The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (21 page)

Laura’s
window shattered and she screamed, pushing back from it toward James, whose
fist darted out, bloodying the nose of the man who was unfortunate enough to
push his head inside, reaching for her. Several more jabs to the face and the
man was trying to get out but James held him in place, obviously figuring a
bloodied, under control man blocking the window was better than some unknown.

Gunfire
rang out and the crowd screamed, scattering away from their car. The whine of
motorcycle engines was suddenly heard over the mob and the lead motorcycle
pulled up beside them.

“Get
out!” yelled the man. James opened his door, pulling Laura out after him then
helped her onto the back of the first motorcycle. He jumped on the back of the
second as the car pulled away, making a U-turn and blasting past the police
officers causing them to dive out of the way.

Laura’s
motorcyclist gunned the engine, peeling away before she even had a chance to
grab on. She looked over her shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief as she saw
her husband’s ride shoot after them.

They
rushed up between the lanes of traffic, easily doing three or four times the
speed of the slow traffic, leaving the chanting mob behind. Her heart was
slamming into her chest and she wondered for a moment what had happened to
their driver, there no way he could follow them in this traffic.

Hopefully
he gets away.

After
wincing in anticipation of a collision for the umpteenth time she decided she was
better off closing her eyes and holding on.

Only to
find it was more terrifying that way.

She
opened her eyes and looked back to see James’ bike close behind and a
motorcycle cop gaining. Her driver must have noticed as well, gunning the
engine even harder toward a red light, the opposing traffic still crisscrossing
the intersection.

She
screamed.

The
light changed, the stragglers clearing just as they entered the intersection
leaving them on almost open road for about a quarter mile where they really
opened up. A quick glance back resulted in a sigh of relief as she saw James on
their tail, the motorcycle cop cut off by the flow of traffic.

“Hang
on!” yelled her driver and she gripped him around his waist, tight. They banked
sharply to the right, into an alleyway, the high pitched whine of the engines
echoing through the confined space as they blasted through the tight quarters,
both motorcyclists hitting their horns to try and clear any pedestrians out of
the way. Suddenly the rear brakes were locked up in a puff of smoke, a hard
turn to the left almost toppling Laura from the bike. Several more repeats of
this maneuver had Laura swearing off motorcycles for life.

She
looked back at James then ahead.

And
gasped.

They
were racing full speed to what appeared to be a garage door in an old
industrial building. Three honks of the horn and with less than a hundred yards
to go the door rolled up, two men revealed yanking chains on either side of the
rollup door. They burst through, both ducking, the brakes locking up again, her
journey ending with a skid just before a pile of empty crates, the other bike
sliding up beside them as the rattle of the garage door closing cut off the
outside sunlight.

They
were in the dark.

Lights
flickered on and Laura remained on the bike, shaking.

“Are you
okay?”

She
looked toward the voice and saw Mai rushing up to them, a concerned look on her
face.

Laura
nodded and climbed off the bike, embracing Mai then James. Mai motioned toward
the man who had driven her. “This is my brother, Cadeo.”

The man
nodded at her as he removed his helmet.

She
looked into his eyes for the first time, and a chill raced up her spine as she suddenly
realized he was the man that had shot at her. James realized it at well,
jabbing a finger at him. “What the hell was the idea, shooting at my wife?”

Cadeo
looked at James with disdain. “I’m sorry I missed.”

She
placed a hand gently on her husband’s chest as he advanced on Cadeo, the sound
of weapons being needlessly cocked all around them. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean
it, otherwise he wouldn’t have helped rescue us.” She turned to Mai, hoping she
might defuse the situation. “Thank you for helping.”

“No
problem.” Mai looked at Cadeo. “Thank you, Cadeo, for getting my friends.”

Cadeo
grunted and walked away, dropping on a threadbare couch parked in front of a
large plasma television, two of his “gang” playing a split screen game of Grand
Theft Auto. He grabbed the remote control and surprisingly put on CNN.

“What’s
the latest?” asked James, turning to Mai.

Mai
pointed toward the television with her chin. “Look for yourself.”

Laura
turned and gasped at the headline.

Vietnamese
Forces Assaulting Secretary of State’s Hotel.

Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Eighth floor

Scattered unaimed bullets tore at the underside of the stairs Dawson
was standing on, a single round making it through the gap and tearing a hole in
the concrete leading to the ninth floor. He fired three more rounds into the
floor of the flight below, shards of concrete spraying in all directions,
powdered rock clouding the steps.

It
continued to keep their attackers at bay.

Atwater
and her team were working the phones trying to get the assault stopped, the 7
^th
Fleet already steaming toward Hanoi, jets already in the air from the USS George
Washington in a show of force. It had been fifteen minutes since the Vietnamese
had begun shooting. One of the DSS agents had been wounded in the leg in the
initial unexpected volley, but since then, nothing but close calls. He had
immediately issued orders for suppression fire only unless they reached the
landing below the eighth floor. So far the assault had been halted at both ends
of the floor.

They had
lost contact with Niner but the DSS agent who had been shot said he thought he
had caught a glimpse of him several floors below wearing a Vietnamese police uniform.

It made
sense.

Niner
had obviously put the officer he had dragged out of the elevator to good use.
He just wished he knew that he was safely off the grounds. He was assuming he
was, otherwise the assault would have most likely been stopped, their target
captured.

Another
burst from an AKM had he and the others hugging the wall, Spock leaning out as
soon as the shooter stopped to reload, firing three rapid rounds, the thunder
of the shots almost overwhelming in the tight space.

Heavy
gunfire from the other end of the hallway caught his attention. He activated
his comm.

“West
stairwell, status.”

“Taking
heavy fire!” came Jimmy’s reply. “Request permission to repel!”

“Permission
granted.”

Bursts
of MP5 and Glock rounds, distinctly different from the AK’s they were facing,
overwhelmed all other sounds as Dawson shot a glance down the hallway, the
doors at both ends held open in case the men in the stairwells had to retreat
quickly. So far the assault was only from below, but he had deployed men to the
tenth floor as well just in case, and they were hijacking the elevators as they
passed, the Vietnamese not thinking to shut them down. Right now all but two
had been stopped on the eighth or ninth floors, their doors jammed open to
prevent the elevator cars from moving.

A
disturbingly familiar sound, metal bouncing on concrete had him whipping back
around, his eyes immediately spotting the grenade that had just been tossed,
hitting the landing they were standing on. He grabbed one DSS agent by the suit
jacket, throwing him back into the hallway as the others all turned away from
the impending blast.

But not
Spock. As Dawson lunged toward the grenade Spock was way ahead of him, and with
the swiftness and accuracy of David Beckham, he kicked the grenade, still bouncing
in midair, back down the stairs, the tiny orb of fury sent toward the landing
between their floor and the one below.

Dawson
reached out and grabbed the slightly off balance Spock as the follow-through
prevented him from retreating quickly enough, the grenade still able to spit
its deadly shrapnel directly at him. Dawson yanked with all his might, pulling
Spock toward him then launching himself backward with a bend then shove of his
knees. As the two sailed through the air toward the door, the grenade
detonated. Shrapnel raced in every direction, shredding the walls and steps,
the concrete shards resulting in even more deadly material desperately seeking
flesh to mutilate.

Dawson
landed on his back, hard, the shockwave blasting over them as he closed his
eyes tight, there nothing he could do about his exposed ears, the comm in one
protecting him slightly. Powerful hands grabbed him by the vest, pulling him
through the door and into the hallway as four DSS agents rushed forward to
replace the now disoriented men.

Spock
rolled off him and hit the floor groaning as Dawson lay stunned for a moment.

“Are you
okay?”

It was a
DSS agent leaning over him, shouting the words, words that sounded a thousand
miles away. Words that weren’t registering.

Reality
kicked back in though his ears were still ringing. He nodded to the DSS agent
then rolled toward Spock to find him lying on his back, facing him. “Are you
okay?”

Spock
pushed himself up on his elbows and paused for a moment as he did a
self-assessment.

“I’ll
live.”

The DSS
agent pulled Dawson to his feet then Spock. “You sure you two are okay.”

“We’re
good,” replied Dawson, brushing himself off, both of them sporting a good
covering of pulverized concrete. Dawson activated his comm. “West stairwell,
report.”

“Attack
repelled, one casualty, she’ll live,” replied Jimmy. “We’re pressing our
advantage, pushing them back two levels, over.”

“Roger
that. Hold at the seventh floor, we don’t want them getting in behind you,
over.”

“Holding
on seven, out.”

“We’ve
got troop transports arriving at the front!” yelled a DSS agent over the comm.
“Looks like a company of heavily armed troops!”

Dawson
looked at Spock as they returned to the stairwell, the DSS agents now a floor
below them. Spock frowned. “We’re two dozen. There’s no way we’re holding off a
company.”

“You can
put a thousand men in a stairwell. They’re no more effective than the two guys
in the lead. Our problem is ammo. Their problem is willingness to die.”

They
began to descend the stairs. “Enough grenades and we’re done for. We got
lucky.”

“Thanks
to your soccer skills.”

“Nothing
like the one you batted with the stock of your MP5 last year.”

“That’s
different, that was baseball, my sport. I’ve never seen you kick a soccer ball
before.” Dawson eyed the large amount of blood splattered on the walls and
floor at the landing for the seventh floor. Clearly those who had thrown the
grenade hadn’t been as lucky as he and Spock. “Besides, I got damned lucky on
that one. If the guy had done a proper count I’d have been ground beef.”

They
reached the landing with four DSS agents, guns aimed down at the next flight,
sporadic gunfire being sprayed blindly up, the miscue on the grenade seeming to
have taken some of the fight out of their opponents, a bloody trail where a
body had been dragged down the stairs a stark crimson reminder of just how
lucky they had all been that Spock was on the ball.

A DSS
agent squeezed the trigger of his MP5 sending a short burst of lead down to the
next landing. Dozens of sets of boots could be heard rushing up the stairs from
below as the new arrivals flooded the stairwell. Dawson activated his comm.
“Prepare for assault. Reinforcements have arrived. If we have to fall back
retreat to the ninth floor. Send a two man team to check out the upper levels then
the roof. Control, contact the George Washington and see if there’s any chance
of getting a chopper here to evac the Secretary, out.”

Dawson
holstered his Glock and motioned for one of the agents to hand him their MP5. He
checked the weapon as Spock switched as well. “I’ll take point, you stay back.
You take over while I’m reloading. We’ll pile the bodies if we have to. We’re
not losing the Secretary on my watch.” He pointed at the four DSS agents with
them. “As we advance past the bodies, relieve them of weapons and ammo. Let us
know if they’ve got grenades. Those could be the great equalizer.”

“Yes,
sir,” they echoed, clearly nervous. Dawson didn’t blame them. This wasn’t like
anything they had ever experienced. They were security guards. Best damned trained
security guards in the world, but they were never meant for all-out war like
this.