by Gary Haynes
Her thick red hair accentuated the paleness of her skin. She looked like a size zero, and what little make-up she wore had been applied with calligraphic precision.
“I visited a hospital just like this one in Iraq eight years ago,” the secretary said to her quietly, without turning around. “The only difference being the bombs were ours. But the children looked just the same. This can be an ugly world, Miss Hanson; please don’t add to the negativity with insensitive remarks.”
Tom glanced at the aide. She was flushed with embarrassment, her beauty suddenly diminished.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t worry, the TV cameras won’t pick that up,” the secretary replied, turning towards three news teams.
One was local, SAMAA TV, the other two from the States. There were half a dozen more in the corridor. Apart from the local crew, the teams had drawn lots. There just wasn’t enough room on the ward.
The secretary shook the doctor’s hand, thanking him and praising his work. She waved to the nurses and children, some of whom smiled and waved back, while others just carried on looking vaguely bemused. Tom retained his position, readying himself for the obstacle course that would no doubt occur in the corridors leading to the hospital lobby.
Once that had been overcome, she would shake hands with the security-vetted group and give a short statement to the news hounds. He would call up the tactical support team and usher her inside an SUV fitted with run-flat tyres. The windshields were made of glass-clad polycarbonate, which were both bullet-resistant and prevented glass fragments from showering inward. But the windows were constructed from layers of a laminated material known as one-way bulletproof glass. This prevented rounds from entering the vehicle, while at the same time allowing agents to fire out of it, as the unique combination of absorptive and flexible qualities of the layers responded accordingly. It was as safe a civilian vehicle as science could create.
But it was best practice to have the SUVs close to the exit point, parallel, in fact. In this instance they would block the view for the TV crews and the crowds, and Tom now knew that the secretary’s visit was essentially a PR exercise, despite her sincerity. He told himself it would be fine.
That done, he would breathe easily for a second or two before the whole routine would begin again.
This, at least, was his plan.
4
The lobby led to an incongruous-looking, clear-glass frontage set back about three metres from the narrow sidewalk. The excitable crowds were being held at bay by skinny, moustachioed policemen, wielding long wooden batons. Tom would’ve given a year’s pay just to have had them all swept by portable body scanners before they’d gotten within a hundred metres of the secretary. Regular procedure stateside.
But he consoled himself by thinking that the plan was simple, and in his experience simple was best. The police would create a secure funnel, which the secretary would move down to be met by the lead MSD SUV parked twenty metres to the right, flanked by police outriders. The protective detail would walk around her. If there was a hint of trouble, they’d form the closed-box formation, so that she’d be covered by their bodies for a full three hundred and sixty degrees, each agent within half an arm’s reach of her.
He stuck a couple of fingers inside his stiff collar, wishing he could loosen his dark-blue necktie. He put on mirrored shades. It was stifling, just as Steve had said it would be, even though it was only 10:13. He was to Tom’s right, his face glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. They exchanged tight nods.
Still positioned behind her right shoulder, he kept his head up. The secretary stepped back after brief contact, as he’d taught her to do, and moved steadily from hospital staff to well-wishing local dignitary. A second agent walked further down the line-up, while a third was shadowing her movement from behind it, watching for a drawn-back fist or leg, or worse. The split-second advantage could be crucial.
Seeing a rotund man in a blue pinstripe with his hand in his jacket pocket, Tom leaned towards him. “Excuse me, sir. Please remove your hand from your pocket.” He could speak good Urdu, but knew the majority of educated Pakistanis spoke fluent English.
The man looked bewildered, but removed it just the same.
“Thank you, sir,” Tom said.
He scanned those nearby looking for pre-attack indicators. Most were subtle movements, but they could be exaggerated. He knew that it didn’t matter if someone was smiling like a Baptist preacher, the average assailant exhibited at least one before an assault. A shifting body, rapid shallow breathing, trembling hands or dilating pupils. Traits brought about when the adrenal glands produced an adrenalin dump.
He stayed close to the line. The key distance was seven metres. Anything inside that and a trained operative had a chance to stop a person drawing a concealed handgun and discharging it; anything outside and the chances were they would get off a round. It didn’t matter how good a person was told or thought they were; it was a fact.
He was aware of everything around him. The details that most people missed or weren’t interested in even if they didn’t. If there was a security lapse, he’d have to manage the natural adrenalin surge that would happen in his own body. Primed meant being one step from a reaction rather than three. It meant avoiding being paralyzed by a sensory overload, or panicking, as the body was swamped by hormones. It meant learning to run at a person who had pulled out a twelve-gauge shotgun rather than heading in the other direction.
Mentally, he saw someone lurch at the secretary, a knife in hand. Stepping forward, he used his body as cover for hers. He stretched out his left hand to grab her arm, and manoeuvred her behind him, holding her back to his. Simultaneously, he quick-drew his SIG, pointing. Aggressive words and actions were generally enough to subdue an assailant. But if he saw a handgun, he’d propel into the gap, and swing her to the ground behind his legs, as he fired into the centre of the assailant’s chest. His team would bolt over, shielding her entirely in the tepee-shaped formation.
Check.
Ten seconds later, he was drawn to a woman in the front row. She was large-boned, a sweep of shiny black hair protruding from her dupatta headscarf. She wore a canary-yellow Shalwar Kameez, and was holding a bunch of pink roses. But he was drawn to her because the flowers were vibrating, just enough to mark her out. She didn’t strike him as a shy individual, so he eased the secretary on before the woman could present them.
Something’s not right, he thought. He couldn’t work it out at first. Then it hit him. A distraction, perhaps. With that, a commotion started in his peripheral vision; to his left. He turned. Four young men had broken free from the crowd and had overpowered Sam Eddy. He was a thick-necked ex-DEA agent. The type that didn’t go down easily. But he was on his back now, his jaw slack, taking a vicious kicking.
Tom felt the urge to go to his aid. But the secretary was in front of him, and his first duty was to her. Besides, it was a rule that one attack tended to be followed by another, and there was no counter-ambush team on hand. He spoke briefly into his mic, part of the restricted radio network linked to the temporary command centre. Two agents dashed to Sam’s aid, quickly followed by a dozen or more policemen who’d taken the initiative.
As he drew the secretary behind his back the woman with the flowers rushed forward and flung them into his face from the side. He parried most of them away with his free hand, but a thorn scratched his forehead, drawing blood. Half squinting, he glimpsed a muscular guy push through the crowd. The man threw a straight right, baring his teeth like a primate. Tom just managed to block the full force with his forearm, the fist grazing over his temple.
Before he had a chance to follow it up, Tom leant forward and ploughed his elbow into the man’s cheek. It wasn’t hard enough to fracture the bone, but he needed to disable him fast. As the man’s head jerked sideways Tom applied an arm lock, slid his right leg behind the front ankle, and struck him just under the throat with his palm, his fingers and thumb split in a V-shape. The m
an had no option but to fall over Tom’s extended thigh.
As fellow agents took hold of the secretary and bundled her away, Tom decided to keep the lock on. He grasped the man’s shirt, and lowered the body to the asphalt. Experiencing a hit of hormones, he heard gasps and half-muffled cursing, sensed the crowd moving back. The attackers had targeted him, not the secretary, and that had almost caught him off guard.
“Stay down!” he snarled.
Although the man was barely conscious, Tom didn’t have the time or inclination to deal with him again, and he wasn’t carrying cuffs. But the agent shadowing the secretary burst through the line-up, and grabbed the guy in a headlock.
Straightening up, Tom caught sight of the female slinking away, although people were pointing at her and calling out. Before he could get the police to arrest her, the agitated words of agents flooded his earpiece. The secretary, he thought, grimacing. He pivoted around. Two of his team, Dave Robbins and Becky Sykes, were jogging with her, Becky holding her elbow, Dave shielding her lithe but awkward frame. She was wobbling on her high heels, and Tom barked into his radio, told them to remove the damn things or lift her.
Seeing that the MSD team had alighted from the SUVs parked on the dusty roadway, he glanced back to see how Sam was faring. The male agents had restrained a couple of the young men, pinning them to the ground with their suited bulks, although their weapons were still holstered. Sam lay face up and looked to be in bad shape. A pool of dull-red blood had formed around his head, the consistency of mucus. The policemen were beating the other two men with their batons. If they kept it up, they’d either kill them or cause brain damage, Tom thought.
He turned, saw that the secretary had almost reached the nearest SUV. It couldn’t drive up to her due to the fracas on the road. But the MSD agents had surrounded her with their body-armoured chests and backs, their weapons sweeping the crowd and the roofs of the surrounding buildings for any sign of a shooter. Evacuation was the best defence. He knew they’d manoeuvre her swiftly into the rear vehicle and exit at speed.
He had a gut feeling and decided to stay put. A sixth sense that had developed over the years. He checked the windows opposite, the tattered drapes half drawn. After a three-second scan, he saw what looked like the muzzle of an assault rifle disappear from view, although he couldn’t be sure. He shouted into the radio and drew his SIG, releasing the safety. Two MSD agents raced towards the building’s entrance, shoving people out of the way as they went.
He aimed his SIG at the window, deciding that if the image re-emerged he’d empty a full clip into the dirt-stained glass, irrespective of the outcome.
Then his worst nightmare began.
5.
Smoke and stun grenades hit the ground first, quickly followed by tear gas and bursts of automatic fire. Flashes of white light erupted, the high-pitched blasts blowing people off their feet. Others flailed about, blood leaching from their bodies. The two agents who were sprinting towards the building were dropped at the double doors. Panic-stricken, the crowd began to stampede, desperate to escape the kill zone. The air was swamped by hysterical screams, the police rendered useless, hunkering down as bullets cut chunks from wooden beams and ricocheted off metal posts and concrete overhangs.
Tom swayed, disorientated, his ears throbbing. Shaking his head in an attempt to revive himself, he glimpsed at least ten armed men rappelling from open windows, their faces obscured by gas masks. They had what looked like HK sub-machine guns strapped to their backs, with scopes, which he guessed were of the thermal imaging variety and would allow them to see in the smoke. He half raised his SIG, thought he was going to black out. Before he had a chance to get off a round, they vanished into the grey haze rising menacingly from ground level. Due to the state he was in, he guessed he would’ve capped an innocent by mistake, even if he’d been able to squeeze the trigger.
He did his best to turn his head. He couldn’t make out the SUVs or the secretary, either, now, and sensed the first tendrils of panic, his heart rate escalating. He just hoped the MSD agents had evacuated her already. As dopamine kicked in, the pain eased, and his muscles began to take in oxygen at an increased rate, counteracting his ebbing strength. He searched the roofs above as best he could. The snipers, he thought. Where the hell are they?
A massive explosion erupted, sending him to the ground. He landed on his left shoulder, the pain making him grit his teeth and moan. Blinking rapidly, he just about made out an SUV somersaulting above the smoke. He knew the car had an anti-explosion fuel tank laced with fire-resistant cladding, and was leak proof. This protected it from a high-velocity round or an anti-personnel landmine. But as flames engulfed it he figured it must have been parked over an IED. That and the force of the blast. He damned the Pakistani ISI. It was either incompetence or complicity. Either way, he blamed them.
Pushing himself up with his grazed hands, he stumbled forward, bursts from sub-machine guns tearing into flesh and bone about him. But he barely heard them, his hearing impaired by the blast. His eyes felt as if soap had been rubbed into them, the tear gas almost blinding him and making him feel nauseous. He began retching, and his shades slipped off. Looking up, he squinted as the bright light hit him.
Move, he thought. Keep moving.
As he got closer to where the SUVs were parked he felt the intense heat from the burning wreckage of the lead vehicle. The armour plating could withstand a grenade blast, but the IED had all but shredded the doors. The car had landed on top of a police motorcycle, the rider spreadeagled under the front right-hand wheel. As the smoke lifted a little he counted five bodies around it, bloody and contorted. But none was that of the secretary.
Another explosion erupted, taking out the façade of an office block, the shockwave flinging people to the ground. Many were hit or buried by falling masonry. As he buckled at the knees his eyes levelled on the bodies of his two agents, Dave and Becky, stacked against the second SUV like effigies. He half crawled, half scrambled over to them. Their heads had flopped forward. They both had centimetre-wide entry wounds in the backs of their necks. Executed, he thought, resisting the urge to gag. He’d known Dave for three years, and Becky had been married just two months.
As grey ash settled on the talc-like dust that already smeared his suit he inched over the rubble. His eyes felt as if they were melting, the stinging sensation so great that he groaned. But he knew he had to focus.
The rear vehicle was covered by chunks of concrete and twisted iron girders. Wincing, he caught sight of four MSD agents strewn around it. They looked as if they’d been hit by a hundred rounds, their bare heads lacerated and unrecognizable. He moved back and rolled under the middle SUV, his jacket tearing on a protruding piece of metal. As he emerged on the other side the smoke had almost cleared.
Then he saw her. An MSD agent ran by her side, pursued by five armed men. They wore ballistic vests, heavy Kevlar helmets, blast-resistant goggles and respirators. He couldn’t risk firing his SIG because, although the crowd had thinned out here, there were still enough people to hinder a clear shot. If it hadn’t been for the pursuers, he knew the agent would’ve flung her to the ground and covered her body to protect it from careering debris. Now the guy was doing the right thing by getting her out of the danger zone in the only manner available to him.
Feeling a surge of adrenalin jump-start his muscles, Tom pushed himself up and broke into a sprint.
As the secretary reached the remnants of a fruit store he saw one of her pursuers kneel. He raised what looked like an M4 carbine, his eye pressed to a scope, a red-dot laser beam showing up on the back of the agent’s unprotected neck. A shot rang out, and the agent fell. The secretary stopped, her hands going to her head, clearly traumatized. When the men reached her, she was lifted off her feet.
“Jesus.”
Rushing up the road, Tom vaulted over clumps of shattered bricks and mounds of concrete and steel. The men carrying the secretary turned down a side alley, flanked by jerry-built buildings. Thre
e re-emerged and crouched down at the entrance, emptying their magazines into a small group of policemen who’d appeared on the other side of the road. They were all killed or maimed instantly. Tom kept close to the building line, his SIG hovering above a low wall. It was a risky position. If there was another catastrophic explosion, he could be buried. If it happened next door, the shock wave could travel down the wall and kill him.
Seeing the men disappear, he bent down and moved forward, just as a Pakistani squad car came screeching around the far bend. It raced up the opposite end of the road, its siren blaring. But the men returned, together with another, carrying a compact RPG. Tom fired a couple of rounds, although he had to dive for cover behind a concrete pillar immediately afterwards to avoid a volley.
After a few seconds, he risked glancing around it. The telltale trail of white-grey smoke was spewing out of the rear of the rocket launcher.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, realizing that his hearing had returned to normal.
The police car was shunted sideways, a dust-filled cloud enveloping it. Shards of glass and red-hot chassis shrapnel ripped through the air. He hoped the occupants had died on impact, because the decimated vehicle was engulfed by flames soon afterwards, the tails of burning gasoline curling over the imploded windows and fractured bodywork.
Seeing the men retreat, Tom jogged forward, speaking into his radio to the temporary command centre, his laboured breath resembling an asthmatic’s as he reported what had happened and where the secretary was likely to be. He was told that a helicopter was on its way. On its way, he thought. It was meant to be overhead.
He stopped a few metres from the alley entrance. He heard car engines revving furiously, then the distinctive sound of the helicopter above. He looked up and, squinting against the white sun, saw that it was the Pakistani police. He waved his arms, and pointed in desperation in the direction of the cars.