The Finish Line r5-5

by Cliff Ryder

  More suppressed gunfire could be heard in the building from several weapons. "Team One, this is Team Two, be advised we have encountered multiple shooters upon rear entry."

  "Affirmative. M-One, clear the hallway, if possible. We're going in through the side," David said.

  "Roger." On the roof of the building across the street, David glanced back to see a hunched form poke out a long-barreled, suppressed XM110 rifle and place a trio of 7.62 mm bullets through the center of the door. David wasn't worried about being hit by friendly fire, even at this close range. Their team leader's weapon was wired into his HUD, and the Friend-Or-Foe imaging program meant he could not shoot his fellow team members unless he took the rifle off-line.

  "Follow me!" David readied his silenced TDI Kriss Super V .45-caliber submachine gun in one hand and stepped onto the railing on the left side of the steps, bracing his free hand against the side of the building. Pointing the gun at the window, he triggered a short burst, shattering the glass and its wooden frame. As soon as the larger pieces stopped falling, he leaped to the windowsill, knocking out shards of glass with the butt of his weapon.

  "Team One, where are you? Hostiles are advancing toward your position. They're almost on you," M-Five radioed.

  "Almost there." Clearing the last of the glass from the window, David slipped inside, finding himself inside a kitchen. His thermal vision picked out several figures, each outlined in shades of red, orange and yellow, jockeying for position on the other side of the wall, their automatic weapons spitting flame as they shot down the hallway. David was about to give them a huge surprise when a smoking canister flew through the doorway that led into the kitchen, landing almost at his feet.

  "Flash-bang!" he shouted. Snatching the weapon even as he knew it could go off at any second, David tossed it back into the hallway and turned away. The grenade had barely disappeared when it detonated with a thunderous explosion and bright flash of light.

  The sound dampeners on David's MASC neutralized the potential damage to his ears, and the light-sensitive photofilm layer in his goggles had darkened at the first millisecond of the light burst, keeping his vision clear. Behind him, Tara had just come in through the window, and was moving into a position.

  "Wait a…" was all he got out before the hallway lit up again with automatic-weapons fire, stitching her high across the chest as several rounds burst through the wall and impacted on her body armor. Caught by surprise, Tara still stayed upright and returned fire through the doorway, laying down a diagonal line of Le Mas .45-caliber SPLP blended-metal bullets from right to left.

  "M-Three is hit, M-Three is hit!" David rose to check her, but Tara shrugged him off.

  "I'm fine, let's clear the hallway." As if nothing had happened, she moved to the left side of the doorway and scanned the hallway again.

  "Team Two, we are inside the perimeter to the left of the hallway. What's your status?"

  "Hostiles on ground level are both down. We are proceeding with caution — shit!"

  David heard more gunfire. "Report!"

  "Taking fire from the first story."

  "We'll clear the front hall and meet you near the stairway."

  "Affirmative, but watch yourselves. We're pulling flash-bangs."

  "Copy that, we got a glimpse of them already."

  Cody's voice broke in. "All teams, all teams, local police are en route to target area. We are pulling out in sixty seconds, copy."

  "Copy that, M-One. We are clearing the area and will recover anyone still inside. You heard the man — let's sweep and clear," David ordered.

  One last thermal scan revealed no one moving inside the hallway. With Tara on his right, David crept to the left and immediately covered the hall's front half, sweeping from right to left with his weapon. Crouching low, he waved Tara ahead, then slipped in behind her. A dead man in civilian clothes lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs, his face blown away. David spotted the Team Two members taking cover under the staircase, bullet holes pocking the plaster and woodwork around them.

  David tightened his grip on his Kriss gun. "Team Two, we're inside. Go for flash-bang."

  He watched the two grenades arc up onto the first-floor landing, then go off with twin explosions. Right after detonation, Team Two pounded up the stairway, sweeping the landing with their laser-sighted weapons. David and Tara followed, watching their six while also backing up the lead team.

  "All teams, I have movement on the roof, repeat, movement on the roof. Hostiles are evacuating on top," M-One reported.

  While he had said that, the two teams had split up, searching and clearing every room on the floor. David and Tara had booted in a door only to find unmoving bodies, already dead from multiple bullet wounds to the head and torso. One of the victims was their own operative, his chest a red smear of blood. Coming out, they met up with the second team, who also shook their heads. Whatever had happened here, they had missed it.

  "Proceeding to the roof," David radioed as he pointed above them. At the end of the hallway they found a ladder and trapdoor. A quick scan showed no one lying in wait for them. David wasted no time in scaling it, readying his weapon before entering the room.

  The dark third floor was filled with cobwebs, piles of timber and stacks of drywall. Checking all around, David spotted a square of light at the other end of the room. Once Tara joined him, he cautiously approached the far end, making sure their opponents hadn't set up any surprises. At the next ladder, he looked up, now aware of faint sirens in the distance.

  "Crap, the police are on their way." Turning off his thermal vision, he climbed up and poked his Kriss out the trapdoor leading to the roof, panning the weapon all around. The small camera lens mounted on the right-side Picatinny rail gave him a good view of the rooftop without exposing him to enemy fire. He saw one black-clad body on the tarred surface a few yards away, a crimson pool spreading from his head.

  "M-One, I have one hostile terminated on the roof. We are moving to secure, over."

  "Affirmative, hostiles have left across the buildings, three down. Recover the body, and I will meet you on the south side for exfiltration."

  "Shit, nearly get our faces blown off, and for what — a couple dead tree huggers and some dead shooters who weren't even supposed to be here? We don't even know who these guys are. I dunno about you all, but I'm seriously starting to rethink the benefits of this job." M-Four, the loudmouth who had been riding David's back earlier that morning, kept grousing as they grabbed the dead shooter's body and hauled it to the back of the flat. Now they heard shouts and doors slamming as other people checked into the commotion in their previously quiet neighborhood.

  As they maneuvered the dead body over the knee-high parapet, something spanged off the edge. The four Midnight Team members ducked for cover, each one taking a quadrant and searching for a target.

  "Who's shooting from where?" David asked.

  "From the west." Tara pointed with her weapon along the row of three-story buildings. David looked over to see a black-suited figure two roofs over sketch a jaunty salute before disappearing from sight.

  David saw red. "Regroup with M-One. I'm going after them," he told the others.

  Tara stopped and stared at him. "What? Pursuing is not in our orders. We already have a body for intel…"

  David was already shucking his gear, leaving only his vest, pistol and MASC on. "The three of you rendezvous with M-One. I'll meet up with you in a few minutes. Now go!"

  Without waiting for a reply, he took off, hearing a muttered "When did the golden boy's testicles drop?" from M-Four. Reaching to the edge of the roof, David leaped out over the narrow alley between the two buildings and hit the top of the second one. He tucked into a shoulder roll, and came up still moving, heading for where he had last seen the mystery shooter disappear.

  2

  This is why I need to get out of the office more, Kate Cochran thought as she sipped champagne from a crystal flute.

  Sheathed in a red stretch satin
designer dress, she stood in the middle of at least one hundred law-enforcement officials from across Europe who had gathered in Dublin, Ireland, for the Second European Congress on Fighting Organized Crime in Partnership. They had convened in the main wing of the Irish Museum of Modern Art, housed in the converted Royal Hospital Kilmainham.

  It was founded and built by James Butler of Kilkenny Castle, also the duke of Ormonde and viceroy to King Charles II. The classically designed building, consisting of three major wings surrounding a large outdoor courtyard, was originally completed in 1684 to serve as a home for old, ill and disabled soldiers. Over the centuries, the building had played many roles, including the residence and headquarters of the commander in chief of the army, as well as the headquarters of the Garda, Ireland's public police force, until it was converted into the art museum in 1991. While the clean stone walls and colonnade had remained on the outside, the interior halls had all been updated with modern amenities, including a staircase in the main hall that seemed to float in midair, and gleaming, black marble flooring. The hall's inner wall was made of floor-to-ceiling windows that revealed the immaculate courtyard, with its neat grass lawns and graveled pathways, all shrouded in the light, misty rain coming down outside.

  All in all, a rather strange place for a law-enforcement conference, Kate thought. Even though Room 59, the covert-ops agency she ran, was so secret she couldn't even acknowledge its existence to the rest of the conference attendees, Kate knew the best way to gather intelligence was often to go on-site and get it face-to-face. She had been planning a visit to Europe and the various Room 59 department heads on the continent for some time — which meant as soon as her demanding schedule permitted. Although with the incredible technology at her fingertips, she could — and did — meet with her coworkers in virtual reality, Kate preferred seeing real people and places whenever possible. When the conference came to her attention, she put it on her schedule and refused to move it, figuring she was due for a vacation, even a working one. Her overseers at the International Intelligence Agency had grudgingly agreed, and she had been off before they could change their minds.

  "Ms. Massen?"

  Kate hesitated a fraction of a second before turning to see a silver-haired, middle-aged man in a sleek, spotless tuxedo standing next to her. Since her position as director of operations was as shrouded in secrecy as the agency itself, she could never go anywhere, even on what would be normal business like this conference, as herself. For events like this, she relied on her cover identity as Donna Massen, a midlevel employee with the U.S. State Department, as its sprawling bureaucracy could easily hide an extra employee or two.

  "I just wanted to thank you for your comments on the potential alliance of law-enforcement agencies with private security companies. I feel that there is much potential business — and crime stopping — to be done if both sides can only come together." The man's words had that perfect British diction, and sent a slight shiver up her spine. After all, Kate did so like educated men.

  She nodded, careful not to dislodge her glossy chestnut hair, which had been done up in an elegant French twist. "I'm afraid that you have me at a disadvantage, sir. So many people here to try to remember, you know." That wasn't really the case — she knew exactly who he was — but she often found it very useful to give the person she was speaking to the idea that he or she had gained a slight advantage in the conversation.

  "Please excuse me, we met briefly at yesterday's reception. I'm Terrence Weatherby, vice president of marketing for Mercury Security."

  Kate extended a slender hand. "Yes, now I remember. A pleasure to see you again. I hope your company's name isn't a reference to its godlike capabilities."

  Terrence chuckled and raised his drink glass before replying. "Actually, when we went global in '99, we wanted to take on a name that implied quick, efficient service for our clientele. So far, I think we've delivered."

  "Of course." Kate kept her professional smile pasted on her face, but her eyes looked past Weatherby to catch the gaze of a tall, lean, mustached man talking to a pair of energetic young women who worked for Interpol. As soon as their eyes met, she made a small, innocuous gesture with her hand, and he nodded just enough to show that the message was received. Although it was possible that Weatherby had sought her out to compliment her comments at the conference earlier, Kate never believed in coincidence. Most likely getting a feel for their potential competition, she thought as she turned her attention back to the conversation at hand. "So, Mr. Weatherby, just how do you see government intelligence agencies and PMCs working together?"

  It was the opening he had been waiting for, and Kate reminded herself that when it all came down to it, he was a salesman. But at least he had a pleasant, butter-soft speaking voice. "Please, call me Terrence. I won't bore you with a long, drawn-out pitch, but allow me to pique your interest with a few possibilities, as there are some legal issues that would need to be addressed, as well, before moving forward…"

  He briefly outlined several potential alliances that did sound very good on the surface — intelligence sharing, team building on both sides to augment each other's forces and the relaxation of controls that would make it easier for a formal government agency to use a PMC for deniable missions.

  Kate broke in at that point. "Isn't that a bit dangerous? After all, what incentive would your men have to not roll over on the hiring government to save their own skins if they were caught?" She sipped her champagne again, enjoying the mild look of discomfort that flitted across the Englishman's face. Kate didn't have much respect for most private military companies, considering only a handful of well-established ones to meet her very high standard in terms of integrity and trustworthiness.

  "Well, it is our hope that would never come to pass, but in the unfortunate event of a member or team being captured, we would mount a rescue operation as quickly as possible in order to extract them before any information could be gained," Weatherby said.

  "Very noble of you." Kate knew she was pushing it, but at the moment she almost didn't care. She reined herself in, however, and turned the conversation to safer ground. "Your company has been focusing almost exclusively on Third World countries, Africa and the like. I'm surprised that we don't hear more from you in more lucrative places — like Iraq."

  Terrence's smile grew even tauter. "I hope you'll pardon me for being rather blunt, but once the initial fireworks were over, it certainly seemed as if the fix was in, so to speak. The American PMCs picked up so many contracts, and the rest of us were left to fight over the scraps. Then there was all that nasty business with one of the more prominent contractors, and the environment turned even less receptive. We did a cost-benefit analysis, and realized that our talents could be put to better use elsewhere."

  And with even less oversight from watchdog groups, I'll bet, Kate thought. "Well, you know what they say in business and politics — it's not always what you do so much as who you know. Still, you make some very interesting suggestions, and I'd like to get some talking points on strategic alliances to show to my superiors." Kate briefly turned up the wattage on her smile, and resisted the urge to bat her eyelids. "Here's my card."

  Weatherby took it and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "That would be wonderful, but I was rather hoping, if you're staying here past the conference, that we might discuss this further over dinner tomorrow evening."

  Him, is he hitting on me, or is this purely business? Kate drained her flute slowly, taking a couple of seconds to reappraise the man in this new light.

  Yes, her estimate of his age was accurate, but he was slim, fit and regal looking. She shook her head with a rueful expression. You're not a field agent, you're the director of Room 59. Your job duties do not entail dallying with PMC executives at conferences like this. Placing her empty glass on a passing waiter's tray, she shook his hand again. "I'm afraid that tomorrow morning I'm heading to London for several days."

  Weatherby smiled, revealing perfect, even white teeth that h
ad to have benefited from years of the very best dentistry. "Then it would seem that fate is crossing our paths, Ms. Massen, since my company's head office is in London, as well, and I would greatly enjoy the opportunity to see you again and continue this conversation." He offered her a card, a thin sheet of clear, flexible plastic with his name and contact information holo-graphically imprinted on it.

  Kate took it and tucked it into her beaded clutch purse. "I'll have to look at my schedule and see what might be arranged, but I cannot promise anything." She looked around for the man she had seen earlier, but he was nowhere in sight. However, a stunning woman with sleek black hair, flawless olive skin and dressed in a shimmering silver evening gown walked toward Kate, leaving turning heads of both men and women in her wake. From the corner of her eye, Kate noticed Weatherby stiffen as she approached.

  "Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt, but are you Donna Massen, with the U.S. State Department?" The newcomer was British, as well, her contralto voice making Weatherby's honeyed tones sound like those of a rough East Ender.

  "I am," Kate replied.

  "I have a message for you." The woman, whose face would have looked perfectly at home on the covers of the highest fashion magazines, turned to Kate's companion. "If you'll excuse us, Terrence."

  The PMC representative cleared his throat as if he had just remembered how to breathe. "Of course, Samantha. You're looking well."

  The barest smile flickered across the woman's face. "And you, as well. This way, Ms. Massen, if you please." The willowy woman, several inches taller than Kate, led her through the crowd, leaving Weatherby to head to the bar.

  Kate regarded her new escort with curiosity. "Professional acquaintance?"

  The woman who had extricated Kate was Samantha Rhys-Jones, the head of Room 59's UK division. "I knew Terrence back in his Royal Army days, before he retired, figuring there was more money in private security. When his own business failed, he must have signed on with Mercury. So, what were you two talking about?"