A Game for Assassins (The Redaction Chronicles Book 1) (38 page)

“You just worry about yourself. Keep your eyes on the target and don't get distracted.” She'd kept looking straight ahead, her eyes never wavering from their principal ahead of them. But the voice had been hard and cold. Gorilla raised an eyebrow at that.

Things had definitely changed in his brief absence. When Nicole had picked him up from the airport, there had been tiredness around her eyes and her manner was abrasive. “Get in, we're on the clock,” she'd barked as he threw his overnight bag into the back seat of a new, but equally shabby, Renault before she gunned the engine and thundered away, driving Parisian style. He had seen that look before on agents just back from a long stretch in hostile territory; a hardness, an independence, a self-sufficiency which had manifested itself while he'd been away.

It had been a long operation for Nicole and he suspected she would have liked to return to England with him. She'd been living a vagabond lifestyle for the past few months and he knew even the briefest break from active operations could give a field agent a new zeal. But her pride and stubbornness wouldn't let her admit she was exhausted. She'd dug her heels in and set about moving their base of operations to the Hotel Peletier on the Rue le Peletier.

They were approaching the embankment leading to the bridge. They both knew that now was the most vulnerable time for
Cirius
. They gave each other a final look. In truth, they'd already discussed what their immediate action plan was going to be, once the attack on Barrington was initiated. For Gorilla, it was simply a case of being quicker to the draw than the hidden assassin and for Nicole, it was to get their agent out and away from the kill zone quickly.

Nicole took a breath as they walked up onto the entrance to the bridge. The bridge was busy and her eyes were scanning constantly. Men, women, children, pets. She had learned harsh lessons from her time in Marseilles, but now she was intent on searching out that one face, the one face she'd last seen years ago in the Caribbean.

Gorilla stopped and turned, embracing her as a lover would. “You see anything, any faces?” he whispered in her ear.

She shook her head and she felt his hand move out of his pocket, ready for the quick draw that would have to happen soon. They moved once again at a slower pace, a good thirty feet away from Barrington who was nearly at the statue. She saw him falter in his step and then he moved cautiously towards an ugly toad of a man who was undoubtedly his Russian contact. Nicole gave a brief look in Gorilla's direction. His eyes were everywhere, high and low and the effort of concentration was evident on his face

She looked over at the two men, saw them pause to casually speak to each other and then she saw the KGB man's head explode!

She knew then the honeymoon was over.

* * *

It was the screams of the couple passing the scene which first roused Barrington from his shock, and being a soldier who'd seen battle more than a few times, he immediately did what he was trained to do and found cover behind one of the stone alcoves dotted across the bridge.

Spat
…
Spat.
He heard two more successive shots ricochet off the stonework, trying to pick him off behind his meagre cover position. A sniper! A silenced weapon! A bolt action, hence the pause as the marksman took time to reload. Barrington peered around frantically. Where was the shooter? On the bridge? Not judging by the angles and distance.

Cars were slowing down to rubberneck at the commotion and people were running frantically in all directions. Fathers protecting their children, lovers in each other's arms, running in a crouch, all trying desperately to get away.

Spat
…
Spat
; two more hit the stonework above his head.

The bugger's getting closer,
he thought;
I've got to move and fast!
He'd spotted the near side of the bridge wall, which would provide better cover than the exposed position he was in. How far away though… twenty… thirty feet? Possible, even for an old duffer like him who was used to chairing meetings these days rather than running under fire.

Spat… Spat
!

“Ahhh!” The second round ripped across his bicep. He felt the initial sting, then the slow burn of the metal churning up his flesh before he suffered excruciating pain. He clutched a hand over the wound, and blood oozed from between his fingers. It was a flesh wound, bad but bearable.
Move man, or you are going to die here!

Just as he was about to launch himself once more into combat, two things happened almost simultaneously.

The first, was that he noticed a small, blond-haired man in a business suit and thick winter overcoat sprint at full speed across the bridge towards the opposite side. The man didn't look as if he was running away from the gunfire, far from it, in fact he looked as if he was running towards it. His legs were pounding like a man possessed, and his right hand seemed to be reaching beneath his heavy coat, either to hold something in place, or to draw it from his waist.

The second remarkable thing, in amongst the scene of chaos and bloodshed, was the hand that firmly grabbed him by the shoulder and was dragging him away from the imaginary security of the old bridge's stone viewing balcony. He looked up and saw the face of one of the prettiest girls he'd ever had the pleasure to see while he was being shot at.
“Come on, Major, move!”
she was yelling at him.

“What… who… get down girl, for heaven's sake, there's a sniper somewhere,” he babbled.

The young woman fixed him with a grim look and shouted directly into his face, “Cirius, get on your feet
now
and
run
!”

* * *

Gorilla had spotted where the sniper was firing from almost at once. While everyone else was running for cover, his eyes followed the line of sight, tracing the bullet's path from the dead Russian to… where? A window in the hotel opposite the bridge, it had to be. Then he'd seen the fluttering of a curtain through the open window and the shape of a long, thick rifle barrel as it was retracted.

He set off at a sprint, determined to bust his way into the hotel and find the room if he had to. He'd reached the corner of Dauphine Square when he saw the man with a small suitcase leaving the hotel in a hurry. Not a run by any means, but at a pace which suggested he would rather be somewhere else right at that moment. And yes, it had to be the same man from Marseilles; same build, same height and the face held the same characteristics of the wartime photo he'd seen in the man's file.

Gorilla watched as the man strode quickly through the square and away. Gorilla bought a newspaper from a vendor, threw whatever change he had in his pockets at him, and began to hurry after the assassin. The newspaper was there to cover the pistol and silencer, which he would have to use very soon. After all a shootout in the middle of Paris was not the way to handle this Redaction. No, track the man, isolate him and then finish him off.

He was always amused by the movies when the hero would shout 'Freeze' or 'Don't move' or 'Put your hands up', and he supposed if the hero was a policeman, that would have been the correct thing to do. But Gorilla wasn't a policeman, he was a Redactor and Redactors shot first, without warning. To warn your enemy was to give him an advantage, an advantage which could be terminal.

They'd reached the entrance to the embankment leading off from the Quai des Grands Augustins.
Perfect,
Gorilla thought. The sloping slip road led down to the river. It was still busy down there, but he would have more of an opportunity to quietly deal with this Marquez and perhaps even get rid of the body in the water.

He looked left and right; people were strolling, a few artists with easels were painting the view of the river. He ducked into a shop doorway and quickly removed the pistol and silencer from the leather holster on his right hip. With his back turned to the street, he rapidly screwed the two pieces together; after a cursory chamber-check he concealed the weapon beneath the newspaper. If anybody had taken the time to notice him, they would have seen a man holding a rolled up newspaper across his body at waist height. All Gorilla would have to do was walk up alongside the assassin, and put two rounds into the man's spine. A lowering of the newspaper to his side and two more shots into the head as the man hit the floor would bring the operation to a swift conclusion. He just had to get within a few feet of Marquez and it would be game over. He'd lost the bastard once in Marseilles, this time he was going to have his pound of flesh.

He made his way back onto the street, following, edging closer and closer through the crowds. In the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens; the police and ambulances on their way to the scene at the Pont Neuf. The Sunday crowds were both a help and a hindrance. They were good for cover, but also made it slow going as he fought his way through them.

Marquez turned onto the quiet side street, the Rue des Grands Augustin. Gorilla increased his pace to catch up with the target. The more time Marquez was out of eye contact, the more the risk of his escape increased. Gorilla reached the corner and paused. Counted one, two, and three. Then he casually sauntered around the corner away from the busy main street, his newspaper still held at his waist.

What he saw caused his step to falter and he quickly moved into the doorway of a restaurant, trying his best to stay in the shadows. He risked another glance and saw the man, Marquez, standing at the driver's door of a Citroën DS19.

The door was open as if he was about to drive off, but was hampered by the fact that he'd been stopped by a young police constable of
La Surete Nationale
. Gorilla thought the copper looked like he was fresh faced and just out of police training, but to his credit, he was taking control of the situation and detaining Marquez in a random 'stop and search'.

Gorilla guessed the call had gone out quickly about the shooting further up the riverbank – that and the fact that his swarthy complexion could easily have Marquez down as a possible OAS terrorist, which would definitely make him a person of interest to the police.

The Sûreté constable was asking Marquez questions and gesticulating towards the small suitcase he was carrying. Marquez shrugged and offered a response that Gorilla couldn't make out. Marquez seemed to acquiesce and then handed over the suitcase, but just as the constable took the weight of the case, the bigger man leaped forward and gripped him by the throat with his left hand. At the same time, his other fished into his coat pocket, and with a flash of steel, a glinting switchblade sprung into life.

The policeman desperately tried to reach for the gun at his hip, but the bigger man's stiletto was fast moving and in constant motion as it pumped in, again and again, at the younger man's throat. A woman walking on the opposite side of the road had turned and witnessed the attack. Her scream caused Marquez to break off his knifing and he let the policeman slump to the ground, all life gone out of him as the blood cascaded over his uniform.

Marquez threw the case into the car and was about to climb into the driver's seat when he caught sight of Gorilla moving out of the shadows. They saw each other as only two people who are of the same ilk can, with a clarity and recognition of the breed they are.

Gorilla swung the newspaper up, a fast moving blur, and centered it on the man framed against the car. Almost instantly, Marquez ducked into the car, leaving only his hand resting on the roof as he tried to move his tall frame inside. Gorilla took the shot; the end of the newspaper snapped once as the bullet sped out from the barrel and blew two fingers from Marquez's hand.

Even before Marquez screamed with pain, Gorilla knew his shot had hit home. It was his skill after all, for even though the majority of his Redactions took place in close quarters, Gorilla still prided himself on being an expert shot for long distance pistol work.

Gorilla started to move forward slowly, taking his time and carefully placing his shots.

The bullets took out the passenger's side window and skimmed off the roof, and Gorilla cursed; going for the quick kill headshot had caused the bullets to bounce high. To his credit and despite the gunshot wound, Marquez was nimble enough to get the car moving, slowly at first and then faster as the engine reached a whining crescendo. The car lurched forward as its power increased, before speeding away, its door flapping open and closed until the car's momentum was strong enough to slam it shut.

Gorilla stood framed in the narrow street; the newspaper now abandoned and the '39 up and aimed as he carefully shot out the rear lights and splintered the back window… twenty-five feet… thirty feet… until the car careered away, swinging around the corner into the distant Rue Saint Andre des Arts.

Gorilla picked up the spent ammunition casings from the ground. He checked around. The few remaining witnesses were at the far end of the street and from this distance, wouldn't have a clear view of him. In the distance, the police sirens were getting closer.

The police would already be twitchy after the scene on the Pont Neuf and now with a secondary shooting less than half a mile away, the last thing he needed was for his description from two sets of witnesses to be relayed to the authorities. He knew he had to get out of the area and meet Nicole back at the emergency rendezvous. He turned and without looking back, quickly made his way back towards the river.

“I've seen you sunshine,” he whispered to himself. “I've seen you now and I never forget a face.”

* * *

Nicole had one hand stuffed into her handbag, clutching the Walther pistol, and one hand holding onto the upper bicep of her recently-acquired Agent
Cirius
, like a bodyguard moving a protected VIP out of danger.

They'd been hurrying along the Quai des Tuileries for a good ten minutes following the shooting when Barrington pulled her up. Nicole turned to him. The man looked ashen; partly through the injury and partly from shock.

“Wait… I need to rest,” he said, panting.

“No, we have to keep moving, we have to put some distance between us and what happened back there,” she said. They'd not long passed the entrance to the Louvre. There were crowds of people everywhere and each one of them could have been a threat. Who knew how many contractors these killers might have recruited? Nicole tightened her grip on the gun in her handbag. “A little further, then we can stop and talk.”