Ted Bell - Warlord

Protocols had long ago gone out the window, he fumed privately. His professionalism had been compromised through no fault of his own, and he'd bloody well had it with this lot.

Neither Trevor nor anyone else noticed a large, blue-and-white BMW motorcycle following them a few hundred yards back.

Trevor heard Dodi talking to Diana in the dark backseat of the Mercedes. "Only a few minutes, darling, and we'll be home," he said, kissing the top of her head.

HENRI PAUL SPED UP THE ONE-WAY Rue Cambon, then swung the big car right onto the Rue de Rivoli, headed for the Place de la Concorde. He continued south along the west side of the square past Cleopatra's Needle, almost all the way to the Seine. Ignoring red lights, he swung the car right onto the dual freeway called the Cours la Reine, on a heading parallel to the Seine. Almost immediately, they entered a series of tunnels, and Henri increased his speed, the needle moving past one hundred on the speedometer.

"Why the hell are you going this way?" Trevor demanded of the driver, annoyed. This route was much longer than the direct route up the Champs-Elysees, and he didn't want his party to spend one second longer in this bleeding car than was absolutely necessary.

"Give the bastards the slip, that's why," Henri muttered, eyes on the rearview mirror. "None of them will be expecting us to take this route."

"Christ," Trevor said under his breath, thinking, Right, now we've really gone off the bloody charts. And if nobody gives a shit anymore, then neither do I.

He suddenly caught sight of a big motorcycle gaining ground in the rearview mirror. Henri Paul had seen it, too, and he was speeding up. At least the bastard on their tail wouldn't get any good photos, Trevor thought. It was dark inside the tunnels and the unlighted interior of the car would cause exterior reflections on the clear windows, too many to get any kind of a decent shot of the occupants, now giggling over something in the backseat.

The car was plunged into semidarkness as they entered the Pont de l'Alma Tunnel at very high speed.

"Jesus Christ, man! Watch out!" Trevor shouted, grabbing the dashboard with both hands.

Diana clutched the rear of the front seat and lurched forward to see what was happening. Then she screamed.

"My God, we're going to hit him!"

They were coming up far too fast on a white Fiat Uno. And the car was swerving right into their lane. Henri swerved hard left in order to avoid a collision. He managed to miss it, but not completely. They clipped the left side of the Fiat with their right mirror and front door.

"Dodi!" Diana cried, swinging her fist at him. "Do something!" The huge concrete pillars supporting the tunnel roof sped by in a blur, and dangerously close.

"What the hell is going on, Henri?" Dodi bellowed, leaning forward from the rear. "Are you out of your fucking mind? Slow down, for God's sake!"

Henri Paul downshifted and braked in an effort to get the speeding car under control.

At that moment, Diana, terrified that Henri was out of control and driving dangerously, peered over Trevor's shoulder, fearing for her life.

Something caught her eye just to the right of the Mercedes.

She saw a large blue-and-white motorcycle with two men, a squat driver and a taller man behind him on the pillion seat. As the big bike pulled abreast of them, she saw the man on the rear seat reach into the camera bag slung across his shoulders.

"I'll lose this fucking bastard, just you watch," Henri Paul said, accelerating once more.

"No!" Trevor shouted. "Slow down, Henri, damn you! One more stupid picture doesn't matter. And the rest of the pack is at least a bloody mile behind us."

Henri Paul ignored the bodyguard and downshifted, depressing the accelerator, determined not to let these mongrels overtake him and his precious cargo. He was shocked to see the motorcycle effortlessly rocket ahead of him, despite his efforts.

Suddenly the motorcycle swerved directly in front of the Mercedes, red brake lights flashing.

What the hell?

"Seat belts!" Trevor shouted again, desperately snatching his own across his chest. Diana strained forward between the two front seats, looking at the motorcycle now directly in their path, red taillights flashing, obviously braking to get a shot of their terrified faces through the windshield.

"God damn these people!" she cried out, tears coursing down her cheeks, bringing her fist down in frustration on Trevor's massive shoulder.

Would there ever be peace for her? Ever?

She saw the man on the cycle's rear turn around and face them, raising his camera-no, not a camera-some other kind of thing, like a strange gun, and-

A blinding flash of light exploded into Henri Paul's and Trevor's eyes. Inside the Mercedes, the awesome power of the Northrop ten-thousand-watt military laser gun was devastating.

Instantly blinded by the catastrophic glare, stunned, and completely disoriented, driver Henri Paul took both hands off the wheel and covered his scalded eyes. Dodi and Diana froze. They were skidding and swerving directly toward the tunnel's massive center pillars.

"Oh, God!" Diana screamed, blinded, and fully cognizant of certain death exploding in her brain.

"Oh, dear God, we're going to-"

In a split second the heavy Mercedes slammed headlong into the thirteenth concrete pillar at full speed. Henri never even had the chance to apply the brakes. The airbags all deployed on impact, but since none of the occupants were wearing seat belts, they afforded scant protection.

Dodi and Henri Paul died instantly. Trevor, hurled facefirst into the windshield, was knocked unconscious, the entire front of his face ripped away.

The Princess of Wales was alive.

But she had sustained a massive internal injury when the car's arrested momentum flung her violently against the front seat. She was bleeding from the nose and ears, lodged between the backseat and Trevor's seat. Her heart was still beating strongly.

It was pumping blood slowly but surely through the small tear in her aorta, the red tide rising steadily inside her thoracic cavity. As time passed, the invisible wound was slowly bleeding what precious little was left of her life out of her.

Horn wailing, water, steam, and smoke rising from the shattered engine of the unrecognizable Mercedes, Diana, Princess of Wales, lay in the darkened, crumpled vehicle, moaning softly, "Oh my God, oh my dear God."

IN A HEAVILY WOODED AREA of the Bois de Boulogne, on a dark and empty street, Smith ordered his driver, Omar, to stop the motorcycle. He needed to stretch his legs, he said, climbing off the pillion seat and walking around to the front of the BMW.

"Dead men tell no tales," Smith said, and, turning, plunged his stiletto straight into the man's heart. Then he lowered the kickstand and pulled Omar's body back to the pillion seat. After attaching Velcro straps to each of his wrists, he climbed aboard the BMW. He pulled the straps forward, fastening them around his waist.

And then he disappeared into the summer night.

IN THE GREY DUSK OF A LATE summer evening, three men stood on a hillside in the shadows of a thick wood, gazing at a house standing at the bottom of the hill. The wind was howling dismally, with only the harsh, discordant cry of an occasional seagull rising above the wind. The tide was in and with it came a dank, iodine-tinged mist. There was an occasional rumble of thunder to the west, perhaps a storm rolling in from the sea.

The old three-story house was called the Barking Dog Inn. It seemed deserted and gave off an almost sinister appearance. All the windows were shuttered. The uncared-for gardens were a mass of unkempt weeds and desolate, overgrown flower beds. The unpainted garden gate opening onto the dirt road, a former cart track, was in need of a top hinge and swung drunkenly in the wind from the unpainted fence. A few tired trees surrounded the inn, swaying dismally in the wet wind.