Free Clean Kill by Jack Coughlin, Donald A. Davis

the policeman’s nose, the smell of burnt cordite still oozing from the barrel. “Get out of my fucking way,” he said.
    The man still was not budging, despite the pistol. Kyle lowered the weapon. A rugby player, with muscles that bred confidence, he thought, and used the hard metal barrel of the gun to punch him in the solar plexus, folding the sergeant up like a shopping bag. Another guard moved to help, and Sybelle raised her Glock and said, “No.” The second policeman stopped.
    Kyle put away his Colt and rolled the guard on his side as the man gasped for breath. “We don’t have time for this, sergeant. The clinic was just attacked by a suicide bomber. Have your men block every road with their cars and then call for support. Get your SWAT teams, Scotland Yard, or the military, and the sooner the better. I don’t think this attack is over. More terrorists may be on the way.”
    The husky sergeant stared blurry-eyed at the two Americans, then grunted that he understood.
    Kyle nodded in sympathy and helped the man to a sitting position. “I’m sorry about hitting you. We are going upstairs to Sir Geoffrey Cornwell’s room and set up some interior security. Really, friend. Please. Take this seriously. You absolutely must get some armed security in place, and do not let any unarmed policemen come rushing inside if they hear gunfire. We will handle it.”
    The second guard protested. “We have two dozen officers protecting this site!”
    “This is a war, officer, not some traffic disagreement on a roundabout. That ambulance went right through your police cordon and almost blew this place to hell. My friend and I are standing here holding weapons and you can’t do a damned thing about it. How much more proof do you need that your security is for shit? Call now and get some help, for God’s sake. Get help!” Swanson and Sybelle left them and barged through the heavy glass doors.
    The sergeant sucked air to fill his lungs, then picked up his radio. “Lad seems a bit touchy,” he observed to the other officer.
    In the distance, they heard the faraway buzzing drone of an approaching small plane.
     
     
    “WHERE ARE SIR GEOFFREY and Lady Pat Cornwell?” Sybelle had stuffed her weapon into her belt and flashed the FBI credentials as she spoke with a courteous lady at the reception desk at the main entrance. She had moved to the front because she didn’t want Kyle blowing away some snotty orderly.
    The middle-aged receptionist wore a starched white uniform, buttoned to the neck, with silver hair pulled back in a tight bun. She was polite, but frosty. She had seen what had happened just beyond the glass door and rubbed her hands together in worry. Violence was quite unnecessary, in her opinion. “I cannot reveal any information about our guests, but I have already summoned the clinic administrator. You may speak with him.”
    Sybelle looked as though she had swallowed a trout. A suicide truck and a possibly imminent terror attack being countered by unarmed cops and a proper stiff-upper-lip Englishwoman at the front desk. “We can’t wait,” she said, and reached across the desk and snatched several clipboards filled with papers. “Look, ma’am, we have quite an emergency going on right now, and we need to move in a hurry. Some terrorists may be on the way to murder your… guests . If and when your supervisor arrives, tell him to put the staff into rooms with any other patients, lock the doors and stay put. Help is on the way.”
    The reception lady protested, “You are not authorized to see those documents. The police are right outside! I shall have them remove you both from the building.”
    “Whatever.” Sybelle had chatted long enough. She knew the woman was not really being contrary, she was just in shock, and would be all right in a few minutes.
    Kyle was waiting at the shiny metal doors of the elevator, and Sybelle flipped through the clipboards as she joined him. “Jeff is on the top floor, at the