Combat Machines. Don Pendleton
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the roof toward the next building. A feral grin creasing his face, he stepped out and gave chase, cursing her for putting him behind schedule, knowing every second counted now.
She had a decent lead, but for him, walking the three-inch pathway around the sloped roof was as easy as walking across a street, and he soon closed the gap. She glanced over her shoulder to see him gaining fast, and that knowledge spurred her to greater speed—straight toward the narrow alley between that building and the next. Fortunately, she was running too hard to draw enough breath to scream for help.
Panshin ran faster as well, wanting to cut her off before she leaped, but he just missed her, his fingers brushing her jacket as she desperately soared through the air. She landed hard and rolled, losing one boot, but was up and running again within moments.
He backed up a few steps, then accelerated to his top speed, easily leaping the three-yard gap with a few feet to spare. Unlike his quarry, he landed on his feet and kept running, easily catching up to her.
When his right hand grabbed her neck, the woman opened her mouth to scream, but he quickly cut her off by the simple expedient of clapping his left hand over her mouth and nose. Already panting from fear and the chase, with her air cut off, she panicked completely, tearing and beating at his iron-like hands as he dragged her out of sight behind a large air-conditioning unit.
Already her struggles were weakening, but Panshin didn’t let his guard down, and made sure she didn’t reach his face with her nails by using the hand that had been holding her neck to pin her arms—anything out of the ordinary now could interfere with the mission. He maintained his hold until she passed out, then carried her to the back side of the building and peeked over the side.
As he’d hoped, it was a narrow backstreet filled with trash receptacles and piled bags of refuse. With a quick look around to ensure that no one was watching, he grabbed her by the legs and held her upside down over a section of alley that was clear of garbage, then let her go, not even waiting for the impact of her head on the pavement to reach him. Her death was a foregone conclusion.
At the edge of the building, he made sure to find the loose boot and toss it toward where he’d dropped the woman. At this point, it didn’t matter if it also fell off the roof or stayed where he’d tossed it. Now it was just a clue pointing toward a young woman committing suicide.
He jumped back to the other building, reentered the apartment, closing and locking the window behind him, and walked to the closet. Hanging in a black garment bag was his disguise for the evening. Quick searches of the nightstand and the body produced the final pieces—Yves Montauk’s smartphone, his billfold with his driver’s license, and a government identification badge that would allow Panshin access to the Élysée Palace and the Hôtel de Marigny.
General Directorate for
Internal Security Headquarters
Levallois-Perret, France
“Look, we can sit around here for the next ninety minutes or so and argue jurisdictions and whatnot, but the evidence we’ve obtained—and already made available to your department—indicates that the Austrian president is at risk of an assassination attempt tonight, and I plan to be there, with or without your government’s approval.”
“Be that as it may, Agent Cooper, our security has already been doubled for the function,” Captain Bellamy Lambert, of the Terrorism Department of the Direction générale de la sécurité intérieure—DGSI—replied. “Our people are among the best in the world at what they do, and I have no doubt that the president and the rest of the guests will be safe under their watch.”
The brown-haired man cleared his throat. “And while we appreciate your government’s sharing of the data you have uncovered, as far as I know, you are here to investigate the attack on Richard DiStephano earlier today. So then, by all means, please do so, and let us handle tonight’s event. Your presence there would be unnecessary, and even detrimental to our own established security protocols. It would be as if we had showed up to your White House and demanded to oversee the security details for your own President—hardly acceptable, n’est pas?”
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