Combat Machines Read online

  Chapter Nine

  The room erupted in chaos at the first shots, with men and women leaping from their chairs and starting to rush toward the exit. The rest of the security personnel drew their weapons but hesitated, unable to get a clear shot on the attacker in the stampede of guests.

  Bolan barely had time to register all that as he dived to the side, hitting the floor and coming up on the far side of the doors. Bullets whizzed by, drilling into the far wall.

  Screams and shouts could be heard from the panicked mob now, but they were avoiding the exit after seeing the young woman firing at the doors. Bolan rose to his knees, then peeked around the edge of the door frame and nearly took a bullet for his trouble.

  The two Al-Jazeera reporters had turned their table on its side and were using it as cover. The man had now gotten a pistol from another downed guard, and was busy fending off the other security forces. The guests huddled against the walls, protected to some degree by the remaining security officers.

  “Cooper, get the other one!” Palomer shouted from the far side of the room as she laid down a burst of fire from her pistol. “We’ll get these two!”

  But even as she said that, the man broke from cover and ran toward the group of terrified guests, who screamed and cowered as he approached. One of the nearby guards opened fire, but the man ran through the hail of bullets, even though he had to have been hit by at least one round, firing back until one of his own shots dropped the French officer.

  He grabbed an older woman by the arm and hauled her to her feet. “No one moves, or she dies!” Curling his arm around her throat, he held his pistol to her head while dragging her back toward the barricade the woman was hiding behind.

  “We’re leaving right now!” he said to the room. “If anyone tries to stop us, this woman gets shot!”

  Forcing her to move with them, the two began shuffling toward the door, the female reporter right behind them, watching his back. At that moment, several things happened.

  The woman, at least in her sixties, clutched her chest, gasped, “My heart!” and went limp in the man’s arms, drawing his attention down to her.

  At the same time, Palomer, who had been using the right side of the tables as cover to approach the shooters’s position, aimed her pistol at the female reporter and squeezed the trigger, even as Bolan took the opportunity to aim at the man’s exposed upper chest.

  The hostage-taker was already looking back up at the door when Bolan fired three times. The bullets took him across the collarbones and breastbone, dropping him to the floor, the woman spilling from his arms.

  Simultaneously, his backup grabbed the bottom edge of the long dining table with one hand and flipped it up into the air and straight at Palomer. The sergeant barely had time to dodge out of the way as the spinning furniture flew past her to smash into the lectern and dais.

  “Come on!” In the time it took for the table to hit the floor, the female reporter had reached the side of her fallen partner, who had gotten back up, bleeding, but still very much a threat. The pair ran for the door, their pistols blazing.

  Bolan tried to return fire, but the fusillade of bullets was too much for him, and he had to take cover behind one of the columns in the reception room. When her pistol ran dry, the female reporter didn’t stop running, she just kept sprinting for the stairway that led to the main doors, with her companion covering their retreat. For someone who Bolan knew he’d put three bullets into, the guy was moving like he was barely hurt.

  What the hell’s up with these two? he thought. Giving chase, he was at the stairs when he heard a shout from behind him. “Cooper!”

  He turned to see Palomer burst into the room. “Get the Rover and get out front!” he shouted back. “Find me—I’ll be chasing them!”

  “Right!” She headed toward the back as he ran to the exit, only to see bright lights outside, and suddenly hear more gunfire.

  A bullet punched through the heavy door as Bolan approached, making him duck to the side. He reloaded his pistol, wishing he had something heavier, then was about to contact Tokaido when he heard the clomp of many shoes running across the reception room’s marble floor.

  “Deschaines?” he called out. “Don’t shoot. It’s me, Agent Cooper.”

  “I hear you, Cooper, hold on.” Moments later, Deschaines, followed by four security men wearing bulletproof vests and carrying HK MP5s, was on the entry landing with him. “I thought you and Sergeant Palomer came here by yourselves.”

  Bolan frowned. “We did.”

  “So the shooters outside aren’t yours?” the head of security asked.

  “No, I’m trying to figure out what the hell’s going on out there, as well.”

  “Apparently a third party is on the scene—but for whose side? They appear to be taking on the two there, but our reinforcements are still three minutes away.” He nodded back toward the hall. “What happened in there? It got crowded when the woman opened fire.”

  “There were three assassins—a server, and a two-person backup team posing as reporters,” Bolan replied. “They got to the president with poison, but I’m pretty sure he got evacuated.”

  At the other man’s nod, he continued. “The primary’s in the wind, and the secondary team took a hostage to make their escape. She collapsed, and I shot the guy holding her, but they kept going and got to the main entrance. I was about to pursue, and here we are.”

  “Right. Well, if we can catch them in a cross fire, we might be able to take them down,” Deschaines said.

  “Maybe, or they’ll both turn on your people.” Bolan eyed the subguns. “I don’t suppose you have a spare?”

  Deschaines shook his head. “Sorry, can’t help you. We do have extra SIG Sauer magazines if you’d need them.” He held out two.

  “Yes, thanks.” Bolan tucked them into his pockets.

  “All right, guys, we need to take down both groups, or at least hold them here until reinforcements arrive,” Deschaines said. “Team One, you’re on the hall shooters. Team Two, you engage the newcomers. Let’s see if we can take at least one of each alive. Hit the door in three-second increments. Let us lead, Agent Cooper. You’ll come out with me at the end.”

  He waved the first pair of his body-armored men forward. They took positions on either side of the door, then with a nod at each other, shoved it open and left the building. After a few seconds, the second two-man team went out, followed by Bolan and Deschaines.

  The outside of the Hôtel de Marigny looked like a warzone as the two shooters exchanged fire with a team in the lot that had taken cover behind nearby limousines and the building itself.

  When the French security arrived on the scene, there was a brief moment of confusion as the local men yelled at both groups to lay down their weapons and surrender. As Bolan had expected, both groups immediately turned and began firing on the French.

  “Mon Dieu!” Deschaines shook his head as he ducked behind one of the columns. “We have to keep them here!”

  “That’s going to be harder than you might think,” Bolan said.

  With a flurry of fire from the second group keeping their enemies’ heads down, the hall shooters broke and ran for a nearby limousine. “Of course the vehicle is facing away! We can’t hit the engine!” Deschaines said as the limo came to life and roared out of the driveway. “We have to go after them!”

  As soon as the car left, the other team began to back, scattered shots keeping the French security force at bay as they withdrew.

  “So, they’re not after us, but want the others, too,” Deschaines said as he pulled out his phone. “I’m bringing our cars around. You’re welcome to ride along with us—”

  A horn blared from the road, and Bolan looked up to see Marie Palomer behind the wheel of the Range Rover. “Are we following or what?” she called to him.

 
“Thanks, Deschaines,” Bolan said, “but I’ve got a ride. Catch up with us when you can.” He bolted down the steps and over to the SUV, diving into the rear driver’s-side door. “Go, go, go!”

  Palomer gunned the V8 engine, and the big vehicle shot forward into traffic. “Let me guess,” she said as he scrambled into the front seat. “We’re following the speeding limousine.”

  Bolan checked the load on his SIG Sauer, then rolled down his window. “No, we’re stopping the speeding limousine.”

  * * *

  “HOW ARE YOU DOING?” Amani Nejem didn’t look back as she pushed the ponderous limo faster through the evening traffic.

  “Fine. The subcutaneous skinweave stopped the bullets with minimal damage. I’ll be sore, but it’s better than the alternative,” Kisu Darsi replied. “How’s your head?”

  “It is all right,” Nejem lied. One of the outside group’s bullets had creased her scalp, leaving an ugly furrow and making her bleed like a stuck pig. Her hair was matted and sticky, and blood had dried in a mask over half of her face. She was sure she didn’t have a fracture, but her vision had been blurry for a couple of minutes, and even now her head was pounding from the near miss.

  “We’ll have to clean you up as soon as we can stop,” Darsi mused as he checked his pistol’s load. “I’m almost out of bullets.”

  “And I am out.” She nodded at the empty pistol in her lap, the slide locked back.

  “Get on the Champs-Élysées. There’s more room to maneuver, and a better chance to lose them in traffic.”

  “I know where to go, thank you. I actually lived in Paris for a year, remember?” Nejem replied. She turned off the Avenue de Marigny onto the broad main avenue, merging with the evening traffic with minimum trouble, even though she was still going fifteen miles over the posted speed limit. “Keep watching behind us for anyone following.”

  “Yes, yes. So far, so good.” Darsi was silent for a moment. “Do you think those other operatives were from the motherland?”

  “I know they were,” Nejem replied. “They picked us up more quickly than I had expected. I thought we’d have another day or so before they caught up.”

  “Staying in Paris this long is what allowed it,” Darsi said. “We should have left after the US senator hit.”

  A job you should have finished properly, she thought, but didn’t say. “Have you tried calling Alexei yet?”

  “I left a message saying we got out—” Darsi slapped at his pocket. “That’s him. Hang on, I’ll put him on speaker.”

  He answered the phone. “Where are you?”

  At the same time, headlights appeared in the limo’s rearview mirror. “I think we have company,” Nejem said.

  “I’m in our car, heading west on the Champs,” Panshin said. “Where are you?”

  “Just turned on the avenue ourselves, now passing Avenue Montaigne,” Darsi said. “There’s another group after us—not the French. Amani thinks they’re from home.”

  “That was to be expected in time.”

  “Well, they’re gaining on us right now,” Nejem said.

  “Excellent. Just keep them on you for a couple more minutes,” Panshin said. “I’ll come up behind them and give them a surprise they won’t forget.”

  “Whatever you plan to do, do it fast,” Nejem said. “They are not in a mood to take prisoners.”

  “I’ll be there in ninety seconds,” Panshin said before he cut the call.

  “It’s going to be a long minute and a half,” Darsi said.

  “Well, make yourself useful and look around back there. There must be something you can use as a weapon.”

  “Already on it,” he said above the clink of glass. Nejem looked in the rearview and saw him smiling at her. When she looked down long enough to see what he was working on, she smiled, too.

  * * *

  SERGEI BERSHOV, THE TEAM’S stolid bruiser and wheelman, was driving the Mercedes-Benz SUV, guiding it behind the limo with deft flicks of the wheel. Mikhail Sevaron was in the passenger seat, reloading his weapons and Bershov’s. Natalya Zimin and Illya Krivov were both in the back, ready for the second round.

  “Any signs of pursuit from the hotel?” Sevaron asked.

  “No, which is strange,” Zimin replied. “By now I would have thought we’d have a small army on us after a shoot-out this close to the palace.”

  “Most likely they’ll be tracking us with helicopters,” Bershov grunted. “They’re probably already setting up a roadblock as we speak.”

  “All the better to take out these two now, and get out of here,” Sevaron said, his eyes glued to the approaching limo. Just a few more yards...

  “I thought for sure that head shot would have taken the bitch out,” Krivov said as he chambered a round in his HK pistol. “If they can withstand this ammo at that close range, we’re going to have to get really lucky to get a killing shot on them.”

  “It can be done,” Sevaron assured him. “A concentrated assault will put enough lead into them that something vital will be hit.”

  “We are close enough now, if you want to try to stop the car,” Bershov said.

  “Yes, an accident would work well.” Sevaron rolled down his window. “The car overturns, they are injured or stunned, and we turn around and take them out. Pull up alongside the driver’s side. We can finish this in a few minutes.”

  Bershov tromped on the accelerator, and the powerful SUV began gaining on the limousine. They had to cut around a Peugeot in the lane Sevaron wanted, and for a moment he was tempted to have Bershov tap the guy’s bumper, but kept his mouth shut.

  Spotting them, the limo cut across two other lanes as they entered a large roundabout, cutting off cars with a screech of brakes and blare of horns. The SUV followed, nimbly avoiding the stopped traffic and steadily gaining on the limo until it was in position.

  Sevaron readied his pistol and aimed at the front tire. One shot would be all it took.

  “Look out!” Krivov shouted from the backseat as he opened fire with his gun.

  The team leader glanced up to see a figure standing in the open sunroof of the limo, a flaming bottle in each hand.

  * * *

  “WHAT THE HELL was that?” Palomer demanded as a burst of flame bloomed near the SUV as it pulled alongside the limousine. The fire pooled on the road, already burning out, and she swerved to avoid it.

  “Molotov cocktail,” Bolan replied. “After the firefight outside the Marigny, they’re probably low on ammo, so they’re improvising weapons.”

  Another bright flare of fire licked at the SUV, this time staying on the side of the vehicle before the rushing wind blew it out. Both shooters on the passenger side returned fire, pocking the limo’s side with holes.

  “Ah, there’s backup,” Palomer said with a smile as two marked police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing, appeared in the distance behind them. “I’m sure more will be behind them, as well.”

  “Good. With this new team in play, we’re going to need all the backup we can get to take them all down.” Bolan glanced behind them in time to see one of the police cars spin wildly and plow into another car beside it.

  The second police car slowed to check on the first, allowing a black SUV with tinted windows to pull up alongside of it. A burst of flame erupted from the driver’s window, and the hood of the second car leaped into the air as its engine failed.

  “Damn—so much for our backup,” he said.

  “What?” Palomer checked the rearview. “What happened?”

  “Near as I can tell, the primary assassin just showed up, and he’s trailing us,” Bolan said. “We’ve got hostiles in front and behind us!”

  “Now what do we do?” Palomer asked.

  “You stay on the two vehicles ahead of us,” Bolan said as he began craw
ling into the rear cargo area. “I’m going to keep the assassin behind us from catching up to his two buddies. Get ready to lower the back window on my mark.”

  Chapter Ten

  Steering with his knees while speeding along at almost seventy-five miles per hour, Panshin nimbly reloaded his compact SR-2 Veresk submachine gun while catching up to his team. With the two police cars out of the way, he expected to have smooth sailing to come up behind and catch the Russian team unaware. By then it would be too late.

  The drivers of the nearby traffic seemed to have gotten the idea that something odd was happening, for some of the cars were moving to the outside lanes. However, there was still more than one vehicle content to trundle along in the middle of the street, blocking his way. Typical SUV, he thought as the temptation to give it the same tap he’d given the police vehicle rose within him, but he resisted, instead pulling out on the driver’s side, simply intending to pass the slower driver.

  That was when the rear door’s window slid down, and a man’s arm came out holding a pistol.

  Although the shooter started firing as soon as he was lined up, starring the windshield, the Russian operative still had enough time to jerk the wheel hard over—not away, but toward the enemy vehicle. His turn sent the heavy SUV into the back end of his target, the front and rear quarter panels scraping together under the impact.

  With his other hand, Panshin returned fire, blasting out the rest of the ruined windshield as he raked the other vehicle with a hail of thirty 9 mm bullets. Windows shattered and pebbles of safety glass sprayed across the road.

  The other driver finally wrenched the SUV away from him, and it slewed across two lanes, nearly clipping the curb, and making pedestrians scatter for cover. Panshin stayed on it, ejecting the empty magazine from his subgun and reloading. The other driver had regained control, and headed back out into the middle of the wide boulevard. Panshin pursued, more cautious now, as he didn’t know whether he had taken out the rear gunner. Three flashes of flame and bullets hitting his vehicle let him know he hadn’t.