on the right was hit in the neck, kicking him backwards. The man on the left took Dewey’s shot in the middle of the forehead and dropped to the ground.
Dewey opened his jacket and saw a large pancake of red.
“You okay?” said Barrazza.
“Fine,” said Dewey. “Let’s go.”