Many of the riot police threw themselves to the ground just before the HEAT rocket struck the blade of one of the antiriot trucks and detonated in a thunderclap that spawned a brilliant red mushroom cloud.
Chapter 71
SAUVAGE DROPPED THE spent rocket launcher on the floor and threw off the singed fire blanket. He tried to stand but felt unbalanced by the backblast that had ruptured the air pressure in the apartment and upset his equilibrium.
On this second try, however, the major was up and yanking out the ear protectors in time to hear chaos in the streets below as the riot police shouted to one another, and bands of immigrant youth cheered the attack.
Sauvage did not pause to savor the havoc he’d caused. Instead, he pocketed the police scanner, threw the rolled rug over his shoulder, and went to the door, ignoring the charred and smoking apartment walls.
He pulled open the door. The dark hallway was filled with people panicking at the explosions and trying to get out of the building. Stepping into the hallway, he got out a pen flashlight and turned it on, saying into the jaw mic, “Joiners?”
“Not yet,” Epée said.
“Encourage them,” Sauvage said, head down, focused on the light beam, moving fast and straight toward the stairwell, using the rug as a soft battering ram to push people aside.
Through the open door by the stairway, the major heard Epée squeeze off three short bursts of automatic rifle fire. That caused pandemonium and shrieking in the hallway, which the major used to his advantage.
While most of the immigrants went to the ground, Sauvage went over the top of them, and shouldered his way through the staircase door. Holding tight to the rug, he started leaping down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time.
Behind and above him, Sauvage heard more shots, quick and erratic-not the disciplined bursts of fire that Epée employed.
Amateurs!
They had the AK-47 assault rifles and 7.62mm ammunition!
And they were fighting for AB-16!
The major barreled down the stairs like a wild man now, using the rug to knock the people below him aside and roaring out, “Allahu akbar! God is great!”
When he reached the first floor and burst out the rear entrance, Mfune was waiting. The captain took the rug, and they hurried with a knot of people fleeing pistol shots and submachine gun fire.
It wasn’t until they were well south of the housing project and crossing the Rue du Général de Gaulle that Sauvage felt comfortable enough to get out his real phone and call Amé, who answered on the first ring.
“It’s live!” she cried. “They’ve broken into programming!”
“Claim it,” he said, and hung up.
On the Avenue des Rossignols, Epée was waiting with the car. They put the rug in the trunk and got in. The tagger pulled out and drove away at an untroubled speed.
Feeling safe behind the tinted glass, Sauvage stripped off the beard, wig, and fake eyebrows before rolling the window down.
When they stopped at an intersection, he heard police sirens wailing north toward Les Bosquets. To his ears, it sounded like a triumphant symphony.
Chapter 72
International waters off the coast of Monaco
April 11, 4:10 a.m.
I PULLED ON a black wet suit top and balaclava-style neoprene hood. The night sky was overcast. There was nothing visible anywhere around us except for faint lights a mile or more off the bow of our Zodiac raft, which floated silently.
Louis was already in his wet suit, lashing shut a rubber dry bag with the equipment we’d need. Randall Peaks was futzing around back by the engine, and I was amazed and pleased at what a Saudi prince could do when he’s grateful to someone for keeping his sixteen-year-old daughter out of the headlines.
Need a raft? No problem. Need weapons? No problem-whatever you need, Mr. Morgan. We’ll move heaven and earth to help Private in whatever-
“Ready?” Peaks asked.
“Oui,” Louis said.
“Yes,” I said, and felt myself slip toward a mind-set I was taught in the marine corps and have continued to cultivate over the years: the cold, alert, and harsh way of thinking that seems to take over whenever I’m anticipating violence.
“Hand signals from here on out,” I said.
Peaks started the electric trolling motor mounted next to the outboard, and we started slowly toward the lights. He cut the motor when we were less than five hundred yards from the 120-foot triple-deck motor cruiser. She was sleek and midnight blue, and if it weren’t for the running lights, I think we would have had trouble finding her even with the GPS coordinates we’d been given.
Peaks lowered an anchor to slow the raft’s drift while Louis and I put on swim fins, masks, and snorkels before picking up the small dry bags. We slipped over the side and breaststroked through the swells, constantly scanning the yacht’s three decks. Nothing moved until we were right on the edge of the glow cast by the running lights.
Then Whitey lit a cigarette and walked forward along the rail of the main deck. The second he disappeared around the front of the yacht, we pulled the neoprene up over our lower faces and swam cautiously toward the stern and a wooden swimming platform to which a small speedboat was tied.
We hung off the rear of the smaller craft, stripped off the snorkeling gear, and opened the dry bags. I dog-paddled around the motorboat clenching a Glock 19 between my teeth to keep it out of the salt water. I placed it on the swimming platform. Louis came up beside me.
He climbed onto the platform first and rolled over tight against the hull, just below the painted name of the yacht, which read “Predator.”
I ignored the threat and followed Louis. Barely on the platform, I smelled cigarette smoke and caught sight of Whitey coming around the port side, still on the rear lower deck, moving as if he were on leisurely patrol.
I couldn’t move without being seen. Instead, I drew up the neoprene over my face and smeared myself against the wooden platform, gripping the Glock, pressuring the trigger safety, prepared to fire.
Whitey’s footsteps came closer, and then stopped. I held my breath, listening for the sound of a gun squeaking free of a holster, or worse, a shout of alarm. Instead, he walked on.
I gave Whitey two seconds before pushing up to my bare feet. Without a word or gesture to Louis, I oozed over the stern and onto the mahogany deck, as smooth and quiet as a snake. Whitey was twenty feet away, ambling and smoking with his back to me. I stalked him.
When I had closed the gap between us to less than five feet, I coiled to strike. Whitey seemed to sense something and began to turn, the cigarette glowing in his mouth. By the time he saw me, the butt of my Glock was already chopping toward his skull.
Whitey managed a cough before I hit him just above his right eye. He dropped dumbly to his knees, probably already out cold. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I hammered him again, and he pitched sideways onto the deck. I got zip ties from the dry bag, bound him to the rail, and gagged him while Louis stood guard.
It was ten minutes to five. The first hint of dawn showed on the horizon. We had to move.
Louis led the way off the rear deck, through a sliding glass door, and into a plush living and dining area. We padded forward, pistols leading, and I thought we were being quieter than your average ninja.
Then the dog started barking.
Chapter 73
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” a muffled and frustrated man yelled in French from somewhere on the deck above us. “Goddamn, it’s just Le Blanc getting coffee!”
But the dog wasn’t listening. He was still barking, and we could hear him bounding toward the gangway, which gave us little time to prepare. I looked around, wanting an alternative to killing the dog, and saw none.