Serve and Protect

by Douglas Varnell

  Hunter noticed an abandoned newspaper left behind by a guest who had just left the café and helped himself to it. On the third page was a picture and small article about the donation King Verron had made to a New York charity. The picture of Paul was the same one in the New York papers; it must have gone out on the news wire-services. He was just glad there was not a picture of him in the paper. He was about to take the first bite of the best looking Eggs Benedict he had ever laid eyes on when he noticed the bell on the café door and, by instinct, glanced up. A man of obvious middle-eastern descent entered the door wearing a long London Fog style topcoat. His head was soaked and hair dripping wet. Something about the man just didn’t ring true. Hunter at first chided himself for assuming everyone middle-eastern was a terrorist threat. After all, Paris was a very multi-racial and ethnically diverse city and it was not unusual to see virtually every race anywhere in the city. He then remembered that the Iranian Embassy was just down the street, then thought, “Iranians need to eat breakfast too.” He lifted his fork and put the first wonderful bite in his mouth and was savoring the moment, when he caught a glimpse of the man looking around the room and locking his eyes on the table in the back that Hunter had noticed before. Thinking, “I’d rather be wrong and have to apologize, than to take the chance of not stopping a disaster.”

  Without hesitation, he leaped from his table, grabbing his long leather coat as he sprang forward toward the man in the overcoat. When the man saw him coming, he opened his coat to reveal the vest-bomb strapped to his chest and reached for the detonator. Hunter was already throwing his coat around the man and knocking him to the ground beside a heavy brick planter by the time the two security men had pushed their boss to the floor and thrown themselves on top of him.

  Hunter knew there were at least twenty other people in that small café and he didn’t want any of them hurt. As quickly as he used The Power to create a shield, the bomb exploded with him still on top of the bomber. With the shield protecting everything behind Hunter and his Verron Steel lined Duster and his personal forcefield between him and the bomb, the entire impact of the 40 pounds of C-4 and hundreds of ceramic balls either went into the floor below or out the front windows of the café. The explosion was deafening and Hunter’s ears, though protected by his forcefield, were still ringing when he looked up toward the street. One older couple was just reaching for the door when the bomb went off, no one would ever find what was left of them. Fortunately the weather was lousy outside and the sidewalks were almost empty, only a few cars were on the street. Ten other people received minor injuries from the flying glass, ceramic ball bearings and brick as it flew in a concentrated path across the street and sidewalk. One other man, that had just driven by at the wrong time was decapitated by something that flew through his side window.

  Hunter looked behind him to see 22 stunned but unharmed people staring at him. He then turned and caught a glimpse of a man about half a block up the street; enhanced bionic vision is a blessing. He had been doing this long enough to know there was almost always a handler who is close by to detonate the bomb in case the suicide bomber has second thoughts about wanting to go the Paradise. The man he spotted stood for a moment believing their target had been destroyed. The last thing he expected was for a 6 foot 2 inch blond man with a ponytail to come charging out of the café directly for him. He immediately took off running as fast as his legs would carry him in the opposite direction, with Hunter hot on his trail.

  French DGSI Director Bernard Bajolet was standing with his boss Patrick Calvair as a team of forensic investigators went over the bomb scene piece by piece. Calvair had just commended Bajolet’s two bodyguards for their act of bravery when they threw themselves over their boss to protect him from a suicide bomber. Bajolet had bloodied his nose on a table leg on his way to the floor, but couldn’t refrain from praising the fast reactions and selfless actions of his two men. Calvair was trying to contain his anger over the fact that Bajolet had put himself and hundreds of others in potential danger because he refused to change his habit of eating at La Bauhinia every Saturday morning. He looked around and thought, “The fool won’t be eating here for quite some time.” The chief inspector and demolitions expert, Pierre Hinnon, was completely puzzled. To have an explosion of such magnitude totally destroy everything in its effective range in one direction and yet do absolutely no damage four feet from where it went off in the opposite direction had no reasonable explanation. The café looked like there had been an invisible wall between the bomber and the back half of the café holding the diners. Those interviewed told the inspector that they actually saw the ball-bearings and shrapnel from tables and chairs flying toward them and bounce off the invisible barrier. There was a big hole in the floor under the blood and gut stained, but otherwise undamaged, leather Duster. After donning his surgical gloves, Hinnon had slowly lifted the coat from the floor. The terrorist underneath looked almost pureed, but the remarkable Duster was undamaged by the explosion. The waitress was interviewed and swore the man who saved them was French. The label in the jacket said otherwise. Clearly printed inside, just above the inside pocket, was a label saying, Kelly’s Custom Leather – Farmington, Verron. Patrick Calvair doubted any Frenchman would possess such a coat. He headed for President Francois Hollanda’s office immediately. Based on the description given by those in the restaurant, it sounded like the man who had been leading a dozen French Foreign Legion Commandoes, along with hundreds of men from other countries, in the fight against terrorism. He wondered just what his being in Paris was going to bring.

  Ameen Safar sat bound to a chair with plastic restraining ties. He looked at the two men in front of him and no matter how hard he tried, he could not restrain himself from answering every question they asked and all he wanted to do was please these two infidels. The big one named Vlad reached over and came at him with a long knife. He flinched before he realized the man was cutting his restraints. On top of the table in front of him was a map of Paris. The big man, and the boy with the ridiculous ponytail, began to ask him where his cell group was located and if he knew of any other cell groups in the Paris area. He was suddenly proud of the fact that he was a handler for two cells groups with four locations spread out across Paris. He identified the locations on the map and even gave them the names of those in the cells and the computer address and cell phone number for his contact that commanded the cell groups in Paris. It was as if he couldn’t wait to show these men how much he knew. While Vlad and Hunter went over the map with him, Lucy was tracking the computer address and phone numbers for three different men who Ameen spoke with regularly. One of the men was the contact for weapons and the exploding vest his friend Akeem had worn in the café. He then began to tell the men about their plans for the day. Six other locations were to be targeted around Paris. He only knew of two of them because his cell only had responsibility for those two locations. He had no idea where the other planned attacks were, if he had, he would have told them.

  Hunter armed himself with a silenced 9mm and filled the pockets of his borrowed bomber jacket with Rapture Rounds, a handful of 9mm whitematter rounds, four specially designed Rapture Grenades and a one-hundred round box of 22 caliber whitematter rounds. He stuck the small Berretta 22 Bobcat in his coat pocket and the suppressed 9mm in a special inside pocket sewn into the bomber jacket then as an afterthought, he grabbed two small plasma grenades and put them in the pocket of his cargo pants. As he prepared to leave, Vlad asked, “What do you want to do with him?” Hunter smiled and pulled the small Berretta from his pocket and answered, “I think I will send him to Paradise.” Ameen closed his eyes and was saying his prayers as he prepared to be shot. Instead, he was grabbed by the arm and jerked from the room where he was standing. When he opened his eyes, he thought, “He must have shot me. I know this has got to be Paradise, as he looked out over the lushest and most beautiful place he had ever seen. Then he realized the blond-haired infidel was standing behind him. The man with the ponytail pushed him
forward and said “Welcome to Paradise” then disappeared. He looked out over the lush green forests and waterfalls in the distance and saw a deep slow moving river in the valley below. As he looked around, he noticed a group of small furry creatures that looked like chipmunks that used to roam the campus of Mississippi State when he attended school there. Before he knew what was happening, thousands of the little creature swarmed out of the bushes and covered him from head to toe. In minutes every ounce of meat was stripped from his bones. Before the sun had a chance to dry them, another beast came by and devoured his bones. This was not the Paradise he had expected.

  When Prince Hunter Verron-Hall came out of his gateway back in Paris he was a man on a mission; a very angry man on a mission. The more he thought about these nutcase religious fanatics going around killing innocent people in the name of God, the madder her became, they were giving his God a bad name, they obviously served a different God. He was also mad that the one place he had hoped to go and relax had been invaded by the cancer of Islamic terrorism. Lucy had managed to identify three other potential locations of cell groups and pinned down what she was certain to be their location for storing weapons. Hunter decided to hit hard and fast and eliminate as many cells as possible as quickly as possible using the information he had obtained from Ameen and Lucy. Quickly choosing and prioritizing his targets he had picked Total S.A.s Paris Tower first, where there were seven members of the executive staff being held in the top floor executive suites. With heavily armed men on the roof possessing Russian made 9K32 Strela anti-aircraft missiles and others guarding the stairs and elevators, they were in a standoff with the French police and Internal Security. The six men on the roof didn’t even have time to respond when Hunter exited on top of the building; six shots and six vaporized terrorists. Smoke was still in the air where one of them had just exhaled his last puff from his cigarette. Hunter immediately headed for the stairs down to the hostage location. There were only four more men between him and the boardroom where the hostages were being kept. Each suffered the same fate as the men on the roof. Before heading for the room, he made certain the floor was clear. Six more went down as he circled the offices for sentries. He knew there was more on the stairs and other areas, but he would worry about them later.

  Hunter chided himself for not bringing some conventional 9mm rounds. It had been his recommendation that his team always carry them in case of a hostage situation; he couldn’t very well use Rapture or Antimatter rounds with a hostage close by. He pulled his Verron Steel commando knife from its sheath as he approached the door. Without a moment of hesitation he kicked the big double door open and raced in. If he had paused even a second or two, the man in charge of the detonator for the bombs strapped to the hostages would have had time to pick it up from his lap and press the button. His hand was inches from it when his life was ended by a slash across his throat. The other four men in the room died seconds after the first. Hunter stood and looked at the five men and two women with bombs filled with C-4 strapped to their chest. It was obvious that the men had been beaten and the women had been raped. All of them had a dazed and distant look on their faces and didn’t seem completely coherent about what had just happened. Hunter checked the vests to make sure they weren’t booby-trapped like you always see in the movies, they weren’t. He still used caution in removing the vests and sitting them aside. He then cut the nylon restraints from their wrists and ankles. It was obvious that these people were not going to walk out under their own power, so he decided to clear the path for those who were waiting downstairs to come get them. Closing the door to the conference room behind him, he proceeded to make as much noise as he could. He first unscrewed the suppressor on his 9mm loaded with Rapture rounds, kicked open the stairwell door and began shooting everything that moved. As expected, those men covering the elevators and the stairs on the other end of the executive floor raced to the sound of gunfire to assist their friends. Hunter was waiting in the hallway as they ran towards him. He proceeded to work his way down the hall past the elevator to the other stairs, vaporizing each target as it appeared. There were four men well hidden in the last stairwell firing away with AK-47s and Hunter had no desire to wait them out. To their surprise, a man walked directly into their line of fire and one by one vaporized the gunmen.

  Hunter knew that the heavy gunfire from top floor had alerted the French infiltration and hostage rescue team. In his excellent French, he yelled down the stairs, “Floor clear – hostages free but need assistance.” He looked around as he walked back up the stairs and down the hall toward the hostages. The place was strewn with guns, knives, coins, belt-buckles and even a lot of gold crowns from well-maintained teeth, what was missing were bodies, with the exception of the ones in the boardroom. He left them where they were and managed to find one hostage coherent and strong enough to go down the stairs and tell the French officials they were free. He wasted no more time. As soon as the man walked out the door toward the elevators, he made a gateway to the next location on the map. The poor hostage, a forty-two year-old man from Versailles, was forced to the ground at gunpoint and cuffed when he exited the elevators. After being searched for bombs or weapons, the police finally recognized who he was and took the time to listen to what he had to say, “A man came in the room and cut the throats of the terrorists. I didn’t see any others when I left the floor. I don’t know where they went, but they are not upstairs.”

  Cautiously the rescue team made their way up the stairs and elevator and a squad of them were dropped on the now empty roof. Reassuring those in command that it was clear, the DGSI officials made their way to the hostage location about the same time the medical team arrived. Director Calvair soon arrived and was given a briefing on the situation. According to what the battered hostages were saying, a man with a ponytail, wearing a leather jacket, entered the room and quickly cut the throats of their captures, released them and that’s when they heard the gunfire from the hallway. None had ventured into the middle of a gun battle to see anything else. Patrick Calvair watched as the forensic team bagged weapons, jewelry, coins and gold crowns from the hallway and stairs, there were no bodies. He smiled to himself and thought, “Thank you Prince Hunter for not leaving behind a mess.” He didn’t say a word to anyone as he left the building. As he climbed into his Peugeot, he made a high security call to President Hollanda’s office to let him know that Prince Hunter was busy in Paris, the hostages were safe and the terrorists were dead. After hanging up, he smiled, and wondered where Hunter would strike next.

  Next, was an apartment overlooking Boulevard Des Marechaux on one side and the railroad yard on the opposite side. Hunter knew the apartment number, but was unsure of exactly where in the building it was located. He had made a jump instead of a gateway to cover the short distance across town and appeared standing in a narrow street between apartment buildings. Looking around the streets he quickly realized he was not going to move about inconspicuously. All around him were some men in normal looking street clothing, others had on traditional Thawbs; the women mostly wore Hijab or the more conservative Abaya. Hunter with his blond hair and ponytail, wearing an Atlanta Braves cap and a leather bomber jacket, did not exactly blend into the crowd. He wasted no time identifying the building on his agenda and headed for the door. The entrance from the street had a security system. He found the apartment number, and in his best imitation of Ameen, spoke Arabic into the speaker as soon as there was an answer from the apartment above. Since the not quite familiar voice knew the people in the room by name, he was quickly buzzed in. He was glad the building did not have a security camera at the door. Hurrying up three flights of stairs and down the hall, he did not bother to knock, he kicked the door down and blasted away at anyone that was armed; which was four of the six men in the apartment. He knocked the other two unconscious and injected them with a dose of Kahlan. While he waited for them to regain consciousness he removed two small devices that looked like a flash drive. He inserted one into the PC on a table nea
rby and the other in a laptop he found in one of the bedrooms. He turned the computers on and allowed Lucy to do the rest.

  He was questioning the first man to regain his senses and memorized the names and locations of another cell previously unknown to him when a woman dressed in an Abaya and two large Arab looking men entered the room armed with guns pointed at him. He was about to stop their hearts when he noticed a smile on one of the men’s face. He was either very sadistic or glad to see him. He then realized he had seen the man before. He couldn’t remember the name but he was one of the Mossad agents he had seen when he visited Mosha Barak’s office. He was about to speak when he looked into the eyes peering out of the Abaya. He would never forget those eyes. He grinned and said, “So Uncle Mosha finally let you out of the office. I’d know those eyes anywhere.” Priscilla Barak pulled down the cover of the Abaya and smiled saying, “Damn, I knew I should have worn colored contacts. How about you? That ponytail is not exactly a great disguise either.” Hunter held up his hand to catch the last of what the second man he was questioning had to say. Priscilla and her two partners were staring in disbelief as the man poured out names and locations of other cells and two of the locations of their next planned attack. He then reached over and removed the small device from the USB port on the laptop and went into the other room to do the same on the PC. He looked at Priscilla and said, “We better get out of here. You guys have a safe-house?” The big Mossad agent nodded yes and Hunter held out his Paris map and replied, “Show me.” He quickly memorized the location, turned and put a Rapture round into the remaining two terrorists and escorted the three stunned agents through a gateway into their small safe-house about four blocks away.