Kate drove in silence. There was still traffic on the city streets at this time of night, but it was very light and not enough to slow them. She insisted once again on going with them. Lincoln, Levi, and Wes were sitting on the back seat, fingering their weapons, silent, grim-faced, and determined. Taylor remembered her expression, and he loved her even more for it, just as much as he was terrified for her safety.
"I'm coming, so you guys better get used to it. If this is the end of Hussein, I want to be in at the finish. It's no good arguing, Jack. Besides," she grinned, "I’m driving, and I have the car keys. Stop wasting time. I want to pay the bastard a visit, one he'll never forget."
He could see her hands, white on the steering wheel as they gripped it hard with the tension she must be feeling. She was a lawyer, not a soldier. The three of them, himself, Wes, and Lincoln, had all seen action in battle. His father, Jerry Yates, had trained Levi in the use of weapons. The young man had learned survival, as well as simple battle tactics during their war games.
Kate acquitted herself well in the attacks on Hussein's empire, yet is that enough? I know damn well it isn’t, not by a mile.
He closed his eyes and made yet another prayer, that she wouldn't be hurt. It was a soldier's prayer, as soldiers the world over prayed for the welfare of their families, their bodies, and their very souls.
We have to end it, and wipe this plague off the city streets for good. And end it without Kate being hurt, or any of the others. I started this, so I’ll deal with what comes my way. If it means I don’t survive, so be it.
Even as the thoughts streamed through his mind, he recognized them for what they were, death thoughts. So far, they'd sustained a heap of injuries but no fatalities. Hussein was no fool. He'd be gathering more forces, more mercs ready to defend his business. Once he knew they’d escaped Malouf’s net, he would prepare for the attack he had to know was coming. They had to hit him where he least expected it, and take him and his empire down for good. If they failed, he would strike back with a gang of armed thugs, many of them men with military training. And he had the support of Malouf, the corrupt Boston detective who still hunted them and would be determined to smash Taylor before he was brought down himself.
He felt the agony starting to course through his system, tapping out the little messages to his brain, insisting he get a fix, and fast. He ignored them. The only chance of succeeding in this mission would be if he kept his mind focused and sharp, and any kind of powerful analgesics would have the opposite effect. He smiled, thinking of the call he'd had on his cell from Detective Brad Stutz, just a couple of hours after they left the motel.
"I thought you might want to know that Mehdi Hussein has moved out of his mansion. I guess someone destroyed it for him, and it’ll take a long time to rebuild it the way it was."
Taylor was puzzled. "Why should I give a fuck about that bastard and his mansion?"
Stutz had chuckled. "No reason. Except, I thought you might want to know he has a small apartment at the rear of his offices on the sixth floor of his building. He’s there right now, with a bunch of guards."
His hopes soared. They'd been discussing how next to hit the bastard. It had to be at night, which meant they had to find out where he was staying after the debacle at the mansion. Until they knew the address, they were stymied. Now they knew.
"I appreciate it, Stutz."
"Yeah. You understand I'm telling you this because I don’t want you going anywhere near that address. In fact, I'm giving you a direct instruction to stay away from Mr. Mehdi Hussein until our investigation of Detective Malouf is complete, assuming we ever get enough evidence."
"Is there a problem?"
"Could be. We had collected a bundle of stuff ready to use against him, but the box that contained everything disappeared, along with the Internal Affairs cop who was carrying it. My guess is the case has gone into a furnace, and the officer is at the bottom of the Charles River."
"I'm sorry.”
“Yeah, I knew the guy. We were at the academy together. He’s got a wife, couple of kids.”
Taylor said nothing at first. It was cop business, and Malouf was sure piling up the enemies.
“I'll deal with Hussein. What’s happening with Malouf?"
"He called in sick and disappeared, just dropped off the radar. You’d better keep your eyes peeled. He's a bad man to cross."
Taylor nodded. "Yeah, so am I. And thanks for the help."
"Remember, I told you to keep away from Mr. Hussein. Don't go anywhere near his building."
Taylor clicked off. They were in Lincoln’s house, and the others were watching him, as they tried to work out how to locate and destroy the enemy. They’d only heard part of the conversation.
"What is it?" Wes asked him. He sensed something was up.
"We know where he is. The office building."
* * *
Kate drew up two blocks away from the target. Taylor opened the trunk and sorted through the commo equipment. He handed them a radio headset each and gave abbreviated instructions in its use.
"This stuff is full duplex, and it uses a digital frequency agile band, so we don't need to worry about eavesdroppers."
Kate gave him a puzzled glance as she clipped on the earpiece and bent the microphone boom so it matched his.
"Frequency agile? Is that good?"
He smiled. "Just technical garbage, nothing to worry about. All you need to know is we’ll be in contact with each other the whole time. Levi, you see that cellphone tower on the building across the street?"
"Yeah, sure, can't miss it."
"Once we take out the landlines, Hussein could use that to call in more shooters, or the cops."
Disrupt and destroy the enemy’s communications. One of the first lessons any Special Forces operator learned, or indeed, any military man.
He nodded his understanding. "Give me a few minutes. I'll deal with it."
He disappeared into the darkness of the Boston night. They caught glimpses of a dark, shadowy figure ascending the fire escape. He was as good as invisible. Taylor took out his cellphone and watched the signal strength indicator. After less than five minutes, he smiled as it dropped to ‘no signal’.
"He's done it. Let's get moving before they send a maintenance man out to repair the tower. Wes, you worked on communications systems in the Navy before you came into the Seals, yeah?"
"Sure, I did a couple of courses. Never amounted to much."
"It doesn't need to amount to much. Look across at MMP's building. You see the overhead phone lines?"
He smiled. “I'm on it."
He drew his long, heavy combat knife and walked quickly along the sidewalk. He held the knife low in his right hand, and it was almost invisible with the blackened blade and black hilt. He looked back at them for a moment, and they saw his white teeth smiling at them. He located a suitable place to reach the cables, and as they watched, he disappeared into the gap between Hussein's building and the next block. Taylor checked his watch, and it only took Wes two minutes to slash through the lines. Unless he had a satphone, which seemed unlikely in the center of the city of Boston, Hussein had just lost all his communications with the outside world.
"That's it, lock and load. It’s time to move in."
Kate insisted she needed nothing more than the Makarov. Wes took the M203 launcher, slung it over his shoulder with a bag of grenades, and picked up and HK 416 with plenty of spare clips. Levi reappeared and selected an AK-47S, the short, folding stock version of the iconic AK-47 to supplement his heavy Colt pistol. Lincoln took a Colt 45. "Damn, I had one of these during my time with the Marines. Not the most accurate gun in the world, but when all else fails, you can beat the enemy over the head with it."
"Yeah, that oughta do the trick," Wes smiled.
Taylor picked up the mention of accuracy. As far as he knew, the Colt was a good gun. "How's your eyesight, Lincoln? Not as good as it used to be?"
The former marine shook his head ruefully. "I guess not, but I'll make out."
"Sure you will, but why not make it easy on yourself? You need more than the Colt, why not try the Mossberg?"
He took the Mossberg 500, a pump action, 12 gauge shotgun from the trunk and handed it to Lincoln.
"That’s the 14 inch short barrel version. It carries five shells, and you can load more on the fly. Just point and shoot. You're sure to hit something," he grinned.
Lincoln was sold. "Yeah, that sounds like my kind of gun. I'll take it."
"Just be careful with that scattergun, my friend. Remember, when you get into a firefight, it can get pretty confusing."
"Don't worry about me, just point me at the enemy. As you say, I'm sure to hit something. What about you? You carrying the MP7?"
"Not this time. I'll stuff a few spare mags for the Sig Sauer in my pockets, and I'll take two of these babies."
Their eyes widened as he picked up the two Russian manufactured RPG portable rocket launchers and slung them on his back. He saw their expressions and grinned.
"If we run into any trouble, I want to have something that’ll pack a punch."
Wes nodded sagely. "Yeah, the RPG should do it, Boss."
Taylor took a last look through the gloom at the target building. It all looked quiet enough. Lights were blazing on the sixth floor.
Good. Hello, Mr. Hussein.
He turned back to his team and pressed the transmit button.
"Commo check, is everyone strength five?"
The replies came in, and he was satisfied. “One thing more. Wes, there’s a box of demolition explosives in the trunk with detonators. Can you handle it?"
Wes nodded and rummaged in the trunk, pulling out the box of C4 plastique and detonators. Taylor took a last look around.
We’re ready, as ready as we ever will be. I’ve got qualms, sure, reservations by the score, but who ever thinks going into battle is a pushover?
"Okay, move in."
They walked casually along the sidewalk, keeping to the shadows, ducked into the alleyway at the side of MMP, and stopped short of the rear. Taylor indicated they should wait while he crept toward the corner to check for the guard he was certain would be on duty. He started as Wes touched him on the shoulder, and pointed at his black combat knife. Taylor nodded his agreement, and Wes took over the point. He reached the last corner of the building where they were only yards from the rear door, when both men smelled the cigarette smoke. He flashed a hand signal at Taylor, who nodded and raised his Sig to cover him. Wes went forward in almost total silence until he was only a couple of feet behind the guard. The man had a pistol in a shoulder holster outside of his combat jacket, ready for immediate use, but stupid. Any cop on patrol seeing the holstered weapon would be sure to run him straight in. He was enjoying a cigarette, humming a tune softly to himself between puffs of smoke. At the last moment, he heard something and began to turn, but Wes' huge black hand clamped around his mouth, the other hand with the knife slashed across his throat. Wes stepped aside to avoid the sudden spurt of arterial blood, lowered the body to the ground, and nodded to Taylor. He ran forward and searched the body. Sure enough, the guard had a bunch of keys in one of his pockets. Seconds later, Taylor was unlocking the rear door. He touched the microphone button.
"We're in. I want everybody inside and out of sight, so make it quick and keep it quiet."
When his team was inside, he closed the door but left it unlocked in case they needed a fast exit. He told them to wait while he crept forward to the foyer, but the security desk was empty.
I don't like this. It’s too easy, much too easy.
He started back to the rear but stopped at the foot of the staircase. Keeping completely still, he strained his ears to listen. Within seconds, he heard it, the soft rustle of pants’ fabric, maybe the tiny squeak from the rubber sole of a boot. He'd heard enough, and he rejoined the team at the rear.
"They're playing it pretty cagey. It looks like they’re expecting trouble, and they've mounted an ambush somewhere between the first and second floors. It's clever. Even if we take out the shooters waiting for us, the noise will alert the rest of the guards that we're here. It’s going to make it difficult to press on up the staircase."
"What's our alternative?" Kate asked him.
"There isn't one. It's quite simple. They’re standing between Hussein and us. To reach him, we have to take them out. Wes, you ready with that launcher?"
"Just say the word, Boss."
"Head to the foot of the staircase and fire two grenades up to the second floor. As soon as the second one explodes, we go up fast. Stay right behind me, and if anything moves, shoot it. Lincoln, you're number two. I reckon that scatter gun is going to see some action."
He could see Lincoln Moss, the grizzled ex-marine, was nervous. He was older and hadn't seen action for a long time, but he was no less determined.
"You show me the target, and I'll do the rest.”
He nodded at Wes. "Do it."
They waited while he got in position at the foot of the staircase and took aim. The noise as he fired off each grenade was like a hammer blow, which echoed inside the formerly dark and silent building. But as each grenade exploded, it was like the vengeful wrath of Thor, the mythical god of thunder. The first massive roar as the small bomb detonated rocked the entire edifice, and the second grenade was no less awe-inspiring. As the echoes of the twin blasts reverberated around the six stories, they heard the start of the screams. Taylor estimated there were four men on that landing, four shooters lying in wait for them, ready to riddle them with bullets as soon as they appeared. The screams of the wounded were terrible, piteous even. But they only had two choices, either the enemy went down or they did. A no brainer.
"Move now! Before they recover." They raced up the stairs after him, and even Taylor, after so many long and bitter fights during his career with the Navy Seals, was astonished at the amount of destruction they'd caused. Human destruction, the four guards were lying broken and bloody on the landing. Two were dead, one was clearly dying, and the fourth only lightly wounded.
"Help me, please!"
Kate automatically went to minister to the wounded man. She didn't see the pistol he held in his right hand, nor did she see his eyes move as he prepared to make a grab for her and use her as a human shield.
"Not this time, buddy!" Taylor murmured, pointed his Sig at the man's head, and pulled the trigger twice. His brains flew out, plastering the carpet and walls around him. Kate leapt up, her face furious.
"Jack, for Christ's sake! He was wounded."
By way of a reply, Taylor knelt down and showed her the man’s hand, still holding the pistol, a Glock 17. "He was about to use this on you."
She gulped. "My God, I didn't realize."
"No, you’re new to this. Stay behind me if you want to live.”
She nodded dumbly and waited behind him. Her protests about killing a wounded man had stopped, as she began to understand the terrible realities of asymmetric warfare. He looked around for Wes.
"One down, five to go. You all set for the next one?"
"Roger that, loaded and ready."
"We'll play it differently. They know how we did this, so this time, they’ll be behind cover, waiting for the grenades to explode. Fire the two grenades, same as last time. I want all of you to blaze away and shout as if we're charging up the stairs like a herd of spooked buffalo. That's your cue, Wes. They'll come out ready to hit us, and you let them have it with the next two grenades."
Kate was beginning to look more than pale. Even in the dim emergency lighting, her horror at the carnage was obvious, her eyes screwed up, her face tense and lined.
Maybe I should have warned her that the bloody violence we encountered at the mansion is not unusual for this kind of work, but things could get a lot worse. Right now, there’s no other way to stop Mehdi Hussein other than going head to head with his goons. Otherwise, he’ll keep right on destroying people's lives, committing murder and mayhem on the streets of Boston to further build his evil empire. He has a choice, to conduct his business honestly, or otherwise. He’s chosen otherwise. He drew first blood in killing Evie Harper, setting all this in motion.
Even as he thought about it, Taylor cautioned himself not to be too optimistic. They had a long way to go, four floors to be accurate. And if there were guards stationed on each floor, which he had every reason to assume there were, they'd have to wade through a whole lot of blood to reach the man who'd caused it all.
Wes fired two grenades, and they crouched out of blast area of the searing steel fragments as they waited. The noise of the explosions died away. Taylor jumped up and started firing, shouting. They joined him, firing burst after burst up the staircase, bellowing orders and encouragement to each other. Wes timed it perfectly. Just as the first of the return fire hammered around them, two more grenades flew out of the barrel of his launcher in quick succession and exploded on the landing of the third floor. The return fire stopped immediately, replaced by the screams and howls of agony of the wounded defenders. They’d caught them out in the open.
"Let's go."
They ran at a furious pace up to the third floor, once again they came across the bloody carnage that Wes's grenades had caused. All four guards were down. This time one was dead, two lay dying. Another was unhurt, recovering from the shock of the pressure waves that had shocked him with their ferocity. He was a hard-bitten, angry man; obviously furious that what he’d assumed were a band of amateurs had bested him. He swept up his rifle, an M-16 A2. Taylor shot him in the head before he was able to pull the trigger. Astoundingly, one of the others, a man who was clearly dying, was still determined to fight. Perhaps he didn't understand the extent of his injuries as he tried to level the barrel of his M-16. Lincoln pulled the trigger, and the boom of the Mossberg 12 gauge cartridge echoed around the office space. The other wounded man miscalculated and thought they’d turn the situation around. He’d lost his assault rifle in the blast but ripped out a Glock from his bloody uniform. The Mossberg roared again, and he slumped back down with half his head blown off. Lincoln saw Kate’s agonized glance.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but if he shot you, I'd never forgive myself."
She nodded her appreciation, even though the horror in her eyes eloquent testimony to her shock at the slaughter. Taylor ran to the staircase leading up to the fourth floor. Lincoln ran behind him, and Kate and Wes followed. Maybe the old marine’s eyes weren’t as good as they used to be, but there was nothing wrong with his hearing. He heard the clatter of the metal objects before anyone else.
"Grenades! They’re throwing them down the stairwell! Back!"
Wes automatically grabbed Kate and threw her behind a filing cabinet. He dived after her. Taylor flattened himself behind a Xerox machine, Levi shrank back into the stairwell they’d just emerged from, and the grenades went off. Four, five, six massive explosions. When the noise died away, he tried to look through the dust and gloom to make out how his people had fared. It was like a thick fog. He keyed his mic.
"Kate, are you okay? Wes, is anyone hurt?"
"I don't think so. Kate’s fine,” Harper replied. “Where's Levi?"
"I'm here."
He crawled around the head of the staircase and joined them. He looked around.
“Where’s Lincoln?”
"Lincoln?” Taylor whispered into the mic. “Where are you?" Nothing, just silence. "Spread out and try to find Lincoln. He was just…"
And then he came across him. At the foot of the staircase, a body lay slumped. He ran over and knelt down next to the shattered and torn remains of Lincoln Moss. His mind ran through an entire gamut of emotions within a single second.
This man served his country proudly, comes home, and has to fight for his very right to keep his home against the man waiting for us at the top of this building. Perched in his web like a bloated spider, pulling unfortunates like Lincoln and other vets into his web, holding out the prospect of the dream of owning their own home, until it suits him to snatch it back from them on some trumped up pretext to make even more money!
Taylor’s thoughts were a kaleidoscope of rage, anger, and his own personal nemesis, agony. Since he’d decided not to self medicate in order to keep his mind clear, he was paying the price. He could sense the insidious fingers of pain creeping through his body, searching out the cracks in his nervous system and starting to tap out the messages to his brain. Urgent messages, telling him to pull out, locate his dealer, and inject the blessed drug that would give him relief for just a few God-given hours.
Fuck ‘em.
"Jack?" He looked up and saw Kate standing beside him. "Is he dead?"
He nodded. "The poor bastard didn't stand a chance. Maybe this was all stupid. I shouldn’t have asked any of you to come. Hussein has everything on his side. I feel like we're a kind of David, going up against the might of Goliath."
"You didn’t ask any of us to come,” she pointed out. “We volunteered. Besides, I believe David won that one.”
"Yeah, but we're fresh out of miracles, as well as a slingshot and stones. We've taken on too much. We should consider getting out now before I get anyone else killed."
“You didn’t get anyone killed. Hussein did. Jack, we need to press forward and deal with him. If we pull out now, he's won. "
He looked back at her. Her face had changed, as if Lincoln’s death had turned a switch. The shock and horror were fading, to be replaced by another expression entirely. What she wanted now was revenge.
"Did you hear what I said? We came here with five of us. Now there are only four. How many do I have to lose before we give up?"
His mind was a turmoil of conflicting emotions.
I’ve never given up a fight, not once. But neither have I ever faced such overwhelming odds, with only a washed-up Seal suffering from PTSD, two civilians, including Kate, and myself. For Christ's sake, no matter what Doc Hermann’s done, I’m still a limbless vet. I have to make a decision, one way or the other. To get out, or to press on, and I have to make it now, or the enemy will realize they have us beat and launch a counterattack.
He vaguely heard Kate speaking.
"What? What did you say?"
"I said get up!"
"But…"
"You need to get back on your feet, whether you're going to continue what you started, or run away and find a dealer to sell you your next fix. What's it going to be, Jack? Before you make up your mind, I may as well tell you, I'm going all the way to the sixth floor. That fucker is going down, and if I have to pull the trigger myself, that's fine."
Wes and Levi stood close by.
"I'm going on," Wes said. There was nothing of the man he'd seen a couple of days before, trembling with the symptoms of PTSD. He stood tall and proud as if one of his ancestors had been a Zulu war chief.
"Me too,” Levi intoned solemnly. “They killed my dad. The only way I can honor his memory is to deal with Hussein. I’m going on.”
Taylor suddenly understood the extraordinary caliber of people with him on this mission. Civilians, a vet with PTSD, but it made no difference. They has the kind of fighting spirit that would have carried them over the cliffs of Omaha beach during World War Two, blasting every Nazi who stood before them.
He felt different, as if he'd just taken a hit of painkillers, yet without the usual floating, euphoric feeling. He felt charged and more alive. Proud to be with these people, no matter what happened. They were staring at him, waiting, waiting for him.
"I reckon Hussein has just chalked up another reason for us to get him." He looked down at the body of Lincoln Moss. "My friend, this one's for you." He looked up. "Let's do it."
They waited, sheltered away from the blast area of further grenades they may toss down from the fourth floor. Taylor outlined their next move.
"We stopped to finish off these guys," he nodded at the bodies of the defenders they'd killed when they reached the third floor, a few feet away. "Big mistake. It gave them a chance to hit us from the next floor. This time, we're going all the way. The men on the fourth and fifth floors may think they've finished us with those grenades, so I doubt they'll be expecting our next move."
He outlined their strategy for storming the intervening two floors to reach the sixth floor, and their target, Mehdi Hussein. Wes loaded the launcher, aimed at the staircase to the fourth floor, fired a grenade, reloaded and fired again. The moment the second missile was on its way, they went to their positions and waited. After a few seconds, the defenders did as expected, and tossed down grenades, three in all. Kate, Levi, and Wes began their performance, the performance of their lives, or possibly the performance to save their lives. Tucked into his position, Taylor smiled to himself as they shrieked and moaned in pretended agony. After a few seconds, the shrieks died down. He heard Kate sobbing, calling, "Help me, I'm dying." It was Oscar material.
He heard shouts of exultation. Hussein’s men were calling to the defenders above them on the fifth and sixth floors. It was all over! All they needed was to go and check the bodies, and then they could go drink a few beers and celebrate. He heard the guttural tones of Gunter Metz congratulating the men. They walked down from the higher levels to join in the fun. Taylor estimated a dozen men, whooping and shouting excitedly as they hurried to gloat over the bodies of their victims. He was hidden in a utility closet next to the base of the stairwell. Some of the grenade fragments had sliced through the door, and he knew he’d taken a couple of hits to his legs. He also had a nick in his hand, but the wounds were incidental. He had business to attend to. He’d made an appointment, and he intended to keep it. The voices and backslapping came nearer, and he opened the door a fraction as a crowd of armed men came into view only ten yards from his position. The launcher was armed and ready; he simply aimed and pulled the trigger. The missile struck the wall at the head of the staircase as it detonated. Hussein's men were literally shredded by a massive blast and a hurricane of metal fragments. One moment they were an armed band, happy, exultant even, about to celebrate the fruits of their victory. The next moment, they were an almost unrecognizable bundle of broken, bleeding flesh and torn clothing.
He shouted to his people, "Go, go!"
He could have saved his breath. They were already moving, and as he raced up the staircase, were only feet behind him. They had to pick their way over the charnel house that was all that was left of the opposition before they reached the fifth floor, which was empty. Taylor looked up at their final destination, Hussein's personal domain; the nerve center where he controlled his personal fiefdom of violence and extortion. It was a tough call, to go on, and maybe walk into an ambush. Or wait, and throw away the advantage of surprise. But he had to know what they still faced. He called a halt.
Will they be waiting for us, Gunter Metz, Mehdi Hussein?
They were waiting for them.
"Very clever, Mr. Taylor." Hussein stepped out in plain view with Gunter at his shoulder. "It seems I underestimated you. You are a man of infinite resources. A pity you don't work for me."
Taylor swallowed his amazement.
What’s the guy up to?
Even in the semidarkness, there was illumination from the emergency lighting. Enough for the Arab to see he carried another RPG launcher on his back.
"It all over, Hussein. You only have one chance, and that's to give it up now."
"What do I get in return?" he called back. Taylor was alerted. Hussein’s voice was almost calm. No way was it the voice of someone who'd just seen his men obliterated, his headquarters building half destroyed, and was facing the ruin of his business empire. He looked around. The other three members of his team were standing close by.
"Get back," he murmured. "He's up to something. Get behind some cover before he takes action."
"But he's beaten," Kate objected. "Surely, he'd give anything just to get out of here alive."
"No. He's planning to hit us. I just don't know how, but he's playing for time. Move it, all of you. Get away from here.”
He made them take cover out of sight of the staircase. They didn't have long to wait before they found out what Hussein had planned.
"I smell smoke," Levi said.
"And gasoline," Wes added.
"Bastard!" Taylor ranted. "He must have another way out of here, probably a fire escape. He's planning to burn down the building with us inside it. We have to get out right now, before we're trapped."
He led them back to the stairs. They were about to charge back down to the first floor and out of the building when he looked up. A long, thin stream of gasoline was trickling down the staircase, with a tongue of flame racing along it as it came nearer.
"Forget the stairs," he shouted. "We have to find another way out of here."
He raced into the huge, open plan office, threaded his way past desks and partitions until he reached the wall furthest from the burning staircase. The fire was taking hold, and when they looked back, the entire stairwell was a sea of flames. Taylor reached a window and attempted to open it, but like most windows in modern office buildings, it was sealed shut.
A fire escape! Where the hell is it?
He shouted at them to begin searching. It shouldn't be hard to find it. The emergency lighting would be designed to point people toward it in case of fire.
"Over here!" Wes shouted. Levi was with him. They were standing by the door with the familiar crash bar fitted to all fire exits. But when they pushed hard, nothing happened. They pushed harder, but it was solid.
"Fuck it!" Wes shouted. “It's locked. Stand back, all of you. I'll hit it with the grenade. That should open it."
He retreated from the door, loaded the launcher, took aim, and fired. The grenade spat out of the launcher, rebounded a couple of feet, and then exploded. They ran forward and looked out through the shattered remains of the fire door, onto empty space, and a long, long drop.
"The fucking bastard!” Wes snarled. “He's taken away the fire escape. No wonder the door is locked. Why the hell would someone do that?”
“He's a paranoid Arab from a land where they spend half their lives watching for the knife in the back. He has a virtual fortress on the sixth floor, so the last thing he'd want would be a way for his enemies to get to him," Taylor explained.
"How are we going to get out?"
He opened his mouth to reply to Kate but stopped. They heard the roar of the engine as it started spooling up. The sound was unmistakable to anyone who'd spent much of his career in Special Forces. Taylor and Wes exchanged glances.
"Helo!" Wes shouted.
Taylor nodded ruefully. "Of course, I should have worked out where all that gasoline came from. He'd have to have a means of making a fast exit. I guess he has something on the roof, a small helo like one of those Robinson R44s, and a few drums of fuel. Damn, he's getting away, and there's not a thing we can do about it."
He stared out the gap where the fire door had been, as if somehow he could make the missing fire escape appear. He knew that in a short time the aero engine would roar to a crescendo as the pilot lifted off, and they would see the helo soaring away across the rooftops of Boston. Hussein would congratulate himself on disposing of his enemies, and no doubt the destruction of his office building by fire would be the subject of a massive insurance claim, so he’d more than cover his losses. He’d probably make a profit. Whatever wages or bounty he was paying the men who'd guarded him, now lying dead in the flaming stairwell, would never be paid. And he’d blame it all on Taylor, and put the cops onto him and the people with him. It was all very, very clever. Except that Hussein hadn’t won yet. He turned to them.
"Search this floor. There has to be something we can use to get us down to the ground level. A rope, some drapes or blinds to tie together, a fire hose, anything. See what you can find."
They started checking out closets and storerooms, but there were no drapes to knot together, nothing useful. It was an office building, not a hotel.
"Shit, at least one of these people must have had a hobby. Mountaineering, shark fishing, there has to be something, some line, something," Wes grunted.
Levi shouted across, "It's not much use to us, but someone working here is a scuba diver. His equipment is stored in an aluminum case next to this desk. I recognize the brand, US Divers. I did some scuba myself once in the…"
Taylor's mind was racing.
If I can make it through the smoke and flames to the roof, maybe I’d be in time to prevent Hussein's helicopter from leaving. I could use the air bottles to breathe, and cover myself with wet coats or towels to prevent the fire from burning me to a crisp.
"That's how I’ll stop him. Get those bottles out and make sure they’re full. I need a bottle with a harness. Fix a regulator to it, and find a mask. That should do it, but hurry it up, that helo could lift off at any time."
He explained what he was about to do. He could see Kate thinking furiously, trying to work out how she could stop him. She tried to talk to him, but he ignored her.
Hussein has to be taken down. Otherwise all of it, the deaths and the bloodshed, was for nothing.
He suddenly had an idea to get them out, and he called Wes over.
"Find cable to make a rope. Rip out the cables that run to the electrical outlets, and if you think they're not strong enough, double or triple them up. On a floor this size, there has to be hundreds of yards of cable. You should be able to make a rope long enough."
Wes nodded. "We'll get right on it, but it's a long way down."
"I know, but you don’t have any other choices."
"I can come up there with you. I want to see that bastard die."
He smiled at his friend, the traumatized Seal who'd recovered to become the formidable fighting man he'd once known. "Thanks, but you’re needed here, Wes. If anyone can get these people out, it's you. It has to be this way."
Wes left him and began ripping out every piece of cable he could find. Levi arrived and handed Taylor the diving equipment.
"I checked the tank. It's full."
Taylor nodded as he put down the remaining rocket launcher and strapped the harness on his back. He put the launcher on one shoulder, grunting as he felt the additional weight. Levi passed him the mouthpiece from the regulator. He tested it by sucking in air and then pulled down the mask over his eyes. Kate appeared with a half dozen coats and jackets she'd found hung around the office, and had drenched them in water. She arranged them around him, and he almost staggered as he felt the additional weight of the sodden garments. She draped a last wet coat to cover his head, fixing it like a hood so he was able to see. He stared around at them for a few brief seconds, peering through the glass lens of the mask, realizing it could be the very last time. Without a word, he started for the staircase. There was no time for goodbyes, for sentiment. Through the mass of sodden garments, he heard Kate say something, but he ignored her as he reached the flames licking around the staircase. They were already spreading into the open office area. Taking a firm grip on his Sig, he started to run up the flaming stairs.
At first, the fire and smoke were the problem. He could feel the burning heat as his clothes dried and began to smoke, but he had to ignore it and press on. The big problem was the colossal weight he carried, the launcher, the air bottle, his weapons, and the wet garments protecting him from the flames. He stood before the site of the final part of his odyssey. Ahead of him, the sixth floor was only yards away, and up there was his formidable adversary, the man with such a callous disregard for life, a man who was prepared to sacrifice anything and anyone in the name of profit. He looked down. His pants were hot and smoking, and as he watched, flames began licking around his ankles. Yet he felt no pain, and he smiled.
If there ever was a time to be grateful for prosthetic legs, it’s now.
He ran, hurtling up the staircase like a sprinter, ignoring the weight of everything he carried, and fighting his way through the smoke and flames. When he reached the landing of the sixth floor, it was empty. Of course, Hussein and Gunter would be on the roof, preparing to board the helicopter and escape. He threw off the coats that covered him. They were already dry and starting to catch fire. He unstrapped the air bottle and mask, and unslung the launcher. Holding it on his shoulder, with his pistol in the other hand, he headed through the empty office. He pushed open the door and found himself in Hussein's private apartment, furnished with thick carpets and priceless works of art. It was like a miniature version of his mansion. Ahead of him, a folding staircase reached up to the roof. He ran to the base and started to climb. The engine of the helo had settled into a regular beat, so it was warmed up and ready to take off. He climbed the last few steps, balancing the launcher on his shoulder, and walked out onto the roof. Fifteen yards in front of him, the helo was revving up as the pilot prepared to engage the collective and take off. Hussein and Gunter stared out at him through the Perspex windows, their faces white with shock that he'd made it so far. The aircraft started to vibrate as it reached full power, and Taylor raised the RPG and took aim. He saw Hussein speak quickly to Gunter, the engine revs died away to a steady tickover, and the door opened. The big man leapt back down to the ground, carrying an M-16. He strode across the roof, pointed the assault rifle at him, and sneered.
"If you fire that rocket at the helicopter, you'll kill us all. Do you want to die?" he shouted above the roar of the wind and the steady beat of the engine.
He’s right. The explosion when the rocket hits the helo will ignite the fuel tanks, and the entire roof will become a fireball.
"Tell the pilot to switch off the engine, and we'll talk," he shouted back.
Gunter edged back and spoke to Hussein. After a few moments, he turned back and stared at Taylor. "First, we put down the weapons. Mr. Hussein said nothing happens as long as you threaten him with that fucking thing."
He gestured at the rocket launcher. Taylor nodded, tucked the Sig into his waistband, and slowly lowered the RPG to the ground, as Gunter did the same with his M-16.
The engine shut down, and the rooftop fell almost silent, only punctuated by the sound of the wind as it occasionally gusted and swirled around them. The big man glared at him. "Now what? What you want?"
"Your boss has to answer for the murder of my friends, and for stealing the homes from their families."
"They were only minnows," a new voice shouted. He looked past Gunter. Hussein had stepped down and stood on the rooftop. He cradled a small submachine gun. Taylor recognized the Mac 10.
"They were people, Hussein,” he shouted back. “They were my friends. You have to pay. You're not leaving this roof."
But Hussein only smiled in return and leveled the wicked little submachine gun at his belly. "I don't think so, my friend. Back away. Gunter, pickup the RPG and toss it off the roof."
The big man sneered and started to move, but Taylor grabbed for his Sig and shouted, "Touch that and you die, Gunter!"
The sneer on his face died away, and he looked back at his boss for instructions. Hussein's finger tightened on the trigger, and Taylor catapulted out of the line of fire as a deadly hail of 9mm bullets peppered the concrete around him. There was a steel and concrete air vent nearby, and he rolled across the concrete rooftop to hide behind it. Another dozen rounds dented the air vent, and then he ran out of ammunition. Taylor looked around the side of the vent, but Gunter had his M-16 and was ready for him. Unlike Hussein, he knew his business, and he opened fire with tight, disciplined three shot bursts. Taylor managed to snap off two shots from the Sig, and Gunter ran back to the helo, crouching down next to his boss. The launcher lay where he'd dropped it. It was the equalizer. He could see the two men talking, pointing at the launcher and at him. They were conjuring up a way to kill him, to stop him using it. They took the only sensible option. Gunter ran one way and Hussein the other. They were heading for the elevator shaft, which would give them enough cover to hide behind and hit him with gunfire. He measured the angles. There was only one place for him to hide on the rooftop. Then he ran. The Robinson R44 waited silently on the helipad. He ran around to the pilot, wrenched open his door, and gestured with the Sig.
"Get out and lie face down on the roof. Do it now, or I'll toss you off the edge."
The pilot’s face whitened. He was dressed in the uniform of a charter pilot, dark blue pants and matching windcheater with gold epaulettes over a white pilot shirt. On his head, he wore a headset, which he removed before he jumped to the ground. He lay prone. Taylor frisked him, but he was unarmed. A couple of shots whistled overhead. He ignored them, knowing they wouldn't risk destroying the helo. It was a standoff, and a sudden gust of smoke and flame from inside the building reminded him that time had become a very precious commodity for all of them. Gunter and Hussein stood staring at him, uncertain. They couldn’t go forward, nor could they could go back. Taylor was out of options as well. He could fly the helo, but knew the moment he attempted to take off, the two men would rake it with gunfire. And then his mind cleared, and he knew what to do. His entire life had come down to this one moment.
I’m going to die. It’s the only way to defeat this evil bastard who came to America to gouge a fortune out of the weak and the sick. My biggest regret is I won't see Kate again. I can see a kaleidoscope of images of her, her face when she’s happy, when she’s angry, and when we made love. And there’s the pain. It’s a pity. Doc Hermann has done so much for me, and he almost got there, but the pain is formidable, and I couldn’t get past it.
A cloud of dark smoke roiled out from below onto the roof and was whisked away by the wind. The building was now fully ablaze. There was little time to wait. He debated the best way to go.
Whichever I choose, a bullet in the head, a leap off the roof, I have to make sure these two men are dead. Once I’m certain of that, I can go in peace.
He checked the load on his Sig and prepared for the final confrontation with Hussein and Metz.