Callsign: King

9.

A firefighter spied King and Felice as they left the stairwell on the first floor, and guided them to the exit. The fire in the conference room appeared to have been contained, but a pall of smoke hung in the air and the damage appeared considerable.

Outside, King scanned the crowd. There were a few white faces among the dark-skinned local population, but no sign of Sara. He heard the distinctive sound of a helicopter taking off from the roof, high overhead; it could only be the assault force making their getaway.

“We’re exposed here,” he told Felice. It was perhaps a poor choice of words. In her hospital gown, Felice was very literally exposed. Fortunately, there were dozens of other patients in a similar state of undress filling the street in front of the hospital, and no one seemed to notice her. King however wasn’t worried about someone ogling her.

The men in Felice’s room had been armed with a very distinctive type of pistol. Normally, when staring down the barrel of a gun, a person doesn’t try to identify the make and model, but the Metal Storm O’Dwyer VLe pistols the men had been wielding sported a unique four-barrel configuration that was impossible not to recognize. The VLe pistols were radically different from traditional guns in that they had no moving parts. Instead of a mechanism to advance one round at a time into the firing chamber, the Metal Storm pistol had caseless rounds already stacked in its four barrels, and fired them with an electrical charge. A single trigger pull could unload the pistol in a fraction of a second. The design was still considered experimental, and prototypes were prohibitively expensive for the run-of-the-mill mercenary.

“I think those men planned to kill you,” he continued, “and there’s a good chance some of them stayed behind to make sure the job was done.”

“Kill me?” It was clearly too much for her to process.

“Just stay close to me. We’ll sort this out when we get somewhere safe.” King knew of only one group that used Metal Storm pistols. And if that was who wanted Felice dead, that was all the reason King needed to protect her.

As they moved toward the edge of the throng, King dug out his Chess Team phone. He was just about to make a call when a young Ethiopian man stepped in front of him

“You look like you need some help,” he said in perfect, albeit slightly accented English.

King regarded the newcomer with suspicion, and when he put the phone back in his bag, his hand found the grip of the MP5, which he had stashed just before leaving the stairwell. “Thanks friend, but I think we can manage.”

The Ethiopian smiled, but edged closer and lowered his voice to a surreptitious whisper. “I saw what happened. I know they came for her. I can help you.”

King shook his head. “If you know that, then you know why I’m not exactly eager to trust you.”

“You should.” The young man turned to Felice. “You know me, don’t you?”

Felice looked at him then raised her eyes to King, showing no hint of recognition.

The man’s smile slipped a notch, as if disappointed by her failure to remember him. “I’m Moses-Moses Selassie. I was with you on the expedition to the Rift Valley. I rescued you from the cave-”

Felice’s eyes grew wide and she grabbed Moses by the shoulders. “The cave? You must take me back.”

›››Report.

Where should I start? It was a disaster. The CDC team is dead, except for Fogg. And my men failed to get Sigler. He took out the entire assault force. Four men. He’s in the wind now. Who the hell is this guy?

›››Data concerning Sigler’s current activities are classified at the highest level. The probability that he is part of a clandestine military or counter-intelligence agency has increased to 92.3%. There is insufficient information to determine what his most probable next course of action will be.

Like I need you to tell me that.

›››Do you believe Sigler will attempt to establish contact with Fogg?

I would if I were him.

›››That must not be permitted.

I got it covered.