King raced down after her. She was right. He just couldn’t believe how closely tied together all of this seemed. He still didn’t really understand how it all came together, but it was clear that somehow the Maragoses and the Hammouds had joined forces. Figuring out the when and why would have to wait. It didn’t really matter to King as long as he made sure Husaam paid for putting his loved ones in danger.
Sam stopped at the door leading out to the lobby. She took her sunglasses from her pocket and put them on quickly. Then she removed her black leather jacket and tossed it to the floor, then tucked her pistol at the small of her back inside her jeans—trying her best to conceal it under her white tank top.
“They’ll be looking for a man and a woman,” Sam said. “Go to the concierge and ask about dinner. The desk faces the elevators. I’ll make a coffee at the stand across the room.”
“I’ve missed this,” King said, tucking his pistol at his lower back, under his coat.
“I haven’t missed it for a second.”
Sam turned and walked straight for the coffee stand. King waited back for a second. She looked back and gave him a wry smile. Sam wasn’t good with sharing feelings. This was the best he was going to get, and it was enough.
As the lobby door closed, his focus returned. He had to forget trying to connect Althea Salameh, he had to forget Bentley Martin, and he had to put out of his mind the American who was a step ahead of him at every turn. This was about Husaam Hammoud and finally putting the events of last year behind him. Once and for all.
King dropped his go bag with Sam’s leather jacket in the hallway. He didn’t want to leave it, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed to be able to move freely. He walked through the door and spotted the concierge desk, but he never made it there. Shots rang out from across the lobby. Sam hadn’t made it to the coffee stand before Husaam and three of his men had walked out of the elevator. Sam had taken out the one in front before they knew what hit them. The other two men brought up semiautomatic rifles and laid down suppressive fire as the man behind them bolted for the hotel entrance.
Husaam.
King saw that Sam had dived behind the couches in the coffee area. She was taking fire. But he couldn’t let Husaam get away. He knew if he did, they might never see him again. King sprinted for the front door and pulled his pistol. He fired in the direction of the two men. He wasn’t concerned with hitting them; he just hoped it would be enough to give Sam the upper hand. Once he reached the massive glass doors, he focused everything he had on the man driving away from the valet in a Lamborghini. King looked around. It was a massive luxury hotel, but all the rest of the vehicles surrounding the entrance were SUVs. He would never catch Husaam in those.
Then one of the SUVs moved, and hiding behind it was a man unstraddling what King instantly recognized was a brand-new Ducati Superleggera—the fastest production bike ever made. The gunshots from inside were just making themselves known outside. King swiped the keys to the bike from the frightened man who’d just ducked behind a delivery truck. A second later the engine roared to life and King was spinning the rear tire as he pulled back the throttle with his right hand, and catapulted out of the valet circle.
Fortunately, the Lamborghini Husaam drove away in was orange, so it stood out like a pimple on the tip of a nose. King shifted to third gear and weaved around a few slower-moving cars. It didn’t matter what that Lamborghini had in it, there was no way it could outrun King on that super bike. Husaam’s only chance was his familiarity with the back roads.
Husaam made a right and whipped the Lambo off the main road. King had to check his rearview before he could make the move. Two more motorcycles came into his view, and they were not out for a leisurely stroll. He could see an AK-47 dangling from the shoulder strap of the man on the right. King downshifted as he squeezed his back brake. The back tire slid wide as he turned right, but the traction control kicked in and put him on the straight path. He pulled back the throttle, and the bike was so powerful it almost put him on his back. He tampered it just enough to ride out the wheelie until he could set the front tire down and accelerate normally. Husaam then turned again, this time to the left, and King had to cut across oncoming traffic to make the turn himself. A pickup truck slammed on its brakes just enough to miss King’s back tire. He was lucky.
Husaam was not.
He must not have been ready for the power of the Lamborghini when he stomped on the gas out of the turn, because he lost control of the back end and slammed into a truck that was parked on the side of the road. King skidded to a stop across the street and turned around just in time to see one of the motorcyclists get smacked by a delivery truck. The second rider was able to avoid it, but it put him out of control. He began sliding sideways, then laid the bike down twenty-five yards from King.
King pulled his Glock, walked forward, and put two in the man’s back before he could even roll over to take a shot back. When King looked back to the Lamborghini, Husaam was on his way out through the passenger-side door.
King turned back to the motorcycle and motioned toward two bystanders. “Grab his gun and call the police! Now!”
He didn’t wait to see if they did what he asked. He had a terrorist to catch.
Chapter Thirty-Two
King left the Ducati behind and gave chase as Husaam Hammoud sprinted across the street. The sun was still unseasonably hot in the late afternoon, and since it was a Saturday, the streets were flooded with tourists meandering, making their way to and from the Acropolis. Just below the beautiful and timeless structures still standing high on the hill was the Plaka—several blocks of pedestrian-only streets full of gyro shops, jewelry stores, and trinket peddlers. And that’s exactly where Husaam was headed. The crowd there was even more suffocating than the roads stuffed with cars.
Sweat poured off King as he ran into the Plaka. He threw his coat to the side and was still hot in just a T-shirt. He was doing his best not to run over anyone, but it was nearly impossible if he wanted to stay with Husaam. This guy was fast. It was also pointless to keep his gun in hand, because he would never take the chance of shooting around all these people.
King was having trouble keeping up with Husaam. And it was getting harder and harder to see him. The only reason King knew he was staying on the right track was because he could still hear pedestrians screaming at Husaam up ahead as he knocked them over. King had to jump one fallen lady entirely to keep from losing ground.
Then Husaam was gone. There was no more shouting from people up ahead, no more crowds parting in Husaam’s wake. He had turned off, but the cross street went right and left. King slid to a stop, looking both ways.
Nothing.
He saw a man staring at him. The man was wearing an American flag T-shirt.
“CIA! Where’d he go?” King shouted.
The man opened his mouth, but he didn’t have time to point before King felt something slam into him. Just like that, his feet were completely off the ground and flying above his head. Then his left elbow slammed into the stone-paved street below him, and he felt his shirt get ripped clean off. He could also feel his pistol become dislodged from the back of his belt line.
Then came the punches.
King reoriented himself, put both arms in front of his face in a defensive position, then waited for Husaam to make a mistake. The sixth or seventh punch was thrown with frustration, and that extra oomph behind it threw Husaam off balance. King took advantage. He slid his right arm between Husaam’s legs and at the same time bucked his hips. This separation, and his arm placement, helped King escape from beneath Husaam as he threw him forward.
King jumped to his feet, and when he turned, he saw that Husaam had done the same. A crowd had gathered around the two of them now, forming a circle around the two men who were now squared off, ready to resume fighting. Husaam’s physical appearance surprised King. He hadn’t expected such a muscular man. His olive skin bulged with muscle from beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. His black hai
r was pulled back into cornrows, a much more gangster look than King had imagined. But none of that mattered now. What was important was that he win this fight, and he needed to win it fast. There was no telling how many of Husaam’s men would be coming at any moment. Much less the police.
King could feel the cameras from all the phones in the crowd—thirsting for that next great viral video of the bare-chested man who claimed CIA battling a full-blooded terrorist. King’s days in the shadows were likely over. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He just had to make sure he had days left at all.
“Who are you?” Husaam shouted. “Tell me! Who are you?”
Husaam was spitting as he shouted. The mere sight of King was making him crazy. That’s when the familiar slow-motion feeling King had always felt in high-adrenaline situations came back to him. He no longer could hear what Husaam was saying. The people who’d gathered around the two of them faded to black as King focused on Husaam’s body. The body that finally began moving toward him.
King bent his knees, dug the ball of his left foot into the stone beneath him, and with his right leg, he push-kicked Husaam in the chest, changing Husaam’s momentum—forcing him back. Then he waited for Husaam to come again, which he did immediately. He was being driven by rage, something King knew a lot about. Which meant he knew a lot about how to use that rage against him.
This time King let Husaam come all the way in. Husaam changed levels at the last second, ducking for a wrestling-style double-leg takedown. King countered it by catching Husaam under his arms, kicking his legs back, and falling on top of him, pushing Husaam facedown onto the stone with his hips. Acting quickly, King spun on top of him like a turning bottle cap, lodged his legs down and around Husaam’s hips while sliding his right arm under his chin.
Husaam countered back. He caught King’s arm and turtled up; then he spun, turning into King so fast that King couldn’t hold position on his back. But at least he was still on top of Husaam. King switched from full mount to half guard, intertwining his legs, which he had always preferred while training in top position. It was clear that Husaam had been versed in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, so King didn’t take any chances. As he pushed down with his hips, trying to lie as heavy on top of Husaam as he could, King forced his right forearm up under Husaam’s chin, pushing with all that he had. Husaam had the wherewithal to push King’s elbow across and trap his neck in a head-and-arm choke. King was surprised by the strength in Husaam’s squeeze. It was clear they were fairly evenly matched on the ground, so King struggled out of the hold and popped up to his feet. From then on, this was going to be a fistfight.
Husaam shrimped back and hopped up to his feet as well. He wasn’t tired. King could still see the bounce in his step. This wasn’t going to be easy. And King felt it was time for a new approach.
King moved forward first this time, feigned like he was going to throw an overhand right, but instead he jabbed Husaam in the nose. Husaam stumbled back, then came forward, but was stopped by another jab, then another. Blood began to trickle from his nose. He wiped it with his forearm, stared at the blood for a moment, then stepped forward himself. When he swung a looping right hand, King weaved left and twisted his hips, whipping a hard left hook directly into Husaam’s right kidney. Husaam grunted and dropped to his knees. King had hit the organ flush, which can bring more pain than almost any other blow.
While Husaam was on his knees, King didn’t let up. He stepped forward with his left leg, then whipped his right leg toward Husaam’s head. Husaam was able to block the Thai kick with two forearms, then back-rolled to give himself room to work. King tried to push forward and land a leg kick, but Husaam checked it by lifting his leg, and the shin-to-shin contact sent a shock rifling through King’s entire lower half. Unspeakable pain.
Husaam knew how to fight a clean fight. So it was time to make this thing dirty.
King limped forward and faked another leg kick. Husaam reacted by lifting his leg to check the kick again, so King stepped in and locked his fingers together around the back of Husaam’s neck in a Thai Plum clench. This was the third style of fighting King had attempted. If Husaam was also versed in Muay Thai, King would be shocked. King yanked down on Husaam’s neck to test. It came down rather easily. For the first time in the fight, King had full control.
He wasn’t going to let it go.
King pulled Husaam’s head down again and drove his right knee upward. The impact popped Husaam’s nose, and the crowd gasped as blood gushed from his nostrils. King didn’t let go of the Plum. Instead, he pulled Husaam off balance by yanking his head left, then drove his knee right into Husaam’s groin. There was no holding him up after that. Husaam grunted as his air left him; then he collapsed to his knees. As Husaam was writhing in pain, King stepped back, planted his left foot, and whipped his right leg around his body, blasting Husaam’s forehead with the top of his foot.
The lights went out.
As King stood, chest heaving, over Husaam’s unconscious body, his first thought was of Sam and whether she’d made it out of the hotel. The police still hadn’t shown up at the Plaka. In King’s mind, the fight had gone on forever. In reality, it was probably only a couple of minutes.
The crowd let out a roar of appreciation for the free show, and the flag-wearing man walked up and raised King’s arm. King jerked his arm away and spoke to the crowd.
“There are more men like him coming with guns. Get out of here. Now!”
When the people scattered, King saw his Glock lying on the stone. When he went to pick it up, he was trying to decide what to do with Husaam. If he let the police have him, King couldn’t help but think he’d be out in no time, with nothing gained by finding him. But he couldn’t shoot him in front of everyone either. As he bent down to grab his gun, he saw flashing blue lights at the end of the pedestrian street. Two police officers were exiting the car. People huddled around them, pointing in King’s direction to let them know where the trouble was taking place.
King tucked away his gun. Behind Husaam was a clothing store. He walked over, lifted Husaam from behind, and dragged him inside. The cool air felt good on King’s back.
“Get out. Now!” he shouted at the woman behind the register. To her right was a dressing room. King figured this was as good a spot as any to force some answers out of him.
He dragged him inside and sat him on the bench, propping his back against the wall. Husaam finally started to come around, and his head bobbed upward, his blinking eyes finding the barrel of King’s pistol.
“How did you know we were at the hotel?” King asked.
Husaam smiled. Blood leaked through his white teeth. King slapped the smile right off his face with the end of his gun.
King had to make this fast, so he changed his approach. “It was me who killed Andonios Maragos at his little lake house.”
Husaam’s demeanor changed instantly. His eyes widened, his shoulders perked, and the muscles in his arms tightened. There was no question now that he was involved with the Maragos family and their terrorist endeavors. The real question was, was he the only one?
“What’s wrong? Don’t feel like smiling anymore?” King taunted.
Husaam started to stand. King discouraged it with the tip of his pistol to Husaam’s forehead. “I squeezed the life out of Andonios with my bare hands.”
Husaam’s jaw clenched.
“It was my team that killed his brother Gregor Maragos here in Athens. And yep, you’re looking at the guy who stopped his sister, Anastasia Maragos, from killing the president of the United States. I watched her take her last breath too. Gotta say, pretty satisfying.”
Husaam spit some blood on the floor. “If you kill me, you bastard, you’ll never make it out of Athens alive. My bro—”
Bingo. Husaam stopped himself, but it was too late. Saajid—the “missing” brother—wasn’t really missing at all. He was hiding, pulling the strings, like every other cowardly terrorist cult leader before him. Husaam must have just been hi
s whipping boy. And King had a hunch that Husaam never liked that hierarchy.
“It’s okay,” King said. “Go ahead, finish that sentence. I’ll wait.”
King could hear some commotion from the street outside the clothing shop. It was now or never. Husaam didn’t finish, so King did for him. “Let me guess, Husaam Hammoud . . . You meant to say that your brother will make sure I don’t make it out of Athens alive.” King smiled. “I understand now. Because he’s the one who’s really in charge?”
“Fuck you!” Husaam rose up to challenge King.
King put a bullet in his forehead. The longstanding terrorist who’d murdered God only knew how many innocent people collapsed to the floor below.
“No,” King said. “Fuck you.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
A couple of hours after the satisfaction of checking another enemy off his list, King finally had the chance to sit down and catch his breath. After shooting Husaam dead, he’d grabbed a T-shirt and a hat from the clothing store and snuck out through the back entrance. During the time he’d spent running down and killing Husaam, Sam had tried to call a few times. She had taken out the two men in the lobby of the hotel, then another who was outside waiting for her. She had to hide around the corner for a while because the police were crawling all over the place.
After King told her he was okay, they both found separate transportation back out of the city to the airport. Using a different passport she happened to have on her, Sam reserved a room at the Sofitel Airport Hotel. They both took great pains to make sure they weren’t followed—taking multiple cars on multiple routes. When they arrived, King told Sam to go ahead up to the room so she could shower in private, but the real reason he wanted her to go before him was because he noticed some bourbon on the top shelf at the hotel bar. He was happy to find their selection was impeccable.
Alexander King Thriller Series: Books 1-3 Page 15