Cliff Ryder - The Finish Line

It was Anthony's overriding thought, almost swamping his years of military training and iron discipline that kept the beast inside at bay. Ironically, it was the loud cracks of the French policemen's pistols that distracted him from the almost overpowering red rage to burst around the corner — and most likely take a bullet to the face for his trouble — in the vain hope of putting a round right between that smarmy git's eyes.

"Anthony, we've got locals on our ass," he heard.

"Follow the plan, but take cover first — fire in the hole." Anthony plucked a grenade from his pocket and sent it skittering into the main area of the building, now completely deserted, as the crowds bustling through the station had either taken cover or fled into another tunnel. The grenade detonated with an echoing bang, making the approaching officers duck for cover. Anthony used that time to bolt for the door, hitting it with both arms outstretched after holstering his pistol under his jacket.

A National Police car screeched to a halt nearby. Anthony twisted his features into a mask of fear and staggered over to them. He pointed to the station, talking wildly. "L'interieur!"

The officers pulled him down behind the car and told him to stay there. They then approached the main doors of the station. As soon as their backs were to him, Anthony got up and walked off, past two more police cars that screeched to a halt in front of the station. He kept up his cowering-civilian persona until he reached the corner of the building, and once around it, he looked in all directions for the woman and her rescuer. They were nowhere to be found. He skirted the side of the building, past a taxi stand, peering into the windows of idling vehicles.

An angry horn blare made him look up at the hospital across the street, just as a blond-haired woman and brown-haired man entered the doors. His gaze instinctually went up to the roof, in time to catch the briefest glare of sunlight off glass. Like a sniper scope.

No sooner had the thought gone through his brain than Anthony acted, picking the narrowest slot and running into traffic, heedless of the blaring horns and curses flying in his direction. He expected to feel a heavy rifle slug punch through his neck, or maybe even his skull and be done with it, fading him to black before he could even register he had been hit. However, no sudden death rained down on him from above, and in another second he was at the entrance to the trauma center, or what passed for it in Paris. "Liam. Status?"

The reply that came back was between pants for breath, as if he had been running. "I'm at the…far end…of the train shed…" His voice was washed out by the roar of an incoming train. "West side of the building."

"Excellent, you should almost be able to see me. They're heading to the roof of the trauma center, right next to the station. Must be going to a helicopter. Get over here and follow me up."

"Affirmative."

Anthony was already heading inside the trauma center, pushing through the white-jacketed crowd, ignoring their questions as he scanned for the entry to the staircase. "Gregor, where are you?"

"Outside, on the east side of the station," came the reply.

"Are you hurt?" Anthony asked.

"Bullet glanced off my vest, but I'm fine."

"Good. Get back to the car. The code for the back is three-three-one-six-six. There's a rifle inside. Take it and get to a vantage point where you can see the hospital roof to the right of the museum. Once there, take out anyone you see that isn't one of us or the woman."

"Affirmative."

"Carl, status report."

Carl's reply was drowned out by a flurry of gunshots. "Didn't make it out. I'm pinned in a corner, low on ammo, and I just used my last frag. No cavalry coming to the rescue, huh?"

"I'm afraid not," Anthony said.

"What are your orders?"

The question made Anthony hesitate for a second, not just because Carl was still enough of a professional to ask it, but because of the answer it required. While he didn't like leaving a man behind, he knew there was no hope of saving him at the moment. If taken alive, he might talk, but there were ways around that. Unfortunately, nowadays a dead body also told tales, but less so than the living, and there were ways around that, as well. "Hold them off as long as you can. Surrendering is your call," Anthony said.

Now at the doors of the stairway, Anthony peered into the reinforced safety-glass window to see if anyone was lurking on the other side. He couldn't tell, so he put his shoulder to the door while drawing his pistol with his other hand, ready to shoot. The heavy door swung open, and he burst inside, eyes scanning everywhere for potential enemies. Finding no one, he eased the door closed.

He heard several more gunshots through his earpiece, then he heard a bitter laugh. "Surrender to the French? I'd never find decent work again!" Carl said.

"That's the spirit. Good luck, and be sure to destroy your phone before they take you."

"Affirmative. It was a pleasure working with you, sir."

"You, too." Anthony disconnected before he heard anything else. He could well imagine what the young man was about to go through. He didn't need to hear it confirmed. With luck, Carl would distract the police long enough so that they could recover the woman and get out before they threw up roadblocks around the city.

He was about to begin his sprint up the stairs when he heard voices from the hallway.

"Take the stairs?" a deep male voice asked.

A female answered. "Not with this leg, we won't."

"I could carry you…"

"Leaving us both defenseless if the hostiles are still around. Hold up — damn it, that hurts. "M-One, this is M-Three and M-Five. I took a hit to the leg, but we got out…we're coming up now…hold the chopper…yes, sir, that's great news. Thanks for letting us know…M-Three out. Come on, we've got ninety seconds to get to the roof, or the chopper's leaving without us. Orders from Primary," she said.

Anthony crept up the first flight of stairs, then ran as fast as he could up the remaining five flights, the plan sprouting in his mind as he went. His powerful legs ate up the distance as he reloaded his pistol, yanking back the slide with a vengeance, then threading a compact silencer onto the barrel.

Reaching the top, he saw a small landing with the elevator doors on one side, and the double doors leading to the roof on the other. In the dim light, he caught a dark splotch on the ground, and bent over to wipe it up with his fingers. Sniffing it brought the coppery scent of blood. They were here.

The chime of the elevator straightened him up, and he quickly scrambled over the railing to press against the wall of the elevator shaft, above the empty stairwell, one hand grasping the railing, the other holding his pistol. He balanced on the edge of the landing on just his tiptoes, the rest of his feet hanging out in space.

The doors slid open, and a pistol extended out, covering the landing and the stairwell. Anthony held his breath and tried to blend in with the shadows. If the soldier looked his way, he'd take him out, but lose the element of surprise.

"It's clear." The quiet male voice still echoed in the stairwell. "Come on."

Leading with the pistol, the two came out of the elevator, the woman leaning on the taller man, who Anthony recognized as the man he'd kicked into next week at St. Pancras. They stepped out fast, even though each movement was hurting the woman, as evidenced by the little gasps she let out as they moved forward.

Anthony visualized his movements in his mind, waited for them to take one more step, then it was his turn. Leaning out, he lined up his Walther's sights on the back of the man's head, exhaled and squeezed the trigger once. The subsonic bullet tore through the soft muscle at the back of his target's neck where the skull met the spine, killing him instantly. He turned from support to deadweight in a second, collapsing on top of the woman, who grunted in surprise.