Spyder Web

54

‘Hilton teams,’ Axton called out over the radio. ‘This is Looking Glass. Over.’

The leader of the Special Air Service strike team surrounding the Hilton responded to Axton’s call. ‘Hilton team leader here. Over, Looking Glass.’

Axton spoke slowly and clearly, as if he was dictating a letter. ‘All clear. Move in on the suite.’

‘Understood, Looking Glass,’ the leader replied. ‘We’re moving in.’

The SAS teams were stationed at several points inside the twenty-eight-story hotel, positioned to choke off all egress from the building on a moment’s notice. After Kang departed, two teams moved up the tower and took up position on the twenty-sixth floor, at opposite ends of the corridor leading to Kang Fa’s suite. Most of the rooms on that floor were held empty today, by official request. The rest held plainclothes British police posing as guests.

Black-garbed officers emerged from the stair towers, two on each end of the long corridor. Earlier reconnaissance of the floor by an officer dressed as a hotel waiter informed the teams that only one guard was posted outside the suite. Subtracting the two that accompanied Kang to Canary Wharf left two inside with the hostages.

The team leader issued his orders via a throat mike, which made his voice sound a little like Donald Duck in his team members’ headsets. The first pair sprang from the stairway alcove into the main corridor, the sudden motion attracting the guard’s attention. As he drew his weapon, the lead officer took aim and fired a round through the man’s throat. It was an easy shot, less than fifty yards with no wind. The single bullet obliterated the man’s larynx and shattered the base of his skull. A quiet, one-shot stop. The guard slumped to the hallway floor, dead before he hit the ground.

Inside the suite, the two remaining guards froze when they heard a muffled thump outside the door. The one in charge motioned for the other to check on the sentry outside while he dealt with the hostages.

The lead guard entered the bedroom quietly, pistol drawn but concealed behind him. The old man they’d escorted from China remained seated on the bed, head down in a permanent bow. A gurgling sound in the bathroom told him the American nephew was indisposed. Killing them one at a time greatly simplified the job.

He smiled politely at the elder Moy, pulled his weapon, and aimed it toward the man’s head, both hands clasped around the grip. He started to pull back on the trigger when the old man, using every last ounce of adrenaline in his body, lunged, springing toward him from the bed.

This moment was an opportunity that Moy Huian had dreamed about in the deepest recesses of his mind, an ember of his desire to live that he now fanned into flame. Despite the frailty of age and past abuse, he struck, knowing full well that he would either win his life back or die trying.

Moy Huian landed a crushing blow, grinding his heel into the top of the assassin’s shoe. A snapping sound confirmed that several of the long, thin bones running the length of the man’s foot had shattered. The guard’s instant of surprise turned to pain. Huian’s second blow sent a mind-numbing shock through the man’s forearm, and as it turned him around, his weapon fell to the floor.

Phillip Moy emerged from behind the door only seconds after Huian had begun his attack. He drove his fist into the guard’s floating ribs, breaking three more of the man’s bones. His next strike, a blow to the man’s head, was hardly necessary following his uncle’s attack. The guard fell to the floor, battered and unconscious. Moy retrieved the guard’s pistol and moved into the other room.

Just as Moy Huian had landed his first blows, the remaining guard opened the suite door. A black-suited SAS officer charged and drove him backward into the suite with a vicious kick to the groin. The guard crashed into a chair before tumbling to the floor. The officer checked the room, then crouched over the fallen man and pressed his assault rifle against the man’s face. No words were exchanged. The guard laid his weapon down and surrendered.

‘Drop the weapon!’ the SAS team leader shouted as two more men emerged from the bedroom, one holding a pistol.

Moy dropped the pistol and raised his hands as one of the soldiers frisked him. He knew not to make any sudden moves until the assault team had verified his identity. ‘Officer, my uncle and I are very happy to see you.’

‘You’re Phillip Moy?’ the officer asked, taking a closer look at him.

‘Yes, and this is my uncle, Moy Huian. My identification is in my coat pocket.’ His uncle bowed for the introduction.

The team leader found the wallet and verified Moy’s identity. ‘We counted three guards earlier. Where’s the other one?’

Moy brought his hands back down to his sides and relaxed a little. ‘He’s in the bedroom. I think he’s still alive, but I didn’t stop to check.’

One of the other officers emerged from the bedroom and nodded to the team leader that he’d found the other guard. ‘Holster your weapons; this area is secure.’ The strike team’s leader switched his headset mike on. ‘Hilton team to Looking Glass, over.’

‘Report, Hilton team,’ Axton answered, eager for news.

‘The hostages are secure. I repeat, the hostages are secure.’

Mosley and Axton both smiled at the good news. ‘Understood, Hilton team, well done. Wharf teams — crash the Tea Party!’

On the ground, several teams began to close around Parnell’s building. All roads leading to the building were barricaded and uniformed traffic police began ushering all pedestrians and vehicles away from the area. The helicopter moved out of its holding pattern and took up position over the building. The net was drawing tight.