The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(70)

Mike said, “Adam says there are another five at the front.”

“So they’ve got us on both sides.”

Nicholas said, “I’m with you, Mike. We’ll take the front. Jean-Pierre, you’re with Grant. We only have to hold them off for say, ten minutes, then the police will be here.”

Mike and Nicholas ran through the house and took up positions in the drawing room windows that gave out onto the sweeping front lawn.

Mike said, “These French doors are hardly going to hold up to a gunfight. If they breach, we’re sunk.”

“Well, you’re an excellent shot, Agent Caine. I’ll give you the right side, I’ll take the left. Maybe we can catch them by surprise.”

Mike glanced out past the edge of the curtain. Nicholas went to the other side of the room, a good twenty feet away.

“They’re making a straight-on approach, right up the hedgerow along the path. Ready?”

“As I ever will be.”

She knocked a hole in the window pane and started shooting. She caught two, who went down and didn’t move again, and the remaining three scattered, running away from her fire, directly into Nicholas’s path. He picked them off, one, two, then a third man was left alone. He took off running back toward the gate. Mike pinged him in the upper thigh, and he dropped in the grass, writhing in pain. Just as quickly, he grew still.

“Good shooting, Mike.”

They heard yelling from the back of the house, shouts and calls.

Nicholas said, “Grant needs help. You go, I’ll stay here just in case there are more of them out there.”

She ran back through the house to Grant’s position, only to see Jean-Pierre on his back, a large red stain spreading across his chest.

She yelled, “Nicholas! We need you,” and to Grant, “What happened?” She dropped to her knees and started putting pressure on the wound.

“Ricochet in the window. I took out three, but there’s two more, and one of them’s a damn good shot.”

Broussard groaned. “Some help I am, you should have made me stay upstairs,” and he gave her a heartbreaking smile.

Glass shattered around them. Grant called, “Mike, move him, I can’t get a proper stance.”

“Hold on.” She dragged Broussard ten feet into the room. The wound was high up in his left chest, almost collarbone level. The blood leak was slow and steady, not gushing. “Lucky,” she murmured to him. “You’re going to be okay, I promise.”

Nicholas came skidding into the room, cursed, then ripped off his already ruined shirt and tossed it to Mike.

“More pressure!”

She saw the blood starting to leak out his back. “I think you got even luckier, it looks like the bullet went through. Still, it’s bleeding heavily. We need to get you to a hospital. My guys said the Lyon police are on their way.”

“It hurts, I think I might—“ Broussard shuddered and passed out. A blessing because it gave Mike the chance to really get the pressure to the right depth. The bleeding was slowing. She felt for Broussard’s pulse—slow, a bit bumpy, but strong enough for the moment.

“Grant, do you have any hemostatic gauze in your bag?”

“QuikClot? Yes, my bag’s on the back table there.”

Nicholas shot three times out the window, then rushed to the bag, tossed it at Mike, and said, “For heaven’s sake, Mike, get this on him and make another call for help. We’re down to our last magazines.”

They saw another man running wildly toward them, spraying the house with bullets. Suddenly, he was down. They stared at each other. Who had shot him? Not the Lyon police, they weren’t here yet.

The gunfire slowed from outside. As they searched to find the shooter who’d killed the terrorist, they saw a man walking slowly toward the house, his hands laced on top of his head.

“Bloody hell, what the devil is this? Is he surrendering?”

Grant yelled at Nicholas, “Careful, careful, don’t show yourself. He might be wearing a vest. We don’t need him blowing us up. I think we should take him out.”

As if the man knew what they were thinking, he ripped open his shirt, showing only dark skin and hair, and immediately clapped his hands back on top of his head.

Grant was shocked. “Bugger me sideways, mate, that’s Al-Asaad himself! I recognize his photo. What is he up to?”

“You’ve got to be wrong, Grant,” Nicholas said, crowding him away from the window.

“No, I’m sure. That’s Al-Asaad approaching the door, hands up, shirt open, no bomb.”

Mike squeezed in beside Nicholas. “Look, now he’s getting on his knees. He still has his hands on his head, fingers laced, now he’s down, face in the dirt.”

“It’s a trap, got to be,” Grant said. “The minute we open the door, his remaining people will rush us.”

“I don’t think he has any remaining people,” Nicholas said.

A voice shouted out, “Agents Drummond, Caine? May I have a word?”

The man sounded like a bloody American. What on earth was going on here?

Nicholas shouted, “Who are you?”

The man called back, “You probably know me as Khaleed Al-Asaad.” And now they could hear the Southern in his voice. “But my real name is Vince Mills. I’m CIA.”