game was played. Fortunately, the old tricks still worked: “Uh, sorry, command, uh, you’re breaking up. What was that order? Oh, I think the signal is dropping…”
He issued a subtle voice command to bring up the camera built into Schleck’s Cross-Com. Now he took in the scene from the sniper’s point of view. “I see your boys, Schleck. What do you think?”
“I think I don’t know what to think. Heads up, though.”
“Roger that. They could be team security.”
“Okay. Standing by.”
Brent removed the Cross-Com and shoved it back into his inner jacket pocket, replacing that earpiece with the one issued to him by the French security force.
The guys Schleck had spotted now moved toward the security line and metal detector. They would have to pass through those checkpoints before they could get anywhere near the main banquet room. Schleck was just being paranoid, but you wanted your sniper to be hypersensitive to his surroundings.
Brent retuned his gaze to the banquet room.
Voeckler was now wooing the entire crowd with his dance moves; he could probably win a national contest, billing himself as the “dancing spy” after he retired. His partner was fully in lust with him, and again, Brent thought of murder.
Riggs was now surrounded by Eskov and two other cyclists, and if the Snow Maiden wanted to get near her cousin, she’d now have to rub shoulders with a very sexy Ghost Recon operator.
Once more Brent scrutinized the guests, focusing on each female. He assessed, dismissed, and moved on. He took a deep breath, and something ached deep down in his gut.
The first salvo of gunfire — originating somewhere outside near the security checkpoint — sent his head jerking back. The second drove him toward the wall and reaching for his pistol as the three men Schleck had spotted burst into the room, brandishing snub-nosed machine guns.
They opened fire.
With a gasp, Brent dove onto the floor and looked up, trying to get a bead on the shooters, but the party guests were scrambling in all directions, legs shifting and blocking his view. He had no time to check on Eskov, Riggs, or Voeckler and only seconds to try to stop these bastards.
Finally, Brent had a shot as a heavyset man took a bullet in the chest and tumbled, exposing the shooter behind him. All three men had donned green balaclavas, and one cried in French, “We are the Green Brigade Transnational! We are your doom!”
Brent took out the lead terrorist with a single head shot and was about to shift fire to the next guy when a wave of rounds exploded from the French security guys, so much fire that their wider shots were striking guests cowering just behind the terrorist.
Another terrorist flailed under all that fire, dropped his weapon, and thudded to the floor as the screams and groans lifted and the sulfur stench of gunfire overpowered the room.
The third guy suddenly ducked around a table and bolted, vanishing past the doorway.
“Lakota, we got fire, two Tangos down. I’m chasing a third. He might be coming your way!”
“Roger that. Lock and load. Schleck? Get ready!”
“Ready!” cried the sniper.
Brent stole a quick look back, trying to find Riggs and Voeckler, but he couldn’t see them. He darted outside the hall and saw the thug bounding up a stone staircase just ten yards off to his left.
He scissored past dazed and frightened guests, reached the stairs, and took them two at a time, hearing the thumps of the terrorist above as the staircase jogged left. At the same time, he tugged out his Cross-Com and jammed it over his eye and ear.
On the next landing, Brent spotted the terrorist, who turned back and raised his pistol.
Brent fired a shot, missing the guy, even as the terrorist raised his machine gun. Brent dove back out of the guy’s bead as rounds stitched into the stone behind him and ricocheted wildly. Dust swirled as Brent rolled back and squinted.
More footfalls. The thug was still ascending. Something crashed to the steps above, and as Brent rounded another corner, he saw his prey ripping art and tapestries from the wall and dropping them down across the stairs to block the path. Brent slid his way past a tattered painting, its frame splintering across the stone, and kept on.
Meanwhile, the security guard earpiece still jammed in Brent’s other ear crackled with Lakota’s voice. She had taken over the rest of the team, as she was trained to do, and they were collapsing back in on the castle; however, Schleck would remain in his perch for overwatch.
Brent reached what he believed was the fourth-floor landing, where he found a narrow door hanging open. He dodged past it, coming into one of the circular towers.
He glanced up at the spiral staircase constructed of heavy oak planks. Thud, thud, thud. His boy was heading up, and unless he’d grown wings or had some other escape plan on the roof, Brent figured he had him. You never run
And that thought made Brent prick up his ears, listening for the
More gunfire rained down from somewhere above, and Brent crouched and returned fire, just to keep the bastard looking.
Then he resumed his charge upward, growing breathless now, the dress shoes hurting. He longed for his automatic rifle and a little Kevlar to catch stray rounds.
As he climbed, he popped out his near-empty magazine and slapped home a fresh one. Twenty steps later, a cool breeze filtered down toward him, and as he finally reached the top, he kept low, paused, saw the area was clear, then came into a small room whose single window hung wide open.
Brent spoke into the Cross-Com: “He’s on the roof.”
The window was barely wide enough to fit a person, and Brent resisted the temptation to stick his head out first to steal a look. The guy could be waiting just on the other side, out of sight and ready to blow Brent’s head off.
Instead, Brent came at the window from a sharp angle, able to see if anyone was standing just beside the edge. Then he dodged across it and checked the other side. Satisfied he was clear, he leaned forward, pushed the window all the way open, and looked down.
He lost his breath. The guy had leapt some four meters to the angled roofline and was working his away across it toward the adjoining curtain wall. He would leap down just a couple of meters to run across the wall walk — a place from where ancient bowmen had lined up to defend their home and from where modern-day scum-bags ran to escape.
“I have a shot,” said Schleck.
“Hold your fire,” Brent snapped. “I think I got him, and we need some answers.”
“He has a machine gun and you want to take him alive?” asked Schleck.
“Oh, I do love a challenge,” Brent quipped.
Cursing, he hauled himself through the window, slid out his legs, hung on for dear life, held his breath…
And jumped.
He hit the next roofline solidly and turned back, lost his step, and fell onto his rump, nearly dropping his pistol. But at least he wasn’t rolling off the roof. He got back up on his hands and knees to spy the thug leaping down to the wall.
Brent followed him, reached the edge of the roof, took aim, and fired, striking the thug in the right calf. The guy screamed, rolled back, fired a wild salvo, then kept on, now limping.
Gritting his teeth, Brent levered himself off the roof and jumped to the wall. Now he raced across the stone, the moonlight picking out the guy ahead, and for a moment, Brent thought he had another shot until he realized with a start what was happening.
The guy had reached the door to the next tower, but it was locked. Seeing he had no time to try shooting it open, he whirled back and brought his machine gun to bear.
Brent dropped to his gut as the guy opened fire from about twenty meters away, but after only three shots that struck within a meter of Brent’s head, the gun fell silent.
Knowing that either the guy’s weapon had jammed or his magazine was empty, Brent launched to his
