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

there may be another assault. Your car got scratched. Here. You know how to shoot, and we may need the extra firepower.”
    “You have the strangest way of saying hello,” said Delara, examining the little pistol with the practiced eye of someone used to handling weapons. “Come on. I’ll take you to them. What happened to my car?”
    “Sir! Mister!” the young nurse called to him. “I have a policeman on the line who says it is urgent that he speak with you.” She handed him the telephone.
    “Are you the FBI bloke what just punched me in the gut?” It was the big cop.
    “Yeah. What is it?”
    “One of me lads with binoculars says three skydivers have jumped from a little plane about a kilometer away and are using those dark, elliptical airfoils that can be steered. All three are angling this way, coming in fast and hard toward the roof of the clinic. And, mate? They seem to be strapped up with automatic rifles.”
     
    13
    “SYBELLE! THREE MORE TANGOS parachuting in!” Kyle dropped the telephone receiver and his voice rang loudly in the spacious hallway. “We need to get up there.” He looked at the young nurse. “Where is a service door that leads to the roof?”
    She was a pale blonde, whose sky blue eyes were huge in confusion and fright. Frozen. Glanced down. “I don’t know. Never go up there, do I?”
    The senior nurse looked at her, rimless glasses low on her nose. “It’s the helicopter landing area, Pauline. Where we bring in guests with serious conditions.”
    “Oh,” said the girl. “I just thought…” The rest of the sentence was lost.
    “Never mind, dear.” The older nurse had been through more than enough emergencies to keep her going straight through a crisis. She pointed to a small door next to the elevator. “Right behind you there, that green door beside the lift,” she said. “One flight of stairs up to another green door. It opens outward beneath a sheltered overhang. There is another entrance two floors below, going to a lower roof on the adjacent wing.”
    “What about the Saudi prince?” Sybelle asked.
    “Never concern yourself. I’ll get the guests together in the room with Sir Geoffrey,” said the nurse. “You two, up the stairs!”
    Kyle flashed a smile. “Yes, ma’am. You heard her, Sybelle. Let’s go.”
    They slammed through the door and into a wide, brightly lit stairwell with yellow and white stripes painted diagonally along the edges of the steps. The walls were blue, with neat white trim, and the antiseptic smell trapped in the windowless shaft was almost overwhelming.
    “They’re going to be armed and might be wired to blow,” Kyle said as they took the stairs two at a time. “So we have to kill them before they can land and take control.”
    “Shit,” Sybelle exclaimed. “If these guys are good enough to parasail onto a roof, they’ll be well trained.”
    “Fucking Alamo time. No retreat from here.” Kyle held up his hand, in a fist, when he reached the top landing and Sybelle pressed back against the opposite wall. “Probably rigged their harnesses so they will be able to fire while still in the air. As soon as we open the door and step outside, they will try to lay down some suppressive fire.”
    “Yeah, but they can’t work the toggles of their chutes and aim at the same time. Their first job is to get down, and then to use the superior firepower in the attack. Until then, we have an edge.”
    “Ready?”
    “Do it.”
    Swanson pushed hard on the exterior door and when it flew open, he followed it around. Sybelle came out in a crouch, running the other way.
    Three parachutists were coasting in a line of rectangular chutes, with the lowest one just about to touch down and eyeing the target zone rising beneath his feet.
    “You take number one. I got the second guy,” Kyle yelled.
    Sybelle ran toward the first man, closing the distance fast so that her pistol would have a chance. Beyond twenty-five meters she was toast. The guy was