Rapp swore to himself as he seated a fresh magazine and released the slide. He pressed forward and then skidded to a stop when the black barrel of a submachine gun popped out of the side door of the van. The night erupted with the loud blasts of over twenty bullets fired on full automatic. Rapp dove for cover behind a parked car and made himself as small as possible. Several more bursts were fired and then Rapp heard the sound of an engine revving and wheels squealing on the pavement. Rapp reacted quickly and moved into the street. He sighted in on the back left door of the van and started unloading rounds as fast as he could fire them. A body fell from the side door of the van and a second after that he was empty. The van turned right and disappeared. Rapp eyed the body, but didn’t bother to investigate. It was one of Hurley’s SF guys.
Rapp turned and ran back to the two men on the sidewalk. They were both in suits. The one on the right was shot in the face and obviously dead, but the one on the left was alive and gasping for air. A few feet away his FN pistol lay on the ground. Rapp grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he knelt next to the man and started searching for his wound. He heard it before he saw it. A chest wound makes a strange sucking noise that once heard, is never forgotten. The man was wearing a black dress shirt and a dark gray suit. Rapp grabbed his shirt and ripped it open. The wound was right there on his right side of his chest. He might live, but not without some immediate medical attention.
Rapp remembered the small medical kit that he carried. The pull to flee was strong, but he knew if he didn’t help this guy, there was a good chance he’d die. Grumbling and fighting the urge to run, he pulled the pack from the small of his back, set it on the ground next to the man, and went to work. He had only one packet of Quickclot. He ripped open the top and held the open packet right above the entry wound. He sprinkled half the powder around and down the hole and used his fingers to push as much of it into the wound as possible. Rapp then rolled him onto his stomach and yanked his jacket and shirt up around his shoulders. He put the rest of the powder in the exit wound and grabbed a square adhesive bandage with a plastic backing. He placed it over the hole, flipped him onto his back, and bandaged the entry wound. Rapp listened for a moment and was relieved when the sucking noise subsided.
Sirens were suddenly wailing in the distance. Rapp got close to the man’s face and looked into his eyes. He saw genuine fear. In French, Rapp told the man, “You’re going to be all right. Do you understand me?”
The man looked into Rapp’s eyes and gave him an anemic nod while weakly trying to grab his arm.
“Don’t give up. They’re going to be here any minute.” Rapp looked at the ground and saw his bloody fingerprints on the remnants of the medical supplies. He frantically collected the backings and spent packages and stuffed them into his pack. A leather ID case that had fallen from the man’s jacket caught Rapp’s eye. He grabbed it and flipped it open. He didn’t recognize the seal but he sure as hell had heard of the Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure. The DGSE was France’s version of the CIA. “Victor,” Rapp muttered, “what in the hell have you done?”
The agent clutched at Rapp’s arm and said, “Don’t leave.”
Rapp stuffed the ID case in his jacket. The sirens were growing louder. “You’re going to be fine,” Rapp said, even though he wasn’t sure he believed it. “Don’t give up. They’ll be here any minute, and remember . . . the asshole who did this to you . . . his name is Victor.”
Rapp looked up, and there, standing thirty feet away, were two men. The one on the right was short and stocky with thick black hair and a beard. The man on the left was tall and skinny with sandy blond hair. They were staring right at him. Rapp could hardly shoot them, so he did the only thing that seemed normal. He yelled at them. “Get over here! Hurry up! I need your help.”
The tall man hung back, but the stocky man rushed forward.
“Get down here,” Rapp said, “and put pressure on this bandage. Hold his hand and keep talking to him.” The man knelt and did as Rapp instructed. The tall man was still standing a good five paces away. Rapp screamed this time. “Get over here! Take that scarf off and put it under his head. Lay your jacket over his stomach.” Rapp stood. “Hurry up! I’m going to run and get help.”
And with that Rapp was sprinting down the street, hoping that the two men were not good at remembering faces. Just before the next intersection he crossed the street and kept moving at a full clip. The sirens were growing louder, but they were still far enough away, so he kept running full speed. He’d grabbed the gun because he could use the extra firepower, but he knew he might have to dump it sooner than he’d like. The same was true with the ID case, but he had to clean it first. He couldn’t leave his fingerprints on it.
Greta’s car was three blocks away, and up ahead there looked to be a crowd of people gathering. They had probably come outside to see what the commotion was. Rapp stopped running. There was no quicker way to attract attention than running in street clothes at night when gunshots had been fired. The sirens were much closer now. At the next intersection a police car came skidding around the corner. Rapp’s training kicked in. He stopped and stared directly at the two policemen in the front seat. That’s what innocent people did. Guilty people looked away, hid their faces, and even ran.
He spotted Greta’s Audi and had no idea if his five minutes were up or not. Some internal clock told him they were, but he also knew Greta would sit there for an hour. She’d disregard everything he’d told her and hold on to hope. He traveled the last block at a brisk pace and tried the passenger door, but it was locked. Greta practically jumped out of the front seat. She unlocked the door and Rapp climbed in.
“Let’s go,” Rapp said, breathing heavily. “Drive the speed limit and act normal.”
As they were pulling out, another police car and an ambulance raced past them, going in the other direction. Rapp thought of the DGSE agent and prayed that he would make it. Two more police cars raced past them.
Greta kept her eyes on the road until they’d passed, and then she looked over at Rapp. “You’re bleeding.”
Rapp looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood. Both literally and figuratively. “It’s not mine.”
“Did you . . . did you kill someone?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then where did the blood come from?”
“A man I tried to save.” Rapp stared straight ahead. “We can talk about this later. Right now I need to think.”
“Where should I drive?”
“Just keep heading east. We’ll find a new hotel. Sit tight for the night and figure out what to do next.” He sank down in his seat. Kennedy had warned him to stay away from the apartment. She’d tried to save him, but someone else had ordered his death.
