by Matt Rogers
‘We are ready to go ahead?’ Nasser said quietly as the doors whispered shut.
Walcott flashed a glance across, his hard eyes revealing nothing. ‘We’ll talk about that up there.’
Nasser bowed his head and nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘I hear you ran into some trouble.’
Nasser shrugged, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He knew he had been lucky to escape the Marriott. After the wild brawl in the corridor, the two men who had assaulted his kidnapper hadn’t even glanced inside the hotel suite before breaking out in pursuit. Nasser had spent the time cowering in the corner of the room, feeling foolish for ending up in such a volatile position but desperate to make it out of the hotel room in one piece.
He hadn’t cared to share with Walcott that the mystery man knew of their plan. He would likely be executed for his idiocy. All things considered, he felt he probably deserved such a fate. He had been too confident of the man’s demise.
Two on one …
How had he survived again against two armed killers?
He felt his heart pounding against his chest wall, and he grew nervous that Walcott would notice his change in behaviour. His worst nightmare had unfolded. The operation had been thrown into disarray. He clenched his teeth, coming to a firm resolution that he would do everything in his power to ensure that the Semtex detonated the next morning.
It had to happen at mid-morning. After careful observation, Nasser had discovered that the majority of tour buses arrived around that time.
If all went according to plan, more than three hundred would die.
Enough to throw the markets into disarray and satisfy Walcott.
As the elevator rode quickly toward the ninetieth floor, Nasser suppressed his fear and prepared himself for whatever the American would throw at him.
CHAPTER 26
King leant on the SUV’s accelerator as he roared back over the bridge onto Gezira Island.
He had awkwardly wedged himself into the driver’s seat. It had been a difficult task given the Apex Summit BASE container harnessed to his back, politely provided to him by the owner of the skydiving academy. King would have settled for a skydiving rig given the short-notice circumstances, but thankfully the man had a collection of BASE jumping gear that he was more than happy to sell for double the asking price.
King knew the Cairo Tower would be guarded beyond belief. Nasser and Walcott both knew that someone intended to sabotage their plan, and he imagined they were meeting in such a public area to deter King from involving innocents. He would try his best to ensure not a single civilian died in the coming firefight. But he couldn’t refuse to press forward in the face of adversity.
If he didn’t act, hundreds would die tomorrow.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Getting to the Revolving Restaurant would be a battle in itself. But King was aware that the longer he spent up there, the more chance reinforcements would arrive to cover all the tower’s exit points. They wouldn’t let him escape. Hence the parachute on his back.
Ninety stories was more than tall enough to escape by other means.
King felt his veins pumping and his eyeballs quivering. The massive adrenalin dose was inevitable. He battled to control it, to harness the energy it provided and turn that into offensive force.
He was ready for war.
It had been too long. Despite the anarchic nature of combat, he missed the sheer energy that came from a life-or-death struggle. He loved when the odds were against him. It was the only way he ever operated. As he crossed the island and spotted the Cairo Tower rising above its surroundings, he flicked an internal switch and transformed into a different man.
Emotions and distracting thoughts and all other mental outlets vanished. He narrowed his focus on the road ahead and let everything out of his mind. That was how he thrived. He let his instincts take over — and simply flowed.
A tactical and measured approach would not suffice. Any kind of realisation that King was making an attempt to force his way into the building would be met with panic upstairs. He couldn’t give Walcott and Nasser time to be hurried away through a back exit.
He had to hit them hard and fast.
So as the SUV veered onto the straight open road leading up to the base of the tower, King mashed the gas pedal into the floor and gripped the wheel tight with both hands.
He wouldn’t stop.
Not until he had won.
As the vehicle picked up speed, he snatched up one of the Glocks he had taken off the Black Force operatives and unscrewed the silencer. He leant out the window, keeping one hand on the steering wheel to maintain a straight course, and fired three times at the open concrete steps outside the Cairo Tower’s lobby.
Unsuppressed gunshots caused pandemonium in any civilian area.
The intermittent clusters of tourists scattered around the lobby and its entrance screamed in unison, scattering out of the building like mosquitoes swatted off their perch. They hurried for cover, pasty limbs charged with terror. King waited until the path ahead was completely clear of civilians before wrenching the wheel until the SUV pointed straight at the enormous glass panes of the lobby.
He spotted wide-eyed Middle-Eastern men in ill-fitting suits a moment before the hood of his ride obliterated the windows and shot through into the marble interior.
The security must have been expecting him — but they hadn’t expected that.
Two men fumbling for their holsters up ahead abandoned their attempts and dove out of the way of the charging SUV. King slammed the brakes and spun the wheel in unison, rotating the chassis, accompanied by the sound of screeching tyres. He raised the Glock-22 and locked his aim onto the nearest man. The guy was in the process of raising a Beretta.
King pulled the trigger just as the SUV jolted to a stop.
The man arced away, a .40 caliber bullet lodged in his throat. Before he died, he pumped his own trigger a couple of times blindly. The shots penetrated the SUV’s hull, but came nowhere near hurting King.
He threw his door open and dove out of the vehicle just as three of the security detail locked onto the car. They riddled the chassis with bullets, sending metallic clangs echoing off the walls of the lobby. King heard a shriek of fright as one of the hotel staff ducked behind a nearby desk, at risk of being caught in the crossfire. He flattened himself against the floor underneath the open driver’s door and adjusted his aim accordingly.
He treated it like target practice, exhaling as he focused the barrel of the Glock-22 on the three men firing blindly at the SUV. His wild tactic had successfully thrown off their aim.
The tyre smoke that had billowed off his vehicle as he skidded to a halt had turned the air inside the lobby thick.
Visibility had been effectively limited.
King had no trouble making out the outlines of the three gunmen.
He squeezed off a pair of shots, one straight after the other, both targeting a small area in the centre of the chest.
The guy on the left dropped with an audible moan, taking both impacts in brutal fashion. Shattering internal organs, the bullets sent blood spurting out of his mouth.
The shots had their intended effect.
The man’s two co-workers caught a look at their dying comrade out of the corner of their eyes and hesitated, disturbed by the gruesome scene. King revelled in their inexperience. Those who were unaccustomed to the true savagery of a gunfight often faltered when placed in the firing line. These men did so now.
He guessed they were usually paid to rough up ordinary citizens and intimidate those with unpaid debts.
Now they found themselves in a whole new world.
Despite that, they reacted quick. One of them shifted their aim in the blink of an eye and fired in the general direction of where King’s shot had come from. The bullet sunk into the car door above him, loud enough to rattle his senses. He shook it off and returned fire.
His shot proved more accurate.
The secon
d man died silently while the third scrambled for cover. King scurried to his feet, taking advantage of the lapse in the firefight. His skid had put him close enough to the bank of elevators to dash across to them. He flattened himself against the wall as the tyre smoke stayed swirling in the air, disrupting the vision of the security on the other side of the lobby.
He wasn’t sure how many there were in total. The mad dash through the lobby had unfolded so quickly that his vision had blurred into a kaleidoscope of carnage, unable to pinpoint exactly how many men Nasser and Walcott had waiting for him.
He leapt in fright and ducked behind the SUV’s rear end as muzzle flashes erupted across the smokescreen, all targeting the wall he rested against.
Bullets riddled the ceramic, shattering sections of the wall above his head. He pressed his back against the SUV and rode out the storm, waiting for one of the elevators to signal its arrival with an electronic ding.
He aimed the Glock-22 around the side of the SUV and fired blindly until the magazine went dry. He doubted that a single bullet found its home, but it provided an ample distraction. In his peripheral vision he saw one of the elevator doors slide open.
King turned and sprinted for the waiting elevator. Instantly, a barrage of gunfire followed him.
He ducked and weaved, throwing all his weight into each exaggerated gesture, aware that if a single piece of lead found its home he would be vulnerable to a horde of follow-up shots. But the smokescreen stayed put, and he appeared to the men across the room as nothing but a ghostly silhouette flashing across the lobby. Most of the bullets went wide. A couple of rounds whisked past his ear, close enough for his heart to nearly tear itself out of his chest in shock.
Then he made it to the elevator and slammed the button for the Revolving Restaurant, resting on top of the ninety floors in between. It felt like an eternity before the doors began to slide close. He spent the time pressed against the very side of the confined space, chest heaving, awaiting that one bullet that would blow his skull apart and end his life.
It didn’t come.
What did come proved even more terrifying.
As the doors finally responded to the command and began to slide inwards, something clattered on the marble floor outside. It bounced once, skittered, and rolled into the elevator right beside King.
He looked down…
…and scrambled into motion.
A live M67 fragmentation grenade spun to a halt at his feet, ready to blast him apart if the doors closed and trapped him inside the elevator.
CHAPTER 27
King had never felt panic so intense as in that moment.
He sensed the steel doors shutting in what seemed to be fast-motion, flying across their tracks to meet in the centre. He lashed out with so much adrenalin that he thought he might pass out from sheer terror. Claustrophobia and fear swelled within him, but he didn’t let it affect his actions.
He kicked wildly, aiming for the grenade, aware that he only had one shot at the swing. If he missed he would watch the doors close, absolutely helpless to prevent an inevitable violent death. His foot connected with the grenade and launched it back the way it had come.
For a single, terrifying instant, he thought it was too late.
Then the grenade skittered out of the elevator, coming within inches of rebounding off the steel doors. It sliced across the ground for half a second before the doors slammed shut. King stood frozen to the spot, eyes wide and unblinking, staring into space.
The elevator took off for the Revolving Restaurant.
He knew his heart rate wouldn’t settle for the rest of the day. Nothing would be able to shake that brief instant where he had felt like his entire life had come to an end. He gulped back the apprehension and tugged the extra magazine he had withdrawn from the second Glock-22 before arriving at the tower.
Below, a deep vibration rattled the building. King heard the muffled noise of the grenade detonating. The elevator shook in its supports. He clenched the handrail with white knuckles and rode out the sensation, expecting the floor to drop away at any moment.
He ejected the empty magazine in the handgun and chambered a fresh one. He had no idea what level of security Walcott and Nasser would surround themselves with. Hopefully less than what they had stationed in the lobby, if he wanted to leave in one piece.
Victory was so close he could taste it. Killing the two men at the top of the food chain would throw the entire operation into disarray. Any men that Nasser had instructed to set off the bombs would find radio silence. They would be unnerved. That would hopefully buy King enough time to lock down the tourist precinct in Giza. He knew Isla would be scrambling to notify the Egyptian authorities, but it would be a difficult task. Egypt-United States relations were shaky at best. He hesitated to think that they would believe anything that came from his country so quickly.
Time was not on their side.
The elevator stopped in its tracks as it reached its destination. The doors swung open, revealing an empty rectangular space decorated sparsely with some traditional Egyptian artwork and a handful of exquisite rugs. There wasn’t a soul in sight. King screwed the suppressor back onto the Glock as he stepped out into the room.
It was eerily quiet. Silence hung over the space, unnerving him. He preferred the chaos of battle. The uncertainty that came with such noiselessness put him on edge. He slipped a finger into the trigger guard of the Glock and pressed forward, following a sign that indicated the Revolving Restaurant lay ahead.
He heard the man before he saw him.
A faint noise came from the left, barely audible but enough to activate King’s reflexes. He knew that no civilian would be so quiet in these parts.
He spun, pulse racing…
… and felt a huge jolt as a well-built European man in a suit dove out of a nearby doorway.
The guy had been crouching in the shadows of the adjoining room, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. As their bodies clashed together, King pulled the trigger — but his aim had been thrown off. Despite aiming for the head, the man had knocked the barrel off-centre with his tackle.
The shot went wide, grazing the guy’s dinner jacket as it thudded into the wall.
King had time for nothing else.
The man had incredible strength. Under his suit he must have possessed a rippling physique, because he shoved King to the ground like it was nothing.
King sprawled out across the carpet, landing hard. Still clutching the gun, he brought it round to fire the killing shot but the man leapt on him, crunching the Glock between them. He saw a fist flying at his face and moved to avoid it, but the crash-tackle had left him in an awkward position. He failed to move his head off the line.
The punch cracked like a whip across his jaw, which he preferred, all things considered. It was better to take a painful blow on the chin than a fist to the side of the head which could shut the lights out. He felt one side of his face flare up as he recoiled. The power behind the blow had taken him by surprise.
The man didn’t just have power — his technique was refined too.
King scrambled, kicking with each leg, putting everything he had behind the blows. The man had flattened himself against King, preventing him from getting a good shot off. He kept one hand wrapped around the handle of the Glock with relentless determination.
Finally, he found space.
He pushed away.
Leapt to his feet.
Raised the barrel of the Glock.
The man charged, possessed by an animalistic fervour to survive. It wouldn’t do him any good.
King fired. As the man crossed the short gap between them and hit him like a freight train, he sported a cylindrical bullet hole in the centre of his forehead, already leaking blood. His lifeless corpse bounced off King and hit the carpet face-first. King stumbled back from the force of the impact, the left side of his face still numb from the punch the guy had landed.
As he drew breath and brought his senses back unde
r control, he heard screaming through the walls.
Shit.
It came from the Revolving Restaurant. No matter how effective a suppressor was, in a tranquil setting like a civilian restaurant there was no masking the distinct noise of a gunshot. He listened to the hurried movements through the thin plaster and knew the occupants were fleeing for their life.
Which meant Nasser and Walcott would be too.
King quickly realised that he had to act in seconds. If he hesitated for any considerable length of time, the pair would vanish into a side exit and they would be lost forever.
Hundreds would die at the pyramids.
He steadied his grip on the Glock-22, took a deep breath, and charged into the Revolving Restaurant.
CHAPTER 28
Wind howled through the tourist precinct of the Giza Pyramid Complex.
The heat was unbearably stifling, enough to soak most of the visitors’ shirts through with sweat. It bore down from above, uncomfortable as all hell. Despite this, hundreds of people milled about the area, snapping scenic photographs of the enormous structures before them.
Abdul had returned to the complex hours before.
The rules had changed. What had once been a foolproof and undetected operation was now thrown into question, which scared him like nothing else. He had struggled to control his nerves for the better part of two full days now. Khalil Nasser — the man who had promised him a lifetime of riches if he assisted him in carrying out a secretive task — had become increasingly harder to reach. Where before he had exuded a calm and composed demeanour, now every time Abdul spoke to him the man’s voice was plagued with stress and discomfort.
The final straw had come that morning.
He had received a call from Nasser explaining that he might not make it through the following day. He had been instructed to spend every waking moment from then until the attack at the complex, and to find a secure location amongst the pyramids to burrow down for the night. If Nasser’s line went dead at any point, he was to carry out the attack nonetheless.
