Niner glanced down and saw they were still on the first level. He rushed down the stairs, two at a time, his pace hindered by the makeshift shoes he was wearing. He cleared the fourth level containing the Russian delegation and decided to chance the third. Leaping over the railing to the next flight, he pushed through the third level door just as the next wave of troops rounded the bend.
And found himself face-to-face with two Vietnamese police officers.
He flicked the butt of the AKM upward, catching the first on the chin, knocking him to the floor, then spun around, swinging his cocked elbow at the other, catching him on the side of the head. He finished him off with a quick blow to the temple with the rifle, then pressed his shoe into the other man’s neck, slowly cutting off the oxygen to his brain.
He let up as soon as the man was out.
No need to kill anybody unnecessarily.
He pulled the two unconscious men away from the door and noticed one of them was taller than the other. He pulled a shoe off and stepped beside it.
Shazam! I got me some kicks!
He yanked off his makeshift shoes and pushed his feet in the much better fitting new ones, his toes still scrunched, but at least inside completely.
There was no time for pants.
He approached the stairwell door again just as gunfire erupted, the distinct sound of AKM’s and AK-47’s echoing through the confined space.
Glocks and MP5’s responded.
A scurry of green uniforms, regular police, rushed back down the stairs. He stepped out into the stairwell after the last passed and quickly descended the stairs behind the cowards, soon reaching the main floor. The lemmings burst through the door leading to the main lobby but Niner turned and headed out another door that led to the rear of the building, a tense standoff developing as the gunfire from above could just be heard outside. The DSS agents guarding the motorcade vehicles had their weapons drawn, pointing them at the confused police who had their own guns aimed at the American security detail.
If someone doesn’t get a handle on this, a lot of people are going to die.
And he knew they’d mostly be his own people.
He skirted the edge, behind the uncertain police officers, knowing there was nothing he could do here to help the outnumbered DSS agents. The best thing he could do would be to escape the premises and somehow get back home. He had a funny feeling that there was no way he’d be meeting the motorcade in the next five minutes.
He just hoped the situation would end in a stalemate soon.
And his buddies survived.
Near the British Embassy, Hanoi, Vietnam
Laura and Acton waited, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, but with little success. They kept getting looked at, the chanting just around the corner still loud, attracting more and more onlookers as the minutes ticked by.
The conversation had been short. She had dialed Mai’s brother’s number, still in her purse, and was relieved to hear the young woman’s voice on the other end.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Mai had replied. “It was my idiot brother who rescued me.”
“We just may need his help too.”
“Why, what has happened?”
“We’re wanted fugitives. They’re claiming we helped you escape.”
“But that’s not true!”
“No, but they don’t care about the truth. Both embassies are surrounded by police and protesters. We can’t go back to the hotel for the same reason.”
“I’ll send my brother to get you. Where are you?”
James had been leaning in, listening to the conversation and held up his phone with the Google Map of the area. She gave Mai the street address.
“Someone will be there to pick you up as soon as possible.”
The call had ended leaving the two of them waiting with plenty of time to wonder in silence, English probably not the best language to be speaking out loud right now. Even James though couldn’t hold his tongue at the sight that came slowly down the street. Two men were pushing a Jaguar XK-8 Cabriolet, its engine still steaming with what looked like a high-priced call girl steering. James pulled out his phone and began taping it.
“It’s a wonder he can afford her what with all the repair bills.”
“You’re sending that to Hugh, aren’t you?”
He grinned at her. “Am I that predictable?”
Laura shook her head, smiling as they watched the broken down vehicle slowly make the next left turn, eventually pushed out of sight.
The sound of a motorcycle engine caught Laura’s attention. It was distinctly different from the others, this one clearly driven by someone in a hurry. Then the sound changed, her ear discerning a second engine as they neared.
“I think our rides are arriving,” observed James, nodding down the street.
“Lovely.”
“You were expecting a limo?”
“I don’t know what I was expecting. Can we trust these people?”
Laura shrugged. “We can trust Mai, I think, but her brother? I don’t know.”
“He could turn us in for a reward.”
“He could,” agreed Laura. “But at least that might be a controlled situation. Right now we’re liable to get shot by some trigger happy street cop.”
Two men pulled up to the curb, their heads covered by helmets, their visors down. The first one flipped his up. “You professors?”
James nodded. “Did Mai send you?”
“Yes.” He jerked his thumb toward a car that pulled up behind them. “Back seat, now!”
Laura looked down the street and saw two police officers looking their way. “James, look.”
James followed her stare and cursed. “No time like the present.” They climbed into the rear of the car as the motorcycles pulled away, the car following, Laura stunned it could actually still drive, it having more square inches of dents than smooth metal. Smoke churned out the tailpipe as oil was burnt at an alarming rate while the engine roared from a faulty muffler.
“Definitely not a limo,” she muttered, James squeezing her leg. She looked at the police officers, one of whom was now pointing, the other on his radio, shouting. A siren behind them had her driver looking back and shouting something in Vietnamese that she assumed was a curse.
He jerked the car to the right, around the corner just as they both yelled, ‘No! Not that way!”
The driver cursed again as the two motorcycles suddenly turned around, the massive crowd, protesting in front of the embassy, blocking both directions just ahead. Shouts could be heard from the two police officers now chasing them on foot as the driver eased off the gas, his head desperately looking left and right, wondering where to go.
“You’ve got to turn around!” shouted James, the crowd now taking notice, the police shouting something and pointing.
“What are they saying?” asked Laura.
“American! American!” translated the driver as he came to a halt, indecision ruling him. Suddenly the crowd swarmed them, pounding on the car. James leapt over and slammed down the door locks as they all rolled up their windows. The car jerked forward as their driver lay on the horn, but the crowd refused to give. The pounding became rhythmic, like a drum beat, as the ‘Yankee go home!’ chant, not present only moments before, became deafening, each word punctuated with a slam on the car.
Laura’s window shattered and she screamed, pushing back from it toward James, whose fist darted out, bloodying the nose of the man who was unfortunate enough to push his head inside, reaching for her. Several more jabs to the face and the man was trying to get out but James held him in place, obviously figuring a bloodied, under control man blocking the window was better than some unknown.
Gunfire rang out and the crowd screamed, scattering away from their car. The whine of motorcycle engines was suddenly heard over the mob and the lead motorcycle pulled up beside them.
“Get out!” yelled the man. James opened his door, pulling Laura out after hi
m then helped her onto the back of the first motorcycle. He jumped on the back of the second as the car pulled away, making a U-turn and blasting past the police officers causing them to dive out of the way.
Laura’s motorcyclist gunned the engine, peeling away before she even had a chance to grab on. She looked over her shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief as she saw her husband’s ride shoot after them.
They rushed up between the lanes of traffic, easily doing three or four times the speed of the slow traffic, leaving the chanting mob behind. Her heart was slamming into her chest and she wondered for a moment what had happened to their driver, there no way he could follow them in this traffic.
Hopefully he gets away.
After wincing in anticipation of a collision for the umpteenth time she decided she was better off closing her eyes and holding on.
Only to find it was more terrifying that way.
She opened her eyes and looked back to see James’ bike close behind and a motorcycle cop gaining. Her driver must have noticed as well, gunning the engine even harder toward a red light, the opposing traffic still crisscrossing the intersection.
She screamed.
The light changed, the stragglers clearing just as they entered the intersection leaving them on almost open road for about a quarter mile where they really opened up. A quick glance back resulted in a sigh of relief as she saw James on their tail, the motorcycle cop cut off by the flow of traffic.
“Hang on!” yelled her driver and she gripped him around his waist, tight. They banked sharply to the right, into an alleyway, the high pitched whine of the engines echoing through the confined space as they blasted through the tight quarters, both motorcyclists hitting their horns to try and clear any pedestrians out of the way. Suddenly the rear brakes were locked up in a puff of smoke, a hard turn to the left almost toppling Laura from the bike. Several more repeats of this maneuver had Laura swearing off motorcycles for life.
She looked back at James then ahead.
And gasped.
They were racing full speed to what appeared to be a garage door in an old industrial building. Three honks of the horn and with less than a hundred yards to go the door rolled up, two men revealed yanking chains on either side of the rollup door. They burst through, both ducking, the brakes locking up again, her journey ending with a skid just before a pile of empty crates, the other bike sliding up beside them as the rattle of the garage door closing cut off the outside sunlight.
They were in the dark.
Lights flickered on and Laura remained on the bike, shaking.
“Are you okay?”
She looked toward the voice and saw Mai rushing up to them, a concerned look on her face.
Laura nodded and climbed off the bike, embracing Mai then James. Mai motioned toward the man who had driven her. “This is my brother, Cadeo.”
The man nodded at her as he removed his helmet.
She looked into his eyes for the first time, and a chill raced up her spine as she suddenly realized he was the man that had shot at her. James realized it at well, jabbing a finger at him. “What the hell was the idea, shooting at my wife?”
Cadeo looked at James with disdain. “I’m sorry I missed.”
She placed a hand gently on her husband’s chest as he advanced on Cadeo, the sound of weapons being needlessly cocked all around them. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean it, otherwise he wouldn’t have helped rescue us.” She turned to Mai, hoping she might defuse the situation. “Thank you for helping.”
“No problem.” Mai looked at Cadeo. “Thank you, Cadeo, for getting my friends.”
Cadeo grunted and walked away, dropping on a threadbare couch parked in front of a large plasma television, two of his “gang” playing a split screen game of Grand Theft Auto. He grabbed the remote control and surprisingly put on CNN.
“What’s the latest?” asked James, turning to Mai.
Mai pointed toward the television with her chin. “Look for yourself.”
Laura turned and gasped at the headline.
Vietnamese Forces Assaulting Secretary of State’s Hotel.
Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Eighth floor
Scattered unaimed bullets tore at the underside of the stairs Dawson was standing on, a single round making it through the gap and tearing a hole in the concrete leading to the ninth floor. He fired three more rounds into the floor of the flight below, shards of concrete spraying in all directions, powdered rock clouding the steps.
It continued to keep their attackers at bay.
Atwater and her team were working the phones trying to get the assault stopped, the 7th Fleet already steaming toward Hanoi, jets already in the air from the USS George Washington in a show of force. It had been fifteen minutes since the Vietnamese had begun shooting. One of the DSS agents had been wounded in the leg in the initial unexpected volley, but since then, nothing but close calls. He had immediately issued orders for suppression fire only unless they reached the landing below the eighth floor. So far the assault had been halted at both ends of the floor.
They had lost contact with Niner but the DSS agent who had been shot said he thought he had caught a glimpse of him several floors below wearing a Vietnamese police uniform.
It made sense.
Niner had obviously put the officer he had dragged out of the elevator to good use. He just wished he knew that he was safely off the grounds. He was assuming he was, otherwise the assault would have most likely been stopped, their target captured.
Another burst from an AKM had he and the others hugging the wall, Spock leaning out as soon as the shooter stopped to reload, firing three rapid rounds, the thunder of the shots almost overwhelming in the tight space.
Heavy gunfire from the other end of the hallway caught his attention. He activated his comm.
“West stairwell, status.”
“Taking heavy fire!” came Jimmy’s reply. “Request permission to repel!”
“Permission granted.”
Bursts of MP5 and Glock rounds, distinctly different from the AK’s they were facing, overwhelmed all other sounds as Dawson shot a glance down the hallway, the doors at both ends held open in case the men in the stairwells had to retreat quickly. So far the assault was only from below, but he had deployed men to the tenth floor as well just in case, and they were hijacking the elevators as they passed, the Vietnamese not thinking to shut them down. Right now all but two had been stopped on the eighth or ninth floors, their doors jammed open to prevent the elevator cars from moving.
A disturbingly familiar sound, metal bouncing on concrete had him whipping back around, his eyes immediately spotting the grenade that had just been tossed, hitting the landing they were standing on. He grabbed one DSS agent by the suit jacket, throwing him back into the hallway as the others all turned away from the impending blast.
But not Spock. As Dawson lunged toward the grenade Spock was way ahead of him, and with the swiftness and accuracy of David Beckham, he kicked the grenade, still bouncing in midair, back down the stairs, the tiny orb of fury sent toward the landing between their floor and the one below.
Dawson reached out and grabbed the slightly off balance Spock as the follow-through prevented him from retreating quickly enough, the grenade still able to spit its deadly shrapnel directly at him. Dawson yanked with all his might, pulling Spock toward him then launching himself backward with a bend then shove of his knees. As the two sailed through the air toward the door, the grenade detonated. Shrapnel raced in every direction, shredding the walls and steps, the concrete shards resulting in even more deadly material desperately seeking flesh to mutilate.
Dawson landed on his back, hard, the shockwave blasting over them as he closed his eyes tight, there nothing he could do about his exposed ears, the comm in one protecting him slightly. Powerful hands grabbed him by the vest, pulling him through the door and into the hallway as four DSS agents rushed forward to replace the now disoriented men.
Spock
rolled off him and hit the floor groaning as Dawson lay stunned for a moment.
“Are you okay?”
It was a DSS agent leaning over him, shouting the words, words that sounded a thousand miles away. Words that weren’t registering.
Reality kicked back in though his ears were still ringing. He nodded to the DSS agent then rolled toward Spock to find him lying on his back, facing him. “Are you okay?”
Spock pushed himself up on his elbows and paused for a moment as he did a self-assessment.
“I’ll live.”
The DSS agent pulled Dawson to his feet then Spock. “You sure you two are okay.”
“We’re good,” replied Dawson, brushing himself off, both of them sporting a good covering of pulverized concrete. Dawson activated his comm. “West stairwell, report.”
“Attack repelled, one casualty, she’ll live,” replied Jimmy. “We’re pressing our advantage, pushing them back two levels, over.”
“Roger that. Hold at the seventh floor, we don’t want them getting in behind you, over.”
“Holding on seven, out.”
“We’ve got troop transports arriving at the front!” yelled a DSS agent over the comm. “Looks like a company of heavily armed troops!”
Dawson looked at Spock as they returned to the stairwell, the DSS agents now a floor below them. Spock frowned. “We’re two dozen. There’s no way we’re holding off a company.”
“You can put a thousand men in a stairwell. They’re no more effective than the two guys in the lead. Our problem is ammo. Their problem is willingness to die.”
They began to descend the stairs. “Enough grenades and we’re done for. We got lucky.”
“Thanks to your soccer skills.”
“Nothing like the one you batted with the stock of your MP5 last year.”
“That’s different, that was baseball, my sport. I’ve never seen you kick a soccer ball before.” Dawson eyed the large amount of blood splattered on the walls and floor at the landing for the seventh floor. Clearly those who had thrown the grenade hadn’t been as lucky as he and Spock. “Besides, I got damned lucky on that one. If the guy had done a proper count I’d have been ground beef.”
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 14
