Coup d'Etat (A Dewey Andreas Novel)
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When a fragile peace breaks down between Pakistan and India, the United States is forced to intervene. When a rapidly escalating war threatens to engulf the entire region, the president must find a way to shut it down immediately―or else face total destruction for the world at large.
With the clock ticking and Pakistan in the hands of a religious radical willing to do anything and risk everything to achieve his deadly plan, there is only one man with the skills and experience to infiltrate the live war theater and successfully execute a nearly impossible, unbelievably daring plan. His name: Dewey Andreas. His mission: to remove the Pakistani president from power. Now all the White House has to do is find him…before time runs out.
Bolin stepped into the cabinet room. The room sweltered in the heat, despite the air-conditioning. El-Khayab’s cabinet sat at the table. At the door, four soldiers stood, machine guns out, guarding the door. Bolin was immediately besieged. “What have you done with the president?” shouted one of El-Khayab’s ministers. “Who’s is in charge here?” demanded another. Shouting overtook the room. Bolin raised his hand, but to no avail. The shouting continued. “Where is Omar El-Khayab?” yelled
honking horns, traffic, energy. “Come back in, Dewey,” she’d whispered after that, as she leaned down and kissed his muscled chest. “Please come back in. I could say do it for your country, but what I really mean is do it for me.” “I’m too old,” he’d said. “There are better men for the job, Jess.” But what Dewey had really meant was: I want to live to be too old. I want to live and breathe when I’m too old to kill any longer and you are by my side and our children are asleep down the hall and
find Dewey standing in front of him, weapon in hand, aimed at his skull. It was a look of pure terror. It was a look of realization—realization that there would be no way for him to sweep the UZI across the air in time. Dewey could have gunned him down that very second, but he waited one extra moment to let him experience the awful knowledge that he had lost and was about to die. Those were the memories that formed like crystals in Dewey’s mind, which opened a flood of emotion. These were the
sharp steel into the trachea but not breaking skin. When he knew the officer would not scream any longer, he released his left hand and took the walkie-talkie from the officer’s belt. “Calm now,” said Millar in Urdu, holding the walkie-talkie next to his mouth. “Tell him to come.” The agent struggled to speak, tears of pain from his broken arm ran down his cheeks. “Tell who to—” Millar yanked back on the switchblade, cutting the officer’s neck a half-inch. He winced in pain as blood spewed
Dewey’s Colt was holstered beneath his left armpit, a black suppressor screwed into the end of the weapon. It bulged slightly at his spleen. At Dewey’s right calf, his Gerber combat knife lay sheathed. Dewey assiduously avoided eye contact. Tension was high now, and with tension came suspicion and paranoia. Dewey occasionally felt the dark eyes upon him as he walked down uneven streets of stone and decaying mortar. Past crowds of men, past restless throngs of student radicals, out smoking,