He watched the procession encircle the table holding the heads of state, and then suddenly halt as the stirring crescendo reached a pause. The waiters turned in unison to face the summiteers, their fiery sparklers still aglow, while the orchestra segued into a rich version of “Auld Lang Syne.”
An impromptu sing along session was initiated by the President of the United States and the prime ministers of Great Britain and Canada, who joined hands and began singing the familiar lyrics. The Grill’s other patrons joined in, and soon all nine world leaders had their hands linked together, their bodies swaying to the ageless melody.
This sight alone was a moving one, and Vince realized that this gala banquet had exceeded his every expectation. He felt a tremendous spirit of camaraderie in this room that he hoped would spill over to the summit sessions yet to come.
Even though he himself had never been much of a singer, he couldn’t help joining in on the final refrain of
“Auld Lang Syne.” Hartwell had his glass held high, and Morrison slapped him on the back at the song’s conclusion, then the room erupted with another boisterous round of applause.
It was then that the lights snapped back on, and Vince spotted a strong figure standing beside the Grill’s main entrance. This individual wore a hooded balaclava, which masked his face; was dressed completely in black; and held what looked to be a Sterling submachine gun firmly in his grasp. Before Vince could react, a trio of similarly attired figures, also holding submachine guns, burst through the entryway and took up positions on the balcony. At the same time, yet another armed threesome entered the Grill by way of its forward door.
By this time instinct took over, and he frantically reached into the folds of his jacket to pull out his pistol. But before he could do so, the first intruder that he had spotted pointed his weapon at the ceiling and let loose a deafening, five-second volley. He then readjusted the aim of his gun squarely on the Grill’s central table, and cried out.
“If I see one single weapon exposed, the heads of state will die!”
His six hooded accomplices also aimed their weapons at the nine astounded summiteers, and the shocked waiters who continued to surround them and block any of the guards from reaching them. Vince had no choice but to let go of his pistol’s plastic grip. His two armed table mates did likewise, and Vince briefly met the concerned stares of both Samuel Morrison and Robert Hartwell.
“I’m sorry to have interrupted your dessert,” continued the leader.
“But this theatrical opportunity couldn’t be resisted. Bring in the rest of them!” he added.
Seconds later, a long line of three dozen or so passengers entered the Grill, accompanied by a pair of armed escorts. Several of these sullen figures were dressed in terry-cloth robes, and Vince recognized them as members of the international security teams who weren’t on duty. As they were directed to be seated on the carpeted floor of the main dining area, the leader once more addressed them.
“Before any of you decides to be a hero, be aware that my forces have already secured the ship’s Bridge, Radio Room, security department, and engineering spaces. My people have also made their presence known to the rest of the vessel’s crew, who have been notified that no one will be harmed as long as you obey my rules and instructions.
“I suspect each of you is extremely interested in who we are and what we want. For the time being, though, our identities are unimportant.
What’s of vital significance is that you abandon all hope of challenging us. We will be making the rounds of this room to confiscate all armaments, which I understand are quite substantial. Know that any attempt at resistance will result in instant death, both for yourselves and for the men you’ve sworn to protect.
“To further insure your cooperation, be it known that a powerful bomb has been hidden on this ship. The timer of this device has already been activated, and should I fail to show up to deactivate it, the entire vessel will be doomed to destruction.”
The leader lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers a single time.
This signal caused one of his hooded accomplices, who stood to his right and was obviously a female, to repeat these exact instructions in perfect German, Italian, French, Russian, Japanese and Mandarin.
Once the final translation was completed, the leader snapped his fingers a second time. Without hesitation, two of his masked associates climbed down from the balcony and approached the circular table that was set up against the room’s far right wall. Vince knew that this was where the Chinese delegation was seated, and he watched as the gunmen raised their weapons and began speaking in rapid Mandarin.
Whatever they were saying caused one member of the Chinese contingent to stand hesitantly. This crew-cut individual held a briefcase close at his side, and Vince didn’t have to see any more to know that this was the fellow responsible for holding the PRC’s version of America’s nuclear football.
“Oh, shit!” cursed Samuel Morrison.
The gunman reached out for the briefcase. Just as he was about to take possession of it, one of the PRC security agents seated beside the trembling aide lunged forward and attempted to grab the case himself.
As he made hand contact with it, his seated associates drew their pistols, while the aide began scuffling with the figure who had tried to take the briefcase from him.
But a mere second before the Chinese agents could put their weapons into play, the other gunman brought his submachine gun to bear. With a quick precise sweep he emptied the Sterling’s entire thirty-four-round clip into the torsos of the unfortunate Chinese men. With a deafening extended blast, the 9mm bullets tore into the bodies of the PRC agents, who collapsed onto the floor and across the table, a twitching, bleeding mass of torn flesh.
Sickened by this sight, and by the nauseous scent of cordite, Vince could only mutter, “Oh, sweet Jesus, no!”
The gunman simply replaced his clip with a new one from his belt.
An anxious murmur of shocked chatter escaped the lips of the other captives, who continued looking on as the smoke generated by this gunfire cleared. Standing beside the blood-soaked table, with the briefcase firmly in his grasp, was the lead gunman. His hood had been torn off during the brief scuffle, and Vince gasped upon identifying him.
Clearly exposed for all to see was the face of the man that Vince had only briefly met back on the pier in New York, an employee of Dennis Liu, the Asian who went by the name of Bear.
A myriad of thoughts rushed into Vince’s mind as he watched Bear return to the balcony and hand the briefcase to his leader. Only when he had this cherished item firmly in his grasp, did this figure bother to reach up and yank off his own hood.
Vince gasped once more as he set his startled eyes on the gloating face of Dennis Liu. One by one, in quick succession, the other gang members also exploded their faces. Vince recognized Max Kurtyka, Monica Chang, and Liu’s daughter, Kristin. Vince didn’t know the identities of the others, who were all Asian males.
In a disgusted whisper, it was Robert Hartwell who revealed where these others had come from. “Damn it, those bloody bastards are from Chinatown!”
Ricky Ration was beyond shock upon setting his astounded eyes on Kristin. His thoughts still in a frightened haze, he realized that he had most likely interrupted them down in the Gym, as they were making final preparations for this assault.
“I find myself in the midst of a script of my own making,” said Dennis Liu to his rapt audience. “You who know my work, only know my shadow.