A man popped back inside, spraying high with a MAC 10, the recoil impossible to control with one hand. I squeezed the trigger, feeling someone fire from my right at the same time, multiple rounds puncturing the gunman’s body. He dropped, and I ran to the breach, sliding forward on my knees, weapon up, far enough behind cover to catch only a sliver of the hall.

I saw the outside stairwell door, now propped open with a chair, and chat man just down the steps, covered by the slope. He raised his MP-5 and sprayed, splintering the jamb around my head. I pulled inside and said, “PC moving, outside stairwell. Need suppression on the door.”

I looked to my right, and saw it was Aaron who’d entered with me. I wasn’t surprised, but wished it were one of my men. Behind him was Brett, hugging the wall out of the line of fire. He said, “We need to move,” and I knew he was right. Retro was hit, but there was no time to stop the assault to determine his status. All that mattered now was speed. And violence of action.

The MP-5 sprayed again, clipping the door, and I knew we had to box him in, catching him in a crossfire. Otherwise, he’d hold that stairwell for days, like the three hundred at Thermopylae. Still calm, I said again, “Knuckles, Knuckles, need that door suppressed.”

My earpiece echoed, “On it. In two. One. Go.”

I heard nothing but a clanking of bolts, then saw the stairwell door splinter like someone was working a chain saw. I slapped Aaron in the leg and said, “Let’s go!” On my belly, I slithered across the hall into the alcove I’d seen earlier, Aaron right behind me. We pulled against the wall, now feet away from the stairwell door. The MP-5 came forward again, the barrel outside, but so close the fire from the rounds split the air right by us like a Roman candle.

I said, “Blood, Blood, get him looking your way,” then heard Aaron shout, “Pike! He’s on the run! We’re losing Shoshana!” I leapt to the bay window he was peering out of and saw a sloping half roof just below the sill, and farther out a large man dragging Shoshana by the hair into the shadows, her arms bound behind her back. I recognized Omar al-Khatami.

Fuck the stairwell.

Without conscious thought, I grabbed a flower pot from the alcove table and shattered the window. I backed up three feet, then sprinted forward, crossing my arms and leaping up.

I smashed through the window feetfirst, landing on my butt on the stucco roof. I bounced once and went into free fall. I hit the ground on my feet and reflexively rolled as if I were landing under a parachute, only it wasn’t nearly as soft. I slammed into a cheap fountain, hearing another body hit the concrete behind me.

Omar let go of Shoshana and raised a pistol. He fired, spanking the plaster of the fountain and ripping my head with spall. From my back, I squeezed off two rounds, missing, but causing him to duck. He shouted something and took off, running down the alley.

I let him go, pausing for a half second to assess the fact that I was still alive. I got that useless shit out of my system as Aaron jumped to the alley entrance. He locked it down, and I sprinted to the base of the stairs. I saw the MP-5 shooter crouched, spraying rounds into the hallway. He yelled in Russian, then glanced my way, looking for support. What he got was two rounds from my rifle, both hitting him in the head and breaking it open like a watermelon smashed with a mallet. The 300 Blackout round was definitely growing on me. He slumped down and everything grew quiet.

I looked at Aaron kneeling at the alley entrance, and he shook his head, telling me Omar was no longer a threat. Meaning he had escaped. I keyed my earpiece. “All clear. Jackpot. I say again, Jackpot. Give me a status.”

I turned back to the courtyard, feeling the adrenaline start to subside like an ocean tide, exposing the bumps and bruises from my stupid stunt.

Aaron went to Shoshana, cutting her free. I could see she was a little bit dazed.

Brett said, “Retro is okay. Just nicked in the thigh. Everyone else is fine.”

Looking at Shoshana, Aaron tending to her, I said, “Blood, get the vehicle. Stage on the south side of the courtyard, away from the city square. Knuckles, get back to the room. Pack it up and leave when you think it’s natural. Give your weapons to Koko and act like you’re pissed you took a room at a drug hideout. Get a read on the police response and potential compromise. Koko, get Retro down here. Get ready for exfil. I want to leave in less than four minutes.”

I walked over to Shoshana and knelt down. She said, “What happened to the mission?”

Smiling, I said, “Don’t even fucking go there. Don’t do it.”

Aaron finished removing her bonds, his relief so great it permeated the entire courtyard. Shoshana was looking me in the eye, and she was going deep. The bravado was gone, and I could see the cracks in her facade. Tears formed in her eyes, and she started shaking, coming to grips with the fact that she wasn’t dead.

I leaned into her face, cupping her chin. “You okay?”

She said, “Pike . . . I . . . I . . .”

I said, “There is no I in team. Although there’s apparently an Aaron.”

She looked at him, and he leaned in, kissing her forehead, breaking a sacrosanct rule and finally showing her what she was worth. His very life. Left unsaid were all of the conversations earlier. Gone as if they’d never existed.

I saw the tears start to flow and said, “Jesus Christ. Get this blubbering woman out of here.”

She laughed, but kept crying. Jennifer came down the outside stairwell, Retro right behind, holding a bandage on his thigh. He seemed okay. He said, “Was it Omar?”

“Yeah. It was Omar.” I knew he was asking for more than identification. I said, “Fuck him. We need to get out of here. He gets to live another day.”

70

Jacob walked through the lobby, his pants a little wet from the last trip, a product of having to clean off the blood. He scanned the chairs, but the mistress still had not returned.

He’d come back from killing Fart Boy—a ridiculously easy event, as it turned out—only to find her gone. He’d hoped that she would remain until after he was complete with all three, thereby giving him a shot at removing her as well, but it wasn’t to be.

He went back up the stairs for the third and final time, thinking about the mistress. The fact that she’d shown up to the hotel meant she was more persistent than he’d given her credit for. It also meant she’d be back, sitting and waiting. Eventually, she’d grow tired of anonymous stalking and would start asking questions. That could potentially derail their entire plan.

It wasn’t a given. The attack was close, and it would quite probably take her longer to even determine that something was wrong, then much longer to figure out what that was. Especially if the mistress had to wade through a foreign police department. It wasn’t like she’d call the wife, demanding answers. Or would she?

Such a conversation would be the only thing that would cause an immediate collapse of the card house they’d built. The church would become involved, the emails to parents dissected, a brief moment of confusion at the conflict between the mistress’s story and the mail, then the Vatican would be contacted with a demand to speak to Chris, the official chaperone on a once-in-a-lifetime visit to see the pope. If the Lost Boys showed up in that firestorm, pretending to be the group, they’d be arrested immediately.

Something to think about.

He exited the stairwell and refocused on the immediate mission. He reached the room and knocked. Devon answered, looking more sober than the last time Jacob had left. He stood back from the doorway and said, “Last guy’s fallen asleep. I let him. Got sick of keeping him happy.”