by Mark Greaney
As he reloaded while lying flat on the balcony tile, an idea came to him. He fired half a dozen more 9-millimeter rounds to keep the heads of the men in the living room down, then reached for his vest and pulled a device from it with his left hand. It was a “nine-banger” flash bang grenade, and Court pulled the ring and side-armed the small can towards the enemy at the door.
After just one second, while it was still in the air soaring across the bedroom, the nine-banger began to detonate, and intense white bursts and extremely loud reports erupted, but the device continued to sail on, hitting the travertine floor at the doorway and bouncing into the living room, right in the middle of the men there.
Nine flashes and booms in all blasted from the device, and while it was still going off, stunning and blinding everyone in the area, Court unfastened a second canister from his belt. This was a single-detonation stun grenade. He pulled both pull rings and slung it towards the threats in the living room.
This one did not arc as high; it bounced along and then slid across the bedroom, but right at the doorway it, too, detonated, delivering an explosion of 180 decibels—30 decibels louder than a jet engine on takeoff. It gave off a burst of light rated at one million candelas, enough to cause flash blindness to anyone within close proximity.
Even before the device went off, Court was up off the balcony tile and running forward, towards the danger, as fast as he could, his eyes closed and face averted from the light and his brain anticipating the boom that would take the others by stunned surprise. He crossed the bedroom in less than three seconds, leapt through the air, landed and slid on his hip along the travertine through the doorway into the living room. Here he found himself in the midst of three utterly stunned attackers. None of the men could see or hear, and Court’s plan had been to simply shoot each man with his suppressed Glock and end the threat completely. But just as he skidded to a stop on his back and leveled his weapon at the first dazed terrorist, gunfire cracked from the doorway between the big suite and the hallway that led to the stairs. Multiple flashes of light erupted, and Court realized there was at least one more gunman in the hall engaging him.
Court shifted his aim to the doorway, spreading his legs and pointing his weapon down between his feet, and fired his Glock until it emptied again, sending the shooter or shooters there to cover and buying himself an instant of mobility.
He didn’t have time to reload the pistol and shoot the three men on their knees around him, so he slapped his empty weapon back into the polymer holster and reached into his pack with one hand to grab the second rope line that he stored there, while using his other hand to take hold of the ammo vest worn by the closest terrorist.
Court yanked the man to him, hooked the carabiner on the end of the line to the man’s vest, then leapt to his feet and started back for the bedroom in a low sprint.
He’d made it just a couple of steps before booming gunfire from the hallway behind him began again, and just two more steps before he reached the other two men there at the doorway. Both were still down on their hands and knees, only now beginning to fight their way out of the several-seconds-long disorientation brought on by the two grenades.
As Court passed the second man he saw that the terrorist had a baseball-sized M67 hand grenade hooked in a pouch on his vest. Court reached out as he ran by, jammed his thumb inside the pull ring, and pressed on the safety lever with his hand. He raced on, yanking the pull ring along with him.
The still-dazed man recognized what had just happened, but his reaction was slowed by his concussion and his double vision. He just climbed up to his feet and reached out weakly towards the man rushing by, as if to stop him.
Court kept running, even faster now, letting the ring drop to the floor of the bedroom as rope spooled out from his backpack behind him. A round from an MP5 slammed into the bedpost ahead and on his left, splintering the hand-carved finial, but all Court could do was shift a little to the right, duck lower, and run faster.
And worry, because there was much to worry about just now. He knew he could be shot dead before he made it off the balcony, and he knew that if the man with the line hooked to his vest came to his senses and unfastened the carabiner in the next three or four seconds, Court would plummet to his death. Similarly he understood that if the guy with the grenade on his chest got his shit together and threw the device Court’s way, he’d be riddled with steel shot before he even got over the railing.
He shifted back to his left as more rounds slammed the French door ahead on the right, and he listened to the sound of the Kevlar line that was quickly playing out of its spool in his pack. He knew he didn’t have enough length to get him down to the ground, but the other end exited his pack at the bottom and connected to the body harness under his clothing, and the line was, at least, long enough to get him down a couple of floors.
Court dove headfirst over the balcony railing. Behind him the man on the other end of the Kevlar line had been in the process of trying to get his vest off, but just as he unhooked the first plastic buckle, he launched forward, landed on his knees, fell onto his face, and began sliding towards the doorway, closing on the terrorist with the live frag grenade on his assault vest. This man had himself recognized the danger he was in, and he was in the process of frantically trying to get the grenade off his body.
The grenade detonated, killing the man wearing it, plus another ISIS gunman, and wounding the stunned attacker tethered to Court, along with a fourth ISIS fighter who had entered the living room from the hallway.
And the wounded man on the line slid on towards the balcony.
CHAPTER 7
Court dropped two stories before his harness grabbed him around the crotch and the waist, and then he slowed as the human counterweight in the living room began jolting and sliding across the floor. When the man got caught on the wreckage of the French door, Court stopped completely, still far above the forecourt. He knew it would be faster to cut away the rope than to remove the harness under his clothing, so he pulled his boot knife, took a firm hold of the balcony next to him, and cut his own lifeline away. Court climbed down the rest of the way, using the line attached to Bianca and his feet pushing along the balconies of the lower-floor suites to help him descend.
As soon as he made it down to the forecourt he saw Bianca, only a few yards from him and facing away. She had managed to cut herself free of the rope, but now she just stood there in shock, unable to run for cover.
“Are you okay?” he asked, taking her by the arm and removing the switchblade from her hand. As he spoke he started to lead her out of the line of fire of anyone in the front lobby or above in her suite.
She spun around and punched Court in the chest. He took the blow, and then a second, but he caught her third swing. He yanked her now, pulling her roughly across the forecourt.
“You fucker!” she screamed.
Court looked back up to the balcony, then again at the woman. He pulled her into a side alleyway that led through a neighboring courtyard. “Believe me, I get it.”
Still holding her close, he ran with her through the courtyard, but since she was barefoot and the light was bad they did not run fast. Court carried a tactical light but didn’t want to use it to avoid the risk of being sighted by any high-stepping police who had managed to make it to the scene in the first couple minutes of the action.
He had a car waiting for him on the street that ran along the Square Louis XVI, three blocks northwest of the hotel, and by the time they made it there, the night was filled with sirens and squealing tires.
He checked her eyes as he put her in the car, and he thought she was suffering from shock, but she spoke clearly as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Where are we going?”
Court didn’t answer. He just started the dark blue four-door and took off towards the north.
A minute later she tried again. Through the tears that came ine
vitably after the stress and turmoil of the previous five minutes, she said, “Monsieur, where are we—”
“Seat belt.”
“What?”
“Put on your seat belt. Safety first.”
“Are you joking?”
He did not answer, so she did as she was told, fumbling the easy task for several seconds because of her shaking hands. When the lock clicked into place, she sniffed unglamorously. “Monsieur, will you please take me to Charles de Gaulle Airport? I have a flight this afternoon, but I can try to get an earlier—”
He interrupted her. “I’m taking you somewhere safe. You have friends in the city, people who will help you.”
“Friends? From Zuhair Murad?”
Court turned to her as he drove, then looked away. “No, lady, you were not rescued from ISIS terrorists by a dressmaker.”
“Who are these friends, then?”
The man in black pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped a button, placing a call. Bianca looked up to him, obviously hoping to learn something from his conversation about what the fuck was happening all around her, but after a ten-second wait the man simply said, “En route. Quinze minutes.” On the way. Fifteen minutes.
This told her next to nothing other than the fact that, just as he had said, there were others involved in all this.
She wiped tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt now. “Listen. I need you to tell me—”
Court turned to her. “Look straight ahead, out the window, not at me. And stop talking. You are out of danger, for now. That is all you need to know.”
Court could tell Bianca did not want to comply. But he could also tell she was scared. Not just scared because of what she had just survived, but scared of Court himself.
Bianca Medina knew dangerous men, and she would recognize that Court remained a threat to her.
Bianca looked down at the dashboard for nearly a minute before she said, “Thank you, monsieur.”
Court turned to her again suddenly, startling her anew. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it because I like you. I did it because it was my job. Like I said, I know who you really are.”
Bianca just stared ahead. After several sobs she got control over her emotions. “If you know who I really am, then you also know you are in a lot of trouble right now. Many people will come after you. Even here in Paris.”
The man continued looking ahead. “Lady, I really wish they would try.”
* * *
• • •
They drove along back streets until they reached the commune of Saint-Ouen, in the Seine-Saint-Denis district, some four miles north of the action on the Rue Tronchet.
The neighborhood was full of immigrants, mostly from North Africa and the Middle East, and in the last few years there had been a massive influx of Syrian refugees. It had little of the charm of the city center; more poverty, more crime. Saint-Ouen was also the home of the Paris flea market, the largest concentration of secondhand furniture dealers on Earth. Throughout a dozen massive buildings the market was open several days a week and brought in buyers from all over the world.
Court’s vehicle was one of only a very few on the road this time of the morning as he turned onto the Rue Marie Curie, and his headlights provided the only illumination when he navigated down a tight alley running off it. Soon he turned through the open gate of a tiny parking lot that ran between two darkened warehouses full of unrestored antique furniture. The gate was pulled closed behind him by a man whom Court could just barely make out in the darkness, and then Court parked the car and turned off the ignition.
He went around the front of the vehicle, helped Bianca out, put a hand on her arm, and guided her through the misty artificial light of the parking lot. No one was watching, but if any spectators had been around, his actions would have appeared chivalrous. Nevertheless, he was certain the young model could feel the frostiness in his grip, because he pulled her along more roughly than he had back at the hotel on the Rue Tronchet. Out here, alone, there was no longer any question of the woman’s compliance. She had overcome her shock, but she wasn’t yet in a frame of mind to put up much resistance to what was going on. She’d do as he said, and she’d go where he pulled her.
Court led Bianca by the elbow through an open door in a warehouse and into a circular stairwell. Halfway up he saw a bearded man lean around from his position at the top of the stairs, looking down. Court drew his pistol and pointed it at the man’s head.
Bianca shrieked with alarm.
Quickly the man raised his empty hands. Court continued climbing, keeping the barrel of his weapon pointed at the man’s face.
“Are you armed?” Court asked in French.
The man pointed down to his waistband. Court let go of Bianca, shifted his pistol to his left hand, then frisked the man with his right. He pulled out a Czech-made handgun, ejected the magazine, and cleared the round in the chamber, racking the slide one-handed by striking the rear sight on his belt. The cartridge bounced down the stairs, and then Court tossed the weapon down behind it and listened to it clank along the steps as it fell.
Court turned the man towards a door and pushed him onwards. “Open it.”
The bearded man did as instructed, and Court escorted both Bianca and the security man inside.
Court found himself in a small but well-appointed apartment full of crackling firelight. This space had been built in the 1950s for a wealthy antiques dealer, and the furnishings and feel were a striking departure from the simple masonry warehouse facade of the building. The fireplace warmed the living room, and a middle-aged woman in a sweater and slacks sat in front of it. Two young men wearing black jackets and jeans leaned on the wall by the draped windows, and an older man stood by the fire, his hand propped on the ornate mantel as if he were posing for a photo.
The middle-aged woman had attractive red hair and olive skin; she was clearly Middle Eastern. And the man standing at the fireplace, Court saw, was Dr. Tarek Halaby, the man he’d met in the cemetery that morning.
When Court saw Halaby, he said, “This clown was in the stairwell. My instructions were clear to the Frenchman I spoke with on the phone. I didn’t want any armed men in my way when I arrived.”
“I apologize for the miscommunication. This man is with us.”
Court holstered his weapon. “And I almost turned his head into a canoe. You guys can’t follow instructions?”
Halaby started to answer, but Bianca spoke up now, in English, to the middle-aged couple by the fire. “Who are you people? I don’t know you.”
The redheaded woman stood. Her manners were gentle and stately, and there was a calm smile on her face that belied the situation.
She answered Bianca in Arabic. “If you will follow me, daughter, all will be explained. We have tea prepared, some clothes for you to change into, and a private place for us to sit and talk awhile.”
Bianca did not reply at first, and when she finally did, she said, “Speak English, French, or Spanish, or don’t talk to me at all.”
The redhead furrowed her eyebrows, then repeated herself in effortless English.
Bianca said, “I want you to tell me what is going on right now.”
The woman by the fireplace smiled. “My name is Rima Halaby. This is my husband, Tarek Halaby.”
Medina shrugged. “These names mean nothing to me.”
“We are both medical doctors, surgeons, living here in Paris.”
“And?”
“And we are Syrian exiles.”
Bianca Medina blinked. Swallowed. After a moment’s hesitation, she furrowed her thin eyebrows. “So?”
Rima smiled at her like she was dealing with a petulant child. “As I said . . . come this way. I will answer all your questions.”
The raven-haired Spanish woman was a quarter century younger and nearly a full head taller tha
n the redhead. Rima put a gentle hand on Bianca’s arm and turned to usher her down a hallway that led to the rear of the apartment.
The man Court had pushed into the room had moved to a position between the windows, but he took a step forward now, as if to shepherd the model along if she did not comply. But Bianca didn’t need the hint; without further protest she followed the redhead.
Bianca looked back over her shoulder to the American as she did so, but said nothing, and soon she disappeared in the darkness behind the older woman.
The bearded guard followed behind them, along with one of the other men who’d been standing near the windows. Court could see the print of a pistol on the man’s hip under his jacket. The other man by the window—Court imagined he was armed, as well—just receded back against the wall, looking on.
Court took these men for security. Court knew what this organization was up against, and a few guys with guns loitering around this safe house didn’t seem like much of a defensive setup.
He shook his head in disgust, and he glared at Tarek Halaby.
CHAPTER 8
The doctor standing by the fireplace surveyed the American he’d hired for tonight’s work. The asset had some scratches on his face, but more notable than the superficial wounds was the man’s unmistakable anger.
And Halaby was sure he knew why. Tarek’s wife, Rima, had warned him against dealing in person with this dangerous man, and Rima, as usual, had been right. But Tarek had insisted on interacting directly with the asset.
Now Halaby could not help but wish the Frenchman who’d connected him with the American operator were here, in his shoes, instead of waiting in the back room of this apartment.
It had been the Frenchman’s idea that he remain hidden from the asset. Tarek assumed the man had his reasons, because the Frenchman had experience in these matters, and he clearly knew what he was doing.
Halaby waited to hear the door close down the hall before addressing his new guest. “We are monitoring police channels. Through them we understand Daesh chose tonight to come for Mademoiselle Medina. Of course we were aware they had an operation planned against her, as we informed you, but our intelligence indicated it would happen tomorrow when she was on the way to the airport.” He motioned to the chairs in front of the fireplace, but when the American did not move to sit, Halaby decided to remain standing next to the mantel.
