70. Chapter Seventy
Chapter seventy
Noble had a tight grip on Zeqiri’s elbow, and the Browning pistol stuffed in the Captain’s ribs, as they marched through Ban Jela?i? Square. Pigeons scattered at their feet while the morning sun glinted off the surrounding rooftops.
Two young girls went racing past, laughing and trying to tag each other while their mother hurried to keep up. Noble pressed the gun a little harder, silently warning Zeqiri not to try taking advantage of the distraction.
The Middle Eastern man in the tan slacks holding the leather briefcase strolled casually along the cobbled stones like a man taking in the sights while he waited on a friend.
The IRGC, patriarchal authoritarian regime, would never send a woman, or an elderly man, someone who might easily pass unnoticed.
That made spotting them child’s play, a little like noticing a turd in a punch bowl. Hard to miss.
Noble whispered in Zeqiri’s ear. “This your buyer?”
Zeqiri hesitated just a fraction of a second, licking his lips, and shaking his head. “No.”
“You’re a bad liar, Zeqiri.” Noble gave him a hard tug, redirecting them away from the IRGC agent. “Anybody else I should know about?”
“No.”
“Two for two,” Noble said as he studied the faces in the crowd.
He spotted another military aged Middle Eastern male standing in the shadow of the massive statue, one hand tucked under his shirt.
The IRGC goon spotted Noble at the same time.
A moment of understanding passed between them.
They were two wolves eyeing each other, and both immediately recognized the other as a killer.
The goon’s hand came out of his waistband clutching a pistol.
Go time, Noble’s brain told him. No sense waiting. The Middle Eastern thug in the shadow of the statue had recognized him for who and what he was. He had just seconds to act. With three targets, Noble had to make every shot count.
He started with Zeqiri.
The Albanian Captain had the virus, and he’d undoubtedly be armed as well. Noble couldn’t let him get away with the case. He angled the Browning down into Zeqiri’s hips and pulled the trigger.
The Browning barked with a voice that echoed like thunder across the bustling square.
An empty shell casing leapt from the breech, trailing a line of smoke.
Captain Zeqiri gave a shout of surprise and pain that was lost in the sudden shrieks from the crowds.
He clapped both hands to his back and pitched over. His face twisted in agony.
Noble threw himself to the ground just in time to avoid a hailstorm of lead. The hired gun near the statue jerked a Glock fitted with a drum magazine and spit bullets with reckless abandon. Nine-millimeter rounds burned through the air where Noble had been standing less than a second before.
People screamed, running in all directions. A small army of pigeons took wing, wheeling up through the morning sky, adding to the confusion.
Noble, knowing he had fractions of a second before the Iranian killer could zero in, rolled onto his back and settled the front sight of the Browning pistol center mass, aiming for the Iranian’s chest. Noble was flat on his back, his legs parted and aiming between his knees.
He eased back on the trigger until the gun coughed fire.
The shot went low, punching through the Iranian’s belly with the force of a sledgehammer to the gut.
The hired gun let out a loud oof! and bent double.
His finger never came off the trigger. Bullets chewed up the stone around Noble in loud tiny storms of dust and debris.
Chips of broken brick rained down on him.
Noble fired three more shots in quick succession.
The first two hit the Iranian soldier center mass, driving him backwards into the base of the statue.
The third ripped through his cheek just below his left eye.
The side of the man’s face tore away in a shower of wet gore that splatted against the dark marble.
Soon as the hired gun was down, Noble rolled onto his belly, shifting his aim the opposite direction.
He was just in time, too. The IRGC buyer had brought a collapsable UZI pistol from his briefcase.
Apparently the Iranians had no intention of buying the virus.
They were here to take it by force. Instead of a briefcase full of cash, the IRGC man had brought a machine pistol.
He swung the weapon up in an arc and mashed the trigger.
The little UZI burped out a stream of bullets that cut through the air inches above Noble’s head.
He felt the snap of the passing projectiles.
The world had turned into a continuous screaming buzzsaw of certain death.
The noise was so loud, Noble’s hearing shorted out and he was operating in a vacuum of muted thunder. Time seemed to crawl.
Flat on his belly, Noble pushed the Browning straight out in front of him. His eyes were narrowed to slits and his mouth was open in a wordless scream. His finger settled onto the trigger as the front sight came to rest on the IRGC buyer’s head.
The Browning jumped in Noble’s hand.
A bullet drilled through the Iranian’s neck. A bright red poppy blossomed on the man’s throat. His eyes went wide. He stumbled back a step. One hand went to his neck, where blood pulsed through his fingers in shocking red waves that splashed down over his chest.
His finger had come off the trigger when the bullet punctured his throat.
The arm holding the UZI had started to drop.
The IRGC agent seemed to realize that not only had he been hit, he’d in fact been killed.
A bullet through the neck was a death sentence.
Nothing could save him now. But he was going to get his revenge before the lights dimmed for the last time.
His arm came back up, finger mashing down the trigger.
Noble fired two more shots, until the Browning locked back on an empty chamber. The bullets puckered the Iranian’s chest. His knees buckled. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the pavers like a marionette with its strings suddenly severed.
Thin clouds of spent gunpowder hung in the air, drifting slowly on the breeze, highlighted by the morning sun.
Ban Jela?i? Square had dissolved into utter chaos.
People sprinted for the safety of nearby buildings and children screamed.
The entire fight had lasted less than fifteen seconds, but Noble was covered in a layer of sweat and every muscle in his body ached as if he’d just run a marathon.
He shifted up onto his side and dug a spare magazine from his pocket. First he needed to reload his weapon. He didn’t know if there were more IRGC agents in the area, and he wanted to be ready to return fire if somebody else started blasting.
He thumbed the magazine release on the old Browning but the empty mag refused to drop free, forcing Noble to dig it loose with his fingers. He seated the fresh mag with a hard slap as he checked the surroundings for any more threats.
While Noble was busy checking for additional gunmen, Zeqiri snatched at the handle of the aluminum case, pushed to his feet and started to run.