The Israeli sniper team was caught off-guard when the shooting started, Chaim well-nigh blinded by the explosion, Yossi several feet from the gun.
Tex swiveled the FN-FAL on its bipod, identifying the source of the hostile fire. Two men, kneeling on the bow of a boat in the marina. The scope’s cross-hairs centered on the forehead of one of the shooters and he squeezed the trigger.
Before he could draw down on the second shooter, a rifle boomed from somewhere in the marina and the man toppled over the rail, his body falling into the lagoon.
When the shooting started again, it took him by surprise, coming, as it seemed, from right over his head. Shooters were in the hotel.
He hesitated for only a moment, then sprang to his feet, leaving the FN-FAL where it was. It was too bulky.
He left his hotel room and hurried down the corridor toward the stairs. Reaching the covert of the stairwell, he reached down and jerked the Smith and Wesson from his ankle holster. He had six shots. Time to go.
The ineptitude of the Eilat cell was truly unamusing. Farouk swore in frustration as he lowered the binoculars and turned away. He needed to leave-quickly, before the Zionists mopped up the rest of his fighters.
Gideon was five meters to his left, behind the bullet-riddled hulk of a Hummer H2. The courtyard and street outside had all but emptied in the six minutes since the car bomb went off. Those not under cover were dead or dying, lying in their own blood in the street.
With a twinge of regret, Harry realized he hadn’t seen the
“You have an angle on the window?” he hissed across at Gideon.
The Israeli nodded, slapping a fresh mag into the butt of his Uzi. The question was clearly visible in his eyes.
Harry nodded. “Cover me.”
Small-arms fire sputtered from the fifth floor of the Crowne Park Plaza hotel as Sarah crawled forward on her hands and knees, forcing herself to ignore the cries of the dying. The shooters had to be stopped. Sirens sounded in the distance, their discordant wail adding to the cacophony of noise surrounding her.
She bit her lip, striving to hold back the images of Nathan in the last seconds of his life. Walking confidently toward the explosives-laden Jeep. He was dead, she knew it in her heart. He had been a scant five yards from his target when the bomb went off.
Her hands were bleeding and raw, the hard polymer of the Glock clutched between them as she moved forward, from cover to cover.
“Now!” At Harry’s shout Gideon rose up from behind the hood of the H2, aiming at the hotel window, burst after burst of fire erupting from the muzzle of the Uzi.
Harry plunged forward, feet drumming a dark tattoo against the pavement as he rocketed toward the hotel entrance, bent low at the waist. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete in his wake as the shooters above took aim at the runner.
His shoulder hit the revolving glass door of the hotel restaurant and he pushed his way through. The restaurant was full, people huddled under the tables. A woman screamed as he burst in, gun in hand.
“Stay down!” he bellowed in English, brandishing his wallet in his left hand. “Police!”
Tex paused at the top of the stairwell, aware suddenly of footsteps on the other side of the door. Back and forth.
A small window in the top of the door afforded a view of the corridor, and he waited as the footfalls came closer, watching as a masked head came into view. They were patrolling the hall.
He thumbed the hammer of the revolver back to full-cock and crouched there, his hand on the door handle.
Footsteps. Coming closer as the terrorist completed his circuit. It was all about timing. Almost.
He pushed the door open with a violent thrust, slamming the steel fire door into the body of the gunman. The man recoiled, nearly dropping the rifle as Tex stepped into the hall, the Smith amp; Wesson already at eye level.
He pulled the trigger at close range, the bullet striking the gunman in the neck, severing the brain stem as he dropped to the floor, his blood staining the carpet.
Tex paused over the body of the dying terrorist, listening. Another burst of gunfire gave him his directions. Ten doors down…
“Anything from Nichols?”
“That’s a negative,” Carter replied, looking over his shoulder at the DCS. “The meeting is probably ongoing.”
A phone rang on the desk of the analyst’s workstation. “Yes, Monica?”
He listened for a moment, an expression of shock spreading over his countenance. “What is it, Ron?” Kranemeyer asked as he hung up the phone.
“Turn on CNN.”
The DCS picked up a remote and aimed it at one of the TV screens which lined the wall.
“This is Brenda Langford, reporting live from Eilat. As you can see, there’s been a bombing, near the entrance of the Crowne Park Plaza resort.”
Kranemeyer’s mouth fell open. “Dear God…”
Tex paused outside the door, feeding another bullet into the empty chamber of his S amp;W. The bodies of two hotel security guards lay twenty feet down the corridor, gunned down as they had responded to the initial shots.
He tested the door with his hand. Locked. The possibility of it being booby-trapped went through his head, but he was out of time. Caution to the wind.
The big man took a step back and aimed a kick toward the door, his booted foot connecting just below the bolt. It flew in on its hinges with a crash and he stumbled into the suite, bringing the revolver up as he went around the corner.
The room reeked with the acrid, sulphurous smell of burnt gunpowder. Two men were kneeling four or five feet back from the open balcony window, shooting down into the courtyard of the hotel. The man on the right was firing, the man on the left loading another magazine into the mag well of his Kalishnikov.
