Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

The two men flanking the leader casually removed identical nine-millimeter Beretta pistols, letting them dangle.

“Let us please not have trouble. This is a nice hotel.”

“May I get dressed?”

“Please.”

He got out of bed, all the men staring at him, trying to shake off his hangover and getting up to speed on his situation. He hoped Gerta wouldn’t wake up. That would add an element of unpredictability. He had to think of something fast. Once they got him into a car, it would be all over.

“May I shower first?”

“No.”

Gideon moved to dress in the walk-in closet.

“Take your clothes out and dress here.”

Slowly, thinking all the while, he pulled on the four-thousand-dollar suit and shoes, tie, the works. After spending all that money, he was loath to lose the clothes.

“Walk with us.” They closed around him in a tight group. The guns disappeared as they moved out the door and into the corridor. They all got into a waiting elevator. Gideon’s mind was running like mad, but he could come up with nothing. Make a scene in the lobby? Start screaming like a madman? Say he was being kidnapped? Run for it? As he played out every scenario, one way or another he ended up either shot or hustled off. The problem was, these men would surely have a better story than his. And official identification. He couldn’t win.

The elevator arrived at the lobby level, the doors whispered open, and they stepped into the marbled space. At the far end of the lobby, beyond the wall of glass looking onto the entrance, he could see three black SUVs pulled up in a row, guarded by several additional men in blue suits. His escorts prodded him forward, moving fast.

What if he broke and ran? Would they shoot him? Even if he escaped, where would he go? He knew no one in Hong Kong and had only about two thousand dollars left: chump change around here. They would flag him before he left the country. And he’d been forced to travel under his own name: you couldn’t get a fake passport these days.

They shoved him toward the door, toward the trio of idling, black SUVs.

Hey!”

He heard a shout from across the lobby and saw a woman charging toward them. Mindy Jackson. She had her CIA wallet out, held open in front of her outstretched arm like a battering ram. “You there! Halt!”

The voice was so loud it brought everyone in the echoing lobby to a standstill.

She busted into the group like a bowling ball into a set of pins, pushing Gideon to one side. Then she wheeled about and shouted at them again. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m CIA assistant bureau chief here and this is my colleague. He’s got diplomatic immunity! How dare you disrespect diplomatic status!” She seized Gideon and yanked him toward the door.

Half a dozen handguns were immediately out, pointing at her. “You go nowhere!” the lead man shouted, advancing toward her.

Her own weapon came out in a flash, an S&W.38 chief’s special. There were sudden screams in the lobby as the guns were drawn, people ducking behind chairs and vases. “Oh yeah?” she cried. “You want a shootout with the CIA right here, right now? Come on! Think of the promotion you’ll get for shooting up the lobby of the Tai Tam Hotel!”

As she spoke at high volume, her voice ringing out, she continued hauling Gideon toward the door. The men seemed frozen as the two barged through an emergency exit, where she shoved him into the backseat of a waiting Crown Victoria. She got in behind him and slammed the door and the car screeched from the curb, leaving the group of blue-suited Chinese running to their SUVs.

“Motherfucker,” she said, shoving the S&W back into a shoulder holster and leaning back in the seat with a sigh. “Mother fuck er. What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

“I owe you thanks—”

“Thanks? You owe me your life . I can’t believe you walked your ass right into the lion’s den like this. Are you crazy?”

Gideon had to admit it seemed, in retrospect, a foolish decision.

She glanced back. “And now they’re following.”

“Where are we going?”

“Airport.”

“They’re going to stop us from leaving the country.”

“They’re confused. They’re asking for instructions. It all depends on how fast the intelligence bureaucracy can get their shit together. You know how to handle a handgun?”

“Yes.”

She pulled a.32 Walther from her waistband and handed it to him with an extra loaded magazine. “Whatever you do, for God’s sake don’t shoot anybody. Follow my instructions.”

“Okay.”

She spoke to the driver. “Slow down, let them get closer.”

“Why?” the man behind the wheel asked.

“It may reveal their intentions. Are they just following? Or do they want to run us off the road?”

The driver slowed considerably and the lead black SUV came cruising up, fast, in the left lane. It braked to their speed, a smoked window came down, and the muzzle of a gun poked out.

“Duck!”

The round blew out both rear windows, showering them with little cubes of glass. At the same moment their driver made a sickening evasive move, veering across four lanes of traffic on the Eastern Island Corridor, wheels squealing on the diamond-cut surface.

“You ascertained their intentions,” said Gideon drily.

“Yeah, and it looks like they got their instructions.”

The car was accelerating again along the corridor, weaving through traffic, heading for the exchange leading into the Cross-Harbour Tunnel.

“There’s going to be a traffic jam at the tunnel,” said the driver. “What’ll we do?”

Mindy didn’t answer. Gideon looked back. The SUV — and the two others — were whipping through traffic, pacing them.

Thunk! Another round punched through the side of their car with the sound of a sledgehammer on steel. Jackson leaned out the broken window, fired five shots in rapid succession. The SUVs took evasive action, dropping back.

Crouching by the floor, she snapped open the cylinder, shoved in fresh rounds, snapped it shut. “Keep your head down.”

“There’s no way they’re going to let us out of the country,” Gideon said.

Thunk! Another round clipped the rear of the car.

Gideon ducked, his hands over his head.

“It’s a lot harder than it looks to shoot a handgun from a car,” she said. “It isn’t like in the movies. Give me your passport.”

He fished it out of his pocket. He could hear the roar of the engine, the wheels squealing, the blaring horns of cars rapidly falling away behind — and now the sounds of sirens. She snatched the passport, reached into a bag, and pulled out an embosser and a small circular stamp. Opening the passport, she stamped it, signed it, and embossed it. “You now have diplomatic status,” she said as she handed it back.

“Is that CIA standard issue?”

She smiled grimly as the car slowed.

Gideon peeked out. They were entering the sunken approach to the Cross-Harbour Tunnel. The black SUVs, in dropping back, had gotten stuck many cars behind.

The traffic slowed further, bunched, and finally came to a halt.

Gideon peered out the window again and saw the blue suits pouring out of the black SUVs a hundred yards behind. They raced toward the Crown Vic, fanning out among the cars, guns drawn.

“We’re screwed,” he said.

“Not at all. As soon as I get out, start firing your gun over their heads. Be sure not to hit anyone.”

“Wait—”

But in a flash she jumped out, running at a crouch, dodging the lines of stopped traffic. He aimed slightly over the heads of the approaching suits and depressed the trigger, the handgun kicking back, one, two, three shots, deafeningly loud between the enclosed walls of the sunken approach. The suits dove to the ground and a chorus of screams rose up around him, doors flying open, cars emptying.