O n the bumpy ride from the prison, Marc had allowed himself a moment’s worry whether he still had a grip on tradecraft. After all, he had been effectively retired for three years and counting. But here in the street, with the rush of terror and thrill, it all came back. Like taking the proverbial bicycle out for the ride of his life.
He had no such worries about his other skills, the ones that would be required if he managed to get in close to the three guards. As Marc had told the Arabs, he had indeed studied accounting during his wife’s illness. But he’d also spent hours at a full-contact gym. It was only there, standing barefoot on the mats, facing opponents with backgrounds as rough as his own, that he could unleash the weight of fate’s cruelest hour.
Marc emerged from the side street just beyond the shops’ illumination. He stumbled down the center of the otherwise empty thoroughfare, his passage followed by those inside the cafes. Marc weaved about and mumbled to himself. One of the guards he passed laughed softly and spit in the dust.
He angled toward the house, walking sideways and leaning so the kerchief dangled about his face. Quick glimpses from beneath the checkered curtain confirmed that the two guards were watching his approach.
The front wall had two openings, a pair of sheet-metal doors for the garage and a gate of iron bars by the entrance. A guard stood sentry before each. As he passed, the guard by the garage said something to him, a bark of Arabic. Marc teetered closer to the front gate.
The garage guy moved over to where his mate stood and spoke again, more sharply this time. The second guard stepped forward and shoved Marc away. He went down hard.
Marc made an ordeal of picking himself off the road. He dusted himself off, his gestures slow, deliberate. As he did so, he stumbled back toward the front gate.
The two guards were angry now. Their words attracted the attention of the third guard on patrol inside the wall. He stepped up close to the bars. Which was exactly what Marc had been after all along.
Now both guards grabbed for him. Only Marc was no longer there. He ducked under their hands and reached through the bars.
The inside guard was still waking up to the fact that the drunk was not a drunk at all. Marc gripped the guard’s lapel with one hand and his hair with the other. The guard’s hair was long and plastered with some sort of oil or pomade smelling vaguely of lilacs. Marc yanked the inside guard forward with all his strength. The guard’s forehead clanged against the bars.
Marc did not wait for the man to go down. Nor did he take time to turn around. Instead, he leaped straight up and double-kicked, using his grip on the gate’s bars to steady his aim. His spread-eagle attack took one guard in the throat and the other on the chin.
The guard to his left, the one he had struck in the throat, went down on one hand and choked out tight breaths. The other guard spun and almost fell, but managed to hold himself upright. He turned back, drawing his pistol as he moved.
Marc rushed forward and chopped hard on the arm, paralyzing the hand. The gun clattered to the sidewalk unfired.
Marc closed in, striking the man in the chest and the temple. Two blows so fast they hit as one. The man was out before he hit the asphalt.
Marc wheeled about and realized the other guard had managed to make it onto his knees, one hand to his throat. His face was turning purple with the effort to breathe. His other hand held a gun. He took aim as he choked.
Marc saw the barrel coming into range, and knew he could not make it in time.
But Major Lahm had not followed Marc’s orders. The policeman raced out of the night to bounce his baton off the man’s wrist. With the speed of a thousand practice swings, Lahm struck the man square in the forehead. The man’s eyelids fluttered, but he remained upright. Lahm hit him again. He sprawled at Lahm’s feet.
What Marc wanted at that moment was a chance to step back, study the stars, feel the simple thrill of being able to draw another breath. What he did was turn to the gate and see that yes, the inside guard was out for the count. But the problem was, the man had fallen backward.
As he feared, Lahm finished searching the two guards and hissed, “No keys.”
It was standard security ops. The inside guard would be responsible for opening and shutting the gates. Which was locked from the inside.
Marc stripped off the two outside guards’ head-kerchiefs and knotted them around his hands. Behind him, Lahm’s men were swiftly moving up and down the street, showing badges to the other security, ordering them to remain absolutely silent. Lahm saw what Marc was going to do, moved over to the wall and cupped his hands. Marc stepped into the stirrup and allowed Lahm to lift him up to where he could get a grip on the top. Both kerchiefs were lacerated by the glass imbedded in the concrete. Marc felt something bite into his left palm. But he was committed.
Marc clambered up and stood upon the wall. The glass crunched softly beneath his canvas boots. Marc heard footsteps rounding the house. He darted along the wall and was above the guard when he came into view. Marc leaped down, landing on top of his opponent, and came up first. He hammered the guard once, twice. The man crumpled around his unspoken warning.
Marc raced back. Beyond the gate, Lahm was already on his cell, hissing softly to his men at the back. Lahm’s forward team hustled quietly into position. Marc felt through the moaning guard’s pockets and came up with the keys. He fumbled until he found the one that fit the gate. He sprang back and Lahm’s men spilled inside.
The silence only intensified once they were inside the compound. The house, large and two-storied, had a pale stucco finish and a massive nail-studded front door. Light splashed over the rubble-strewn ground from the downstairs windows. Marc held the keys in a tight grip so as to keep them from jingling. Lahm lowered his phone and whispered, “The two rear windows show empty rooms.”
“Let me try the front door.”
Lahm spoke briefly into his phone, then nodded to Marc.
The door responded to the third key. Marc turned it slowly, then tried the handle. When the door shifted open, Lahm halted Marc with a finger on his arm. The major then pointed at the ground by Marc’s feet. Stay.
Marc knew better than to argue with a professional. He stepped out of the way.
Lahm gripped the door’s handle, lifted his cellphone, and hissed what Marc assumed was the Arabic version of green light.
Bedlam.