Infidels (21 page)

The
death toll was confirmed in the thousands, and the pace seemed to be quickening.

But
right here, right now, the violence was about to be met with violence.

And he
was eager to get into the fray and take back his country.

“Ready,
Pierre?”

Laviolette
looked over at his buddy Jean Bastien and nodded. “Absolutely. You?”

“I’m
ready to piss my pants.”

Laviolette
grinned. “Me too.”

The
warnings continued to repeat, and the crowd roared in response, bricks and
bottles raining down on the staging area.

“Prepare
for stage one!” shouted someone in command, Laviolette not certain who. He just
kept eyes on his sergeant as he positioned his gas mask. “Execute!”

A
massive volley of teargas canisters launched at the crowd, seemingly hundreds
in number. Screams erupted as much of the crowd began to retreat, the line of
riot police immediately advancing to take advantage of the momentary break in
the crowd, each coordinated step forward accompanied with a smack of their
batons on their shields along with a shouted “Move!”.

He
formed up with his Sergeant, their group tasked to actually assault the embassy
and head directly for the underground bunker, their orders to shoot anything
that got in the way. He had never killed before, though he knew how.

Remember
your training and you’ll be fine.

His
sergeant’s words were of little comfort, for at this very moment he couldn’t
remember anything about his training. But that was the great thing about
military training. It was repeated so often it became second nature.

And
though he couldn’t think straight, he found himself advancing with the others,
men he knew better than his own brothers.

Shots
rang out from the crowd and one of the front line of riot police went down, the
line quickly forming up to seal the gap as two officers rushed forward to pull
the man to safety.

Laviolette
tried to tear his eyes away from the writhing man, clearly in agony.

“Prepare
for stage two!”

A row of
officers, a hundred strong, rushed up behind the riot line, teargas launchers
at the ready.

“Ready!”

The
front line dropped to a knee, lowering their shields enough for the second line
now formed behind them to have a clear shot at the crowd.

“Fire!”

Another
round of teargas fired directly into the crowd, dozens of protesters hit with
the canisters, collapsing from the impact as more screams erupted, the crowd
falling back again, the front line of police resuming their advance as the
second line reloaded.

If
this continues, we might not need to kill anyone.

They
cleared the street corner in front of the embassy, the line of riot police
splitting, those on the right holding the line to prevent the rioters from
outflanking them. Within minutes the front line had reached the gate, the line
curving, starting at the fence and arcing forward slightly.

“Prepare
for stage three!”

The
officers with the teargas launchers readied themselves, this time aiming only
into the fenced compound containing the embassy, filled to capacity, the gate
torn off its hinges earlier by chains hooked to the back of a truck.

“Ready!”

The
officers raised their launchers as Laviolette double-checked his mask.

“Fire!”

Dozens
of popping sounds filled the air as the canisters launched over the fence and
into the compound toward the façade of the building. Immediately the rioters
fled in the opposite direction, toward the fence and the open gate, the crowd
streaming through, the cordon of riot police shields funneling them farther
down the street.

As the
surge slowed another volley sailed onto the embassy grounds, much of the
remaining crowd fleeing leaving less than one hundred behind.

But
how many are inside?

“They’re through!”

Dawson
took a knee as one half of the heavy double doors holding back the rioters
collapsed inward, shattering two large desks in its way. Immediately the roar
of those on the other side could be heard, the first rioter scrambling over the
door, it at about a thirty degree angle, the desks still propping it up
slightly.

Dawson
took a bead on him. “Taking the shot!” He squeezed the trigger and the
protester went down but was soon followed by another and another. He and Niner
alternated taking shots, the small Marine detachment providing backup behind
them should one of them fall. There was no point wasting ammo with multiple
shooters hitting the same target.

The
other side of the door was hauled open.

And the
dynamic changed.

“We need
two more shooters!” ordered Dawson.

Immediately
two Marine corporals advanced, the fire still coordinated, the intensity doubled.

“Cocktail,
front!” shouted Niner as a flaming bottle spun through the entrance, shattering
against the wall about ten feet inside, the flammable fluid spraying across the
concrete wall, the flame racing after it. Within moments the hall filled with smoke
as the furniture caught fire, obscuring their view.

Dawson
kept up his deliberate fire, hitting anything in his field of fire that moved
as he noted the ventilation system indeed pulling the smoke up fairly
efficiently, but it would do nothing to stop the fire.

“I need
a shooter here!” yelled Niner, a Marine taking his place as he retreated,
grabbing the hose while another Marine cranked the valve, the water trickling
out before a strong stream suddenly erupted. A second stream near Dawson arced
over his shoulder and soon both hoses were directing water down the hallway,
but barely reaching the flaming furniture.

Dawson
coughed.

“We’re
going to have trouble breathing in here soon.”

The
Marine beside him nodded as he squeezed off a round. “Too bad all those gas
masks we’ve got in storage have no filters.”

Dawson
chuckled. “Haven’t you heard? The Cold War is over.”

“Somebody
tell that to Russia. I’d rather be fighting them any day.”

“I hear
you.” Dawson fired then reloaded, tossing the spent magazine behind him,
another being rushed forward while things were still relatively under control.

“What
are they doing?” asked the Corporal.

Dawson
squinted through the smoke then frowned. “They’re pulling the damned furniture
out.” He fired at one of the protesters who was on his belly, holding a table
leg as he yanked the flaming piece of furniture toward the doors.

Another
well-tossed Molotov cocktail exploded forty feet inside, directly in the center
of the hallway, the furniture immediately engulfed in flames only twenty feet
from their position. Niner and the Marine on the other hose immediately
redirected their attention to the closer fire, but the acrid smoke was
completely obscuring the view of the other end.

Dawson
pulled the pin from a flashbang and hurled it toward the entrance. “Fire in the
hole!”

Everyone
covered their ears and closed their eyes, the hoses clattering to the floor.
The explosion at the other end was deafening, Dawson immediately popping back
up as screams erupted from the protesters. Niner grabbed his hose, trapped
under a foot, immediately resuming fighting the fire, the Marine having a
little more trouble, he neglecting to trap his hose before letting it go.

Dawson
slammed a boot down on the errant hose, the Marine immediately grabbing hold.

“Thanks,
sir.”

Dawson
fired a round through the smoke, a shout telling him his best guess was still
better than most other’s best shot. “Just get that fire out, I can’t see a
damned thing!”

“Yes,
sir!”

The two
hoses were quickly put to work but by the time Dawson had even a murky view of
the other end he knew they had lost valuable ground. Dozens of protesters were
now inside, several holding up makeshift shields.

Car
doors?

Those
with the shields were now trying to protect the advancing crowds as furniture
was hauled out of the way.

Time
to teach them that Hollywood has been lying.

He fired
two rounds through the first door, the man behind it collapsing, the door
falling on top of him, giving Dawson a clear view of the rioters behind him.

He
emptied his mag, steady, carefully placed single shots taking out nearly a
dozen protesters.

Yet they
kept coming, the wide-eyed look of rage, all too familiar to him, now clear,
the fires almost doused.

“Gun!”

Dawson
dropped to a knee at Niner’s warning as shots rang out. The Marine beside him
groaned, falling backward. “Medic!” shouted Dawson as he popped back up, firing
several rounds of suppression fire as the downed Marine was hauled away.

A second
weapon opened up on their position.

He
spotted the shooter and fired, the woman dropping, her weapon immediately
picked up by another.

Something
hurled through the thin smoke.

“Cocktail,
front!” he shouted, jumping toward the Marines to his left and Niner, his arms
spread wide as he shoved them toward the wall, the flaming bottle shattering
where he had been standing only a split second before.

He felt
the splash of the alcohol hit him and suddenly he was engulfed in flames.

He
dropped to the floor, covering his face.

I
guess this is it.

Acton listened at the door, a Glock gripped tightly in his hand. The
sound of gunfire, explosions and screams had him terrified for his friends, and
itching to get into the fight. The contingent of Marines was small, after all
this was Paris, a supposedly safe country. Security was supposed to be provided
by the French, their responsibility including keeping people outside the fence.

But
today they had failed, and now every gun was needed.

And he
was trained.

He
looked over at his wife, lying on the bed, helpless. She had her own gun but she’d
be firing prone, with no way to run if she had to.

It would
be a last stand that would end when her ammo did.

She’d
have a better chance surviving if they never reached the room.

“You
want to join them, don’t you?”

He
stepped back to her side, the nurse with them making herself busy, Acton was
sure in an attempt to occupy her mind and block out the horrors taking place
only feet away.

“I’ll
stay with you,” he said, taking her hand.

She
shook her head. “Go help our friends. If they fail, we’re dead anyway. One more
gun on the line might make all the difference.”

Acton
smiled at her, leaning in and giving her a long, tender kiss.

And for
some reason it felt like it might be their last.

“I love
you.”

She
reached up and cupped his cheek. “And I you.”

He pressed
her hand against his face then stepped back, checking his weapon. “I’ll see you
soon.” He opened the door, the din suddenly overwhelming, just as a fireball
erupted twenty feet down the hall.

Engulfing
Dawson.

He
rushed forward as Niner and a Marine on the hoses quickly doused the Delta
operator, two Marines coming off the line to check on him, the hoses aimed back
at the fires farther down the hall.

A hall
that looked unlike anything he was expecting. The furniture, piled so carefully
earlier, was either gone—to where he had no idea—or destroyed by fire, thick
smoke making the air hard to breathe, obscuring the view.

But not
enough to hide the dozens of rioters inside the hallway, fighting their way
forward.

There’s
no way we’re stopping them!

He slapped
one of the Marines tending Dawson on the back. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Yes,
sir!” The Marine immediately returned to the line as Acton and the other Marine
pulled Dawson to safety. He hammered on the door of the infirmary.

“It’s
me, don’t shoot!”

“Okay!”
he heard Laura yell. He opened the door and they pulled Dawson inside the room,
the Marine immediately returning to the fight. “Who is it?” asked Laura as she
leaned over in the bed, the nurse immediately rushing over to help.

Dawson
coughed, smoke belching from his lungs. “Just me,” he said, trying to sit up.

“Stay
down,” said the nurse. “Let me examine you.”

“I’m
okay. I need to get back out there.”

“Not
until I check you. Stay still and this will go a lot faster.”

Dawson
looked at Acton, rolling his eyes. “You just had to take me off the line.”

Acton
shrugged. “Sorree, but you were looking like an overcooked roast out there.”

The
thunder of a flashbang shook the room.

“Hurry
up, nurse. I’ve gotta get back in the fight.”

The
nurse stood back. “Help me get him up.”

Acton
extended a hand and hauled Dawson to his feet as the nurse cut his clothes off
his body.

“I’m
going to need something to wear.”

She
pointed toward a cabinet. “In there.”

Acton
opened the doors and saw a pile of hospital scrubs. He picked up a set and
turned toward Dawson, laughing, the poor bastard looking a little pink with
nothing but his underwear and combat boots on.

“Laugh
it up, sweetheart.” Dawson nodded toward the bright green scrubs. “Is that all
they’ve got?”

Acton
shook his head, reaching inside and pulling out another set.

“They’ve
got pink!”

Mohammed Aziz smiled as the flames engulfed one of the Americans
then frowned as two hoses immediately doused the flames, the man hauled away within
moments.

I
hope he suffers.

He lit another
bottle and threw it.

Until
I remove his head.

Though
he was surrounded by the dead and dying, it was clear to him they were going to
win the day. They were halfway down the hallway now, the furniture used to try
and block them either moved out of the hallway or smoldering wrecks easily
broken apart.