Dance With the Enemy

They say that before you die your whole life flashes before you. But nobody can know for sure what happens in those moments before death. If you do see your life flashing before your eyes, does that mean you’ve got no chance? And if it
doesn’t
, does that mean you’re going to be okay?

Carl Logan didn’t know. Five months ago, on the day he almost died, no bright light had been calling him in, no images from his childhood flickering through his mind. There had been only pain and suffering.

Logan had been on his last breath. His brain had submitted. His body, too. He shouldn’t have been alive. But after his heart had beaten its last beat, it had beaten one more time. And then it had beaten again.

And it had kept on going.

It hadn’t been his time to go.

But he hadn’t been saved. Not by a long stretch.

Maybe the psychologist had been right. Maybe he was an addict. Who else would put themselves in these positions willingly? Knowingly?

He had the man in a hammerlock. It was a classic submission hold. Its ease of application, and the fact it could be used from an upright position, meant it was a favoured hold of bouncers and law enforcement the world over. Logan was in neither of those professions, but it was a move that he had found to suit many purposes nonetheless.

He pulled the man’s wrist further up towards the shoulder, feeling the resistance as the shoulder joint was pushed to bursting point. The man let out a yelp at what was becoming an inevitable outcome. His friends, just five yards in front of Logan at the other end of the bar, continued to look on, forming a physical barrier between Logan and where he wanted to be – the exit.

‘Move out of my way. Now,’ Logan said. ‘Don’t think for a second I won’t do it.’

Despite the threat, the man’s three friends stood their ground. They weren’t about to back down. But they weren’t looking like they were about to make a move either. For now, it was a stand-off. Neither side wanted to take it to the next level.

Yet.

Logan looked them over, one by one. Rednecks would be a harsh way to describe them. They were probably just average working guys letting off steam on a weekend; albeit guys who
were bulked up through steroids and overuse of weights, and fuelled by alcohol and God knows what else. Each one of them was big and menacing. And judging by the non-situation that had started this, they were looking for a fight tonight.

And for no sane reason, other than he was who he was, Logan was prepared to grant them their wish. He wasn’t the tallest or the strongest guy in the world, but he could handle himself just fine. Despite the odds, he still fancied his chances against this lot.

‘I warned you,’ Logan said.

He pulled the man’s wrist further, as hard and as fast as he could, pushing against the resistance until he heard the tell-tale pop as the man’s arm dislocated from the shoulder. The way it suddenly flopped in his hand told Logan it had probably dislocated at the elbow too. The man shrieked in pain and slumped to the floor as Logan let go, readying himself for the next stage of his latest battle.

The three friends, wide-eyed and staring, looked shocked at what had just happened. Maybe their macho stand-offs didn’t normally go this far. And yet they continued to stand their ground. Logan was a little surprised by that.

But then he saw it. The man on the left. It was nothing more than a flinch. Maybe just a twitch, even. But it was enough for Logan. Enough to tell him that this wasn’t over yet. And that man was now his next focus.

But just as Logan was about to leap forward, something unexpected happened.

He heard the noise before he felt anything. A dull thud. He was on his knees before the searing pain in the back of his leg took hold. Then came the thud again. This time pain shot across his back.

In an instant, unable to stop himself, he was face down on the floor.

He tried to stand up, but the combination of whisky and whatever had just hit him was too much. Instead, he just lay there, hearing the thuds that kept on coming. Feeling the pain with each strike, but unable to muster a response. He saw boots crowding around him. Saw them pulling back and kicking him. Pulling back and kicking. The thuds kept on coming across his back.

He took a boot to the face and felt his lip open up, blood pouring into his mouth. The blows kept on coming but Logan didn’t
move. He wasn’t sure he could anymore. He closed his eyes, wondering how things had gone so wrong this time. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe he had never really got it back. He had been out of action for too long. Five months had gone by now since his last fateful assignment. Five months of hell.

His mind began to wander, his awareness of the blows raining down on him fading. Before consciousness left him, he felt a slither of an unlikely smile form on his face.

The psychologist
was
right. He
was
an addict.

But it wasn’t the fighting that he was addicted to. It wasn’t the pain either – he was no masochist. Too many years had gone by living a life that wasn’t a life at all. He didn’t want to be
their
machine anymore. He couldn’t. That was his addiction – the clamour for some sort of normality. He just wanted to live and to feel like everyone else did. Nights like this, in a twisted logic that made sense only to him, allowed him that.

He just wanted to be normal.

And yet he knew that would never be the case.

The motorcade edged along the Voie Georges Pompidou on the banks of the Seine, heading back towards the American Embassy. Three identical black Escalades, one after the other, the vehicles almost twice as heavy as regular models due to the extensive armouring. Six agents from the United States Foreign Service were in the three cars, each of them armed, carrying SIG Sauer P229 pistols with twelve-round clips.

It was heavy protection. But it needed to be.

The Foreign Service was responsible for running all of the US foreign embassies, consulates and missions. Its special agents were responsible for the safety and security of visiting US diplomats, amongst other duties. Today, the special agents attached to Paris were assigned to protect Frank Modena, the eighty-third Attorney General of the United States of America.

The official threat level for Modena’s trip was minimal, but the embassy had insisted on taking necessary precautions given the high-profile nature of his visit. Everyone in the world knew of the subject matter that he had come here to talk about. And almost everyone had a strong view on it.

Modena, a well-built, silver-haired man, was sitting in the back of the second Escalade, along with his much younger assistant, Laura. The midday traffic was heavy and they meandered along, passing some of the most famous sites of Paris – of Europe. Undoubtedly, the road they were on passed along what was one
of the most spectacular riverfronts in the world, with its rich history and eclectic mix of buildings. In the world’s capital of romance, the River Seine, and all it had to offer, was the epicentre.

All of this was lost on Modena, however, who was deep in his own thoughts, reflecting on the speech he had just given to a room full of delegates from across the world. All things considered, it hadn’t been at all bad.

Modena’s eye caught a young couple, strolling along the riverbank, arm in arm. They stopped and embraced each other. Together with the scene that surrounded them, the iconic buildings and leafy parks, it was like something straight out of an art-house film. It sparked thoughts in Modena’s head about what the evening’s antics with his assistant, Laura, might entail. But he had no intention of heading out for a romantic walk. Everything he wanted tonight would be found within his luxurious hotel suite. He glanced over at Laura and caught her eye. She gave him a meek smile then looked away coyly. Gazing out the window, she lifted up the skirt on her leg just a little, as if she knew exactly what he had been thinking. Modena felt the rumblings of arousal begin.

But his daydreaming was rudely cut short when, without warning, the driver slammed on the brakes and the vehicle came to a sudden stop. Modena shot forward, his belt catching and jolting him back into his seat.

‘Jesus, Bridges!’ Modena shouted to his driver. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘Sorry, sir. The car in front stopped suddenly. Looks like an accident up ahead.’

Modena tutted and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d not taken to Bridges at all. The guy looked barely old enough to drive, never mind be a special agent. He was tall and fair-haired, all skin and bone. Not exactly a threatening presence. Where did they even get these kids from?

Modena carried on nursing his neck. He had an old whiplash injury from a previous car accident. Even after six years, any unexpected movement sent waves of pain through his upper spine.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Bridges said again.

‘That’s okay,’ Modena said without conviction. He leaned his
head into the middle of the two front seats so that he could see out through the windscreen. But he couldn’t see what was up ahead. They had come to a stop only inches from the first of the three cars in the motorcade, which was now blocking the view. ‘What do you think the problem is?’

‘Can’t really see,’ said Carlson, the agent in charge of the convoy, who was sitting next to Bridges. ‘But there are some flashing lights up ahead and Roberts just called over to say there’s a crash up front on the Place de la Concorde.’

Carlson was everything Bridges was not. Ex-military, he was stocky with a furrowed brow and chiselled face. He looked like he meant business and he looked like he’d seen it all. Modena had liked him immediately. Probably because he was the kind of man Modena wanted to be seen as, rather than the pen-pusher that he really was.

Modena heard sirens coming from behind. He turned to look out of the back window and saw an ambulance trying to come through. But the traffic was too tight and the cars were struggling to move out of the way to let it pass.

Slowly, the cars directly in front began to pull to the side. After the lead Escalade had squeezed forward, Bridges did the same and mounted the kerb to allow the ambulance to pass.

The ambulance came to a stop again just past the front Escalade. Modena assumed the cars further in front were still blocking the way.

‘Idiots,’ Bridges muttered. ‘I never understand why people can’t just do the simple thing and pull over so they can get past.’

Carlson huffed in agreement.

Two police motorcycles came up behind the ambulance and they too were now stuck. Modena moved forward in his seat to get a better look. The ambulance was still just past the first Escalade, its lights and sirens still blaring. The motorbikes were parked one behind the other, right outside Modena’s window.

After a few moments, the back doors to the ambulance opened.

‘Looks like they’ve had enough,’ Modena said.

But he did a double-take as the doors opened fully to reveal two figures dressed from head to toe in black. They had balaclavas over their heads, leaving just their eyes and mouths exposed.

Modena’s mind began to race as he tried to figure out what was wrong with the scene. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he said, a fraction of a second before it clicked.

‘Oh shit!’ was all Carlson could say as the two figures lifted assault rifles to their chests.

‘Get down!’ Bridges screamed at Modena.

The two figures from the ambulance opened fire on the front Escalade, but Modena, stunned, was unable to react. The thudding sound from the volley of fire seemed to reverberate through his entire body. His world in slow motion, he turned to see the man who had been on one of the motorcycles walking towards the third Escalade. The other was pointing a gun directly at Modena. They both opened fire on their targets and Modena jumped as the bullets ricocheted off the armoured vehicle.

‘Oh my God!’ Modena shrieked. ‘We’re under attack! Jesus! We’re under attack!’

All around, pedestrians began to scream and run for cover. Some of the people in the cars in front and behind were jumping from their vehicles and running too.

Modena finally put his head down to his knees. It was only then that he heard Laura crying in terror next to him. ‘Frank, what’s going on?!’

Modena didn’t respond.

‘We need immediate assistance!’ Carlson shouted into his radio. ‘Repeat, we need immediate assistance! We’re taking heavy fire! Bridges, you have to try to get us out of here.’

Modena couldn’t keep his head down any longer. He had to know what was going on. He lifted his head again just as Bridges put the Escalade into reverse and pressed the accelerator. The car jerked backwards two yards, crunching into the front of the third car. He pushed the stick into drive and they lurched forward three yards into the front car. He carried out the same manoeuvre again, trying to create enough of an angle to get them out. The other two cars remained stationary, their drivers making no apparent attempt to move away from the danger.

Modena wasn’t sure if that was out of choice or because they were already dead.

After the initial round of fire at Modena’s vehicle, both of the motorbike gunmen were now firing on the third Escalade.
The two ambulance men were still firing on the front car. In the momentary respite, Modena couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief, despite the predicament.

‘What are we going to do?’ he shouted.

‘Just stay calm,’ Carlson shouted back, sounding anything but. ‘And keep your head down!’

‘We’re armoured, right? They can’t get us. Right?’

‘Look, we’re armoured, but those rifles will cut through here eventually. These vehicles aren’t made for heavy fire. We have to get away from them.’

Modena, ignoring Carlson’s instruction, kept his head up to see what was happening. He watched as the front passenger door of the first Escalade opened and an agent fell out onto the ground. Modena’s first thought was that the agent was already dead. But then he hauled himself up against the wheel arch, trying to give himself some cover from the attackers at the opposite side of the car, his gun held at his chest. The ambulance men must have seen him escape the car, though. While one continued to fire on the vehicle, the other made his way cautiously to the front of the car.

Modena heard the crash as the glass on the driver’s side of the first car gave way. He looked on in horror as the attacker moved forward, still firing on the stricken agent in the driver’s seat. Seconds later, with the driver of the first vehicle surely dead, the attacker turned his attention to Modena’s vehicle and began firing again – aiming low for the bonnet.

Bridges tried again to manoeuvre enough space to get out. ‘Just once more should do it!’ he said, desperation in his voice.

The agent who had escaped the front car was still hunkered behind its wheel arch. With a sudden head of steam, he stood up, firing his weapon at the second ambulance man who was just a few yards from him at the front of the vehicle. One of the shots hit the attacker in the shoulder and he stumbled backwards. But the agent hadn’t been quick enough and the attacker had managed to get off four rounds with the rifle. The agent could do nothing as each of the bullets hit his mid-section. Modena watched in horror as the bullets tore right through him, four neat exit holes appearing in his jacket, arranged in a cluster, only inches apart.

Almost in slow motion, the agent’s lifeless body slumped onto the ground in a heap.

Laura let out a whimper at the sight of the agent going down. Both Carlson and Modena turned to her in unison.

‘For God’s sake, get down and stay down!’ Carlson screamed at them both.

Laura did as she was told, but Modena was frozen. Bridges finally managed to manoeuvre enough space to get out. He pressed the accelerator all the way down and the car shot toward the first ambulance man, who only just managed to jump out of the way. The Escalade, with nowhere to go, crashed into the back of the ambulance. Bridges carried on stamping on the accelerator, the engine revving and the tyres screeching, sending up plumes of thick smoke. But the ambulance didn’t move an inch.

He looked behind and started to reverse. Modena looked behind as well. In addition to the two abandoned motorbikes, which were now directly behind them, there was also a panel van that had pulled up about ten yards behind them, blocking any planned exit. The Escalade swept backwards and knocked the first motorbike clean out of the way. There was a crash as they hit the second motorbike, which was pushed along, caught on their rear bumper. But their escape was cut short once more as they crashed into the stationary van.

Modena was thrown back against his seat and felt the jolt of pain surge through his neck again. This time, he didn’t even think about nursing his injury. Bridges pounded as hard as he could on the accelerator, but the van wasn’t going to be moved. He then tried desperately to put the car back into drive, jolting the gear lever in and out, in and out, pressing his foot down hard on the accelerator each time he did so. Each attempt let out a low-pitched whine, but produced no movement.

‘There’s no power!’ Bridges shouted, still pushing the gear stick in and out of drive, but to no avail. ‘The engine – it’s dead!’

‘Okay. We need another route out of here,’ Carlson said, his voice still calm and steady, unlike those of the other occupants. ‘If we get out your side, you can provide covering fire while I move the rest of us away.’

Modena, hearing the agents’ conversation but paying no attention to their words, looked to his right. The windows of the third Escalade, with which they were now parallel, had caved in, just like the first. The two agents in the front were motionless, their faces bloodied and bowed.

‘Oh God, no,’ Modena said, putting his hand to his mouth.

And then, just as it had been at the start, everything went silent. A deathly silence. No screaming, no shots ringing out now. But Modena’s mind was racing too much to understand why.

Was he already dead?

In the silence, Laura looked up again. Tears were streaming down her face, leaving a trail of black from her mascara. She let out another whimper and flung her head into Modena’s lap. Her boss didn’t react, just looked on aghast at the scene of carnage in front of them.

The four assailants were crowded around the front of Modena’s car. Their weapons were still drawn but they were no longer firing. Carlson and Bridges looked at each other then back out at the gunmen without saying a word.

‘You have ten seconds to get out of the vehicle,’ one of the armed men shouted. The leader, Modena assumed. He was speaking in English, with what Modena thought was a southern English accent. Modena hadn’t expected that. It seemed out of place. ‘Ten seconds or we start firing again. And you can see what happened to your friends.’

‘What the hell are we going to do?’ Modena said.

Carlson and Bridges looked at each other again. They were both armed. But they weren’t in a position to fight these men, who had both superior numbers and superior weapons.

‘I don’t think we have much choice,’ Carlson said. ‘We do as they say. There’s no sign of any help coming in the next ten seconds and we’re not exactly equipped to fight these guys.’

‘A minute ago you said we should get out,’ Bridges said. ‘I’ll cover you. We can still do that.’

‘It’s too late!’ Carlson snapped. ‘We should do what they say.’

‘No,’ Bridges said, shaking his head. ‘We have to try to fight. It’s what we’re trained to do. There’s only four of them.’

‘And how do you suggest we do that? There are four assault rifles aimed at us. As soon as we made a move, it’d be over.’