Читать книгу State Of Honour - Gary Haynes - Страница 13

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 man 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.