Court yanked the man to him, hooked the carabiner on the end of the line to the man’s vest, then leapt to his feet and started back for the bedroom in a low sprint.
He’d made it just a couple of steps before booming gunfire from the hallway behind him began again, and just two more steps before he reached the other two men there at the doorway. Both were still down on their hands and knees, only now beginning to fight their way out of the several-seconds-long disorientation brought on by the two grenades.
As Court passed the second man he saw that the terrorist had a baseball-sized M67 hand grenade hooked in a pouch on his vest. Court reached out as he ran by, jammed his thumb inside the pull ring, and pressed on the safety lever with his hand. He raced on, yanking the pull ring along with him.
The still-dazed man recognized what had just happened, but his reaction was slowed by his concussion and his double vision. He just climbed up to his feet and reached out weakly towards the man rushing by, as if to stop him.
Court kept running, even faster now, letting the ring drop to the floor of the bedroom as rope spooled out from his backpack behind him. A round from an MP5 slammed into the bedpost ahead and on his left, splintering the hand-carved finial, but all Court could do was shift a little to the right, duck lower, and run faster.
And worry, because there was much to worry about just now. He knew he could be shot dead before he made it off the balcony, and he knew that if the man with the line hooked to his vest came to his senses and unfastened the carabiner in the next three or four seconds, Court would plummet to his death. Similarly he understood that if the guy with the grenade on his chest got his shit together and threw the device Court’s way, he’d be riddled with steel shot before he even got over the railing.
He shifted back to his left as more rounds slammed the French door ahead on the right, and he listened to the sound of the Kevlar line that was quickly playing out of its spool in his pack. He knew he didn’t have enough length to get him down to the ground, but the other end exited his pack at the bottom and connected to the body harness under his clothing, and the line was, at least, long enough to get him down a couple of floors.
Court dove headfirst over the balcony railing. Behind him the man on the other end of the Kevlar line had been in the process of trying to get his vest off, but just as he unhooked the first plastic buckle, he launched forward, landed on his knees, fell onto his face, and began sliding towards the doorway, closing on the terrorist with the live frag grenade on his assault vest. This man had himself recognized the danger he was in, and he was in the process of frantically trying to get the grenade off his body.
The grenade detonated, killing the man wearing it, plus another ISIS gunman, and wounding the stunned attacker tethered to Court, along with a fourth ISIS fighter who had entered the living room from the hallway.
And the wounded man on the line slid on towards the balcony.
CHAPTER 7
Court dropped two stories before his harness grabbed him around the crotch and the waist, and then he slowed as the human counterweight in the living room began jolting and sliding across the floor. When the man got caught on the wreckage of the French door, Court stopped completely, still far above the forecourt. He knew it would be faster to cut away the rope than to remove the harness under his clothing, so he pulled his boot knife, took a firm hold of the balcony next to him, and cut his own lifeline away. Court climbed down the rest of the way, using the line attached to Bianca and his feet pushing along the balconies of the lower-floor suites to help him descend.
As soon as he made it down to the forecourt he saw Bianca, only a few yards from him and facing away. She had managed to cut herself free of the rope, but now she just stood there in shock, unable to run for cover.
“Are you okay?” he asked, taking her by the arm and removing the switchblade from her hand. As he spoke he started to lead her out of the line of fire of anyone in the front lobby or above in her suite.
She spun around and punched Court in the chest. He took the blow, and then a second, but he caught her third swing. He yanked her now, pulling her roughly across the forecourt.
“You fucker!” she screamed.
Court looked back up to the balcony, then again at the woman. He pulled her into a side alleyway that led through a neighboring courtyard. “Believe me, I get it.”
Still holding her close, he ran with her through the courtyard, but since she was barefoot and the light was bad they did not run fast. Court carried a tactical light but didn’t want to use it to avoid the risk of being sighted by any high-stepping police who had managed to make it to the scene in the first couple minutes of the action.
He had a car waiting for him on the street that ran along the Square Louis XVI, three blocks northwest of the hotel, and by the time they made it there, the night was filled with sirens and squealing tires.
He checked her eyes as he put her in the car, and he thought she was suffering from shock, but she spoke clearly as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Where are we going?”
Court didn’t answer. He just started the dark blue four-door and took off towards the north.
A minute later she tried again. Through the tears that came inevitably after the stress and turmoil of the previous five minutes, she said, “Monsieur, where are we—”
“Seat belt.”
“What?”
“Put on your seat belt. Safety first.”
“Are you joking?”
He did not answer, so she did as she was told, fumbling the easy task for several seconds because of her shaking hands. When the lock clicked into place, she sniffed unglamorously. “Monsieur, will you please take me to Charles de Gaulle Airport? I have a flight this afternoon, but I can try to get an earlier—”
He interrupted her. “I’m taking you somewhere safe. You have friends in the city, people who will help you.”
“Friends? From Zuhair Murad?”
Court turned to her as he drove, then looked away. “No, lady, you were not rescued from ISIS terrorists by a dressmaker.”
“Who are these friends, then?”
The man in black pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped a button, placing a call. Bianca looked up to him, obviously hoping to learn something from his conversation about what the fuck was happening all around her, but after a ten-second wait the man simply said, “En route. Quinze minutes.” On the way. Fifteen minutes.
This told her next to nothing other than the fact that, just as he had said, there were others involved in all this.
She wiped tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt now. “Listen. I need you to tell me—”
Court turned to her. “Look straight ahead, out the window, not at me. And stop talking. You are out of danger, for now. That is all you need to know.”
Court could tell Bianca did not want to comply. But he could also tell she was scared. Not just scared because of what she had just survived, but scared of Court himself.
Bianca Medina knew dangerous men, and she would recognize that Court remained a threat to her.
Bianca looked down at the dashboard for nearly a minute before she said, “Thank you, monsieur.”
Court turned to her again suddenly, startling her anew. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it because I like you. I did it because it was my job. Like I said, I know who you really are.”
Bianca just stared ahead. After several sobs she got control over her emotions. “If you know who I really am, then you also know you are in a lot of trouble right now. Many people will come after you. Even here in Paris.”
The man continued looking ahead. “Lady, I really wish they would try.”
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