The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (20 page)

They
pulled up to the Daewoo Hanoi hotel, a complete cordon of security now in
place.

“I
assume you’re going to want to interview the suspect?”

“You should
get in the habit of calling him the ‘assassin’. And yes.” He smiled as he
looked toward the entrance. “Good. I see they received their orders.”

Sarkov
looked and his jaw dropped as he watched at least a platoon’s worth of
Vietnamese soldiers decked out in assault gear disappear into the main lobby.

Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Fifth floor

Niner grabbed the guard and tossed him over his shoulders in a
fireman’s carry. He rushed toward the end of the hall and where he knew the
service elevator was on each floor. And privacy. Kicking open the door, having
no time to bother with security passes, he dumped the man on the floor and
quickly undressed him. Pulling his own sneakers, shirt and shorts off, he hiked
on the man’s pants and zipped them up.

He
cursed.

They
were about four inches too short.

He
cringed for a moment at the thought of putting the man’s socks on but he had no
choice otherwise he’d be sporting bare ankles and too much calf. Slipping on
the socks, he shoved his feet into the man’s shoes.

It
wasn’t happening.

He
removed the laces and pushed his toes in as far as he could, shoving the rear
of the shoe down with his heel. Using the shoelaces, he tied the shoe around
the middle, strapping them to his feet. The man’s shirt fit just as poorly but
it was short sleeved making it a little less obvious, and one thing he had
noticed since being in Vietnam, the uniforms were always very baggy.

He
placed the man’s hat on his head, rolled up his own clothes into as tight a
roll around his sneakers as he could and tucked it under his arm, parallel to
his forearm. Shouldering the local variant of an AKM assault rifle he hogtied
the still unconscious man with some sheets from a laundry basket, dumped him inside,
then stepped into the hallway, making for the stairwell.

Boots
were pounding on the steps below. He looked over the railing and could see
black-clad troops, possibly SWAT or Vietnamese Special Forces, rounding the
second floor. He looked up and saw a familiar face looking down from the
eighth.

He
didn’t acknowledge it.

Stepping
back through the stairwell door he took up a position to the side of the door,
out of view of the elevators.

And
listened.

He
glanced down at his highwaters, the too short pants looking ridiculous.

I
look like Spaz doing the Poindexter dance.

He
smiled at the memory of his late buddy, killed the first time he had
encountered Professor Acton. Killed by Professor Acton. He didn’t blame the
professor, not anymore—he was simply defending himself against the Bravo Team
who were sent to kill him under orders they now knew were illegal. Acton and
his students weren’t domestic terrorists like they were told.

They
were innocent.

The team
had been torn up for some time after they found out the truth. Dawson had taken
it the hardest. He had known from the beginning something just didn’t feel
right so had taken it upon himself to do most of the dirty work so the others
wouldn’t have to live with the consequences.

It was
something they never spoke about.

Not to
their wives, girlfriends, shrinks or brothers-in-arms.

They
just tried to make up for it every day.

Which
was why he had such strong feelings about helping the professors now. He and
Jimmy had decided it was best that he leave alone, being spotted with a pasty
white American would be too easy. Jimmy was to act as his spotter from the
eighth floor window if he should make it out, but he had lost his comm in the
excitement down in the lobby where he had been spotted and challenged almost
instantly.

He was
on his own.

Just
like the professors.

Boots
pounded past the stairwell door and he waited a few seconds before peeking
through the small glass window. He could see shadows moving above and nothing
below but it was hard to tell. He opened the door and cocked an ear. Shouting
erupted above, some in English, ordering the approaching force to stand down as
additional boots began their ascent.

Niner
glanced down and saw they were still on the first level. He rushed down the
stairs, two at a time, his pace hindered by the makeshift shoes he was wearing.
He cleared the fourth level containing the Russian delegation and decided to
chance the third. Leaping over the railing to the next flight, he pushed
through the third level door just as the next wave of troops rounded the bend.

And
found himself face-to-face with two Vietnamese police officers.

He
flicked the butt of the AKM upward, catching the first on the chin, knocking
him to the floor, then spun around, swinging his cocked elbow at the other,
catching him on the side of the head. He finished him off with a quick blow to
the temple with the rifle, then pressed his shoe into the other man’s neck,
slowly cutting off the oxygen to his brain.

He let
up as soon as the man was out.

No
need to kill anybody unnecessarily.

He
pulled the two unconscious men away from the door and noticed one of them was
taller than the other. He pulled a shoe off and stepped beside it.

Shazam!
I got me some kicks!

He
yanked off his makeshift shoes and pushed his feet in the much better fitting
new ones, his toes still scrunched, but at least inside completely.

There
was no time for pants.

He
approached the stairwell door again just as gunfire erupted, the distinct sound
of AKM’s and AK-47’s echoing through the confined space.

Glocks
and MP5’s responded.

A scurry
of green uniforms, regular police, rushed back down the stairs. He stepped out
into the stairwell after the last passed and quickly descended the stairs
behind the cowards, soon reaching the main floor. The lemmings burst through
the door leading to the main lobby but Niner turned and headed out another door
that led to the rear of the building, a tense standoff developing as the
gunfire from above could just be heard outside. The DSS agents guarding the
motorcade vehicles had their weapons drawn, pointing them at the confused
police who had their own guns aimed at the American security detail.

If
someone doesn’t get a handle on this, a lot of people are going to die.

And he
knew they’d mostly be his own people.

He
skirted the edge, behind the uncertain police officers, knowing there was
nothing he could do here to help the outnumbered DSS agents. The best thing he
could do would be to escape the premises and somehow get back home. He had a
funny feeling that there was no way he’d be meeting the motorcade in the next
five minutes.

He just
hoped the situation would end in a stalemate soon.

And his
buddies survived.

Near the British Embassy, Hanoi, Vietnam

Laura and Acton waited, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible,
but with little success. They kept getting looked at, the chanting just around
the corner still loud, attracting more and more onlookers as the minutes ticked
by.

The
conversation had been short. She had dialed Mai’s brother’s number, still in
her purse, and was relieved to hear the young woman’s voice on the other end.

“Are you
okay?”

“Yes,”
Mai had replied. “It was my idiot brother who rescued me.”

“We just
may need his help too.”

“Why,
what has happened?”

“We’re
wanted fugitives. They’re claiming we helped you escape.”

“But
that’s not true!”

“No, but
they don’t care about the truth. Both embassies are surrounded by police and
protesters. We can’t go back to the hotel for the same reason.”

“I’ll
send my brother to get you. Where are you?”

James
had been leaning in, listening to the conversation and held up his phone with
the Google Map of the area. She gave Mai the street address.

“Someone
will be there to pick you up as soon as possible.”

The call
had ended leaving the two of them waiting with plenty of time to wonder in
silence, English probably not the best language to be speaking out loud right
now. Even James though couldn’t hold his tongue at the sight that came slowly
down the street. Two men were pushing a Jaguar XK-8 Cabriolet, its engine still
steaming with what looked like a high-priced call girl steering. James pulled
out his phone and began taping it.

“It’s a
wonder he can afford her what with all the repair bills.”

“You’re
sending that to Hugh, aren’t you?”

He
grinned at her. “Am I that predictable?”

Laura
shook her head, smiling as they watched the broken down vehicle slowly make the
next left turn, eventually pushed out of sight.

The
sound of a motorcycle engine caught Laura’s attention. It was distinctly
different from the others, this one clearly driven by someone in a hurry. Then
the sound changed, her ear discerning a second engine as they neared.

“I think
our rides are arriving,” observed James, nodding down the street.

“Lovely.”

“You
were expecting a limo?”

“I don’t
know what I was expecting. Can we trust these people?”

Laura shrugged.
“We can trust Mai, I think, but her brother? I don’t know.”

“He
could turn us in for a reward.”

“He
could,” agreed Laura. “But at least that might be a controlled situation. Right
now we’re liable to get shot by some trigger happy street cop.”

Two men
pulled up to the curb, their heads covered by helmets, their visors down. The
first one flipped his up. “You professors?”

James
nodded. “Did Mai send you?”

“Yes.”
He jerked his thumb toward a car that pulled up behind them. “Back seat, now!”

Laura
looked down the street and saw two police officers looking their way. “James,
look.”

James
followed her stare and cursed. “No time like the present.” They climbed into
the rear of the car as the motorcycles pulled away, the car following, Laura
stunned it could actually still drive, it having more square inches of dents
than smooth metal. Smoke churned out the tailpipe as oil was burnt at an
alarming rate while the engine roared from a faulty muffler.

“Definitely
not a limo,” she muttered, James squeezing her leg. She looked at the police
officers, one of whom was now pointing, the other on his radio, shouting. A
siren behind them had her driver looking back and shouting something in
Vietnamese that she assumed was a curse.

He
jerked the car to the right, around the corner just as they both yelled, ‘No!
Not that way!”

The
driver cursed again as the two motorcycles suddenly turned around, the massive
crowd, protesting in front of the embassy, blocking both directions just ahead.
Shouts could be heard from the two police officers now chasing them on foot as
the driver eased off the gas, his head desperately looking left and right,
wondering where to go.

“You’ve
got to turn around!” shouted James, the crowd now taking notice, the police
shouting something and pointing.

“What
are they saying?” asked Laura.

“American!
American!” translated the driver as he came to a halt, indecision ruling him.
Suddenly the crowd swarmed them, pounding on the car. James leapt over and
slammed down the door locks as they all rolled up their windows. The car jerked
forward as their driver lay on the horn, but the crowd refused to give. The
pounding became rhythmic, like a drum beat, as the ‘Yankee go home!’ chant, not
present only moments before, became deafening, each word punctuated with a slam
on the car.