John Weisman - Direct Action

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “It’s me,” he whispered. “Ben Said and others. They’re right behind me.”

Without waiting for a response, Tom ran for the table. Oh Christ oh God what’s the number ? It had suddenly evaporated from his consciousness. He found the box, squinted in the dim light, and desperately punched 3-0-6-7-9 into the keypad.

The wailing stopped. He ran back to the door and, careful not to disrupt the infrared beam, inserted the key into the lock and turned the bolt once-twice-thrice. Only then did he dare suck air into his lungs.

“Bedroom.” Reuven hissed at him from the darkness beyond the plastic curtain. “Keep low-don’t let them see a silhouette. Use the pistol. Stay until I call you.”

Tom started to set the olive barrel down then realized it was a bad idea. He shifted his weight to balance the load, reached into his waistband, pulled out the Glock, and started to tighten his finger around the trigger. He jerked his finger out of the trigger guard as if he’d touched a live wire. I’d probably shoot myself in the foot.

He indexed his trigger finger along the frame and pointed the Glock’s muzzle downward. Behind the stubby suppressor he could make out three greenish spots. The gun had night sights. As Tom moved, he held the weapon up so the front dot was even with the two rear dots. That would be his whatchamacallit sight picture. That’s how the instructors at the Farm had referred to it.

Desperately, he tried to remember what they’d taught him about pistol shooting. He couldn’t recall much. In fact, Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d fired a gun.

12:48:08. He’d just reached the bedroom door when the alarm went off. Instinctively, his finger dropped onto the trigger. He backed just inside the door, dropped to one knee, eased the barrel onto the floor, concealed himself behind the jamb, put the weapon up, held it securely in a two-handed grip, and trained it down the eight-foot corridor. Christ, this was close quarters.

12:48:11A.M. Tom heard the sound of a key in the front door lock. The bolt turned. He jumped at the sound and then cursed himself. The bolt turned twice more. Tom heard the door handle move. Then the alarm squealed and he started again.

The door eased open. Tom held his breath as the ambient light from the minuterie outside washed into the tiny foyer.

As if in slow motion, a wraithlike figure in a long, flowing overcoat moved through the doorway, heading for the table. Tom counted the seconds off: a thousand one, a thousand two, a thousand three.

The alarm shut off. Now a second, then a third shadow came through the door. The third shadow was carrying a big case-like a three-suiter or a wheeled garment bag. For an instant, Tom thought he saw weapons in their hands. Then the door closed behind them and it went dark again. He held the Glock up high, his eyes completely focused on the three green dots that told him where he was aiming.

The third man-the one with the suitcase-turned to face the corridor. Did he have something in his free hand?

Tom followed suitcase man with the sights on the pistol. His lungs were bursting for oxygen, but he couldn’t bring himself to breathe.

The shadow moved slightly. Now he was partially obscured. But Tom could almost smell him, he was so close.

Tom could hear his heart pounding. He froze, trying to become invisible.

From the part of the foyer Tom couldn’t see came a voice, speaking accent-free Arabic. “Yahia? Yahia? C’mon out, old friend. We have to talk.” The voice was smooth, coaxing, almost feminine in tone. Suddenly Tom’s nostrils flared and he caught the sweet citrus scent of aftershave or cologne. He refocused his eyes and realized that Suitcase Man had moved closer-he was less than two yards away.

And then came six rapid shots-no louder than a hammer striking nails. Thruup-ruup-ruup, thruup-ruup-ruup.

The shadow in the corridor jumped-turned toward the sound of the shots.

Panicked, Tom jerked the Glock’s trigger twice. The pistol surprised him. There was no boom-boom, only a pair of thwoks.

Suddenly the doorjamb next to his head splintered. Tom froze, blinded by the bright orange muzzle blast of the weapon that was oh-my-God pointed right at him. He tried to disappear-to become a puddle on the floor. But he found himself completely unable to move. He was helpless. Incapable of motion. It was like being in the middle of a nightmare.

The doorknob just behind Tom’s head shattered. He felt something slice into his scalp. And still there was no discernible gunshot sound-only muffled bursts. Thruup-ruup-ruup.

Tom tried to control the pistol in his hands. But the gun took on a life of its own, firing one-two-three-four-five-six-seven shots before he could bring the trigger under control.

He tried to focus on his sights. But all he could see was the muzzle flash as his adversary came closer-closer-closer moving in stop-time slow motion, now just over an arm’s length away.

Tom forced himself to lower the Glock’s muzzle until he could see over the top of it.

He saw the green dot-that was the front sight. Beyond it was the looming outline of the man trying to kill him.

Frantically, he pulled the trigger.

The pistol fired once and then the slide locked back. Tom tried to force it forward, but the goddamn thing was stuck-it wouldn’t move.

He was a dead man. Heart pumping, he closed his eyes, anticipating the bullet that would kill him.

And then there was only silence.

Tom opened his eyes. He could feel the pulse racing in his wrists. He dropped the Glock onto the floor. Scrambled onto his hands and knees and crawled past the corpse. His hand landed in a puddle and he stifled a gasp. “Reuven?”

Suddenly the lights in the foyer came on. Tom was blinded. When he looked up, Reuven was staring down at him.

“C’mon,” the Israeli said hoarsely. “No time to waste, boychik.”

Tom tried to focus. “What?”

“No time. Get up, Tom. On your feet.”

Dumbly, Tom did as he was told. He stepped over the man he’d just killed. There was blood-a lot of it-and brain matter splattered on the floor.

Reuven rolled the corpse with his foot. “You hit him more than once,” he said. “Good shooting.”

“It was luck,” Tom protested. “Dumb stupid luck.”

“Remember what Shamir said: never deny too loudly.”

Tom stared at what he’d done and his knees buckled.

Reuven caught him. “Easy, boy.”

Tom felt really queasy. He began to see spots and the room started to turn.

“Breathe, Tom,” Reuven instructed him. “Take in oxygen.”

Tom sucked air into his nose and mouth and thought he could smell blood. He opened his mouth wide in a silent, panicked yawn. Maybe that would help stifle the sickness he was feeling.

It didn’t. He took a deep breath and felt a little better. Took a second and third and the spots disappeared. Tom shook the Israeli’s hand off. “I’m okay. Okay.”

“Sure you are.”

Tom reached for the handkerchief in his pocket and blew his nose. Sucked oxygen into his lungs. Wiped at his eyes. He returned his gaze to the corpse at his feet and a new wave of nausea almost swept him off his feet.

Reuven took him by the arm and led him into the foyer.

As he approached the other corpses, a second wave of panic amplified by doubt washed over Tom-they’d killed the wrong people. And then he bent down and forced himself to examine the corpse of the man who’d silenced the alarm. It was the same individual who was in Shahram’s surveillance photo and MJ’s picture from Gaza. It was Tariq Ben Said-or whatever his name really was. Tom heaved a huge sigh of relief.