“Andrea!” Then he began to run toward her.
“No!” Andrea yelled and tried to wave him off, but Michael kept coming.
Austin, Texas
December 6, 1999 / Monday / 7:00 p.m.
Onwuallu sat in the front seat of the Lincoln Town Car watching the black Chevy Suburban parked ten cars ahead, on the same side of the street. Porter was sitting in the passenger seat cradling an AR-15 equipped with a collapsible stock, a suppressor, and a 30mm scope. The Lincoln was parked in the southeast corner of the square.
Onwuallu and Porter had followed Severino and the two other men in the Suburban to the site, after waiting outside the building that Paquin referred to as “Center” for most of the day. The inside of the Lincoln reeked of smoke, fast food, and old coffee.
Onwuallu scanned the square through a small pair of binoculars. A large statue of a man on a horse dominated the center of the square. The statue was surrounded by a small grassy area. A three-foot wrought iron fence circled the grass. An upscale restaurant in a restored brownstone was located on the corner directly across the square from him. The sign above the entrance said “Marian House.” A service alley ran along the right side of the restaurant.
To the right of the alley was a small wooded park that ran the remaining length of the square. The park was separated from the sidewalk by a four-foot wall. A tall archway in the middle of the wall provided access to the park.
As Onwuallu watched, a man wearing a backpack climbed out of the Suburban and walked across the sidewalk into an alley between the two buildings. The entrance to the alley looked directly across at the park on the other side of the square. Then the Suburban eased around the square and stopped at the corner diagonally across from the Lincoln. A second man stepped out and jogged into the park. The second man was also wearing a backpack. When the Suburban pulled out again, the light from the streetlamp illuminated the driver for a moment. Onwuallu recognized Tony Severino, Paquin’s number-two man. Onwuallu was certain that Paquin himself was somewhere in the area, directing the operation.
Onwuallu could tell from the placement of the men that Paquin was setting up a kill zone. Apparently he expected the elusive John Caine and Andrea Marenna to make an appearance. Onwuallu smiled slowly to himself. Tonight he would play the part of John Caine’s guardian angel. He intended to make sure that Paquin’s carefully laid plan failed. Later, when Mason fired Paquin for his continued incompetence, Onwuallu would kill him. Then he and Porter would find and eliminate Caine and the woman.
As Onwuallu watched, a cab drove into the square and stopped in front of the park, about fifty yards down the street from the restaurant. Before anyone could get out of the cab, an Austin police car raced into the square, its strobe light flashing, and skidded to a stop behind the cab. Two officers jumped out of the car, guns drawn. The officer on the driver’s side yelled something to the occupants of the cab. A moment later, the front windshield of the police car disintegrated, and the strobe light on the top of the car exploded.
Onwuallu suspected that the first shot came from the man in the park and the second from the shooter in the alley up the street from the Lincoln. Both shooters had to be using suppressors because the police didn’t even look in the direction of the shooters after the shots were fired.
The two cops dropped to their knees behind the car doors, guns pointed toward the cab. Onwuallu smiled in admiration. The two officers assumed the people in the cab were the source of the incoming fire. Paquin’s scheme was clever. Having the police eliminate Caine and the girl would be convenient.
“Very creative, Mr. Paquin,” Onwuallu said.
Onwuallu opened the car door and turned to Porter.
“Mr. Porter, let’s see what we can do to unravel Paquin’s little soiree.”
Porter stepped out the car and walked to the space in between the front of the Lincoln and the minivan parked in front of it. He dropped to one knee and pointed the AR-15 in the direction of muzzle flash he’d seen in the park. He rested his right elbow on the bumper of the minivan and braced his left elbow on his upraised knee. The sidewalk was empty and Porter’s position was almost invisible from every direction but the street side.
Onwuallu stepped out of the car and leaned back against the driver’s side door watching the scene unfold across from him. Caine was trying to use the wall along the sidewalk as shelter from the shooter he suspected was in the park.
Porter nodded toward the restaurant. “We have a new player.”
Onwuallu turned his glasses toward the restaurant. A man in a dark business suit was standing in front of the restaurant. The man hesitated for a second, yelled something in the direction of Caine and the woman, and then began running toward them. Onwuallu immediately made the connection. The woman and Caine had set up a meeting with the man, which meant that he must be with the police or FBI. Paquin must have found out about the meet and set up the trap.
Onwuallu watched the man run toward Caine and the woman, expecting to see one of Paquin’s shooters take him out, but nothing happened. Paquin doesn’t want the heat from this kill. Onwuallu made a snap decision.
“Porter, take out the running man—one shot.”
Porter’s weapon coughed and the man in the suit stumbled and went down. The woman with Caine ran over and knelt beside the man on the ground. Caine had pulled out a gun and was scanning the park and the square trying to find the shooter. He backed over to the woman in a crouch and tried to pull her away from the man on the ground, but she resisted.
“I have movement in the park. The shooter is moving in for a shot, sir,” Porter said without taking his eyes off the scope.
Onwuallu tried to locate the shooter in the park, but didn’t see anything. He looked down the street to the alley, where the other shooter was located, but couldn’t see anything from his position. He turned his attention back to the woman and Caine. The woman was still resisting Caine’s effort to pull her away.
“Sir, the shooter in the park will have a shot any second,” Porter said without inflection.
Onwuallu growled in frustration. “Get out of there, you fools!”
Onwuallu looked over at the two policemen. One of them had pulled out a shotgun and the second was talking frantically into the radio. He could hear police sirens approaching the square.
“Take out the shooter in the park,” Onwuallu said, “then we leave. This place is getting too hot.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Austin, Texas
December 6, 1999 / Monday / 7:10 p.m.
Michael Bosmasian was twenty yards away when he stumbled, a red spot blossoming on his white shirt as he fell to the ground. Andrea screamed, broke away from Caine, and ran toward him. Caine pulled the Browning from his jacket and scanned the square, but he couldn’t spot the shooter. He ran over to where Andrea was kneeling beside Michael Bosmasian, staying in a crouch. She was holding Bosmasian’s hand, crying. Caine moved beside her, trying to keep an eye on the park and on the street as well. Bosmasian saw the Browning in Caine’s hand and tried to push himself up. Andrea put her hand on his chest and gently pushed him back down.
“It’s okay, Michael. John is a friend.”
Caine looked at Bosmasian’s wound. Then he turned to Andrea.
“Andrea, we have to go,” Caine said urgently.
“No! I won’t leave him. He needs help!” Andrea screamed, without looking up.
Caine had received basic training in combat casualty care. He could see that the bullet had hit Bosmasian in the upper chest area, near the shoulder, missing all vital organs. His primary risk was from blood loss and shock. The emergency medical people would deal with those problems the instant they arrived, which, by the sound of the approaching sirens, would be any second.
Caine glanced over his shoulder again and reached for Andrea’s arm, but she shook off his grip. Caine grabbed her arm, forcing her to look at him.
“The bullet passed through his shoulder area. No
vitals were hit. The emergency med people will take care of him.”
“No! I won’t—”
“Andrea, we are putting him in more danger by staying here. They’re shooting at us, not him, and as long as we stay here the cops won’t let the medics treat him.”
Andrea still refused to let him pull her away. Caine glanced over his shoulder again. He suspected they only had seconds before the sniper in the park moved to a position where he had a shot. He turned back to Andrea again, put his face within inches of hers, and said with desperate intensity, “Andrea, if we stay, we die and Michael dies, too. Do you want that? Would he want that for you?”
Michael Bosmasian was looking at Caine when he spoke, his face tight with pain. Bosmasian put his hand on Andrea’s arm and rasped out, “Go. Get out of here, Andrea. Now!”
Andrea’s resistance collapsed. She allowed Caine to pull her away from Bosmasian and willed herself to run alongside him toward the restaurant. The two ran at a crouch along the wall, until they came to a small service alley on the near side of the restaurant.
They followed the alley around the back of the restaurant, where it came to a dead-end against the building on the other side of the brownstone that housed the restaurant. Access to the next city block was barred by a nine-foot fence with razor wire at the top. There were no visible exits from the alley, other than a door that led back into the restaurant.
Caine looked around the alley a second time, trying to find another option. A large white delivery truck was parked in the corner, up against the fence. The top of the truck was flat, and it was about a foot higher than the fence. Caine ran over to rear of the truck and looked through the fence. There was another alley on the other side that led to the next block. A smaller delivery van was parked in the alley, on the other side of the fence. The roof of the smaller van was about a four-foot jump down from the truck on this side.
Caine turned back to Andrea and pointed to the top of the truck.
“We have to get over the top. We’ll use the truck.”
He climbed on the bumper of the truck and pulled himself onto the hood of the cab. From there, he reached down and helped Andrea up. Then he turned and climbed to the top of the cab of the truck and helped Andrea up again. He pointed to the smaller delivery van on the other side of the fence.
“Okay, three quick steps, then jump. Land with your knees bent.”
The drop to the roof of the smaller van on the other side of the fence was three or four feet, but it looked ominous in the dark. Caine turned to Andrea and saw the hesitation on her face. He knew they had no time left. The police would be down the alley in force within seconds.
“You can do it,” Caine said. “I’ll go first.”
He took two quick strides, cleared the fence, and landed on the top of the other truck, knees bent, with a loud bang. Caine turned to Andrea and backed up to give her room to land.
“Your turn,” Caine said.
Andrea heard a car pull into the alley. Then a floodlight lit up the area behind her as bright as day. She jumped.
Austin, Texas
December 6, 1999 / Monday / 7:10 p.m.
Paquin’s Lexus was parked near the southeast corner of the city square, diagonally across from the Marian House. When the cab entered the intersection, he spoke into the microphone on his headset.
“This is Control. The targets have arrived. Is everyone in position?”
Juan responded first. He was in the park.
“Position two, ready.”
Miguel and Severino followed.
“Position one, ready.”
“Position three, ready.”
An Austin police car followed the cab into the square, its lights flashing, and skidded to a stop just behind the cab. The two policemen in the car came out with their guns drawn and yelled something to the occupants of the cab.
Paquin smiled to himself. Right on time.
“Position two, take out the windshield of the police car. Position one, as soon as Juan’s round hits the target, take out the light on the top of the car. One shot only. Do not hit the cops. Are we clear?” Paquin said. The Nicaraguans confirmed his instructions.
The two men were armed with M-24 sniper rifles. The suppressors on the rifles were top of the line. The nervous cops wouldn’t even hear the shots. They would just see the exploding glass and fire on the presumed source—John Caine and Andrea Marenna. If Caine and Marenna somehow survived, Miguel and Juan would take them out.
Paquin stared through a pair of night-vision binoculars at the police car. Juan’s round punched a hole in the front windshield, and the strobe light on the top of the car exploded a second later, when Miguel’s round found its target. Both cops dropped to their knees behind the car doors. Paquin suspected that they were looking for a target but couldn’t find one.
“Position two, do you have a shot at the targets?”
“No, sir.”
“Position one, what about you?”
“No, sir, he’s using the cars as cover.”
Paquin controlled his frustration. “Position three, are you in a position to take action?”
Severino was supposed to be an observer, but Paquin knew he was armed with a .45.
“I’m on it … Wait,” Severino said, “we have a problem. The prosecutor has shown up.”
Paquin looked across the square and saw a man in a white shirt and tie, carrying a suit jacket over his shoulder, outside the front of the restaurant. He was looking down the sidewalk in the direction of the cab.
“Position two, do you have a shot on the targets?”
“Negative, sir. They still have cover.”
Paquin could see the problem through the binoculars. Juan was positioned to take out the targets in front of the restaurant. His shooting angle was from the park, across the top of the alley to the restaurant. Caine and the woman had parked fifty yards down the street from the restaurant. Caine was using the wall in front of the park for cover. Paquin scanned the area ahead of Caine. The wall stopped about ten yards short of the alley, leaving an opening for a clean shot.
“Position two, they’ll lose their cover in about thirty yards. Take the shot as soon as you have it.”
“Roger that.”
Severino cut in, “This is position three. The prosecutor’s running toward the woman.”
Paquin turned the binoculars toward the restaurant and saw the short, stocky form of Michael Bosmasian running down the street toward the woman and Caine.
Paquin didn’t want to take out the prosecutor, except as a last resort. That would focus every law enforcement resource in Texas on the case. He could do without that kind of attention.
“The prosecutor is not to be hit without my order. Are we clear on that?”
“Position one, clear.”
“Position two, clear.”
As Paquin watched, the prosecutor clutched his chest and fell to the ground.
“This is Control, who fired that shot?” Paquin said.
“Position two, no idea, sir.”
“Position one, same here, sir.”
Paquin looked over at the cops, but they were hunkered down waiting for backup, which, by the sound of the approaching sirens, was imminent. He had to get this done and get his team out of there.
“Position two, move to where you have a shot, now,” Paquin said.
“Position two, roger that,” Juan came back.
Paquin looked over at the prosecutor. The girl was kneeling beside him. The wall behind her still provided cover. Caine had run over and was trying to pull her away, but she refused to move.
“Position two, I have a shot.
“Take it,” Paquin said.
“Roger that.”
“Jesus!” Juan’s voice blasted over the radio.
“Position two, what is your—”
“I’m under fire!” Juan yelled, fear in his voice.
“What?” Paquin said incredulously.
“Si, I’m under fire!�
�
Paquin looked around the square, but couldn’t find the source of the fire. What the hell is going on? Paquin whipped the binoculars back to the prosecutor. Caine and the woman were gone. He looked further down the street and saw them disappearing down the alley next to the restaurant.
“Position three, can you intercept? Do you have a shot?”
Severino’s muffled voice came back, “Two cop cars just drove past me into the square. I can’t do anything.”
Paquin watched in frustration as two police cars roared into the square, sirens whooping, followed by a larger black van. As soon as the van skidded to a halt, a SWAT team dressed in body armor and carrying M-16s jumped out of the back. The frantic chatter on the police band indicated that another wave of support was on the way. Within minutes, the entire area would be cordoned off and a massive search would start. They had to get out of there.
“Everyone evacuate now. Use the exit routes you were provided,” Paquin said.
The three men confirmed his order and signed off.
Paquin did a U-turn on the street where he was parked and drove away from the square. Someone else had intervened to disrupt the operation; someone who wanted to stay anonymous and who had no problem trying to kill a member of Paquin’s team. Paquin could only think of one person who fit that description—Onwuallu.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Orly Airport, France
December 6, 1999 / Monday / 10:00 a.m.
Etienne Ricard and Joseph Vlasky boarded the Concorde at 10:00 a.m. Paris time. The two men were dressed in dark business suits, but the similarities ended there. Ricard was naturally slender and the dark blue suit he was wearing fit him perfectly. Anyone looking at his distinguished face, striking eyes, and full head of hair would assume he was a top executive with a large European or American corporation.
Vlasky, in contrast, was square and muscular to a fault. His facial features were blunt and his head was bald. When he walked through the airport, it seemed as though his bulging thighs and shoulders would burst free at any moment of the two-thousand-dollar Savile Row suit he was wearing. The Pole looked more like a wrestler than an executive, which, in fact, he’d been in his youth.
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