Page 77 of The Last Kingdom

COTTON GAZED OUT THE WINDOWS AT THE BUILDINGS IN THEdistance. They were west of downtown, near the old Olympiapark. Not far from where, in 1972, Palestinian terrorists killed eleven Israeli athletes and local police killed five of the eight terrorists during a failed attempt to rescue the hostages. The other three were captured. Which only led to the hijacking of a Lufthansa flight a month later, when the West German government released the three in an exchange. But the Israelis eventually tracked down and killed every single Palestinian suspected of involvement with the massacre.

If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?Shakespeare was right.

And that’s exactly what was happening here.

Tit for tat among spies.

Randy Miller stood near the windows, Koger was still seated, both men talking, debating what to do next. Koger had put away his weapon. He felt like a third wheel on a date. Through the open doorway back to the inner secretarial area, he noticed movement. The glass doors leading to the outer work area opened, then closed, and a man entered cradling a semiautomatic weapon. Unusual? This was a CIA front. But the face, hard and determined with eyes locked ahead, he’d seen before.

Last night.

Jason Rife.

Before he could utter a sound, Rife burst through the office doorway. The first salvo of bullets strafed Randy Miller, pricking his enormous frame like a dartboard, bouquets of blood roses erupting across his bulging white shirt. The retort sounded like a dot matrix printer spitting ink, only louder. Another salvo smacked the thick glass windows, but did not break them. Miller slammed against the outer wall, the window reverberating from the impact like ripples on a dark pond. A final volley finished Miller in the head, bullets slicing and dicing flesh and bone, ricocheting off the glass, blood splattering like paint on a bright canvas. Koger reached for his gunas Rife sent a burst of rounds his way. Cotton reacted and lifted the nearest armchair, hurling it toward the shooter. Its flight and impact provided the few seconds needed for he and Koger to rush for the only other door out, which led into an adjacent conference room.

They entered and slammed the door.

No lock. He hoped the damn thing was solid.

“Get down,” he yelled.

They dove to the carpet just as the first blast of bullets pounded into the wood on the other side of the apparently solid wooden door. Adrenaline poured through him. He stood and slid the heavy conference table across the tight carpet toward the door, the armchair at the far end leading the way, the rest of the chairs sliding by the wayside. The armchair slammed into the closed door, followed by the table.

That should slow some forward progress.

He yanked open the door at the far end of the conference room, readying their escape. Their pursuer pushed on the other door, immediately realizing something blocked the way.

The door slammed forward several times.

The table inched back.

“You see the face?” he asked Koger.

“Loud and clear.”

And they both ran from the conference room.

* * *

RIFE SLAMMED INTO THE DOOR AND THE BARRIER ON THE OTHERside finally slid back. He squeezed through and surveyed the conference room. Chairs were strewn all over, the rectangle empty, the door at the other end closed. He backtracked through the main office toward the outer secretarial space. Along the way he made sure Randy Miller was dead.

Good riddance.

Last thing they needed was for this guy to shoot his mouth off.

He left and spotted Malone and Koger slipping out the glass door into the open office area.

He pointed the gun and fired.

Bullets peppered the glass, but the transparent wall did not shatter.

* * *

KOGER WHIRLED AROUND.

Thirty feet away, across the expansive cubicle area, flames shot out the end of a short gun barrel. He silently thanked someone at Langley for the foresight to use bulletproof glass.

“Move it,” he said, and they tore down the hall, turning the corner.