Black operator complete.., p.49
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 49
"Now we know."
They started running again, and he pulled her along. They had a chance to outrun them, and hopefully lose them in the darkness, until she cried out.
"Cris, I tripped on something."
She’d let go his hand, and she was lying on the rock floor. He used the light from his cellphone to look at her ankle. Already, the skin had turned a dark color.
"You have a sprain. No problem, I'll carry you."
"You can't. If you carry me, they’ll catch up with us."
He thought about what he’d said earlier, his determination to fight back. When she mentioned they'd catch up with them, it occurred to him that’s exactly what he should let them do.
"We'll keep going until I can find somewhere to hide you, then I'm going to ambush them."
"There might be three of them."
"I'll manage. Let me help you up."
He carried her for what seemed like forever, but was more like around ten minutes, and the muscles in his arms were protesting the pain of running and carrying her weight at the same time. It wasn’t just the muscles. The extra strain transmitted to his chest wound, and he felt like the tiny chunk of lead embedded in his chest was on fire. He found what he'd been looking for, a spur set into the side of the tunnel, and he swerved into it. A few yards along, he found a smaller spur, no more than three yards deep. He set her down.
"Take out your gun and wait. If you see one of them coming toward you, kill the bastard."
"I will, don't worry. What about you?"
"I'm going to war."
“Cris, what’s the matter? Your face, you look as if you’re in pain.”
“I’m okay. Maybe it was something I ate.”
He left her, returned to the main tunnel, and ran a hundred yards further, where he found another narrow side tunnel. He slipped inside and waited. He didn't have to wait long. After several minutes, a single pair of running feet echoed along the tunnel, and a flashlight lit up the walls close to where he was hiding. He let the man come nearer, and when he was less than ten yards away, stepped out. He could see the bulk of the man's body, silhouetted behind the flashlight, and he dropped to one knee, aimed, and fired. He went down. Chris rushed towards him and put another shot into his head. Quickly, he switched off the flashlight as two more pairs of running feet approached.
The man he’d killed was the one he'd seen in the museum, with a cropped head and heavy muscular build. He’d dropped his automatic, and Cris picked it up, but the magazine was empty so he tossed it away. The two shooters were getting nearer, and a second later he discovered they were armed with assault rifles. A stream of bullets tore through the catacombs, lighting up the darkness with a series of jagged flashes.
His plan had failed. He'd intended to ambush them, but hadn't counted on automatic weapons. He raced along the tunnel, leading them further away from Maria, and searching desperately for an alternative ambush point. One pursuer was still coming after him, but the other had stopped, and he couldn't be far from where Maria was hiding. He had to get back to her. In desperation he ducked into a narrow niche, little more than a few inches deep, and flattened himself against the wall.
The flashlight came nearer, and he was being careful. Shining the beam around both sides of the tunnel, and when the beam washed over Rhodes, he opened fire. Cris rolled out into the tunnel as bullets lashed the tunnel wall. The shooter had failed to switch off the flashlight. Big mistake. His forward roll had carried him outside of the beam, and he was in darkness. The shooter was in silhouette, and he took careful aim and fired. A shrill scream echoed through the tunnels, and he fired again.
The light went out. He heard the heavy thump of a falling body and rushed toward it. Another shooter with cropped hair and pale skin.
Where the hell do they get them? What kind of species are these people?
The man had dropped the assault rifle, and he picked it up. He found more than ten rounds remaining and snapped the magazine into place, switching the selector to single shot to conserve ammunition. He heard a noise and looked down at the man lying at his feet.
He was dying, trying to suck in air. Despite the man's look of depravity, he felt a passing sense of sympathy, but not too much sympathy. He aimed the rifle at his forehead and pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into his brain. He jerked once and was still.
The brief exchange of fire had given away his position to the remaining shooter. The man was already searching for him with another flashlight. Cris managed to stay clear of the beams and retraced his steps, careful to remain silent. When he was close enough, he worked out where he had to be hiding. Crouched in the entrance to the side tunnel where he’d left Maria. He couldn't be more than a few yards away from her.
She’s carrying that small automatic, but will she be quick enough to realize the danger and use it?
He glimpsed movement in the shadows. The shooter was tucked inside the side tunnel, and he’d just glanced out to look for him. The only way to take him was to wait until he was literally feet away. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it was Ushakov himself, but it wasn't his style.
He was the kind of man who employed others to his dirty work. He’d save Ushakov for later. He was getting close, less than twenty yards away, when he tripped and kicked a small stone he hadn't seen. The noise was like a thunderclap, and he threw himself to one side, rolling on the ground. The lightning flashes of pain from his chest stabbed through him, and for several vital seconds he was unable to move. The volley of gunfire split the darkness, and then stopped. The Russian had switched off the flashlight, and they were in total darkness.
Has he moved further toward Maria? Has he heard her, and is closing in for the kill?
He staggered to his feet and started moving. Hugging the wall of the tunnel, trying to make him as difficult a target as possible. Sucking in air through a chest that was still burning with a fiery intensity.
Forget the chest. Forget the pain. All that matters is Maria. I have to kill this guy.
A stone clattered across the other side of the tunnel. He threw himself flat, almost screamed in pain, and froze. The bastard had tried to bluff him into showing himself by tossing a stone. He waited for several minutes and started toward where she was hiding. When he reached the side tunnel, he listened. There was no noise, and he snaked along the ground, working his way toward where Maria was still hiding.
"It's me," he murmured, “Cris.”
“Thank God. He was here, a few yards away. Do you know where he is now?"
"No idea, but we need to get you out of here."
"I still can't walk. My ankle swelled even more."
"I'll help you."
He eased her out of the tiny space and helped her into the main tunnel. She couldn’t put any weight on the foot, and he hoisted her onto his shoulder in a fireman's lift. Hearing nothing, he stepped into the main tunnel, and carried on walking away from the Louvre.
Several times he stopped to listen. Nothing. Maybe by some miracle the shooter had lost them. They plunged on, and he staggered for what seemed like miles through the dark, claustrophobic gloom. The pain in his chest was indescribable, a jagged nightmare like nothing he’d ever experienced. Only the knowledge he had to save her life kept him plodding forward. Until he heard the footsteps following them, about three hundred yards back.
He increased speed, every step a searing effort, and she sensed his agony.
“You can’t go on much longer. We have to find a way out," Maria murmured.
“Don’t… worry about…me."
But they both knew he was almost all in. The desperate race from the Louvre, pursued by gunfire, the scramble through the catacombs, carrying her weight along the rocky tunnel, it had taken too much out of him. Yet he stumbled faster, and the journey became a torment of torture, until he lost track of time, space, and distance.
“I see a ladder."
He focused on her gaze. They'd arrived at an access shaft set in the side of the rock wall, with a ladder that could only lead up through the shaft. He didn't hesitate. If the shooter reached the foot of the ladder while they were still climbing, it’d be like shooting fish in a barrel. But it wasn’t a consideration. When there is single option, there’s nothing to think about. With her on his shoulder, he started up.
"Cris, give me the rifle. You need both hands free to hold the ladder."
He’d been climbing awkwardly, one-handed, almost without realizing it. When he let her take the rifle, he increased speed.
“Maria, watch below.”
"I’m watching. If he shows himself, I’ll shoot."
"Be careful. We only have ten bullets in the gun."
“I'll be careful."
They were almost there, when he heard a noise from above, and the iron hatch at the top of the shaft was opening. A face appeared looking down at them, and in that moment, he knew they were dead. A hurricane of bullets would come next and rip them into bloody ruin. Their smashed bodies would lay crumpled and broken at the bottom, and the catacombs would become their tomb.
Simultaneously, a noise came from below. Followed by a grunt of satisfaction. The shooter had arrived and found them. He looked down. Another face, pale, cropped hair, staring up at them behind the barrel of a gun. The man was about to pull the trigger and blast them.
A burst of firing came from above, and bullets whined past them. He was astonished. He felt no pain from gunshot wounds. Yet the man above them couldn't have missed. A scream from below made him look down, and he saw a crumpled body lying on the ground.
“You must hurry!" Jacques Moreau’s voice, and by some miracle he'd found them.
He climbed the last few yards to the top of the ladder, and Moreau helped lift Maria from the shaft. They’d emerged next to a long, narrow flight of stone steps, and the Frenchman urged them to keep going. He ran ahead, his Walther drawn and ready to fire. Another long climb, and Moreau reached the top, and pushed open a door. He covered them with the gun as they went through, and to his astonishment, they were in the open, and the Tuileries. The iconic public park was opposite the Louvre.
When they were underground, they must have come full circle through the catacombs. They emerged into the open and walked between office workers and tourists enjoying their lunch, sitting in deckchairs, enjoying the sunshine. Some instinct made him look around. Two people were coming after them, moving fast. Moreau saw them at the same time, and he pointed toward a nearby bridge.
"Quickly, we have to get across."
"Jacques, no, we’ll be sitting targets on the bridge."
"Not this bridge. Hurry."
They followed, and instead of walking onto the bridge, he led them underneath. They were on a footbridge, built beneath the main bridge that carried the traffic over the River Seine. Jacques nodded in satisfaction. There was no sign of their pursuers.
"We lost them."
Cris wasn't so sure, but he gently let Maria down to a bench, where she could sit and get a few minutes rest.
She didn't get a few minutes rest. A bullet hissed past her, and two figures were coming over the bridge fast.
Without a word, Jacques lifted her onto his shoulder and started running. Chris followed, and they raced over a traffic crossing with the lights on red, weaving between the traffic, and forcing it to stop. Parisian drivers blasted their horns, waving their fists in outrage. They made it to the sidewalk and stopped adjacent to a graceful nineteenth-century building.
"It's the Musee d'Orsay," Moreau explained, "They built it originally as a railway station, the Gare d'Orsay. When they had no further use for it, they turned it into an art museum."
"Like the Louvre? How could anyone compete with the Louvre?"
He shook his head. "This is different. The paintings are Impressionists. Renoir, Vincent Van Gogh, you name it. They're all here. If we go inside, we might miss them."
Cris went ahead. They’d erected crowd control barriers in front of the entrance, and at least one hundred people waited in the queue. He raced past them, and Jacques followed with Maria on his shoulder. For the second time in as many minutes they caused chaos. People shouted in fury, but he ignored them. When he reached the pay desk he tossed a fifty Euro note on the counter as they ran past. Uniformed guards shouted at them in French, and he ignored him.
He raced up a wide flight of stairs and into a long gallery. To the right, a door was marked ‘Vincent van Gogh Exhibition,’ and inside, the room was dark. Sufficient to hide them, with luck, and he beckoned to Moreau to follow him.
They reached the far corner of the room, ignoring the paintings even multimillionaires couldn’t afford. He went back to the door, in time to see two people coming up the staircase. They hadn’t lost them, a savage-looking man with the familiar pale skin and cropped haircut, and a woman. Almost a clone, unmistakably female, yet also pale-skinned, with cropped hair, and her face beet red with fury. They were shoving people aside as they hunted for them, and visitors gave them a wide berth.
This was the Paris of modern terrorist attacks, and who was to know if the Arabs had come back for another try? Cris went back inside the exhibition, and close to where Jacques waited with Maria, he found a door. The signs were in French and English, and the words ‘no entry’ were clear. He ignored them, opened the door, and pulled them inside. Too late, the woman entered the Van Gogh exhibition and spotted them. They were in a closet, and they’d walked into a trap.
He ran back out. The woman saw him and turned to shout to her companion who was still outside. He seized the chance and darted forward. He came up behind her and slammed a fist that connected with her head. She went down, temporarily stunned. Jacques and Maria emerged, and they ran back out into the main concourse. They descended the staircase, and left the museum, heading for the nearest Metro station, the Gare du Musee.
Without stopping for a ticket, he vaulted the turnstile, pulled Maria over, and Moreau followed. At the first platform they arrived at a train was pulling into the station. He led them toward the rear, and they stepped aboard. The doors closed, but the two Russians had reached the platform. The man moved fast and boarded the train. The woman, who looked dazed after the blow he’d delivered, stayed on the platform.
They kept moving along the crowded train, threading through crowds of travelers, but when Cris looked back, the Russian was coming toward them. They came to the final door that would lead them out onto the tracks, and to their deaths beneath the iron wheels.
He turned, his gun held low and of sight. Ready to put a bullet into the man when he approached. He didn't approach. Instead, tendrils of smoke began to drift through the crowded compartment, and people cried out in alarm. The smoke thickened, and flames appeared from a row of seats. The fire was spreading toward them, and he knew the man had set a fire to stop them. The blaze was fanned by the passage of air as the train raced through the tunnel. People screamed louder, and in desperation, Cris pulled the emergency brake. The train screeched to a halt. Midway between stations, blocked by the killer, all he could do was open the emergency door, and they climbed down onto the tracks.
Jacques still carried Maria, and they stumbled on through the darkness. He hadn't lost him. The guy was a relentless hunter who would keep on until he’d tasted blood. A flashlight came on behind them, and there was nowhere to hide, except the adjacent track. Yet ahead of them, they heard a train approaching, and they were screwed. If they stayed where they were, they’d die. If they crossed to the opposite track, they'd die. He’d given it his best shot, and failed.
Chapter Three
In desperation he dragged out his gun and snapped off two shots at the flashlight, but the man kept coming. He could be holding the light above his head or either side of his body, and the Glock was already low on bullets. Not enough to keep firing in the hope of a hit, and they ran on. The train thundered toward them, and the beam of the massive headlight lit up the tunnel. Four bullets hissed past them, each closer than the one before.
"Look, there!" She was pointing toward a recess in the tunnel wall, “It’s a linesman’s refuge.”
A safe place for engineers working on the line, and they needed a safe place. He helped Jacques carry her toward it. They crossed the line seconds before the Metro train was on them, and squeezed into the tiny space. Air pressure threatened to suck them onto the line, but they clung to a steel pole. When the train had passed, realization dawned. The steel pole was one side of an iron ladder. A route to the surface, like the one they’d used to escape the catacombs. They started to climb, and Cris recalled the last time, when the shooter has come up behind them.
It was sheer luck Jacques Moreau had found them and killed him. This time, there would be no friendly face at the top. And their pursuer had already reached the bottom of the shaft. He shined the beam upward and waited. A moment later, they understood what he was waiting for. A face was staring down at them. A female face, and he recognized the woman he’d seen outside the Pont de l’Alma tunnel. She shouted to the man at the bottom in Russian, but the noise drowned her words, and it was likely he misunderstood. Another train was thundering along the tunnel, and a moment later, they heard a shrill scream. There was no further sound from below.
The woman shouted something. It sounded like a curse, but abruptly her face disappeared. Another face came into view, and Cris took aim, when a voice shouted down the shaft. The language was French, but the word was universal.
"Police!"
They were going to live. He tossed the gun away, and they climbed to the top. The cops were waiting, and the man in charge was a detective, the familiar face of Detective Inspector Claude Jobert. He didn't look happy.
"You failed to report to the Prefecture. You..."
"We would have come, but we didn't have any choice," Maria started to explain, "Men were coming after us, men with guns, and we had to run."
He issued a loud sigh. "Save the excuse for the interview. You should know I contacted the FBI, Interpol, and the Russian FSB. According to their files, you have been involved in multiple violent deaths, inside America and Russia."
