Clean Kill by Jack Coughlin, Donald A. Davis Page B

his body. On his call, Sybelle dashed out, closing the door behind her and then rolled over the flat counter of the vacant nurses’ station.
    At the east end of the building, the doorway to Jeff’s room looked like a porcupine, with the legs of chairs and small tables pointing outward in a jumble of furniture that had been stacked to block entry. Kyle saw a few heads of people watching, and waved for them to get their heads down and take cover.
    Almost as he signaled, the door to the fifth floor hallway was blown inward by a small amount of C-4 that the terrorist had applied to the hinges. A terrific roar jarred the entire floor and debris needled straight out into the hallway opposite the destroyed door. The man was moving fast, knowing he had to complete his mission before assistance could arrive for the opposition.
    Kyle had counted on that. He turned away from the blast, then spun back and triggered the Colt twice at the empty portal. The metal door was gone. Sybelle added two more rounds into the whirling smoke.
    “I’m dry,” Kyle called in a panicky voice, dropping the .45 and bringing up the H&K submachine gun.
    “I have a few rounds left,” Sybelle responded, making her voice also sound shaky. She also laid aside her pistol, charged the MP5 and rested it on the countertop.
    The terrorist on the landing was listening and deciding his next move. He had counted two opponents on the roof, but they were armed only with pistols and almost out of ammunition. If he kept the pressure on with a spray-and-pray assault he could overwhelm them, and then deal with the Saudi prince he had been sent to kill. He pulled a grenade from his belt and removed the pin.
    The cylindrical device came bouncing out of the doorway and Kyle yelled, “Flash-bang!” He stepped away from his hiding place and gave the explosive device a perfect kick that sent it spinning down the west end of the hall. Then he dove face-first back into the elevator alcove and Sybelle ducked her head and covered her eyes.
    Designed to stun opponents long enough for a soldier or a policeman to breach into a room, the little grenade erupted with a blinding blaze that bathed the corridor with light that seemed brighter than the sun as a simultaneous cracking peal of thunder made the walls vibrate.
    The intruder stormed through the door, trigger held back, firing on automatic. His eyes were protected by goggles, but his overall vision was obscured by the curling smoke. He let the MP5 chatter constantly as he ranged it from side to side and managed to take three running strides before Kyle and Sybelle both opened up and caught him in a crossfire at point-blank range. The bullets chewed at him mercilessly, jerking the body upright, and then pounding him backward and finally down.
    When the shooting stopped, Kyle stepped over to the fallen terrorist. There was something strange about the face. He was not a man from the Middle East. White skin, no beard, and light brown hair. The terrorist appeared more Slavic, like someone from one of the Eastern European nations, and had performed as if he had been steeped in professional training. No matter. Swanson pressed the muzzle of the H&K to the man’s temple, and squeezed off a final shot. The head cracked like a melon.
    “Clear!” Swanson called.

14
    RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
    “THE BRITISH!” PRINCE GENERAL Mamoud Ali al-Fahd, the commander of the Saudi Royal Guard Regiment, had been raging since the first reports of the terrorist attack on the castle in Scotland. “They refused to believe that something like this could happen! They pledged their honor!”
    The general’s job was to protect the king, which he did with a beefed-up elite force of three light infantry battalions and an armored battalion. Putting a similar shield around Prince Abdullah should have been someone else’s problem, and was impossible to accomplish from Riyadh, because the prince was the Saudi ambassador to the United States and spent most of