A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3)

by Simon Gervais

  The round had taken out half the man’s toe. “You’ll be all right. This is superficial, okay?”

  Manos didn’t look convinced. “Don’t move,” Eitan told him. He opened the trunk and grabbed the first aid kit. He bandaged the wound as well as he could.

  “I’ll call for help the minute I’m out of here, understood?”

  Manos didn’t reply. No doubt he wondered how he had ended up with his hands behind his back and half a toe short.

  Eitan started the engine and backed away from his parking spot, careful not to hit the officer. He hadn’t even shifted the transmission to drive when a round punched through the windshield and embedded itself in the passenger seat. Eitan saw a muzzle flash and the next round hit the engine block. The shooter was another police officer. He was using a concrete pylon as cover. Someone had heard the gunshot after all.

  With only one way to reach the exit, Eitan was stuck. With backup surely on its way, there wasn’t much time left for Eitan to escape.

  The stairs. That would mean leaving the suitcase behind. Eitan put the car in reverse and pressed the gas pedal as another round went through the windshield. The bullet deflected into the dashboard but Eitan had had enough. Using his left hand, he pulled the Glock out of his pocket and fired five rounds in the general direction of the officer, making sure to miss him by several feet. The moment the officer sought cover, Eitan place his pistol between his legs and pressed trunk release. He stopped the car and jumped out, pistol in hand. He fired two more rounds toward the officer and ran to the rear of the vehicle. He opened the suitcase and pocketed the two spare magazines. He grabbed one of the thermite grenades, removed the safety pin and left it next to the suitcase. He closed the trunk lid and peeked to see if the police officer had remained in the same position. Eitan didn’t see him and assumed he was still behind the pylon. He fired one more time in his direction and then sprinted to the staircase sixty feet behind him. He hated being out in the open, but it was better than staying close to the car with the thermite grenade working its wonders. There was no point looking back; he knew the car was on fire by the reflection of the flames on the walls of the underground garage.

  Eitan was less than five feet away from the door leading to the staircase when it opened and another police officer materialized in the doorframe. He must have been close to six and a half feet tall, and his biceps threatened the fabric of his shirt. Even though the officer had his pistol out, it was pointing to the ground. As big as he was, a look of panic appeared on the police officer’s face when he realized he wouldn’t have time to do anything before being hit by the man who was racing toward him. Eitan rammed him at full speed and they tumbled together to the ground, with the Greek officer taking the brunt of the impact. Both men dropped their weapons and, for a second, their eyes locked. The Greek pushed Eitan off and got back to his feet with the agility of a hardened pugilist. The men circled each other, but Eitan didn’t have the leisure to wait around. He fainted a right hook but jabbed the Greek on the nose with his left before delivering a powerful uppercut to the other man’s chin. The Greek didn’t even flinch, and his right fist connected with Eitan’s jaw. Eitan thought he was going to pass out and took a few involuntary steps back. If it hadn’t been for the wall behind him, he would have fallen. He couldn’t remember ever being hit so hard.

  He was in trouble.

  The Greek took a step forward, blocking any escape routes. There wasn’t going to be an easy way out of this fight. Another hit like this and he’d be out.

  A smirk appeared on the Greek’s lips as he grabbed his expandable baton from his duty belt. This was his first mistake as it would force him to remain at a certain distance from Eitan. Distance was exactly what Eitan needed. He actually had doubts about being able to take the bigger man down. But he had only one shot. If he missed, it would be all over. Just as he had anticipated, the Greek swung his baton in a wide arc aimed at his upper body. Eitan stepped in and blocked the blow by striking the inside of the Greek’s forearm and then rammed his knee into the police officer’s groin. The reaction was immediate and the Greek loosened his grip on his baton. Eitan clutched it with two hands and twisted it away from the Greek by turning it counterclockwise. He then whacked the baton against the outside of the Greek’s left knee. A loud crack echoed in the tight space of the stairwell when the Greek’s kneecap fractured. The officer fell to his side, and Eitan used the baton to secure the doors leading to the garage. Through the small window, Eitan saw that the officer with whom he had exchanged gunfire was now heading in his direction. Eitan picked up both pistols.

  “Me have child. Many child,” pleaded the officer in broken English. “Not kill me you. Parakalo!”

  “Believe it or not, my friend,” Eitan said as he disassembled the Greek’s pistol, “we’re on the same side.”

  He threw the gun on the floor and climbed the stairs two by two, leaving the confused Greek police officer behind.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ottawa, Canada

  Sergeant Khalid al-Fadhi looked at his men deployed around the motorcade. They were good men who took their job seriously but somewhat lacked the alertness and vigilance they exhibited when deployed overseas. It was true that the threat toward the prime minister was at an all-time low. Newly elected, Prime Minister Adam Ducharme enjoyed one of the highest ratings of any Canadian prime minister in history. His party controlled the House of Commons and the Senate. They had swept the last election and sent the Conservative Party of Canada back to official opposition status.

  The Canadians had bought into Ducharme’s rhetoric of high taxes and high spending. Within months of taking power, the deficit for the fiscal year had grown to close to thirty billion dollars. But the great people of Canada couldn’t care less; Ducharme promised them prosperity and had already started sending checks to a large percentage of the population. The fact that high-income earners—people earning more than two hundred thousand dollars per year—were taxed at fifty-three percent for every dollar earned about that threshold and that entrepreneurs and small business owners were squeezed like never before didn’t matter to them. They were getting more money in their pockets and they’d continue to elect him until he stopped sending them checks. The media was also going the prime minister’s way. They absolutely loved him, and you’d have a hard time finding any negative news about him or his wife. They were like rock stars, even overseas. Everybody loved them. Word at the office was that since there were no term limits in Canada, it was entirely possible that Ducharme would remain prime minister for the next two decades.

  But al-Fadhi knew better. It would be a very, very short reign.

  It had taken a decade longer than Ayatollah Khomeini had envisioned, but the second phase of PERIWINKLE was a go.

  And it was al-Fadhi who would strike the first blow.

  CHAPTER 15

  Official Residence of The Canadian Prime Minister

  24 Sussex Drive, Ottawa, Canada

  Prime Minister Adam Ducharme looked out the window. His motorcade had arrived and the men and women in charge of protecting him were standing outside their vehicles, scanning the horizon. All of them were dressed in suits and ties, and most wore dark raincoats. The sky had gotten cloudier and rain was soon expected.

  “The RCMP is here,” he said to his wife. “We should go.”

  “They can wait a little longer,” Justine Larivière replied. She wasn’t fully dressed yet, and Ducharme couldn’t help wondering if they had time for a little quickie.

  He grabbed his wife by the behind and kissed her neck. It felt good to be so powerful. He could do what he wanted and his minions would wait for him. No matter what.

  “Not now, Adam,” Larivière said, pushing his hands off her. “There’s no time.”

  “They’ll wait,” Ducharme replied, his hands already loosening his belt.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

&nb
sp; He didn’t like the sound of that. That meant there was no chance he’d get what he wanted. At least not this morning. He sighed. “What is it?” He glanced at his watch.

  “I’m late,” she said, smiling.

  “That’s okay,” he replied. “I told you, they’ll wait. They work for us, not the other way around.”

  “No, Adam,” she said, taking his hands in her own. “I’m late.”

  It struck him harder than lightning. His knees wobbled, and he had to grab the top of his dresser to prevent himself from falling. His wife must have seen the terror in his eyes because her demeanor changed. She slapped him on the cheek. Hard. A swing full of hate and disgust. It stung, and Ducharme felt the blood rush to the area. Before he could say anything, she slapped him again, this time on the other cheek.

  “Say something!” she yelled at him, her famous short temper roaring back to life.

  Words had always come easily for him. That was one of his strengths; he could bullshit his way through pretty much anything. But this time he was speechless.

  “Whatever,” his wife said. “I’ll go to a private clinic and take care of it.”

  That brought him back to reality and he grabbed her wrist. “No.”

  “Let me go, Adam,” she warned him, “or I swear to God I’ll hit you again.”

  He let her wrist go. It was question period today. He had to look good for the cameras. A bloody lip or a broken nose wouldn’t do.

  “You clearly don’t want it, and I’ll certainly not take care of another child all by myself,” she continued.

  Ducharme’s mind was racing. If the radicals across the aisle got wind Justine had gone to an abortion clinic, he’d never hear the end of it.

  “Wait, baby. I’m sorry,” he said, doing his best to sound sincere. “You surprised me, that’s all. Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  Maybe it wasn’t so bad. The press would go crazy. He’d be the first prime minister to have a baby while in office. Plus, thanks to the taxpayers, he could get a couple more nannies to help with the kids.

  “You know I love you, right?” he said, pulling her close.

  CHAPTER 16

  Ottawa, Ontario

  “Heads up, guys,” Sergeant Khalid al-Fadhi said. “Vespa-1 and 2 are coming out.”

  Al-Fadhi walked to the prime minister to greet him.

  Is that a handprint on his cheek?

  “Good morning, Mr. Prime Minister, and to you too, Mrs. Larivière. How are you this morning?”

  “They bumped you up to PSO, Khalid?” replied Ducharme. “Good for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The prime minister took his seat at the back of the armored limo. Once Justine Larivière was seated next to her husband, al-Fadhi ordered the bodyguards into their vehicles.

  “XJD-85 from Vespa detail,” he said to the radio operator.

  “Go ahead for XJD-85.”

  “Vespa-1 and 2 are 10-17 to Site Eighteen. We have a 10-26 of ten to twelve minutes.”

  “10-04, Vespa detail.”

  Al-Fadhi replaced the radio in its cradle. While in movement, the four-vehicle convoy would follow the directives of the motorcade commander seated in the lead vehicle. Behind the lead vehicle, also called C-1, was the first security vehicle—S-1. Behind S-1 was the armored limo followed by S-2—or security vehicle two— the last vehicle of the secured package.

  “Khalid, I know it’s not on the schedule, but Justine and I will visit her parents tonight,” Ducharme said, opening his laptop computer. “Will you still be on shift?”

  “No, sir,” al-Fadhi said while opening the bag in which his MP5 was stored. “Sergeant Flory will take over at four o’clock. I’ll make sure to let him and the officer in charge know as soon as we’re at Site 18.”

  “Thank you.”

  Justine Larivière’s parents lived in Montreal. It was an easy two-hour drive from Ottawa. Not that it mattered.

  “I was wondering, sir,” al-Fadhi said, his right hand tightening around the grip of the Glock 19 he had packed with his MP5. “Is that a handprint on your cheek?”

  Baffled, Ducharme looked up from his laptop. “Excuse me?”

  Khalid turned around in his seat so he could face the prime minister.

  “No seriously, I noticed it the moment you guys came out.”

  Ducharme’s face grew red but Larivière’s remained unreadable. Al-Fadhi figured she was so shocked she didn’t know what to do. These two were used to being treated like royalty. This was unfamiliar territory.

  “Khalid, for Christ’s sake,” Quinn hissed. “What are you doing?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Ottawa, Canada

  Prime Minister Adam Ducharme was furious. “How dare you talk to me like this, you piece of shit? I’m the prime minister!” he spat as the motorcade came to a stop at a red light.

  The way al-Fadhi looked at him sent a chill down his spine. Deep down, Ducharme knew he was in trouble, but since he had never been a man of action, he froze. Even when al-Fadhi pulled a gun out of his bag, never did he think about his wife’s or unborn child’s safety, only his own. Ducharme had never seen such a long pistol in his life. Guns had always scared him.

  Ducharme watched helplessly as al-Fadhi shot the driver—weren’t they friends?—in the head. Ducharme expected the gunshot to be much louder.

  He wanted to do something but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t form a sentence with the deluge of words that ran through his mind.

  “Ayatollah Bhansali sends his regards,” al-Fadhi said, a faint smile appearing on his lips.

  CHAPTER 18

  Ottawa, Canada

  It was too bad good people—like Quinn—would die protecting this poor excuse of a man. Until the end, al-Fadhi hoped Ducharme would try to defend himself, or at least shield his wife, but no.

  Nothing.

  He clung to his last seconds of life like the true coward he really was. Al-Fadhi shot Larivière once in the heart and once in the head. He then turned his pistol toward the prime minister and shot him only once. Ducharme’s head snapped back and the rear window became crimson with blood and brain matter.

  Al-Fadhi hurried to insert a new magazine in his Glock before grabbing the MP5. A quick look at the traffic light confirmed they’d be moving soon.

  “All units, all units, this is the PSO. Vespa-1 has suffered a medical emergency,” al-Fadhi said in a controlled voice over the radio. “All bodyguards out of the vehicle. Now! Meet me at L1. Someone bring me a defibrillator.”

  “I have the defib, Sergeant,” responded the bodyguard seated in S-2.

  “A-Five and A-Fifteen, I want you to run routes to the closest hospital. Report back to me,” al-Fadhi ordered to his advance team.

  This was it. Al-Fadhi wished his father was still alive to see this. He would have been so proud. His life’s work, really. Al-Fadhi took three long breaths to calm his nerves. His hands were shaking. Allah, please give me the strength to carry on.

  Al-Fadhi remained in the vehicle until the four bodyguards were within twenty feet of the armored limousine. When he opened the door, he kept the MP5 at his side and brought it up only once he was in a stable firing position. The first man he took out was Carl Desjourdy, one of the two bodyguards in S-2. Al-Fadhi always hated the know-it-all-I-am-better-than-you officer and actually took pleasure in sending him to his death with a double-tap. The first round hit him in the vest but the second one went through his throat.

  Al-Fadhi had many things going for him. One was surprise. By the time Desjourdy hit the ground, he had already pivoted forty-five degrees to his right and engaged the second bodyguard, the one carrying the defibrillator. One round to the head was all it took. His next six rounds—fired in quick succession—were for the S-2 driver. The bullets smashed the windshield and the
officer’s body jolted with every impact.

  His second advantage was that while his colleagues were stuck in the open between vehicles, the opened door of the armored limousine protected him. It was an unfair fight. Al-Fadhi did an about-turn and took aim. The third bodyguard froze in place less than ten feet away, his pistol still pointed to the ground when al-Fadhi shot him in the head too. Al-Fadhi spun to his left in search of Sebastian Joanis, the last of the prime minister’s bodyguards. He caught a glimpse of him retreating to his vehicle. Al-Fadhi fired two rounds but missed. Joanis was quick, and al-Fadhi wondered if he should have engaged him first. Joanis was a former Emergency Response Team member and one of the best marksmen of the unit.

  “Drop your weapon!” someone screamed behind him.

  He took a second, but al-Fadhi recognized the voice. Renée Villadelgado. She was Vespa-2’s bodyguard.

  You should have taken the shot, Renée.

  Al-Fadhi turned around. Villadelgado was fifty feet away and seemed unsure what to do next. Vespa-2’s driver was still in his seat, as he had been trained to do in case of an emergency. Al-Fadhi brought up his MP5 and actually had time to bring his sight on Villadelgado before she gathered enough courage to fire. She snapped the trigger and her round went wide. Not even close, thought al-Fadhi as he fired twice. Both rounds found their marks. Villadelgado collapsed. To keep the ex-ERT member’s head down, al-Fadhi sent a few more rounds toward Joanis. He then switched his aim to Villadelgado’s colleague who had finally exited his vehicle. He died when one of al-Fadhi’s bullets struck him in the side of the head.

  Al-Fadhi needed to move. Joanis was a dangerous man. If he wanted to get out of there alive, he couldn’t afford to be bugged down. He still had the advantage though. With the prime minister in the backseat, it was Joanis’s duty to get to him.