by Ballan, Greg
“Erik,” the president said in a soft voice.
“Mr. President?”
“God be with you.”
Erik Knight nodded and left the room.
* * * *
President LaSalle sighed heavily then said, “Jean-Paul, I fear that we’ve just unleashed a violent storm upon our city this evening.”
Jean-Paul placed a comforting arm upon the shoulder of his oldest and dearest friend. “Sometimes a good storm is what is required to clean the dirt and filth from the streets of a city, Pierre. And our streets appear to need a good cleaning.”
The president nodded. “Come, let’s see to my daughter’s protection. We’re going to be in for a long night.”
* * * *
Erik Knight gathered the tools he required for his assault on the two strongholds. There would be no finesse involved in this particular operation. He excelled in this type of action. He spent several moments adjusting various holsters and pouches upon his person and carefully checked the dual Wilson .45 combat pistols before placing the twin weapons inside their shoulder holsters. He then tucked his new carbon alloy 9mm in its appropriate holster along with three of the five throwing knives he had acquired from Jeremy Storm.
He changed into a black cotton combat pants with a black webbed belt and put on special shoes that were a cross between a combat boot and a cross-training sneaker. Erik adjusted the satchel that contained his sentient staff, pulled it tighter around his waist and unconsciously tapped the weapon with his fingertips.
The weapon purred in response to the touch and changed the pitch of its whine to a lower eerie baritone, reflecting his master’s dark mood.
Erik’s mind was still buzzing; something unusual was happening only he couldn’t put his finger on it. His insights and instincts were laser sharp since his mutation but for the last hour, no matter how hard he focused his senses, he couldn’t lock down the origin of the unsettling feeling. Trouble was out there – just beyond his mental perception.
“I’ll nail it down later,” he muttered and made a mental note to call Bri, call Martin about these weapons and call Jeff and Alissa, to ensure all was okay at Madame’s. “At least I’ll have my bases covered.” He tried to force the feeling of dread out of his immediate consciousness but his brooding was interrupted by a knock on his door.
“Who’s there?” he asked in a low tone.
“It’s me.”
He recognized Monique’s voice so opened the door and whispered, “Why aren’t you with your guards?”
Monique surveyed the weaponry hanging from multiple parts of his body then sought eye contact with him. “So Father and Jean-Paul weren’t exaggerating. You’re going to bring the fight to them?”
“I’m hoping that a decisive display of force in retaliation to the two attacks against you will discourage further attempts on your life.” He was annoyed that she was not being guarded according to his earlier discussion with the president and his aide. “Where are your guards?”
“Outside my door diligently doing their duty.” She shrugged and explained, “They aren’t aware of the door in my closet that leads to the next suite. The door on that suite opens to another hallway; they’ll never know that I’m gone.”
He shook his head. “You are full of surprises, Miss LaSalle. I’ll give you that much.”
“You do not approve?” she asked, crossing her arms across her bosom.
“Monique, those guards are responsible for your safety. If you’re not where you’re supposed to be, they’re not doing you any good, are they?”
The teenager averted her gaze and scuffed her foot. “I’m sorry, Erik. I just wanted to tell you to please be careful.” When she looked back up at him there were tears in her eyes. “You have become very dear to me and I don’t want you killed because of me.”
Erik felt a pang of guilt, reminding himself that this socialite was still a young, very scared teenager. He reached out and gently wiped a tear away with his right index finger.
“I appreciate your concern. You are a remarkable young woman, Monique LaSalle,” he began. “But you don’t need to worry about me. I’m more than able to take care of myself. Hopefully, after tonight our Muslim terrorist friends will realize that there will be severe consequences if you’re harmed in any way.”
“Still, please be careful and good luck.” She quickly embraced him, and Erik gently returned the hug. As he had done earlier with Alissa, he projected a feeling of calm toward the young girl. She released him and appeared more relaxed. Erik feathered her cheek again. “Now get back to your room before you get yourself in trouble.”
Erik watched her walk away, and when she was no longer in view, he closed the door and locked it. He put on his leather jacket and looked at himself in the full-length mirror. Satisfied that his weapons were concealed from view, he opened the sliding glass doors that led to his balcony and stepped out onto the modest terrace. With an athletic leap he dropped forty feet down to the vacant ground below. He paused briefly to get his bearings and then hurried toward his first objective.
* * * *
The Oasis Club was rumored to be a choice Arabic nightspot. As Erik approached the front door, music and laughter indicated a lively crowd inside, while a line of people eagerly awaited entry. Two formidable looking bouncers were likely to deny him immediate admittance. Erik calmly stepped in line, ignoring the stares from the surrounding Arab population. Among the awaiting patrons, he sensed hostility and curiosity as he neared his turn for entry. One of the bouncers spotted him and shouted something in Arabic at him. The words were unknown to Erik but the tone was unmistakable. Erik faced the first man as he tried to gain entry.
“Stupid American! You do not belong here; crawl back to your embassy before I gut you, infidel.”
The crowd of onlookers circled them, while the other bouncer continued to patrol the steady flow of people in and out of the club.
“I have business inside.” Erik stood his ground. “And I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with low rent muscle like you.”
The bouncer charged him like an enraged bull. “Die, American!”
Erik met the attacker with sheer brute force. The impact from his fist knocked the Arab clean off his feet. The bouncer landed on his behind, blood spilling from his mouth. Coughing, the man spat out several teeth which scattered across the sidewalk.
Satisfied that the man wasn’t returning for more, Erik headed back toward the door. The crowd of spectators parted. The second bouncer stood guard in front of the doorway. Erik didn’t pause; he jumped into the air and unleashed a devastating flying kick into the guard’s mid section. The blow came so quickly that the bouncer had no time to react. The force of the kick sent him crashing through the main door, knocking the heavy wooden barrier off its hinges, splitting it in half. Erik walked into the nightclub without further opposition.
Several men and women gaped at him and the unconscious body before averting their gaze. Erik’s attention was diverted to a smoky stage. A beautiful brunette danced, undulating her hips and torso in such a provocative fashion that several ringside male patrons were utterly captivated.
Erik moved deeper into the establishment. The music stopped, and the exotic dancer slowed her moves and eventually stopped her dancing altogether. Then, as if sensing an impending confrontation, she disappeared behind the stage.
Several armed men approached him, knives at the ready. Erik opened his jacket, revealing his array of firearms.
“Don’t be stupid!” he warned the men.
Erik’s danger-sense triggered; he reacted to the threat, quickly drawing both Wilson .45s. He dove for cover behind the nearest table. Over the threat of flying knives, enemy gunfire erupted. Several bullets tore into the hardwood floor and into the table. He spotted the gunman and retaliated; both super .45s roared to life spitting fire and burning lead. There was a momentary silence and the gunman fell from his perch, landing with a sickening thud. Erik swung his weapons in a 36
0-degree arc, deliberately pointing at every patron.
“Does anybody else want to be stupid?” he shouted into the crowd.
Silence was his only answer.
He cautiously rose from his crouched position. There was no further gunfire and the weapon-yielding patrons were frozen – still. He walked toward the bar, saying aloud, “I’m extremely upset. The daughter of President LaSalle has been targeted for elimination by some very unfriendly Muslim fanatics. There have been two attempts on her life so far. Both failures. I’ve been told that those who accept contracts of this nature frequent this fine establishment.” Erik holstered one of his guns, raised the now-freed hand into a fist and brought it crashing down on the bar. The blow struck like a pile driver, splintering wood and buckling metal which sent glasses and plates flying. The crowd of patrons gasped in alarm.
“I’m here to convey just how displeased the French government is by these unprovoked attempts and to express the government’s displeasure using methods that I’m sure you terrorist, assassin-types will understand – brute force.”
Erik went on to tear the bar apart with one hand, easily overturning a 500-pound section of the fractured structure, causing more havoc. Then he aimed his free pistol at several bottles of alcohol and fired two short bursts. The bottles exploded, spraying glass shards everywhere, while spilling their contents. The patrons reacted by ducking behind any form of cover.
“Which group put out the contract on Monique LaSalle?” He sought eye contact with as many as he could. “I want names and places of residence.” He approached a display shelf full of delicate pottery.
Erik leapt in the air and performed a perfect spinning kick. His shoe collided with the forward support of the heavy shelf. The impact broke the support and the shelf collapsed. Patrons covered their ears at the cacophony of breaking clay and porcelain.
He approached two suspicious males. “I’m waiting.” They stepped backward silent and fearful. Erik focused his Esper senses on the patrons in the room.
He had planted the seed and now waited to see if anyone’s thoughts would betray the assassins. He trudged among tables and chairs, past several men and women, detecting fear and anger, but no indication that anyone knew what he was talking about.
Erik sensed panic and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone was avoiding him. He turned and recognized the man he’d encountered in Saudi Arabia. Forcefully pushing his way through a group of people, he came face to face with this man – the source of the panic. Erik smiled; he had gone fishing and caught a rat.
“Samir Rahman,” he began. “The last time I saw you, you were looking at twenty years to life in a Saudi prison. What the hell are you doing here?”
The wiry man with a frail body glanced around as if expecting help from the onlookers. When it was evident that he would get no assistance, Samir sighed heavily as he turned to face the detective.
“Special Agent Knight, what brings you to the night life of Paris, especially here in the Arabic quarter?” He motioned around the establishment. “People of your ilk and occupation are frowned upon here. Return to wherever it is you came from – before you get hurt.”
Erik sensed the threat forming behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Four armed men with assault rifles emerged from behind the stage.
Keeping this new threat in sight, he said, “Don’t go far, Samir. If I have to find you again it will only be that much worse for you when I do.” Erik turned to face the new threat.
“I’m not going anywhere, American. You, on the other hand, will be.” Erik felt the air stir behind him. Rahman had likely gestured to the four gunmen who shifted in their stance and were now pointing their weapons directly at his chest.
Erik Knight’s eyes changed from their normal icy aqua blue to two burning embers of pale blue fire. He reached behind him with blinding speed and lifted the surprised Arab off his feet. With no effort, he hurled the screaming man. Samir’s body crashed into the four men who faltered, losing hold of their weapons.
Before they could regroup, he was upon them in his partially altered hybrid state. He attacked them unmercifully in a blur of hands and feet. Ten seconds later, the four rifle-toting thugs lay in a pile, and Erik had the dazed Samir Rahman dangling in the air with his hand around the man’s throat.
“I’m running out of patience, Samir. Don’t force me to crush your neck and interrogate somebody else. Just tell me what I want to know. Who put the hit out on LaSalle’s daughter?”
“I don’t know,” Samir croaked.
The intense aqua blue light from Erik’s eyes bathed Samir’s olive complexion. Erik transformed further, as he did with Jeremy Storm, ignoring the screams of panic from onlookers. In the hybrid state, he probed deep into the man’s mind. Samir could keep no secret and tell no lie.
“Don’t even try lying to me, Samir!” Erik increased the pressure on the thin man’s throat.
Samir struggled to breathe. Erik relented, allowing the man to speak. “No, no I swear Agent Knight. I’m telling you the truth.” He croaked his words in terror, his eyes wide with fear.
Erik’s senses confirmed Samir knew nothing. The Arab had terrorist connections in Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Afghanistan and in the United States. If Samir knew nothing, then the culprits he sought belonged to a rogue terrorist cell or a splinter cell operating outside the established terrorist underground organizations.
Erik willed his eyes back to their more human appearance. “Then find out!” he ordered, pointing a finger at the man’s face. “If any more attacks are made upon Monique LaSalle, I will burn this place to the ground – along with others like it – whether there are people inside or not.”
He released Samir who coughed up a storm, and then Erik nonchalantly walked out of the club, sidestepping the four men he had put to sleep, but before he got outside the shapely dancer stepped into his path, blocking his departure.
She moved in close and looked into his eyes as if trying to read something. She stepped in even closer, pressing her full breasts against his body. Erik felt something disturbing about her, a threat, but dismissed it as feminine guile. He glared at her in warning and she immediately stepped back.
* * * *
She watched him leave and sighed heavily. Her charms had no effect on the American intruder; he would have been a great conquest. She reached inside her skimpy costume and produced a cell phone. She dialed a number and waited.
“We had a visitor; the American,” she began in perfect English with no hint of an accent. “He gave us a warning not to harm the French President’s daughter. I’m not aware of any action against the LaSalle family. What the fuck is going on, Emir? Who authorized the hit?”
She listened as the voice on the other end of the phone responded.
“Well, find out, damn it. I don’t want what happened in Saudi Arabia to happen here.” She terminated the call and quickly dialed another number.
“Listen to me,” she said harshly over the phone. “Beware of an American, over six feet tall, short black hair and strange glowing eyes. He’s incredibly strong and extremely dangerous. He just trashed the Oasis Club, and I suspect this was only the first stop of the evening. He knew this was one of our headquarters and…” She glanced at the visibly shaken Samir Rahman, and continued, “He knew one of our principles by name.”
“No!” She forced a stray curl away from her face. “Do not attempt to stop him with force. You’ll only get our people killed. If he shows up, offer him nothing and give him no reason for violence. I’ve heard stories about this particular American. What I assumed were drunken fairy tales are actually true.”
Sarina Fahaad closed her cell phone and returned to her dressing room. She had hoped for a more pleasant evening with a handsome young stallion, and for a fleeting moment, had even hoped to entertain the American. Now she had to salvage what was left of her father’s organization before the infamous CIA cleaner could wreak more havoc. She quickly changed into more appropriate att
ire and left the trashed nightclub.
She came across Samir, outside.
“Where are you going?” Samir asked her.
“To seek a truce,” she spat out. “As for you … if we didn’t authorize the hit on LaSalle’s daughter, and no one in our group was hired through channels, I want to know who did! I’ll be at the president’s residence for the next few hours.”
* * * *
Erik Knight watched his second target from a nearby rooftop. Fifteen minutes passed without any suspicious movement. He had expected to see a small army of men mobilizing on nearby rooftops, inside doorways and spreading across the club entrance, all armed with automatic weapons,. He was wrong. The nightclub was peaceful and quiet with no increase in security anywhere, and this fact made him hesitate.
The detective fingered the top of his sentient staff and the weapon purred in response. He looked down at the silver object.
“Well, I didn’t expect this calm; I figured there’d be a small army out to greet me. I can’t see, nor do I sense, any hostility or danger.”
“I can’t stay here all night,” he muttered.
Erik leapt off the rooftop and landed in the deserted alley across the street from the club. Two guards were performing the usual crowd control. Erik slipped into the waiting line, drawing stares from potential patrons but none from the guards. He opened the thumb break snaps on his holsters for a quick draw of his .45s. Sensing his master’s alertness to danger, his staff growled and vibrated its disapproval at not being used.
Easy, Erik projected to the weapon. I don’t want a fight if I can avoid it. The weapon fell silent as he neared the doorway. Both guards gestured him through the open double doorway without incident.
“Enjoy your evening,” one of them added in perfect English as he walked by.
“Thank you.” Erik was confused by the unexpected civility.
