by L C Champlin
Sixteenth floor.
Descent beat the hell out of ascent. The big 9 would appear in no time.
Fourteenth floor.
The gray stairs matched Kate’s pallor when he left her. If he left her, the wolves would take her. But carrying her would make him a bigger target. Fuck, he’d sworn an oath of fealty to pragmatism seventeen years ago, and he kept his word. Wait, her ID and keys. She had assisted him; thus, payment for services rendered would come into effect and eliminate heroism. And if he could snatch a life from the wolves, all the better.
Tenth floor. One more.
Bam! Metal slammed metal as a door above opened. Not now!
Feet pounded down the stairs. One flight separated him from the newcomer.
The 9 flashed past. No time for the detour. He needed more room to secure an optimal position, if one could call anywhere in the downward end of a stairwell optimal.
Eighth floor.
He skidded around the inside railing at its switchback. Crouching against the railing of the lower flight provided the best vantage.
Boots thudded above. Then an explosion reverberated through the stairwell, making his ears whistle. Spent gunpowder tinged the air. A shot fired, but at whom and by who?
More footsteps padded, still descending, but lighter and slower.
One, two, three, four. Hold. The AK’s front sight settled into the notch of the rear, a stick figure with circular arms raised in praise of Aries.
The other stair-goer should show right about . . . now.
A pistol muzzle’s black eye appeared in the sight picture—aimed at Nathan’s head. Shit! His finger tightened on the trigger. Then his brain caught up to the images his optic nerves relayed.
“Wait!” He threw his hands up, finger off the trigger and a grin on his face.
The handgun lowered, providing a clear view of its operator: tall, Armani-clad, Aryan as a damned SS officer and looking just as cold behind his wire rims.
“Semper paratus, Mr. Serebus?” Albin drawled in his half blue-blood Brit, half Nowhere, USA, accent. He gave a thin smile.
Chapter 6
Carpe Jugulum
We Stand Alone – Covenant
Nathan barked a laugh. “Carpe jugulum, at this point, Albin.” With Albin at his side, they could get the hell out of this Tom Clancy flop.
Albin held the Springfield 1911 pistol at low ready as he trotted down to join Nathan, who quenched the urge to headlock his friend in relief. Albin would not appreciate that welcome. So Nathan settled for a clap on the shoulder and, “I’m glad to see you’re all right.” The understatement of the millennium.
“You as well, sir. Then again, we are always all right. Allow me to retrieve your essentials,”—Albin glanced upward—“and we will be on our way.”
With a nod Nathan jogged after him, taking the lead to ensure the area’s security. At the landing of the ninth level, he paused before the poor bastard on the receiving end of Albin’s .45 caliber round. One shot, back of the head, dead center. The thug had rag-dolled, his momentum carrying him onto his face. A puddle of blood expanded around the carcass.
Albin sidestepped the carnage, pausing to hold the fire door open.
“All that dry-fire training paid off, it seems,” Nathan observed as he grabbed the back of the corpse’s hoodie and dragged it into the fire door airlock. “With attorneys’ single-minded drive to achieve a goal, I always thought they would make fine combat operatives.” Nathan rolled the body onto its back. The bullet’s exit had left a fist-sized hole in the terrorist’s face.
“I thought you might cite ruthless attacks, opportunism, and mercenary spirit.”
“They’re all efficient means to an end.” The corpse held an AK, but the rifle held no rounds. Nathan’s combat knife hissed from its sheath. He sliced the hoodie, neck to hem, to reveal a load-bearing vest. The camo pockets bulged with gear.
“‘Adapt, advance, achieve’ is a fitting company slogan.”
“Never let a crisis go to waste,” Nathan grinned back at Albin while working a black 9 mm semi-auto pistol from the former owner’s grasp. A CZ 75.
Albin wore the same unimpressed look he adopted whenever Nathan detailed the merits of a new, in-no-way-redundant piece of technology he’d just bought. “It’s fortunate you have an empty holster for that, sir.”
Nathan shrugged. “Have it your way.” Further investigation produced two empty mags for the AK, two full mags for the pistol, another H-777 radio, and a combat knife. He ignored the corpse’s cigarettes but tossed the Zippo to Albin.
As a last gift, the scumbag’s leg holster supplied two full mags and a black .45 semi-auto Rock Ultra. Heavy, reliable, a brother to Albin’s 1911.
Nathan stepped past Albin and into the ninth level. “You are taking these,” he stated as he pushed the holster and sheathed knife against the blond’s chest. “It goes with your tie.”
“Certainly.” The knife vanished under Albin’s suit jacket before he situated the holster.
Twilight sifted through the glass door at the end of the hall, which opened on the Overlook Terrace. AK ready, Nathan trotted to the vantage point.
Choppers prowled the skies between columns of smoke. Something big was happening.
“Your pants, sir,” Albin deadpanned as he joined his employer, but Nathan caught the flicker of dry amusement behind the glasses.
“You’ve been waiting eight years to use that line on me, haven’t you.” Nathan snatched the Blackhawks Albin held out. The straps of Nathan’s wayward VTAC RUSH72 backpack occupied Albin’s other hand. Good. The level III AR500 Armor insert in the pack provided defense against most bullet calibers.
“Never waste a crisis, as you say.”
“You think of everything.”
“It’s why you pay me to advise you,” Albin replied as he looked over his shoulder toward the stairs. “It appears you have the towel front covered already, however.”
“One of the most useful things in the galaxy.” Nathan’s quip earned a shake of Albin’s head.
Nathan began to remove his pockets’ contents. “Fine shooting out there. One shot, one kill.”
“One is all that is necessary.” Albin returned to watching the hall as Nathan pulled pants over shorts.
“If you have the luxury of a firearm.” Images of his own kill flashed like home movies across his mind’s eye.
“Personal experience, sir?”
“A very recent one. I assume the weapon is from the bodyguards’ room?”
The younger man raised a thin brow before turning back to the window. “I assume you use the term ‘bodyguards’ loosely.”
“Very. Where did the attack begin? Above or below our floor?”
“Below,” Albin answered, shouldering the VTAC and adjusting the straps to fit his lanky build. “I ascended one flight and waited.”
“The gunmen are on at least the fifth and sixth floors as well, so you may have saved your life by staying put.”
“Leaving the building without you was not an option, Mr. Serebus,” He refused to use his employer’s first name, and Nathan had given up trying to change him. “I couldn’t very well face Mrs. Serebus after abandoning you.”
Nathan snorted. “Janine does stress accountability. Did you see anyone else on the way down? This place seems deserted, aside from the lunatics trying to murder us.”
“There was a call on the hotel line, asking everyone to remain in their rooms, as there was a police matter that needed to be addressed. A few moments later, the fire alarm sounded.”
“A police matter?”
“Another call came after the alarm began, informing guests that the alarm was cleared, and not to leave their rooms. I attempted to verify this with the emergency response center, but the phones are out of service.”
Nathan raised a skeptical brow. “What better way to conduct a terrorist attack than to cut the phone lines and pin everybody down? I’m star
ting to doubt there ever were police here.” Dollars to dumbasses the gunmen in the gym didn’t belong to any SWAT team.
Albin scanned the terrace. “The same thought occurred to me.”
“Now,” Nathan continued, “let’s see if the radios are functional.” Power on. Static hissed; Nathan grinned.
“Here.” He tossed the other radio to Albin, who caught it and clipped it to his belt. “The usual SOP.”
“I assume you mean hunting-trip standard operating procedures for the radio, as we do not have any for terrorist attacks.” He paused. “Though perhaps we should.”
“It’ll do for now.” Hunting trips did more than just fill the freezers with moose.
Communication infrastructure established, Nathan opened the door to the terrace, stepped out, and trotted to the railing. Sirens, horns, and shouting washed over him as the wind whipped his hair and towel. Albin followed at a walk. When Nathan saw the vista below, he understood his friend’s hesitation. Pileups dotted Mission Street and Third. Red, white, and blue strobed through the growing darkness while sirens wailed. Emergency personnel in neon vests attempted to direct the civilians, who were panicking like roaches when the lights come on.
Albin joined him at the hellscape. “We may have some difficulty even after we get outside.” All hail Albin Conrad, King of the Understatement.
“With all that going on down there, it’ll take the authorities forever to secure this place.”
Nathan stood taller, like his ancestor Leonidas surveying the Persian enemy before war. A grim smile spread across his face as his hand tightened around the AK’s grip. Let the wolves howl. They wouldn’t make him or Albin their prey.
“You have a plan.” A statement, not a question, in the tone Albin used to comment on the weather. He surveyed the carnage below with a mortician’s detachment.
Nathan’s gaze tracked a chopper as it moved out from a hover.
“A Bell OH58A,”—Albin adjusted his glasses—“belonging to the California Highway Patrol.”
“CHP?”
Shoving the AK to his back, Nathan dodged patio furniture to reach the Overlook’s center. He waved his arms at the chopper in the half jumping jack of desperation.
Crash!
Where? There, two floors above and behind him, a broken window—and a gunman.
Nathan sprinted for the door. Fuck it all, the terrorists had cut them off!
Bang-bang! Albin’s pistol. The attorney covered him from the entrance.
Nathan threw himself into the building and raced to the stairs. The door slammed as Albin followed.
Drawing his .45, Nathan shoved the fire door open. He went high while Albin and his 1911 went low.
“It was worth a shot,” he panted as they made it to the landing.
“Two shots.”
With a shrug, Nathan started down the stairs. “Did you hear the gunmen on the nineteenth floor yell ‘Allahu akbar!’ or any other battle cry?”
“No.” Albin leaned over the railing to look up for pursuers. “They appear to be Americans, which may indicate the only prophet they revere is the kind ending in F-I-T.”
“Pay a man enough and he’ll walk barefoot into Hell.” What if the man already found himself in Hell?
At the sixth floor entrance, he halted. Albin glanced about, handgun and glasses flashing in the E lighting.
“I need to check on Kate, one of the staff,” Nathan explained as he reached for the door.
“She was wounded?” No emotion.
“Gunshot to the leg.”
“And you played the hero.” Sarcasm melded with skepticism.
Hero? “I assisted, like anyone—even you—would have,” Nathan hissed through clenched teeth. “That hero nonsense—sacrifice, courage, mercy, honesty—only gets you defeated.”
“Do remember that, sir.”
Nathan eased the door open. The level received him with empty halls and silence.
Bang! The fire door slammed below.
Chapter 7
Escort Mission
The Phoenix – Fall Out Boy
Nathan motioned Albin through while covering the stairs with the AK. Men’s voices and footsteps approached. Two, maybe three of them. His back to the hall, Nathan settled the door closed. Let the bastards pass, then he could attack the rear.
A hand on his arm made him glance back. Albin shook his head. Nathan’s eyes narrowed. Don’t get between me and my enemy. The blond shook his head again. Intimidation by Nathan Serebus cowed 99 percent of people who earned it. Albin composed the 1 percent. It made him even more stubborn. He pointed to the door, then to his ear, then wagged the 1911.
Nathan frowned, but with a nod he agreed that gunshots would attract attention.
After the gunmen passed, Albin whispered, “Mr. Serebus, I will watch the stairs. Please go see to your charge.”
Nathan thumped the adviser’s shoulder in thanks, then trotted toward the Remède Spa entrance. If the girl had regained some strength, she could direct them to the best way out. She could consider him carrying her out as her tip.
At the double doors, he paused to knock.
No answer.
He cracked the door. “Kate?” he stage-whispered. Pressing his eye to the gap showed the dim, silent entry. The room exuded sterility, the E lights turning modern class to medical chill.
Pistol close to his chest at compressed ready, he slid inside and moved to the women’s door. “Katerina!” Silence rushed to fill the vacuum when the echo died. “It’s Nathan.”
One, two, three, four. Hold. He shouldered in.
Kate lay under the pile of towels. At his approach, her hand twitched toward the pistol.
“It’s me!” He caught her hand—as cold as the Glock and as pale as the couch. His mouth went dry.
She blinked, squinted. “N-Natan. Sorry.” Fatigue brought out her Danish accent. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”
“I’m your ride out.” He forced a smile.
What are you doing? pragmatism demanded. Armed and armored terrorists everywhere, police and EMS nowhere, and six floors to the ground? Get out with Albin.
“It’s far.” She shook her head, her breathing rapid.
There, permission to leave. The gunmen had no reason to come here again. Surely she’d last until the medics arrived . . . in hours.
The Retevis mic crackled. A male made a terse statement in a Slavic language.
Then, “English, you mudak Commie!” A man with an Alabama drawl. An American turned against his own country, murdering people and working for goddamned terrorists?
“I speak with my men, Ameriko. When I want you, I tell.”
“Then git on yer own damned channel!”
Nathan glared down the hall at the mental image of the waste-of-flesh traitor. A longing to beat the bastard’s face in surged.
A reply in Slavic or Russian, then silence.
Kate snarled in pain as she pulled to a sitting position. “You have to go. They’re kidnapping guests.”
“Kidnapping.” Even worse than killing.
“The Russian said.”
“Red One,” the Southerner resumed, causing an uptick in Nathan’s pulse, “take six. That’s the last place we heard from Red Four.”
Six? Sixth floor.
Chapter 8
Easter Egg
This is Gonna Hurt – Sixx:AM
“This is Red One,” replied a Long Islander. “We copy, Red Chief.”
Shitshitshit! Nathan grabbed the PTT. Long shot of long shots. “This is Red Four.” Lucky he knew the dead rapist’s voice. “You copy?”
“This is Red Chief, I copy. Where the fuck are you?”
“Third. There’s nothin’ on sixth.”
Nathan’s heartbeat in his ears almost drowned out the reply: “Red one, check six anyway, then git to three.”
“Roger.”
Fuck! “Kate.” He folded her clammy hands ar
ound the Glock. “Get ready to shoot anybody who isn’t me, or who isn’t a blond in a suit. He’s with me.”
She nodded, eyes wide.
He raised the rifle as he started toward the entry. “I’ll be back.”
He pounded into the entry room, leapt the coffee table, and hurtled through the double doors.
Bolting across the hall with the AK sight framing the passage, he started for the intersection. Ahead, Albin backed into view, his .45 covering the hall toward the stairs. He rounded the corner just as the fire door slammed.
“Here!” Nathan kept his voice low.
Albin turned and, pistol retracted against his chest, ran combat-style for the doors.
A small canister rolled into the hall. BANG! Blinding light, then concussive force downed ceiling tiles, punched in drywall.
Distance saved the men from the immediate effects, but a flash bang meant . . . Gas-masked gunmen stormed around the corner, assault rifles up.
Nathan retreated. His trigger finger followed once, twice. Deafening double-taps hammered the point men. The 7.62 mms kicked two of the motherfuckers to the floor with aerosols of blood. Where the rounds impacted didn’t matter. He just needed enough time to—
Another canister. Hiiiissssss. Fucking tear gas!
Squinting, holding his breath, he whipped the towel around his nose and mouth as he got a foot through the spa doorway. Three shots thundered as Albin provided suppressive fire as best he could with a handgun.
Nathan paused for a last strafe of the enemy. Something punched into his chest. As he jerked backward, a second impact knocked him off his feet.
He crashed to the tile floor, stars exploding across his tearing vision while his lungs fought to inflate. The fire alarm had resumed—no, it came from his own ears. Pain blazed across his chest like he’d taken a punch. Or two.