They reached the landing with four DSS agents, guns aimed down at the next flight, sporadic gunfire being sprayed blindly up, the miscue on the grenade seeming to have taken some of the fight out of their opponents, a bloody trail where a body had been dragged down the stairs a stark crimson reminder of just how lucky they had all been that Spock was on the ball.
A DSS agent squeezed the trigger of his MP5 sending a short burst of lead down to the next landing. Dozens of sets of boots could be heard rushing up the stairs from below as the new arrivals flooded the stairwell. Dawson activated his comm. “Prepare for assault. Reinforcements have arrived. If we have to fall back retreat to the ninth floor. Send a two man team to check out the upper levels then the roof. Control, contact the George Washington and see if there’s any chance of getting a chopper here to evac the Secretary, out.”
Dawson holstered his Glock and motioned for one of the agents to hand him their MP5. He checked the weapon as Spock switched as well. “I’ll take point, you stay back. You take over while I’m reloading. We’ll pile the bodies if we have to. We’re not losing the Secretary on my watch.” He pointed at the four DSS agents with them. “As we advance past the bodies, relieve them of weapons and ammo. Let us know if they’ve got grenades. Those could be the great equalizer.”
“Yes, sir,” they echoed, clearly nervous. Dawson didn’t blame them. This wasn’t like anything they had ever experienced. They were security guards. Best damned trained security guards in the world, but they were never meant for all-out war like this.
“Here they come,” announced Spock as a roar of false bravado erupted from below, boots pounding on the concrete as they rounded the landing. They were firing blindly and Dawson smiled as he saw they were only two abreast as he had predicted. He raised his MP5 and squeezed off two rounds, taking the lead two men out by shooting them in the legs. Cries rang out as they collapsed back on the men behind.
One wounded man takes two to carry, taking three out of the fight.
Those behind tried to climb over them, the weapons fire halted. Dawson heard gunfire from the other side of the building and Jimmy’s voice came in over the comm. “Holding on seventh, they’ve begun their assault.”
“Take them out,” ordered Dawson.
“Roger that.”
Dawson shot the next two, one of them dead.
The men behind were now trying to pull their fallen comrades to safety while more stumbled over the bodies attempting to execute their orders to advance. Cries of pain with shouts of anger and confusion and the occasional gunshot echoed through the stairwell. Dawson fired several more rounds, the thirty-round magazine quickly getting used up.
Too bad we didn’t have 100 round C-MAGs.
He rushed down to the next flight, pressing their momentary advantage, sending off bursts of two and three rounds at a time, their adversary starting to retreat. One of the soldiers, almost a full flight behind, a Captain if Dawson wasn’t mistaken by his insignia, glared up at Dawson then pulled the pin on a grenade.
Dawson put a hole in his chest.
The man dropped, the grenade falling from his dying hand.
“Fire in the hole!” yelled Dawson, jumping back against the wall and covering his ears, closing his eyes. The shouts and screams as the men below realized what had happened became muffled then were quickly replaced by the deafening roar of the explosion. Dawson checked his men then looked back down at the carnage below.
It was a mess.
Blood and body parts were everywhere, the confined space shredding those around the lethal weapon. Moans and cries filled his ears as Dawson advanced, Spock and the other DSS agents following. He pointed at two of them then the seventh level doors. They held back to cover them just in case Jimmy’s team failed in their efforts.
As they pushed forward panic set in below. Those they could see were all turned now, pushing back against the crowd farther down still trying to advance. As more realized what was happening, encouraged by Dawson sending a burst of gunfire every five to ten seconds into the walls behind them, the tide quickly turned, the group no longer a threat.
Dawson stopped on the fifth floor, the attacking force now well below them, at least a dozen bodies left behind. He pointed. “Strip them of any weapons and ammo. This might not be over.” He listened for a moment and could hear nothing from the other end of the floor. Activating his comm, he opened the fifth floor door, looking down the hallway. “West stairwell, report.”
“All calm on the western front,” replied Jimmy. “They’ve retreated beyond the fourth floor, still retreating. I get the impression though it wasn’t as much us as it was them being ordered back.”
“Roger that, return to the eighth floor, police any weapons and ammo that might have been left behind.”
“Roger that.”
The DSS agents and Spock finished stripping the bodies of weapons and ammo, a decent haul including a few grenades. Enough to add at least a few more minutes of resistance should it become necessary.
But judging from what he could see below, that resistance might not be necessary for some while, the sounds of the last boots going silent as the door at the main level clicked shut, returning them to an eerie quiet.
Somebody moaned.
Dawson looked over at one of the bodies, not quite dead yet. He motioned to Spock. “Check him out.”
Spock knelt beside the now conscious man and checked him over. “Sucking chest wound,” he said. “He’s lost a lot of blood. He won’t make it unless he gets immediate help.”
Dawson frowned, pulling out his phone. “Time for an olive branch.” He hit the speed dial for the hotel security booth.
The phone was answered on the first ring, the initial words Vietnamese, followed by English. “Hotel Security, Bao speaking.”
“This is Special Agent White of Secretary Atwater’s security detail. Put me through to whoever is in charge down there.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
There was some clicking then a man’s voice, deep and thickly accented, answered. “This is Dimitri Yashkin of the Russian Foreign Ministry. To whom am I speaking?”
“Special Agent White, DSS.”
“Are you prepared to surrender?”
Dawson smiled. “I was about to ask you the same thing, sir. I have a wounded man—”
“We will be happy to provide medical attention to all of your wounded—”
“One of your men, not ours. By my count we also have about a dozen dead here, all your men. We have returned to our positions and will not fire upon medical personnel who retrieve the dead and wounded, as long as they are unarmed.”
“You will be held responsible for any deaths that occurred here today.”
“Considering it was your men that attacked us with guns and grenades, I think not. We were merely defending ourselves.” Dawson paused, deciding to give the man a diplomatic out that he could take whether or not he was guilty. “Sir, I’m willing to bet that you did not order this attack and that it was someone on the Vietnamese side of things. We are prepared to evacuate our personnel and equipment and return to the United States immediately, as is our right under international law. Are you going to let us exercise this right, or continue to deny it to us as your Vietnamese counterpart has done?”
“I cannot let you go until the assassin has been handed over.”
“Sir, Agent Green is innocent of the crime you have accused him of, however I am under orders to cooperate fully, so I will tell you this. Agent Green is no longer on the premises, and hasn’t been for some time.”
“What?!”
The man was clearly surprised by the revelation and immediately the line went silent as he was placed on hold. Dawson heard an update through the comm that the upper floors and roof were clear and that a helicopter rescue wasn’t in the cards. He had doubted it, but it was worth the call. It also conveyed a message to Washington about how desperate the situation actually was.
The phone line clicked.
&n
bsp; “We will be sending in medical teams now.”
“Unarmed.”
“Unarmed. I also request a meeting with your Secretary Atwater.”
“I will try to arrange it. I will call you back shortly.”
The line went dead and Dawson took the stairs two at a time to the ninth floor, jogging down the hallway to Atwater’s suite. He entered the large multi-roomed suite to find all the windows blacked out as per protocol, the senior staff, including Atwater herself, located outside the direct line of sight of any window or door.
“Are you okay, Madame Secretary?”
The woman clearly wasn’t, her face red, her eyes wide with fear. But to her credit she hadn’t lost it yet, though her white knuckles as she gripped the arms of the chair she was sitting on suggested she was close.
“What-the-hell-is-going-on?” she managed, each word punctuated with a gasp for air.
“Vietnamese troops assaulted both stairwells simultaneously. We repelled both attacks successfully and they have since withdrawn. I have established a dialogue with a Russian Foreign Ministry representative—”
“The one from before? Sarkov was it?”
Dawson shook his head. “No, I’m suspecting this is the senior man Mr. Sarkov referred to. He demanded we handover Agent Green but—”
“I don’t see how we have much choice.”
“We don’t, ma’am. He’s no longer on the premises.”
Atwater’s eyebrows shot up, her eyes opening even wider. “Excuse me?”
“He managed to escape just before the attack began. I haven’t established contact with him yet, however the fact the attack continued for as long as it did suggests he made a clean escape.”
“Why the hell would he run? It just makes him look even more guilty!”
“Keeping in mind he isn’t guilty.”
Atwater caught herself. “Of course, of course. But still, the optics!”
“I ordered him to effect an escape and meet us if possible on our evac route. If not, to make his way to the embassy when things cooled down.” He could see Atwater was about to blow a gasket. “By getting him off the premises and separating him from you, there should no longer be any reason for them to try and hold us here.” He lowered his voice. “Ma’am, based upon what just happened, there was no way they were going to let us leave with him. We can now let them confirm he’s gone then leave. There’s no way they’ll risk furthering this incident when their prime suspect isn’t even here anymore.”
“And what are we going to tell them? Are we just going to say he ran away?”
“Not at all. As you said, that would just make him look guilty. We’ll tell them that I ordered him to leave the hotel so we could evacuate you, and to get to the embassy immediately. He left under orders given to him by your head of security, unknown to you. You were shocked to hear this—”
“I am!”
“—and you didn’t authorize his departure, but now that he has left, you and your team will be leaving, promising full cooperation in the investigation and access to Agent Green when he arrives at the American Embassy.”
“You’ve really thought this out, haven’t you, Agent?”
Dawson smiled slightly. “Experience, ma’am. This is what we’re trained for. Now, Mr. Dimitri Yashkin would like to meet with you. I suggest we do so in about ten minutes. That will give us a few minutes to regroup and finalize our prep for evac, and give Mr. Green some additional time to escape, though I have no doubt that every cop in the city is now looking for him.”
“He better get to the embassy quickly.”
Dawson shook his head. “If I know him, he’ll be nowhere near it.”
Kentucky Fried Chicken, Nguyen Thai Hoc Street, Hanoi, Vietnam
Niner marched into the ground floor of a three story building, the large red KFC logo shocking the hell out of him until he remembered his briefing. Fast food joints were popping up everywhere in Vietnam, including the biggies like McDonalds. KFC had actually been one of the first in 1997.
He eyed the menu as his stomach grumbled from the smell. It reminded him of home. Growing up he used to bike past the local KFC, swearing they intentionally pumped the delicious smell of deep fried chicken to the outside just to lure people in. It drove his mother nuts every time they rode past the place, his young nostrils catching a waft, immediately triggering the required, “Can we, Mom, can we get some?”
Too often she had spoiled him.
Fortunately he was blessed with the skinny gene so was able to indulge in the finer points of American cuisine when he was younger, and now as an adult, training constantly, he had no clue if he was still blessed, or just burned off every damned calorie he got near. His eating habits were shit, fast food and pizza the order of the day, but when you lived a job that might kill you tomorrow, the saturated fat content of a meal enjoyed today meant little.
Besides, his cholesterol was fine and his doctor had let him in on a little secret—they really had no clue whether dietary cholesterol was important or not, since the body produced the vast majority of it.
He chose to ignore it all. As part of the job they were monitored constantly, bloodwork being taken all the time just in case they had been exposed to something while on assignment. He didn’t do drugs, drank like a fish when it was appropriate to do so, and ate what he wanted.
And today his stomach was telling him it wanted KFC.
Too bad he’d only be seeing the inside of their bathroom.
Which is where?
He spotted the universal blue sign pointing up a set of stairs and stood almost bewildered as he watched the customers who had just placed and paid for their orders climb the same stairs. He followed, most giving him a wide berth and avoiding eye contact, the AKM still slung over his shoulder. Reaching the top he saw a dining area where there appeared to be a large number of disgruntled customers waiting for the food that they were apparently supposed to pick up here.
And a group of teenage staff playing what appeared to be tag.
Corporate should hear about this.
The arrows pointed him to the third level and he climbed some more steps, soon finding the bathroom on the top floor. He prepared himself for disgusting but was pleasantly surprised at how clean they were, especially by Third World standards. He had been on assignment in the Middle East and South Asia enough to know that the dirty water bucket beside the hole in the ground was for rinsing off your left fingers.
Here there was modern plumbing.
He locked himself in the far stall, stripping out of the police uniform and donning his Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and sneakers. He rolled up the uniform, removed the bullets and firing pin from the AKM, then making sure he was alone, stuffed them all above the tiles in the drop ceiling. He tucked his Glock behind his back, the shirt covering it, then took care of some overdue business while flicking through his phone contacts.
He decided his best bet would be to reach out via text rather than voice. Selecting Professor Acton’s number, he sent a quick text.
this is niner. contact me asap.
He waited.
And waited.
Then he grew concerned.
Old Quarter, Hanoi, Vietnam
Phong woke, still curled in a ball, the sounds of ceremonial drums beating rhythmically on the street below waking him. He looked at the ancient alarm clock sitting on the floor by his bed. It was barely evening, the sun still casting a gentle glow through the dirty window. He sat up, wiping his eyes with his knuckles, moistening his teeth with his tongue.
They’re starting early.
The drums and the festive sounds of happy revelers wafted through the half open window, and as he realized he had finally avenged his loved ones, he decided it was time to celebrate. He stepped behind the only wall outside of the four framing his one room flat and used the toilet he considered himself lucky to have. Showers in his building was shared, but he was fortunate to be allowed to do so at the beginning and end of his shift at the h
otel, management wanting their staff to be clean and well groomed.
They even supplied the soap and antiperspirant, a concoction he had never heard of until getting his job.
Now he couldn’t live without it.
He now found the pungent smell of body odor almost unbearable, and almost felt ashamed that he had gone through more than half his life smelling the same way. But with too many of his neighbors poorer than he, it just wasn’t something brought up in polite company.
He washed his hands and face, straightened his hair and checked his clothes.
His heart almost stopped.
There was blood on the front of his shirt, as if he had been sprayed by it. He quickly pulled it off and his mind raced along with his heart as he wondered if anyone could have seen it before he got home. He began to rinse it out in the sink, the dried blood quickly coloring the water, thankfully most of it washing out, but he knew he’d have to get rid of it.
He frowned.
It was his best shirt. His only dress shirt. And it had been more expensive than any other shirt he had ever bought. He could count on one hand how many times he had worn it. During the day he wore the clothes supplied by the hotel, far nicer than anything he could justify, then in the evenings and his days off he wore simple, cheap but respectable clothes. He took pride in his appearance, never wearing dirty or overly worn clothing, but he didn’t believe in dressing to impress when outside of the work place.
He was a lonely man who led a lonely existence. What had happened to him as a boy had stained his entire life, avoiding any type of relationship that might lead to an attachment that would break his heart should it end.
He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, go through that pain again.
There’s nothing worse than loss.
The pain of loneliness, of seeing everyone around him eventually meet people, get married, have children, have someone to talk to at night, was nothing compared to the loss of that day, of knowing you would never see the ones you loved again.
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 15
