I really dislike the MAC-10 as a weapon, so I leave that where it is. It’s bulky and inaccurate, and its hair-trigger means one squeeze practically empties the clip, which is of no use when you’re trying to be subtle and effective.
I look right, down the hallway to the stairs, waiting a moment, but after seeing no sign of life, I turn left and glance at the door across the hall. It’s a big, wooden thing, probably quite thick, and looks out of place in the otherwise modern-looking apartment. I suspect the last time the place was re-decorated, the owners decided to leave the original wooden door to give it a rustic, classical feel. Again, after a minute of waiting, there’s no sign of life.
I step out into the hallway, heading for the meeting room.
An American accent behind me says, “Hey! Who the fuck are you?”
Shit.
I turn around to see two men at the top of the stairs. The one on the left is wearing a suit and an earpiece. My guess is he’s the one who just spoke — the American. The guy next to him is dressed in jeans and a black, loose-fitting sweater. He doesn’t have an earpiece. He has thick, dark hair and matching beard, with dark, caramel skin. He doesn’t look American — more likely one of Hussein’s men.
Clark’s voice sounds in my ear. “Adrian, head’s up — I think they might have spotted you.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the update, Bob…” I whisper back through gritted teeth.
Quickly, I drop to a crouch, firing twice. The first bullet hits the American in his left shoulder, close to the neck, and sends him crashing to the floor. The second bullet hits the guy in jeans square in the chest. He falls backward, his lifeless body tumbling down the stairs.
I know how it might look, but I’d rather injure someone I can’t identify — my spider sense is tingling about all these suited and booted Americans who are here. My gut tells me they’re not with the Armageddon Initiative, so I don’t want to risk killing someone and having a whole other bunch of people pissed at me. I’ve been there and done that, and it’s hard work.
The second guy, however, was definitely a terrorist, so fuck him.
I can hear commotion behind the wooden door now — I’m assuming everyone has been alerted to my presence…
“Adrian, you’ve got more guys heading up the stairs,” says Clark.
Great… so I can’t easily go that way. Plus, I need to get to Hussein and his friend, who are both in a room with six other people — who I can guarantee will be packing.
“Any ideas?” I ask Clark.
“I’m thinking… sorry, Adrian. We need Hussein, but you should maybe consider abandoning the mission, unless you want to run the risk of not getting out of there at all.”
“Rule number one, Bob — you never call off the mission. There’s always a way out — just gotta learn to think outside the box a little.”
I look around, searching for inspiration. Too time-consuming to go back the way I came, and too counter-productive to fight my way down the stairs and out of the building. My gaze keeps resting on the wooden door…
Going in that room would be crazy, wouldn’t it?
I mean, I don’t know who’s behind that door, where they are in the room, what weapons they have, anything…
It would just be sheer insanity to go bursting into the room.
I smile to myself.
I’ve always loved a little crazy…
I run at the door, barging into it shoulder first. I nearly take it off its hinges, and it swings open, revealing the room as I stand in the doorway, my right arm throbbing from the impact. Everything slows down — split seconds feel like hours as I take in every detail of the scene before me.
There’s a large rectangular table in the middle of the room, lengthways, facing the door. At the far end, standing and facing me with his back to the window, is Yalafi Hussein. I recognize him from the information I read on the flight over here. He’s just above average height, wearing a very expensive-looking suit and a small, fitted turban. His long, scraggly, black beard obscures much of his face, but in the split second I catch his eyes, I can see a glimpse of the hatred that lies beneath the surface. His mouth is open, frozen mid-speech, in shock.
On his left, my right, are three men all dressed in suits, with earpieces in, and conspicuous bulges underneath their left armpits. All are Caucasian and clean shaven, with a disciplined air about them.
On his right, my left, facing the men in suits, are three more men. They’re dressed more casually, with no obvious weaponry, concealed or otherwise. They’re all from different ethnic backgrounds, but each has short hair and trimmed beards, with dark eyes hiding the same, underlying anger that I see in Hussein.
Across the table, with their backs to me, another man in a suit stands and faces Hussein. I note that he doesn’t turn around to look at me, but his suit is a light brown and, from my limited view of him, I’m sure I can see the glint of military decoration on the left breast of his jacket. He’s bald and about my height, his stance is very rigid and upright, with his shoulders back to their full width — exuding confidence.
As we enter the third split second since I burst into the room, everyone stares at me — the suits on the right slowly reach into their jackets, presumably to retrieve their firearms. In front of Hussein is an open laptop.
I assess the situation, looking at the probable outcome of every possible course of action, deciding quickly that I have absolutely no chance of getting Hussein and the guy with his back to me out of here alive.
So, what’s the next best thing?
Seeing everyone’s guns are almost drawn, time restarts, and I sprint across the room toward Hussein. My gun’s already in my hand, I fire off five shots in total — one goes in the table in front of Hussein to make him duck down, three go at the suited men reaching for their guns, and one goes in the window that looks down over the street.
I reach the end of the table and spin clockwise, closing and swiping up the laptop in one movement, before firing off another two rounds in quick succession, aimed at the chests of two of the three men there with Hussein, killing them instantly. This also gives me my first real look at the guy Hussein is meeting. It’s a very quick glance, but I take in his old, drawn, stern, weathered face and his emotionless, dark eyes. He’s wearing lots of medals on his suit, and stars on his shoulders. We look at each other for a brief moment, and then he calmly turns away from me as I turn away from him.
Tucking the laptop under my left arm, and without a second’s hesitation, I jump at the window, dropping my head to the right and rolling into it, so my left shoulder and back go first. With the glass already weakened from the bullet, I smash through, rolling naturally and falling the thirty feet down to the street.
Having developed the useful ability to accurately judge distances with the naked eye throughout my many years as a soldier and assassin, my calculations are spot on — I land, flat on my back, on the roof of the middle limousine parked out front, with a heavy thud. I let out an involuntary grunt of pain from the impact.
My momentum carries me over, and I continue to roll, dropping down onto the street. Still holding my gun, I put my right hand on the ground, stopping in a crouch and steadying myself. I quickly check to make sure the laptop wasn’t damaged — luckily, it seems intact. When I look up, a car’s speeding toward me. The driver slams on his brakes and the car screeches to a halt. I can only watch, rooted to the ground and unable to think to move quickly enough. Luckily, the car stops inches from my head.
Jesus…
I’m breathing heavily, and pain is pulsing through my entire body from the exertion and fall, but I manage to get to my feet. The smell of burning rubber from the tires drifts across the street, stinging my nostrils. I move to the driver’s door and open it, using my gun to gesture to the driver to get out. It’s a middle-aged man wearing chinos and a sweater, looking shaken up.