Locked On

16

Ninety seconds later, Domingo Chavez fired bursts from his Heckler & Koch MP7 through the hinges of a locked metal door to the roof of the hotel. The three men stepped out into a bright sky, as all around them the sounds of sirens echoed off the buildings. They found themselves on a flat roof here, but in order to move away from the entrance to the hotel they were forced to head to the northwest, crossing two large early-modern-style apartment buildings. Here the roofs of the adjacent buildings were steep, with glazed brick masonry. The roofs were all of different heights and gradients, with only a few narrow walkways. The next building over was a full story taller than the one they were on, so they were forced to climb up narrow masonry steps to begin their escape from the police.

And the police were close behind. Chavez led the way, and he directed Dom and John to pull on their black ski masks. There was no sense now in even maintaining the semi-covert facial-distortion masks, so they might as well attempt to hide even the color of their skin.

As they ran, climbed, and skittered five and six floors above the streets of Paris, they heard shouting on the roof behind them at the Hôtel de Sers. From the tone of the yelling, they knew they’d been spotted.

Clark called back over his shoulder to Caruso, “Toss smoke to cover us.”

Dom reached into the messenger bag on his back, pulled a smoke grenade and yanked the pin from it. Bright red smoke spewed from one end, and Dom laid it down next to the vertical glass side of a sawtooth roof. He ran on. The smoke cloud fattened in the breeze on the roof, and it obstructed the Americans’ retreat.

After sliding on their backsides down the steep side of a mansard roof that ended at a partition to the next building, they climbed over the low wall and found themselves looking down five stories into a beautiful garden courtyard surrounded by a stony Art Nouveau building full of luxury office space. Faces in the windows of the offices stared at the armed men in the ski masks. Some turned quickly and ran away; others just looked on, wide-eyed, as if they were watching a police drama on television.

Chavez, Clark, and Caruso continued on to the northwest. Within another thirty seconds they began to hear the persistent thump of a helicopter. They did not bother to stop and look for it. Whether it was a police helo or television station’s traffic chopper, it did not matter. They had to get off the roof.

Finally they skittered to the end of the flat part of a two-angle mansard roof. Beyond that they found themselves looking down, five stories down, on to the Rue Quentin Bauchart, a two-lane street that signified the end of the block. There was no obvious way down, no well-anchored drainpipe, no easy way to descend the architectural flourish on the façade. Only a large bay window ten feet below them that jutted out of the steeply angled roof.

They were trapped. The shouts from behind grew in volume.

The three men knelt on the edge of the roof. The squawking of sirens back on the Avenue George V was unreal. There had to have been fifty emergency vehicles in the area now. There didn’t seem to be a police presence directly below them on the street, yet anyway, as the Rue Quentin Bauchart was not really the back of the hotel itself, rather the Americans had managed to reach this position only by clawing their way over partitions between buildings and along small access walls that connected the buildings of the block together. Still, with so many vehicles and men it certainly would not take the French police much more time to branch out at ground level as well, and once that happened, this street would be locked down by the authorities.

“What’s below us, Ding?” John asked, as Chavez had the best look over the edge.

“Looks residential. Could be civilians under the roof, there’s no way to know.”

Caruso and Clark knew what he meant. They did have small explosives in Dom’s bag. They could blow a hole in the roof and climb down into the building, then use the stairs to get out. But they wouldn’t blow the roof without knowing for certain that there wasn’t an occupied apartment, a day care, or an old-folks’ home directly below them. And there was only one way they could find out.

Dom stood quickly. “I’ve got it. John, get back behind that chimney.” Caruso took his HK from around his neck and unfastened the ballistic nylon sling attached to it. He took a moment to pull on the sling to bring it to its full length, and he wrapped his right hand several times around one end, then he gave the other end to Ding. Chavez took a firm hold, then grabbed the iron railing with his other hand. Clark moved back, and when Ding knelt down at the edge of the roof, Dom Caruso climbed over the side, slid down the steep roof, his shoes scuffing the masonry as Chavez lowered him. He did get just low enough to make it to the bay window. As he hung from his sling, the men still on the roof heard a cracking of window glass as Caruso used his rifle to shatter the pane. Ding struggled with the sling, it dug into his hand and wrist and forearm, but he held tight. After a few more crashes, he felt the sling move hard to the left. And then, suddenly, the weight left the strap.

Caruso was in the apartment below them. This was progress, but it didn’t really help Clark or Chavez, as far as they were concerned. Caruso had not taken time to explain what he was doing, and this confused the two men on the roof for a moment, but within ten seconds of his disappearance from the side of the building, the Campus operators on the roof heard Dom in their earpieces.

“Okay, I’m in the attic. It’s empty. Gonna use these charges to make you guys a hole. Ding, get over there with John and both of you keep your heads down.”

Clark nodded appreciatively even as he looked back over his shoulder. He heard voices on the roof; the police had made their way through the smoke and were closing fast, likely while following a trail of broken masonry and cracked roofing tiles. They were still on the Art Nouveau building next door, but they would find their way here within a minute.

Seconds later a loud explosion blew smoke, roofing material, and wood into the air on the other side of the brick chimney. While the last of the bits of debris rained back down, Clark and Chavez ran across the roof to the fresh opening and looked in. As soon as the smoke cleared, they saw Caruso pushing a chest of drawers across a wooden attic floor below them. When he had it below the hole, Clark helped Domingo down on top of it. Chavez quickly turned back to help his partner down.

A crack from a pistol fifty feet behind Clark caused Chavez to duck instinctively as he took hold of Clark’s arm. He felt a jolt go through the other man’s body, and John Clark spun around, then fell into the hole in the roof. Chavez and Clark fell off of the chest of drawers and onto Dominic Caruso.

“Shit!” shouted Chavez. “Where you hit, John?”

Clark was already struggling to his feet. He winced in pain, raised a forearm to show that his dirty sport coat was covered in blood. “It’s not bad. I’m fine,” he said, but both Caruso and Chavez had been around firearms long enough to recognize Clark was in no position to know how badly he’d been hurt.

Even with this, Caruso had the presence of mind to worry about the cops above them on the roof. Quickly he reached into his backpack and pulled out a flash-bang grenade, he pulled the pin and lobbed it out into the direction of the men approaching. He thought it likely that French police officers would not recognize the device, at least not instantly, and they would have to entertain the possibility that they were being fired on by the fleeing gunmen.

The Americans needed to buy a few seconds’ time to make their way downstairs, and the grenade did just that. It exploded next to the chimney with an earsplitting boom.

Clark led the way out of the attic, down a flight of stairs, and onto a circular staircase that spiraled down to ground level.

Chavez spoke tersely into his mike: “Jack, we’re coming out, ground floor of an apartment building, about one hundred yards northwest of the Hôtel de Sers. Thirty seconds.”

“Roger that. I’ll be there. Sirens approaching from the Avenue Marceau behind me, and George V is full of heat.”

“Whatever,” Chavez said as he and his two colleagues rushed down the stairs. That was a problem for sixty seconds from now; he couldn’t worry about it just yet.

All three Americans flew out of the door of the apartment and onto the street. Jack and Sam were there in the maroon Galaxy with the side door open. The three fell inside just as the first police cars skidded around the corner and into the street from behind them. Driscoll helped Clark into a seat and immediately began assessing his bloody arm.

Even though the police were fifty yards back, Ryan didn’t floor it; he had the presence of mind to drive normally as he headed toward Avenue George V. They passed a language school and a restaurant where the waiters were just setting up bistro tables on the pavement for the lunch service. Several men and women on the sidewalk stared at their car as they passed; perhaps they’d come outside to investigate the origin of the sirens, then heard or saw the ruckus on the roof and then the men pouring out of the apartment. But so far, no one on the street had raised an alarm.

Jack knew he couldn’t drive onto Avenue George V in front of him; it was crawling with police and a roadblock had likely already been set up. Instead he drove slowly toward it, watched his rearview mirror until the police cars behind him began stopping on the street in front of the apartment, and only when he could wait no longer, he jacked the wheel to the left and turned into the one-way traffic pouring off of the Rue Magellan.

Certain that at least some of the parked police cars had seen him, he punched the accelerator now as he leaned toward the windshield to take in as much of the road in front of him as possible. The cars on the street shot toward him; he wove left and then right to avoid the oncoming traffic. Within seconds he made a right on the Rue de Bassano, found himself on a second street traveling in the wrong direction, but he kept going, faster and faster. A last-second reaction to avoid a taxi sent Ryan and the rest of the team up onto the narrow sidewalk; they scraped a pair of parked cars as they shot through passersby diving into doorways or out into the street to avoid the dented minivan. At an intersection Ryan avoided a group of employees standing in front of their Russian restaurant, and he pulled back onto the street, crashed through a neat line of bicycles for rent, then passed the Louis Vuitton flagship store as he pulled out onto the wide Champs-Élysées.

For the first time in a minute and a half he found himself driving in the same direction as traffic. Also, for the first time in several minutes, the men did not hear the shrill squawking of police sirens right behind them.

Jack reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead, but his rubber mask got in the way. His hairline was soaked with perspiration, so he slicked back his dark hair to get it out of his face.

“Where to now?” Ryan asked the men behind him.

Clark’s voice was gravel, broadcasting to the vehicle the pain the ex — Navy SEAL was in at the moment, but his voice remained strong. “Safe house,” he said. “We’re going to need a new ride. Can’t pull into the airport driving the most wanted vehicle in France.”

“Roger that,” said Ryan, and he punched a button on the GPS that would lead him to the safe house. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” said Clark.

But Sam Driscoll had been checking Clark. He applied pressure to the wound as he leaned forward into the front seat. “Get there as fast as you can.”

Adara Sherman stood inside the doorway of the Gulfstream with an HK UMP .45-caliber submachine gun held in one hand behind her back. She watched a four-door sedan pull to a stop on the tarmac, saw the five men climb out and approach. Four of them carried backpacks, but John Clark had his arm in a makeshift sling under his blue sport coat. Even from a distance she could see his face was ashen.

Quickly she’d scanned the airport grounds, determined the coast to be clear, then rushed back inside the aircraft to grab medical supplies.

On board she bandaged Clark quickly, knowing that a customs official would be on his way out to see them off. While she helped him get a clean jacket on, the other men changed into clean suits and ties that had been ready for them in the Gulfstream’s coat closet, but only after stowing their clothing and gear in the stash compartment below an inspection panel in the floor.

Within minutes a female customs agent climbed aboard. She opened two of the businessmen’s briefcases and glanced inside and then asked the bearded gentleman if he wouldn’t mind opening his suitcase. This he did, but she didn’t look past the socks and gym clothes. The older gentleman reclining on the couch in the back was not feeling well, so she did not disturb him other than to see that his face matched the passport handed to her by one of his younger employees.

The female customs official finally checked the pilot’s paperwork, thanked everyone, and was seen out the door by the flight attendant. The door shut behind her, and within seconds the aircraft was taxiing out of the yellow customs square on the ramp.

Captain Reid and First Officer Hicks had the wheels up in five minutes. While they were still on their takeoff climb out of Paris airspace, Sherman had stopped the bleeding from Clark’s arm. Before the aircraft reached ten thousand feet she had an IV line in the top of his hand and an antibiotics drip moving slowly into his bloodstream to stave off any infection.

As soon as Country turned off the seat-belt light in the cabin, Chavez rushed back to check on his friend. “How is he?” Chavez asked, a worried tone in his voice.

Sherman poured antiseptic into the wound now, examining the holes as the clear liquid cleaned the blood away. “He’s lost a fair amount of blood, he needs to lie flat for the flight, but the round went through and through and he’s moving his hand okay.” She looked up at her patient. “You’ll be fine, Mr. Clark.”

John Clark smiled at her. With a weak voice he said, “I had a feeling Gerry didn’t hire you to pass out peanuts.”

Sherman laughed. “Naval corpsman, nine years.”

“That’s a tough job. You were deployed with the Marines?”

“Four years in the sandbox. I saw a lot of wounds worse than yours.”

“I bet you did,” John said with a nod of understanding.

Caruso had headed alone up to the galley. He returned, stood over everyone who was kneeling over Clark. In his hand was a crystal highball of Johnnie Walker Black Label scotch. He addressed Sherman. “What do you think, doc? Can I give him a dose of this?”

She looked Clark over and nodded. “In my professional opinion, Mr. C. looks like he needs a drink.”

The Gulfstream flew over the English Channel, leaving French airspace just after eleven a.m. at a cruising altitude of thirty-six thousand feet.