by L. T. Ryan
But the other door left him in view for a second at most. For some men, that would be enough time to adjust, aim, and make the kill shot. Was this guy that good? Jack glanced at the four bodies forever interconnected. The crowd was gone. Some hid behind the other columns. Some had headed inside. Others had vanished, as they should’ve from the beginning.
Pinning his left eye shut, he used the remaining windows as mirrors. The deserted street offered no cover aside from a few parked cars. That cemented the decision.
He had to go inside.
The question remained, what waited behind the building? Little chance the sniper worked alone. A team could be waiting on the other side. Jack checked his pistol, a Beretta 92FS he’d procured from an old man in the village he’d hid out in. He was the only one who’d ever fired it. He’d performed all the maintenance and cleaning. Loaded the magazine in the weapon and the two in his pockets.
If anyone waited for him behind the hotel, the Beretta would decide their fate.
Jack untucked his shirt, pulled the pistol free from the compression holster, and fired at the window in front of him.
Chapter 5
Isabella Cavallero, known to most in the group as Isa, tapped on her mechanical keyboard, sending off a round of rapid-fire clickity-clacks that drove the other analysts insane. But today there were no complaints. Even if the others did mind—face it, they did—they were too busy deciphering the tsunami of information pouring into the command center.
On the three thirty-four-inch curved monitors lined up side by side in front of her, Isa opened window after window featuring news feeds, still images, and live security footage from a hotel in Luxembourg City.
A shooting had occurred.
Shootings happen across the globe. Every single day. What made this one special?
That was Isa’s job. Figure out what the hell made this a headlining event.
First was the method. A high-powered rifle fired from above. A sniper. Four bodies slain close together, but not shot at the same time. Other shots that didn’t find their mark. Why? They were following someone. The shooter had a target.
The other reason this had her and the rest of her team’s full attention was they had specific intelligence that something was going down in Luxembourg City. The sleepy city was, as they say, on their radar.
All other open windows faded into oblivion as Isa focused on the image of a man’s face partially obscured by a wide stone or concrete column. Chunks were missing from one side.
“It’s him,” she said.
She and her team sat in a circle, all chairs facing inward, six feet of desk space, massive monitors, phones, cell phones, burner phones, multiple computer towers, iPads, MacBooks. None of it existed for a few seconds as the other three analysts rose and stared at her.
“Who?” Petrovski, a man thirty-three years of age who had been imprisoned at the age of fourteen by the Russian government for hacking into a database full of political enemy information. Rights workers managed to free him by the time he was seventeen. He soon after found employment in Germany, a private firm that put his skills to use under the guise of GIS. He would find himself in trouble again, but the penalty this time was to be offered a quarter- million-dollar salary working for the group.
A few clicks later, the rest of the team had the image front and center on their main screen.
“Him,” Isa said.
“You found The Ghost,” Petrovski said.
The Ghost was the nickname they’d given Jack Noble after searching for months and turning up zero leads. They knew he’d been in the small Italian town, yet no one claimed to have seen him. Were they looking out for Noble’s best interests?
From the town, the trail went cold. No one had ever evaded the trackers, the analysts, the handlers, and Clive Swift like this. Frankly, it was impossible to do so unless they were hiding in a hole in the desert.
Oh wait, someone tried that and still couldn’t evade them.
Everyone left a trail.
But not The Ghost.
The net was pointless if it never closed in on the prey.
Isa felt the others’ eyes drawn toward the presence behind her. She pulled a cool breath through her partially separated lips. It chilled the roof of her mouth, her tongue, and tonsils.
“Is it him?”
Clive Swift placed his hand on Isa’s shoulder. The tips of his thumb and index finger applied counter pressure, sending a jolt of pain down her arm. She let the sensation pulse through her own fingers and leave her body. “Look for yourself.” Isa pushed away from the desk. The casters on her Herman Miller Aero chair gliding on the concrete floor. She gestured to the enhanced image of the man on the screen. “But I’m pretty confident we found our ghost.”
Clive nodded his approval to Isa as he moved forward to occupy the space she had vacated. He placed his hands on her desk. The feeling cool and electric at the same time. He had waited for this moment for over two months. Two long months, lying awake at night, absorbing everything he could find on Jack Noble so he could begin to think like the man.
Problem was, Noble had done so much, been involved with so many organizations and agencies, performing a multitude of tasks, there was no psych profile to rely on. Clive couldn’t simply tell himself to think like Jack and have it be so.
He grazed the screen with the tip of his right index finger. A little over half the man’s face appeared. The beard hid a portion of it, but they’d seen pictures of Noble with a beard.
Clive pulled his iPhone from his pocket, a monstrous thing that his daughter couldn’t even hold when she wanted to watch a video. He entered the twelve-digit password to wake the screen, navigated across three screens, two levels into a folder, and pressed a simple blue icon for an app. When prompted, he entered a twenty-character password. A few more taps on his screen and he had what he was looking for. Pictures of Noble. He opened each, compared them to the screen.
“Satisfied?” Isa said.
He liked the woman. She had been a hell of an analyst since coming on board with their organization. But she could be bloody pushy, and he had a bad habit of letting her do so.
She pushed up against him. He caught a waft of her perfume or body gel or whatever the hell women wore these days. Since the passing of his wife and daughter in the train bombing, he had yet to take a lover, let alone date someone long enough to understand today’s grooming habits of females under thirty-five.
“Well?” She swatted his hand out of the way and pointed at the image on the screen while glancing at his phone. “Looks like a match to me.”
The room hummed with the sound of the fan. These people were professionals. And every one of them sat anxiously waiting to be told the news.
Clive straightened, tucked his phone in his pocket. He glanced at Isa and started nodding, slow jerky movements at first growing to full blown bobbing of his head. A smile nearly formed. He felt his lips twitch and stifled the emotion. They’d found the guy. So what? It took far too long to accomplish. How much longer would it take to bring him in?
That bloody smile spread.
It wouldn’t take long at all. Not with the folks he had working for him.
“OK people, listen up. We’ve found The Ghost.”
Chapter 6
There was little doubt in Bear’s mind who the attack team had come for. The shots fired now only took care of people who had the misfortune of being in the way. He chose this life. It had its consequences. It put those he loved in danger. Something he had always been prepared for.
But nothing could ready him for this situation while in this condition.
He scanned the empty PT room in search of potential weapons. Against an armed man in the open hallway, the items he catalogued would do little to help. His thoughts quickly shifted from attack and defend to get out of there.
Sasha and Mandy…
Bear shook the thought free from his mind. He’d trained the girl to react without trepidation in situations su
ch as this. And Sasha, the woman had managed for years as a British Intelligence agent. She knew what to do. He pictured her at this moment leading others to safety.
He had one mission. Get himself out.
Gripping the cold metal railing tight, he pivoted, switched his hands, and started back to where his walkers rested against the wall. Both positioned underneath tulip decals.
Three more gunshots. Closer. Bear moved faster. Risked collapsing on the floor and becoming a statistic.
Getting to the crutches was half the battle. They’d recently moved him from a wheeled walker. He hated the damned contraption while using it, but right now it would double his speed.
He locked the braces around his wrist and headed to the door. For the first time, he attempted vaulting himself forward by planting the canes onto the floor in front of him, then whipping his legs forward in unison. It tripled his travel speed.
Next to the door was a laminated printout of the fire escape route. Two rights and out through the exit door. The same direction the gunshots had originated.
Bear imagined the layout of the wing. To the left of the room was an intersecting hallway. One direction led back to the main lobby and an exit. The other to the cafeteria. He knew which way he’d go.
A whistle of wind snuck into the room carrying a fresh antiseptic odor as Bear pulled the door open an inch. Someone screamed in the distance. People shouted. Shuffling steps echoed down the corridor. And the distinct sound of a two-man tactical team communicating rose above it all.
The men were close.
Bear changed tracks. He cut the overhead lights, pivoted, and vaulted to the other side of the room. Hand over hand he lowered the darkening blinds, made from dense fabric and blocking out most of the light. It might as well have been night. If he didn’t know the rails were in the middle of the room, he’d have smacked into them.
Taking position on the hinge side of the door, Bear leaned back against the wall. The overhead vent piped cold air down. The sweat at his hairline chilled. He loosened the brace on his right wrist. The crutch didn’t weigh but two pounds at most. Not quite the force he wanted in a weapon, but with it he could strike quick.
The lever clicked and moved downward. The same whistle of wind sounded as the guy eased the door open. Probably with his right shoulder, his left hand supporting the barrel of his sub-machine gun. The tip of it protruded through a narrow opening into the room. A burnt odor followed, overpowering the disinfectant.
Bear waited with his hand choked up on the crutch, ready to use it as like a baseball bat. At most it’d buy him three seconds before the other guy realized where the attack came from. Plenty of time for Bear to take him down.
Old Bear, at least.
Could this new and less improved version keep up?
He breathed in slow and deep. It could be the last full breath he ever took. Might as well enjoy it. His lungs expanded to the point they burned. The smell of gunpowder lingered in his nose. A smile formed. Thoughts of brain tumors, non-working legs and muscles, and the fear of leaving Mandy behind faded.
The door jerked open a foot. The guy’s black boot slipped in. His breath was short, ragged. He didn’t like the situation. Bear wouldn’t either. Too dark. No control. Like stepping into a grizzly’s den.
Bear pressed his left foot against the wall. He cocked his right arm back.
The door moved another six inches. The MP5 or 7—same weapon, slightly different capabilities—silhouetted against the light filtering in through the opening. The man’s full arm came into view. His left leg. The edge of the door rested against his right shoulder. He began to sweep the room, starting on the left, where the hallway’s lighting bathed the floor.
Another inch. Then two. The door slipped off his shoulder.
And Bear attacked.
He brought the crutch down with tremendous force, all he could muster. It hit the guy’s arm. Two loud snaps filled the dark space. The crutch bent and the guy’s ulna split in two. The guy howled. It faded to a grunt as he stepped back with his right foot and swung the firearm in Bear’s direction. His broken arm wouldn’t allow his fingers to follow the command to squeeze the trigger.
Bear pushed his left foot against the wall with everything he had and propelled himself through the gap that existed between him and the attacker. He flew at the man with reckless abandon, using his sizable cranium as a weapon. What difference did it make? There was still a tumor growing inside.
He slammed into the guy’s chin and mouth with a thud and several cracks. Teeth snapping and breaking free. Warm blood spread across Bear’s forehead. His own? The guy’s? A mix?
Didn’t matter.
As his momentum carried him forward, he reached down with both hands, sliding them down along the guy’s hamstrings until they hooked behind his knees. He jerked both up and toward himself. The man came off the ground. If Bear’s legs worked properly, this is where he would’ve driven the guy into the ground. It just so happened it occurred without Bear making it so.
He landed square on the man’s chest with his shoulder. Ribs and sternum broke. Both lungs were punctured. A gurgling gasp escaped the man’s mouth. He lost his hold on the H&K on the way down. The strap twisted around his neck.
Bear felt along the floor until he found the weapon. He tugged it around and held it over the guy’s head. Then he sat up and began twisting the firearm. The strap cinched tighter around the man’s neck. He gave up trying to gouge Bear’s face and attempted to free himself from the noose.
Seconds dragged on for what felt like hours. The attacker’s movements slowed, became jerky, then stopped altogether. Bear felt for a pulse. Found none. He freed the H&K from the guy’s neck and then searched his pockets for identification. It proved useless. After flipping the lights on, he inspected the firearm and found the MP7 ready to roll.
The screams and shots taking place in the hospital found their way into the room again. Bear looped the strap over his head and attached his crutches to his wrists. The one he’d used to assault the man was bent, but usable.
He pulled the door open, ignoring the cool draft the room sucked in. There was something else to worry about. The guy’s partner. The search didn’t take long. The man was near the room. His eyes widened at the sight of Bear. It wasn’t out of shock that his partner wasn’t the one standing there. And probably had nothing to do with Bear pointing the MP7 at him.
He recognized Bear.
Without hesitation, Bear pulled the trigger. Three rounds burst through the muzzle and smacked the guy in the chest. The first an inch to the left of the sternum. The next two an inch above the previous shot.
The hallway remained frozen for the few moments it took for the man to crash to the ground. Bear scanned for any others, then made his way over to the guy. It would take a production to get down, check his pockets, then get back up. What happened if another attack team came along? He’d be an easy target on the floor.
His thoughts changed from attack to flee. Get out. Over and over. His one mission now. He hustled to the intersection, where the exit was on his left.
Gunfire erupted in the opposite direction. From the cafeteria. The last known location of Mandy.
He took a long look at the bank of glass doors, opened, people fleeing through them.
It wasn’t an option.
Bear pivoted and turned toward the cafeteria. A throng of people streamed in his direction. Some had wounds to their arms, necks, heads. Glass. The gunman had made a show out of it, scaring them, sending shards of shattered glass raining down.
“What happened?” he shouted as three dozen people pushed past him.
Responses were in hurried French. Bear was fluent, but at that moment, he couldn’t decipher their panicked words.
Another round of gunfire echoed through the corridor. It was close. The sound disorienting. He propped himself on one crutch, lifted the MP7 up in the other. As each person emerged around a corner or stepped out of a doorway, Bear quickly deciph
ered their intent.
All were innocents who he waved past.
Until the guy dressed in black emerged, dragging Mandy along with him.
Chapter 7
Jack placed four rounds through the window. There had been no movement behind it. He angled the shots upward hoping to embed the bullets in the ceiling. Aiming down would have worked to avoid innocents inside. But how would the solid flooring affect the ricochet? The ceiling offered some dampening.
He pushed back against the column, filled his lungs with the cool humid air, and exploded forward. The sniper unleashed a torrent of fire. He’d switched weapons, choosing an automatic capable of spraying the area Noble chose to flee into. The sniper probably didn’t anticipate Jack taking this route until the four gunshots.
The weakened glass gave way as he left his feet and drove his shoulder through it. It felt like slamming into a fence. The resistance smacked his arm, cheek, side of his head, then it all gave way. Glass skittered across the smooth marble floor. Noble tucked his chin to his chest, extended his arm, making his body long to absorb the impact across the longest stretch possible. After making contact, he balled up and let his momentum carry him through.
Bullets continued to spray. Windows blew out. Rounds smacked into the floor. Chunks of marble flew through the air. Some hit Jack in the back.
He had one hand planted on the ground, the other wrapped around his pistol. He got off his knees, which lifted him higher, pushing his torso up. The layout of the lobby had been ingrained in memory in the week before his meeting with the late Schreiber. He knew which hallway led to a dead end, and which would deliver him outside.
Left and straight. Those were the options. Straight led to the back alley, which fed out to two roads and several branches that snaked between buildings. To the left was a smaller alley, one of those branches.
