Infidels (22 page)

And they
now had weapons.

Apparently
those outside were having a tough time of it, the riot police advancing, so the
few with guns retreated into the embassy to help the cause, the ultimate goal
to kill the Americans hiding here before they were overtaken.

For he
had no doubt they would be.

It was
inevitable.

Yet he
didn’t care. He was prepared to die for Allah, for Islam, knowing he’d be
welcomed into paradise, into Jannah, as a reward for slaying the infidels for
their unspeakable affront.

In fact
he wanted to die.

France
was no longer his home, actually it never had been. It was a prison his parents
had chosen decades ago, before he was even born, and now he was forced to live
out his days surrounded by people who looked down on him, who hated him because
of his thick beard or the clothes he chose to wear to demonstrate his devotion
to Islam, who refused to hire him despite his excellent grades.

He was
one of the over forty percent of young Muslims who couldn’t find work.

And
probably never would.

His
generation had had enough. It was time to fight back, to take what was owed, to
show those around them that they wouldn’t be kept in their ghettos, ignored any
longer.

He had
participated in the riots a few years ago, torching his fair number of cars, in
fact it was then that he had learned the fine art of the Molotov cocktail, the
amateur sometimes igniting himself if not careful.

He
flicked his lighter, it sparking futilely. He tried again, and again nothing.

He
cursed.

And
immediately recited a prayer of forgiveness.

Something
clattered on the ground beside him. He turned and gasped at the sight of what
looked like a grenade. Covering his head and squeezing his eyes shut, he tried
to leap out of the way but it was too late, the explosion deafening, shoving
him into the wall, his head smacking hard.

He
slipped to the floor and out of consciousness as his comrades screamed in pain
around him.

I’m
ready.

Corporal Pierre Laviolette performed his umpteenth weapons check as
the lead line of riot police advanced again, this time passing the entrance to
the embassy grounds, trapping those still defiant enough to remain.

“Remember
your mission!” shouted the Sergeant over the crowds. “The Americans are trapped
in the basement and their security is breached. They only have minutes before
they are overrun. We enter through the front, go left to the stairwell, down to
the sub-basement, and free the hostages. Our orders are to eliminate anyone who
gets in our way.” He looked at his men, his face grim, his eyes resting on a
nervous Laviolette. “Remember, they will do everything they can to delay us.
Their goal is to murder those trapped below. We can’t let that happen.
Understood?”

“Yes,
Sergeant!”

Laviolette
felt goose bumps race up and down his spine as the dozen strong strike force
responded, his own automatic response barked out, loud and clear, volume
belying confidence.

Remember
your training and you’ll be fine.

“Proceed!”

Four of
the most experienced men took point, leading the way, the others behind in a
wedge formation as they advance through the gate, weapons aimed at their
opposition.

Somebody
charged.

And was
dropping instantly.

More
rushed toward them.

“Open
fire!”

Laviolette
wasn’t sure if he pissed his pants or not, but he suddenly felt too relaxed
down below. Gunfire erupted beside him and he squeezed his trigger, focusing on
the centers of mass in front of him rather than the faces charging their
position.

And he
continued to advance.

They
will do everything they can to delay us.

He
ejected his empty magazine and reloaded, taking aim at the nearest target in
his field of fire.

They
turned to run.

He held
his fire.

The
crowd seemed broken as they advanced toward the front entrance, police pouring
in behind them to arrest those still on the wrong side of the fence, a long row
of transport vehicles waiting to cart them away to Bercy Arena for processing.

But that
wasn’t his concern.

The lead
hit the steps, firing steady, short bursts at those inside to clear the way,
pressing the advantage, however fleeting it may be. Laviolette’s boot hit the
first step as the wedge narrowed and advanced, he on the outer edge, covering
their left flank until he too was through the doors.

It was
up to the police behind them to cover their backs, they had to reach the
subbasement before it was too late then worry about whether or not they had to
fight their way out again.

“Jesus,
did we do that?”

He
shrugged at his friend’s question as they stepped over a mass of bodies.
Judging from the fact they all seemed to have been heading toward the stairwell
and shot in the chest it looked like the defenders had made some sort of stand
here, probably to delay the mob while civilians descended to safety.

Again
goose bumps.

To think
that only a few armed personnel inside the embassy held their ground against an
overwhelming crowd filled him with an almost euphoric sense of pride in people
he had never met and may never meet.

But
these were soldiers. Allies. These were people who were fighting to protect the
innocent, just like he and his comrades were, and as he climbed over the last
of the bodies before the stairwell, he was determined more than ever to save
them.

Shouts
from behind had him spinning to check their six but he was relieved to see armed
riot police rushing through the doors, weapons raised, advancing into the
building.

They’ve
got our backs.

Into the
stairwell, down the stairs, those in the lead opening fire as protesters rushed
toward them, the unit never slowing down. A dozen strong, they pressed forward,
down the narrow stairs and over the bodies of felled invaders, Laviolette
almost numb from the deafening echo of gunfire in the confined space, nearly slipping
on the blood that drenched the steps.

Several
shots rang out from below and one of those in the lead dropped, immediately
replaced as the others poured a steady stream of gunfire on the shooter,
silencing him forever. Laviolette passed the wounded man, their medic already
at his side.

It
doesn’t look so bad.

But he
wasn’t a medic. His buddy, Marcel, looked calm, looked alert, but who knew if
an artery had been nicked and he was bleeding out without even knowing.

In sixty
seconds he could be dead.

He
passed his friend, losing sight of him around the next bend in the stairwell,
pushing him from his mind.

The
stairs suddenly opened up, a stairwell door all that separated them from the
mob on the other side and their destination, the damaged wired glass windows providing
a narrow view of what they were facing.

A
barricade that could take some time to break through.

And
dozens of crazed fundamentalists.

Let’s
just kill them all and get it over with.

Dawson looked at himself in the mirror as he quickly donned a set of
hospital scrubs, his own clothes burnt so badly they had literally fallen apart
as they had been removed. He was a little toasted but none the worse for wear,
at most first degree burns on some of his exposed skin.

He’d be
a hundred percent within a couple of days.

But he
was still good enough to get back into the fight.

Somebody
hammered on the door as he shoved his feet into his boots. Acton went to answer
it when it was thrown opened, Niner standing in the door, his weapon aimed down
the hall, the roar of the assault suddenly filling the room.

“You
decent?” he asked.

Dawson
grunted as he squirmed his left foot into its boot properly. “Good to go.”

Niner
nodded toward Laura, still in the hospital bed. “We’ve got to get you folks out
of here, they’re getting too close. Can she be moved?”

“Bloody
right she can be moved,” said Laura, pushing herself up on her elbows and
beginning to swing her legs off the bed.

Acton
stopped her. “No, stay on the bed, we’ll push you out.” He unhooked the IV bag
and placed it on her lap just as one of the nurses who had helped earlier
rushed in, clearly terrified but focusing on her duty.

“Let’s
get you moved, now,” she said, her voice trembling as she unlocked the bed with
a kick of her foot, positioning herself at the head.

Dawson
readied his M4 and looked at Acton, a man he knew was more than capable of
handling a weapon, he being ex-Army Reserves and trained more recently by his
wife’s ex-SAS security team.

It
wasn’t the first time they’d been in a firefight together, and it probably
wouldn’t be the last.

And
today every gun counted.

“Jim,
you lead, pulling the bed, Niner and I will cover you. No matter what happens
to us, you just keep going and get Laura to safety, got me?”

Acton
nodded. “Got it.”

“Okay,
enough of the love in!” shouted Niner, squeezing off two rounds. “Let’s go!
Let’s go! Let’s go!”

Acton
grabbed the foot of the bed and Dawson stepped out into the hall, raising his
M4 and firing down the hall, the advancing rioters much closer than when he had
been hauled out of the battle only minutes before. Out of the corner of his eye
he saw the bed clear the infirmary door then disappear out of sight as he
continued to fire.

“Where
the hell are the French?” he asked the Gunny to his left.

“Hell if
I know!” he said, firing his own weapon at the crowd. “I haven’t had an update
in ten minutes.” He glanced at Dawson. “You hurt?”

“Negative,
just a little singed.” Dawson emptied his magazine, loading his last one. “I’m
almost out.”

“Ass
pocket.”

Dawson
reached over and grabbed a mag from the Gunny’s pants pocket, slipping it in a
pocket in the scrubs. “I feel almost naked in this shit.”

Niner
glanced over. “You’d look much better if you were, sexy.”

Dawson
squeezed the trigger, taking out someone near the far end, making the others
still pressing their way inside think twice if only for a moment. “Friendly
fire is still a possibility, Sergeant.”

“Always
the rough one.”

Gunfire
erupted from the other end then a large explosion as a grenade went off.

“What
the hell was that?” asked the Gunny, lowering his weapon slightly.

“That,
my good man, was the distinctive sound of the MAT-49, a preferred weapon of our
French allies.”

“Thank
God!”

“Cocktail
front!” shouted Niner.

Dawson
took a bead and fired, the bottle shattering like a skeet target, raining fiery
alcohol down on the protesters, screams of agonizing pain following almost
immediately. He raised his weapon to put them out of their misery, then thought
better of it.

Ammo was
precious.

And
these people hadn’t thought twice about torching that poor kid at the gate.

Laviolette pushed through the door, breaking left so he had a clear
line of fire, opening up on the crowd as a wall of lead belched at the
protesters, the dozens still crammed into the area that remained standing
quickly dropping like flies, it not remotely a fair fight.

Then
again neither was a couple of thousand against a small embassy security force
and a bunch of civilians.

He kept
firing until the last protester dropped.

Stepping
over the bodies he reached the door, hugging the wall. Inching forward, he
turned the corner and gasped at the unbelievable carnage inside the secure bunker,
one of its thick metal doors sliced away and lying in the entrance, soaked in
blood, several bodies draped over it.

“Allahu
Akbar!” screamed a man’s voice. Laviolette stepped into the open, giving him a
clear shot of the man as he leapt to his feet, a lit Molotov cocktail in his
hand.

Laviolette
fired.

Mohammad Aziz leaned back to throw the bottle, finally lit, at the
approaching infidels, a wave of disappointment at the realization they had
failed in their efforts to punish the Americans quickly shoved aside as he
realized he was about to die, to die for Allah, to die defending the religion
His prophet had created so long ago.

He was
going to die a martyr.

Guaranteed
entry to paradise, to Jannah.

And as
the bullet tore into his stomach, fired from a soldier who looked no older than
him, he wondered what it would be like to have seventy-two virgins to do with
as he pleased.

The
thought titillated his own virgin self as he gasped in pain, the flaming bottle
dropping from his hand in mid throw as he reached to grip his stomach.

The
bottle shattered at his feet, a rush of heat and flame racing up his legs and
into his hunched over body, every nerve ending of his exposed flesh igniting in
intense pain.

And as
he felt the life passing from his body he was suddenly filled with a sense of
foreboding as he experienced the same agonizing death he had wrought on the
soldier at the gate.

And
wondered how such an act could gain anyone access to paradise.

Infidel
or not.

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

Atlas sat against a stone outcropping, the shade it providing
welcome in the intense heat as he tried to gain access to the portable
satellite modem. Unsuccessfully. The firewall built into it seemed to be using
significant encryption, which made sense—you didn’t want just anyone hijacking
your very expensive satellite feed.