Hybrid - Forced Vengeance (22 page)

“The orchestra will play for about twenty seconds so please, Monique, time your approach accordingly. Then you will approach the podium with your escort and begin your speech to the crowd. At the conclusion, following the appropriate applause, Mr. Knight will escort you and your entourage down the flight of stairs to the main floor. The band will begin playing and Miss LaSalle and her escort will have the first dance.”

Erik groaned and Monique looked up at him.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I can’t dance to save my life. I don’t want to make us look like fools in front of all these people – and embarrass you to boot.”

Monique laughed out loud. “All those flips I saw you doing at the gym, and you’re telling me you can’t dance? Don’t worry, just follow my lead and we’ll be fine.”

Erik grunted and monitored the radio traffic through his headset while advising his security counterparts of the upcoming introductions through a tiny microphone clipped to his shirt.

“The president and his wife should be out in about two minutes; the president’s speech has been timed at four minutes, but I can’t account for the MC and what he’ll be saying prior to that. So expect Miss LaSalle and me in roughly six minutes,” he reported to his teammates.

* * * *

Ralph Templar studied the gathering crowd as he served cocktails to the French dignitaries and socialites. The forgeries proved to be flawless; the police guarding the service entrance to the great hall had been bought by his employers, thus ensuring virtually unlimited access to the party area. Templar and his mercenary crew had ample time to set up and observe the security precautions as they were implemented.

The assassin easily spotted the Arabs as they took positions overlooking the large ballroom floor. He also noted the three Frenchmen and several other uniformed officials strategically placed throughout the open area that made up the lower level of the great hall. The lone Arab female was on the fourth floor, overlooking the entire proceedings and her perspective gave her a clear view of his desired perch where he had stowed his assault rifle inside the hollow of a small decorative podium. She was likely the lookout for trouble, the kind of trouble he and his mercenaries were bringing to the festivities. She had to be eliminated first.

Templar whispered a directive into the concealed microphone he wore and smiled as his command was acknowledged. The Arabic female would be eliminated before President LaSalle made his speech. Timing would be critical.

Templar surveyed the large sweeping staircase that led to the overhanging stage where President LaSalle and his daughter would be entering the great hall to address the guests. His best opportunity for a kill would be on the open dance floor during the ceremonial first dance. With only her dancing partner, Monique LaSalle would be exposed.

Once the ceremonies commenced, he would make his way to the third-floor balcony, thus be in place for his shot well before their dance occurred. He had previously chosen his hit location near a fire escape to enable a quick departure after his shot. The forged passes would allow the rest of his team easy escapes should they be detained by legitimate police or government officials.

Two of his men carried grenades and were eager to use them. But he frowned upon collateral damage, however, the confusion caused by smoke, debris and dead bodies would make his escape that much easier. He could tolerate the amateurish pyrotechnics, just this once.

His mercenary team and he were being paid a great deal of cash for this hit. The first two attempts on the socialite ended up in failure; he was determined not to be the third strike of this contract on Monique LaSalle.

* * * *

Erik listened intently as President and Mrs. LaSalle were introduced. The detective made one final communication to his team members. Monique was breathing heavily and a light film of perspiration covered her brow.

“I’m going to be right up there with you,” Erik said with sincerity. She had a right to be scared, but fear wouldn’t serve her while she addressed the guests. “Monique, focus only on what you want to say.” He gave her a confident nod and smiled at her. This was an important moment for her and if she gave in to her fear she risked freezing and stumbling through her speech.

She looked up at him, and the fear was clear on her face. “I know, Erik, but I can’t help it. I keep thinking that he could be out there, just waiting to kill me.”

Erik placed a hand against the side of her head.

No fear, I am here with you.
He
projected calm into her mind.

The young debutante took a deep breath and slowly her shaking stopped then she held out her hand for him to see; it was calm and steady.

“How do you feel now?” he asked her.

“I don’t know what you did, or how you did it, but I actually feel calm and relaxed. How did—?”

“Later,” he whispered. “It’s almost time for your big entrance.”

Sarina watched from her station on the fourth floor and listened intently to the French President as he made his light political speech. She glanced briefly around, noting the position of each of her men. Footsteps approached her. She turned. A waiter was going beyond his duties to offer her something from the platter of food he carried.

“Go back downstairs. You have no business being up here.”

“I’m sorry,” the waiter answered meekly. “I thought that you would perhaps like a bite to eat.”

“Thank you, no,” Sarina replied, irritated at the nuisance.

The waiter didn’t move right away. Sarina sought his eyes and saw malicious intent. She caught the slight movement of his other hand, partially concealed beneath the platter. His body angle provided cover for his movement. She quickly reached for her gun but was a fraction of a second too slow.

* * * *

The assailant fired his .22 caliber weapon. His bullet struck the beautiful terrorist between the eyes and the voluptuous Arab fell over in a heap, dead.

He put down his tray and dragged her lifeless body into a corner. Once her body was out of sight from the stairway, he fetched his snack tray and headed back downstairs to the crowd. If the first attempt on Monique LaSalle failed, he would be waiting in the shadows with an explosive grenade to end the French tart’s life. If the sniper killed the girl then the detonation of his grenade would provide carnage and cover for their escape. He admired the simplicity of their plan.

He straightened then descended the stairs to the main foyer, he paused to offer two of the Arabs food from his tray and smiled in gracious irony as they wolfed down several small delicacies.

* * * *

René, Jean-Luc and Paul were in constant contact as they performed visual sweeps of the large area. The main hall was packed with people now and it was difficult to maintain visual contact with each member of their security force.

René radioed Sarina but got no reply. He looked up to where the woman should have been standing and saw nothing. He dialed down one channel on his radio and contacted the other Arab men.

“Do a visual check on Ms. Fahaad’s location. She is not responding to any hail. I cannot see her from my position.” Two of the Arab men acknowledged his request and soon he saw them on the staircase, heading toward the fourth-floor balcony.

“Paul,” he called over the radio as he waved him over.

Once Paul was close enough, he gave him instructions. “Follow the Arabs. Something is wrong; I can feel it in my bones. Report back to me immediately,” René said. He turned toward his other partner, “Jean-Luc, keep in constant contact with the other men. We may need to move at a moment’s notice.” He patted his colleague’s shoulder in a gesture of trust and friendship.

* * * *

Ralph Templar observed the movements of the security people.

“Shit,” he cussed under his breath. They already knew something was wrong. He radioed his associates as he approached a service elevator.

“Two Arabs are on their way to the foyer, followed by a Frenchmen. I’m heading up to my perch via the service elevator. These men cannot be allowed to reach the fourth floor.”

Templar entered the elevator and waited impatiently as it carried him to the third floor. As he stepped out, he took out his pistol, threaded on a silencer and discharged three rounds into the control panel, destroying it in an impressive display of sparks and charred circuitry.

He could now hear Monique LaSalle being introduced to thunderous applause. As per the pamphlet distributed to arriving guests, he guessed he had four minutes to retrieve his rifle, assemble the components and do a quick bore sight with the scope’s optics before the young lady would be escorted to the dance floor by her escort.

The clock was ticking and time was running out. Templar could only hope that his men were able to intercept the two Arabs and the Frenchman.

* * * *

Paul felt uneasy. His gut was rarely wrong. He advised everyone over the radio that he was changing location to the second floor. Once there, he felt his stomach drop to his heels like a rock. One of the Arab guards was lying in a pool of blood. He felt for a pulse; there was none.

“Damn it to hell!” he whispered.

He drew his service pistol and proceeded toward the third level stairwell. He heard the sound of muffled gunfire and saw the other Arab man discharging his weapon at an unseen adversary. Paul rushed forward and assumed a cover position, firing three silenced rounds in the same general direction the Arab had been shooting.

Ducked behind an overturned table, the Arab glanced at Paul and gestured with two fingers. He pointed toward the doorway that led to the third floor stairwell. Paul nodded and slipped closer to the Arab. As he moved, bullets flew over his head and by his arm. He dove, head first, behind the intersecting hallway, directly opposite his partner.

“Is there another way up?” the Arab asked.

“There is a service elevator about a hundred feet back around the next hall,” Paul provided.

“You know the grounds better than I do; go check it. I’ll cover you.” The Arab squeezed off two more rounds. A volley of return fire splintered the woodwork in the walls that served as cover for both men.

Paul retreated while the Arab laid down a full clip of cover fire. He ran like a gazelle, yelling into his headset. He turned to race down the last stretch of the foyer into the elevator. He felt no real pain as bullets pierced his shoulder and thigh, just a mild burning sensation. He reacted per his training and returned fire with a volley of six well-placed bullets. The assailant came into view, dropping like a weight.

Paul struggled over to the elevator and pushed the ‘up’ arrow. The button did not illuminate. He tried again, still nothing.

Paul screamed into his headset “René! The elevator has been disabled. We’re trapped on the second floor. Get her out of here, René. Get the girl out of here!”

Looking down at the body lying at his feet, Paul realized the assassin was dressed as a waiter. They’d been inside all along. They got through all the heavy screening and police, and had actually been watching them as they positioned themselves throughout the great hall.
It has to be an inside job.
He looked down at the dead body again.

“Burn in hell, you bastard!” He kicked the corpse hard enough to hear several ribs snap.

The sound of music reached him. Young Monique was likely beginning her dance with the American detective.

“Knight,” Paul began as he felt his grip on consciousness fail.

* * * *

Erik Knight’s heightened senses had gone off like a five alarm fire bell during Monique’s speech. His position on the podium in front of all these people prevented a retreat to investigate; all he could do was listen, hope and provide cover for Monique.

Then he reluctantly began his dance with Monique.

Knight.
Paul’s voice came on weak with a hint of alarm to it.
It’ll come during the dance, from above, somewhere from on the third…or fourth floor.
Erik felt Paul slipping away.
She’s in your hands, American, your hands.
Paul Barlowe went quiet, and never spoke again.

Erik tightened all of his muscles while covertly scanning the upper balcony for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

Monique held him close and rested her head gently against his shoulder as they moved together to the slow music. “You are distracted, Erik. What’s wrong?” she whispered through a false smile.

“I don’t know yet,” he whispered. Monique tensed up.

Both kept on posing for the cameras knowing something was occurring in the background that might endanger them both.

Erik knew that René, Paul and the other Arab guards were engaging a small force somewhere on the second floor and that the service elevator had been disabled. The other French operatives had been effectively locked out of action. Somebody had evidently done their homework. Erik sensed the threat honing in on Monique and he looked up toward the third and fourth floor balconies. His eyes instantly spotted the assassin aiming his rifle.

“Oh shit; this is going to hurt,” he swore underneath his phony smile.

“What?” Monique asked, panicking. “What’s happening?”

“Just relax and move with me.”

Erik focused his senses on the assassin’s thoughts, allowing part of his Esper DNA to surface. The exact instant the man pulled the trigger, he swung Monique around and put his back between her and the oncoming bullet.

The bullet tore through his skin and collided against the large bones of his shoulder. His hybrid skeletal structure withstood the impact of the bullet and absorbed the spent projectile’s energy. He winced at the great deal of pain his body was subjected to.

The impact forced him forward, and he stumbled slightly. His senses detected the second and third round as they left the rifle muzzle and he felt more sharp stabs as the rounds entered his back, but he continued to shield Monique. When the third bullet sliced through his back, he faltered heavily, feeling the life drain from his body.

He stumbled, leaning heavily on Monique for balance. He had to change into his Esper persona or eventually black out, no longer be able to protect his charge.