As the elevator lifted, Kyle switched magazines in his Colt. “I don’t know for sure, but that minivan that we saw pulling away from the ambulance obviously contained at least one more man, the driver, probably more. He might have just been hauling ass away from the area, but the reverse may also be true. These terrorist assholes have evolved in their tactics. Like in Iraq, they are using the old Irish Republican Army trick of staging one attack to draw a crowd and then hitting again.”
“A follow-up attack.” She continued to check the clipboard.
“Possibly. Maybe a second suicide bomb. Maybe they were planning a ground assault once the bomb went off. Better not to take a chance.” The little button lights flashed on the elevator panel when they rose past other floors. “Are there any other high value targets in this place?”
“Are you inquiring if there are other important people amongst our guests?” She mimicked the proper reception desk lady.
“Yeah. Guests who already have had their shit blown away once and are receiving the best medical care money can buy, but nowhere near the best protection.”
“There is a Saudi prince who happens to be their ambassador to the United States occupying the suite at the west end of the corridor on the top floor. Must have been at the castle.” Her mind whirred with computations and possibilities. Two of them against who knows how many terrorists, using who knew what kind of weaponry, with no armed and trained counterterrorist force around. Not so much as a kid with a peashooter. Sybelle, however, was confident that the odds were not insurmountable. She was pretty damned good at this game and Kyle was focused and steady. He already had that cold sniper look in his eyes, the curtain had lowered over his emotions and he was easily the most efficient killing machine she had ever met. He caught her glance and winked. She tossed the clipboards aside and made a quick check on her Glock. Hell, we’ll just kill them all by ourselves.
The elevator stopped and they stepped out with their pistols sweeping the area, Sybelle going right and Kyle heading left. Not a guard beside any door, emphasizing the quietness of a private hospital for the very wealthy. It was a genteel place, more used to providing services to drugged-out entertainers and cosmetic surgery to ladies of a certain age. People on the National Health Service didn’t come here, and, to the staff, protection meant keeping away nosy photographers. It was not designed to stop terrorists.
Two nurses behind a central counter looked up, startled. One was young and the other middle-aged, both wearing hospital scrubs with pastel flower tops. Sybelle put a finger to her lips for them to remain silent.
“I’ll get to Jeff and Pat,” Kyle said. “You take one of these nurses and bring the prince down into Jeff’s room. We can set up a barricade in the hallway.”
The older nurse instantly sized up what was happening and had no questions. She marched around the counter and told Sybelle she would escort her to the prince’s room.
“Kyle!” A shout came from the east end of the hall.
He turned and saw Delara Tabrizi running toward him. With his Colt still in his right hand, Kyle swept her off the floor in a big hug, followed by a kiss that was not much more than a peck. He could not afford to let anything, even happiness, slow him down until they were all safe. Kyle pushed her back gently, bent over, and pulled the.22 caliber pistol from his ankle holster. “Great to see you, honey, but we have to take care of some business before we can celebrate properly. We just nailed a suicide bomber downstairs and there may be another assault. Your car got scratched. Here. You know how to shoot, and we may need the extra firepower.”
“You have the strangest way of saying hello,” said Delara, examining the little pistol with the practiced eye of someone used to handling weapons. “Come on. I’ll take you to them. What happened to my car?”
“Sir! Mister!” the young nurse called to him. “I have a policeman on the line who says it is urgent that he speak with you.” She handed him the telephone.
“Are you the FBI bloke what just punched me in the gut?” It was the big cop.
“Yeah. What is it?”
“One of me lads with binoculars says three skydivers have jumped from a little plane about a kilometer away and are using those dark, elliptical airfoils that can be steered. All three are angling this way, coming in fast and hard toward the roof of the clinic. And, mate? They seem to be strapped up with automatic rifles.”
13
“SYBELLE! THREE MORE TANGOS parachuting in!” Kyle dropped the telephone receiver and his voice rang loudly in the spacious hallway. “We need to get up there.” He looked at the young nurse. “Where is a service door that leads to the roof?”
She was a pale blonde, whose sky blue eyes were huge in confusion and fright. Frozen. Glanced down. “I don’t know. Never go up there, do I?”
The senior nurse looked at her, rimless glasses low on her nose. “It’s the helicopter landing area, Pauline. Where we bring in guests with serious conditions.”
“Oh,” said the girl. “I just thought…” The rest of the sentence was lost.
“Never mind, dear.” The older nurse had been through more than enough emergencies to keep her going straight through a crisis. She pointed to a small door next to the elevator. “Right behind you there, that green door beside the lift,” she said. “One flight of stairs up to another green door. It opens outward beneath a sheltered overhang. There is another entrance two floors below, going to a lower roof on the adjacent wing.”
“What about the Saudi prince?” Sybelle asked.
“Never concern yourself. I’ll get the guests together in the room with Sir Geoffrey,” said the nurse. “You two, up the stairs!”
Kyle flashed a smile. “Yes, ma’am. You heard her, Sybelle. Let’s go.”
They slammed through the door and into a wide, brightly lit stairwell with yellow and white stripes painted diagonally along the edges of the steps. The walls were blue, with neat white trim, and the antiseptic smell trapped in the windowless shaft was almost overwhelming.
“They’re going to be armed and might be wired to blow,” Kyle said as they took the stairs two at a time. “So we have to kill them before they can land and take control.”
“Shit,” Sybelle exclaimed. “If these guys are good enough to parasail onto a roof, they’ll be well trained.”
“Fucking Alamo time. No retreat from here.” Kyle held up his hand, in a fist, when he reached the top landing and Sybelle pressed back against the opposite wall. “Probably rigged their harnesses so they will be able to fire while still in the air. As soon as we open the door and step outside, they will try to lay down some suppressive fire.”
“Yeah, but they can’t work the toggles of their chutes and aim at the same time. Their first job is to get down, and then to use the superior firepower in the attack. Until then, we have an edge.”
“Ready?”
“Do it.”
Swanson pushed hard on the exterior door and when it flew open, he followed it around. Sybelle came out in a crouch, running the other way.
Three parachutists were coasting in a line of rectangular chutes, with the lowest one just about to touch down and eyeing the target zone rising beneath his feet.
“You take number one. I got the second guy,” Kyle yelled.
Sybelle ran toward the first man, closing the distance fast so that her pistol would have a chance. Beyond twenty-five meters she was toast. The guy was sailing fast and right toward her, helping resolve the distance equation, and did not see her until one of his comrades yelled a warning. By then, Sybelle was in a combat stance with her Glock sighted center-mass on the descending parachutist. She followed his drop for a few feet, then blasted almost a full magazine into him before breaking her stance and diving back into the protection of the stairwell as a burst of machine gun fire from the uppermost skydiver stitched the rooftop and the door behind her.