Koo swung the QSZ to the right and fired at Tacoma. Tacoma was struck in the center of his chest as he grunted loudly and was kicked backward, tumbling to the ground, his T-shirt abruptly ruined in dark red.
Screams filled the Bristol lounge; patrons ran toward the back of the lounge and dived under tables for cover.
From the lobby, a commotion ensued, voices raised, then suddenly there was more gunfire, this time from near the entrance to the hotel.
Koo stepped above Dewey, weapon trained at his chest. Dewey looked up at the agent. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out. Koo fired once, twice, three more times as, behind him, through the lobby, another man stormed toward the lounge, running with a weapon outstretched in his hand, a long black suppressor sticking out from the muzzle.
The loud, unmuted sound of Tacoma’s gun exploded as Tacoma got off a round from the ground. Koo lurched backward, clutching his left shoulder, falling to the ground, screaming in pain.
Katie saw the second gunman as he came into view, near the front of the lounge. He was running fast, weapon out. Katie stood up. She ripped the MP7 from her bag just as the gunman rounded the entrance, saw Dewey on the ground, and swung his weapon.
Katie triggered the submachine gun, full auto. A hail of slugs tore into Chong, arresting his forward motion and kicking the back of his skull out in a spray of blood. He fell in a contorted heap to the marble floor, dead.
For the first time, sirens pealed in the distance from somewhere outside the hotel.
Katie moved to Dewey, crouching at his side. Suddenly, her eye was drawn to the lobby. Another man was charging. In his left hand, he clutched a squat black CQB machine gun, which she recognized: Steyr TMP.
From the ground next to Dewey, Katie swept the MP7, trigger flexed, and sprayed slugs across the agent’s torso, ripping holes through him before he could even fire, felling him a few feet behind the other gunman, the wall behind him abruptly splattered in red.
* * *
Koo ran through the lobby, toward the entrance, clutching his weapon. He pushed through the now-abandoned doors.
Sirens moved closer now, becoming louder.
Outside, Koo ran to the first taxi he could find. He climbed in back, clutching his shoulder.
“Drive.”
The driver eyed Koo in the rearview mirror, holding his shoulder, a pancake of red now covering the shoulder of the trench coat.
“L’hôpital, monsieur?”
“Non. Jardin du Luxembourg.”
Koo removed his iPhone from his pocket and typed.
009 YT-6
The code told Beijing a number of things: Andreas was dead, he needed an exfilt, and he was injured.
It also turned off the camera.
* * *
Bhang stood in front of the plasma screen as Koo’s video feed went black. The other feeds—from Chong and Lijun—had already gone black.
“Rewind it to the point of conflict,” said Bhang. “Then put it full screen.”
A few moments later, the video from Koo’s camera started playing.
A man holding a small tray stood at the center of the picture, his back to the camera. As he moved out of the way, Andreas appeared, seated, behind where the waiter had been standing. Koo raised his weapon. Andreas lurched toward the camera. The frame then bounced as Koo fired, but the sight of blood erupting as the bullet hit his chest was plainly visible. Andreas fell to the ground. The lounge devolved in chaos. Another man stood and fired at Koo; Koo swung his gun and shot him in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Then the view moved back to Andreas. Koo moved above him. The shot was grainy. He aimed the weapon at close range and fired three more times; each time the view became interrupted as the QSZ kicked back on Koo. To the right, in the corner of the screen, the other American could be seen on the ground. Then the feed went abruptly haywire as Koo was shot.
“Stand down the other men,” said Bhang, standing before the plasma screen. “Get them away from the hotel and out of Paris, immediately.”
“Yes, Minister.”
“I have a message from Koo,” said another agent. “He’s injured and is requesting exfilt.”
“Get a logistics team moving,” said Bhang. “Make sure they have medical equipment aboard the plane.”
* * *
The first French police arrived a minute later amid a growing chorus of screams, ambulance sirens, and shouting. It was a two-man detail, carbines out and aimed forward as they stormed into the Bristol.
The first ambulance arrived just behind them. Two EMTs sprinted through the open doors, pushing a gurney across the lobby toward the blood-soaked lounge.
Blood was splattered all over the place. A woman was dead at the foot of the marble stairs; she’d been gunned down by Chong as he ran through the lobby.
Chong lay in a growing miasma of blood outside the lounge entrance, his head destroyed. Lijun, the third man on the scene, was just behind him, contorted on the ground, lying in a growing pool of blood, eyes staring up at nothing.
Inside the lounge, Dewey lay on his back, eyes closed. Tacoma lay just feet away, motionless, drenched in red.
At least a dozen more French police entered the lobby of the Bristol, followed by soldiers.
Another pair of EMTs charged through the doors, running a gurney across the lobby.
The first pair of EMTs went to Dewey. One of them put a stethoscope to his chest, felt his neck, then shook his head as he looked at the other EMT, who quickly turned and performed the same ritual with Tacoma.
They hoisted Dewey to the gurney, wheeling him out of the lounge, back across the lobby. Katie trailed them, holding her MP7 in her right hand, lest any more agents arrive at the scene. In her left hand, in case she was stopped, she had an ID, issued by French intelligence, but amid the chaos, no one stopped her or even noticed the weapon at her side.
Outside, Faubourg Saint-Honoré was shut off, taken over by police, SWAT teams, soldiers, and ambulances.
The EMTs with Dewey pushed to the open doors at the back of the ambulance, collapsed the gurney, then lifted him in. Katie climbed in the back along with one of the EMTs. The other shut the door, then ran to the front, climbed in, and hit the siren.
The ambulance shot away from the hotel, siren blaring.
* * *
In the backseat of the taxi, Koo looked out the window as they moved across Paris, trying to memorize the views of the city he loved and would likely never see again.
On boulevard Montparnasse, his iPhone vibrated.
7i 30 *
Exfiltration in forty minutes, your apartment. Congratulations.
Koo removed the magazine from his QSZ, opened the window, and tossed it out. From the pocket of the trench coat he removed another magazine and jammed it in.
Koo took a separate phone from his pocket. He typed in a text.
“Exfilt forty minutes rue Madame.”
The taxi pulled onto rue Guynemer, a block from his apartment.
“Ici,” said Koo.
He climbed out at the curb, removed the trench coat, folded it so that the red area wasn’t visible, then laid it atop his shoulder to conceal the red.
Koo walked around the block, past his apartment building. He glanced around, making sure he wasn’t being followed. On rue de Fleurus, a large green garage door went ajar as he approached. He slipped inside.
Koo’s eyes registered the brightly lit work area and a variety of people milling around. A woman walked across the large bay toward him.
“Hello, Koo,” said Smythson, extending her hand.
* * *
Outside the Bristol, the doors to the ambulance shut. Dewey sat up and ripped his shirt open, sending buttons flying.
“That was fun,” Katie said.
“Speak for yourself.”
The shirt was a storm of red, as was everything beneath. He stripped off all his clothing. Katie looked away. He handed the clothing to the EMT, who stuffed it into a black plastic bag. The EMT handed Dewey a warm, wet towel and he quickly wiped off every part of his body. Dewey wrapped a green hospital gown around his waist.