splinter.
Both he and Patrick rolled through the doorway as bullets thumped into the door itself. Reaching up, Lang reached back to snatch the key from the lock. For an instant, it would not come loose, a delay that brought another volley whining over his head. With a frantic twist, he freed the heavy key and kicked the door shut.
On his back, Lang reached up again, this time to insert the key on the outside. With surprising ease, it turned as the bolt went into place and several more bullets hit but failed to penetrate the thick wood.
Lang took a deep breath and gave thanks to medieval man. First for being so much shorter than his contemporary cousins that a keyhole was only a modern arm’s length from the floor, and second, that his builders chose the stoutest of oak for doors, even if they were so low he had had to stoop to get through.
Standing, Lang turned to the steps. In front of him, Patrick was frozen. There were two men at the top with weapons extended.
Boulevard Carnot, Departement of Seine-Saint-Denis
Moments earlier
Gardien de la paix Jules Carrier had drawn the short straw careerwise. Only two years out of the police academy, he could expect to be placed on the eight-hour shift from 2300 hours until 0700, the hours least popular with those with more seniority. He would not have expected to be partnered with a stagiaire -intern, one-year graduate-as a partner, though. Almost always, the younger officers were paired with more experienced partners. But then, nothing went normally for those unfortunate enough to be assigned to Saint Denis, one of the three Paris suburbs that came under the jurisdiction of the Paris Prefecture of Police.
Saint Denis was the black hole of police work, both figuratively and literally. Populated largely by immigrants from France’s former North African colonies, the district was heavily Muslim. Some of its residents practiced the extreme customs of their religion, such as female genital mutilation, intersectarian murder, honor killing and tribal feuds. Then there were the commercial enterprises such as meth labs, heroin dealing and fencing stolen goods. Lesser problems involved slaughtering of goats on public streets, dumping refuse on the sidewalks and setting fire to establishments that sold alcohol. There were almost-annual riots involving the burning of automobiles, smashing the few windows not secure behind steel curtains and automatic weapon fire at anyone unlucky enough to be in uniform when the trouble started. Jules was certain law-abiding, peaceful Muslims existed too, sometimes they just seemed outnumbered in and around Saint Denis.
Only a fool of a police officer would volunteer for duty here, and only a short-lived fool would wander far from the well-lighted main streets unless he had a substantial and well-armed force with him. Even the army was hesitant to venture into the narrow streets and alleys. The general, if unspoken, opinion around the Paris prefecture was that it was far wiser to make only a gesture of police presence around the perimeter of the worst areas than to risk the lives of good officers in a vain attempt to establish order in a place that was more war zone than neighborhood.
That was why Jules and his partner Lavon had chosen a relatively peaceful spot across from the Hotel Sovereign to sit in their diminutive Peugeot 307 and drink coffee, hoping to pass the shift without someone throwing a brick or worse through the car’s windshield. They paid no attention to the car’s radio when the first report of gunfire crackled through the airwaves. Why should they? Hardly a night passed without some son of Islam taking a shot at another. Narcotics deal gone bad, perceived or actual insult, home invasion. You name it, the provocations for murder and mayhem by and against the locals were endless.
A second report followed the first.
Jules was getting uneasy. What if they received orders to investigate? Walking the streets of this district in a police uniform was tantamount to pinning a target on your back.
Even relatively inexperienced, Lavon knew that much. “Perhaps we should find an automobile accident in a far location or take our break now?”
Good idea.
“We can get fresh coffee over there at the hotel,” Jules suggested, reaching for the door handle. “Tell the prefecture we will be on break.”
It was as if the radio operator could hear. Her voice called their unit number.
“… at the basilica, multiple gun shots coming from the basilica. Proceed at once.”
Too late.
Jules slowly picked up the microphone, toying with the idea of claiming the message was breaking up. Probably no use. A dozen other units would have heard it.
“Backup?” he asked hopefully.
The radio assured him it was on the way.
But the church was only a kilometer or so south of their position, minutes away. The last thing Jules wanted was to be the first to arrive at a darkened church where some zealous Muslim fundamentalist was shooting up the place of the infidel.
“Check the weapons,” he instructed Lavon.
That should afford a minute or two’s delay.
The weapons consisted of each man’s SIG Sauer SIG Pro 2022, which had within the past year replaced the standard Beretta, a Taser and a Browning twelve-gauge pump shotgun with a choice of rubber bullets or number- two buckshot. Lavon confirmed the firearms were loaded and the Taser charged.
By this time, radio chatter confirmed at least two other cars really were on the way. Waiting at the scene for their arrival before entering the basilica would not only be prudent, it would be standard procedure.
Backup or not, Jules still had a bad feeling as he turned on the siren and pulled away from the curb.
Basilique Saint Denis
Even in the watery light filtering through the church’s windows, Lang could see the two men at the top of the stairs were Asian. He could also see there was no cover. Unless he and Patrick could sink through the stone floor, they were at the others’ mercy. As one, Lang and Patrick dropped their pistols and raised their hands.
Lang fully expected to be shot where he stood.
The eyes of the taller of the two Asians flicked to the box in Lang’s hand. He pointed and said something in what Lang guessed was a Chinese dialect.
His companion, gun trained on Lang’s forehead, took a step closer. “The box,” he said in understandable if accented English. “He wants the box.”
Lang knew Patrick was thinking the same thing: if Lang could use the box to lure either man close enough…
Lang held it up. “Come and get it.”
Even in the poor light it was obvious the English speaker’s smile did not reach his eyes. “If I have to take it from your corpse, I will do so. Now, reach up the stairs as far as you can and place the box there.”
Shit, a professional.
Lang hesitated.
The non-English speaker’s finger was tightening on the trigger.
“OK, OK!”
Just as Lang leaned forward to comply with the demand, there was a series of loud thumps on the door behind him. The men in the crypt had heard voices and guessed what had happened.
“First, do as I have said. Then you will unlock that door.”
Lang felt Patrick’s elbow gently jab him in the ribs. The similarity of training between the Agency and the French organization had been a topic of discussion between the two friends in times past. Lang could only hope there was a concurrence in this situation.
Stretching forward, he placed the box on the next-to-top step before slowly straightening up.
“And now the door.”
Lang turned to fumble with the key. He didn’t know if Patrick could see in the poor light, but he winked anyway.
The door swung open quickly, probably because one or more of the men inside was pushing on it. In unison, Patrick and Lang stepped back as though to make room.
As the last two men, guns in hand, came through the opening, Lang and Patrick stepped behind them, grabbing each with one arm locked around the neck, the other holding his opponent’s gun arm. Shielded by their captives’ bodies from the weapons of the others, both Patrick and Lang slammed the hands with the guns against
