The Prophecy

57

Payne had less than a second to decide his next move before he was spotted. If he sprinted across the lobby and sought cover behind the front desk, he would risk being detected and possibly shot from behind. His Kevlar vest might protect his torso — although that was questionable with their advanced weaponry — but his head and legs would be fully exposed during his flight. Worse still, he would be pinned behind a counter with a limited view of the room and no exits. On the other hand, if he stayed in the atrium, he would be exposed from all angles (including above), yet he would have a full 360-degree field of fire. Plus his partner could cover him at all times; something he found very comforting.

In his mind, it was an easy decision. He opted to stay and fight.

Without delay, Payne dived into the bloody water and pulled the corpse on top of him. The carved stone fountain was nine feet in diameter with a water depth of two feet. The curved lip of the pool extended a foot above the waterline, giving Payne three feet of protection on all sides. In addition, a stone column jutted out of the centre of the fountain. Water bubbled out of the top tier, slowly trickling over the edge of the bowl and into the pool below. If not for his current predicament, Payne might have found the sound calming.

The enemy poured into the hotel in groups of two and three. All of them white, all dressed in black. Ten soldiers in total, armed with an array of weapons manufactured by Fabrique Nationale de Herstal. A few handled tactical shotguns, but most carried pistols. Strategically speaking, it made a lot of sense. Too much firepower in an enclosed space was a dangerous combination. Send in the big guns first to clear the path, and then send in the precise weaponry to clean up the survivors. Of course, their plan would have been a lot more successful if their opponents hadn’t taken the F2000s before they had done any damage.

Jones twisted the fire selector on his new rifle to the letter A, which stood for fully automatic fire. As he did, he realized that his weapon had been outfitted with a lightweight under-slung grenade launcher. Normally it was the type of modification he would have spotted right away, but the F2000 was a unique weapon, one he had never handled in the field. At first glance it looked more like a prop from Star Wars than an actual assault rifle, yet he quickly figured out its technology.

The launcher was a single-shot pump-action weapon, capable of firing a standard low-velocity 40 x 46mm grenade. When loaded with a HELLHOUND — a round from the High Order Unbelievably Nasty Destructive series by Martin Electronics — the launcher could stop a moving truck from 100 yards away. Indoors it was even nastier. Loaded with more shrapnel and explosives than a standard ordnance, the HELLHOUND had a ten-metre kill radius.

Grinning like a butcher’s dog, Jones eased the barrel of the F2000 between the slats of the balcony and aimed at the soldiers as they stormed through the main entrance of the hotel. Quickly, he glanced into the atrium. Payne was still in the water where he was shielded by the fountain and the first casualty. In a matter of seconds, Jones knew there would be several more.

Although Payne’s rifle wasn’t equipped with a grenade launcher, he had spotted the modification on the weapon he had tossed to Jones. And being familiar with his friend’s taste in tactics, Payne knew it was only a matter of time before he used it.

Hotel architecture be damned.

An ominous pop from above announced the impending firestorm. Taking no chances, Payne took a deep breath and slipped completely underwater, knowing how lethal a HELLHOUND could be. A half second later, the wrath of Lucifer erupted in the lobby of the Beau-Rivage. There was a burst of light followed by a wall of thunder that surged across the tiled floor and up through the atrium like a geyser. Water rippled all round Payne from the impact, and shrapnel soared overhead, cutting through the advancing horde like a firing squad.

One moment they were charging forward, looking for potential victims. The next they were sprawled on the floor in various states of disrepair. Some were missing limbs; others were missing faces. More than half were missing a pulse.

The four who survived scrambled for cover. One got behind some overturned furniture. Another staggered to his feet and hid behind a marble pillar in the left corner. The third crawled towards his pistol, which had been knocked free by the blast. Jones spotted him from above and quickly pulled his trigger. The rapid thwap-thwap-thwap of automatic fire echoed throughout the hotel. The bullets shredded the lobby floor, one after another, until the strafing eventually tore through the soldier’s gut and chest, ripping him open like a hungry wolf.

The final soldier made the mistake of seeking cover next to the fountain. He was so focused on Jones that he neglected to see Payne easing his head out of the bloody water. From a crouch position, the soldier fired a few shots at the third-floor balcony. Although they missed their mark, they were close enough so Jones temporarily stopped shooting. Gaining confidence, the soldier took a step forward to improve his angle, and when he did, Payne pulled his trigger.

From close range, automatic fire wasn’t necessary; in fact, it would have been a waste of ammo. A single round fired from an assault rifle was more than capable of killing a man, especially if it caught him under the chin. Thanks to Payne’s accuracy, he hit his target with precision, blowing his brains through the top of his skull.

One of the other survivors — the soldier who had hustled behind the pillar — saw Payne in the water and tried to clip him from the side. He pulled his trigger twice in rapid succession. The first bullet struck the lip of the fountain, sending a chunk of stone towards Payne’s face. The fragment, which was small but sharp, nicked his cheek. Within seconds, a thin rivulet of blood was streaming down his face and trickling into the water. The second shot sailed wide, ripping through an upholstered chair before it embedded itself in the far wall.

Ignoring the sting, Payne turned towards the line of fire and spotted the gunman by the column. Both men pulled their triggers at the exact same time, but there was a major difference in the outcome. A single bullet left the barrel of the soldier’s pistol while multiple rounds left Payne’s F2000. A moment later, the soldier was dropping to the floor in tatters, his body mangled by multiple hits, and Payne was thanking the Belgians for making such a quality rifle and for being such poor shots.

The remaining soldier, who was cowering behind an overturned table, tossed his pistol forward and raised his hands above his head. ‘Don’t shoot!’ he begged.

Jones readjusted his aim, waiting for the guy to do something stupid. ‘Jon?’

Payne stayed in the fountain, not saying anything until he scanned the room for more hostiles. Once he was confident everyone else was dead, he answered, ‘Coming out!’

With his rifle pointing forward, Payne stepped out of the fountain and went across the lobby. Bodies and debris littered the floor. After kicking the pistol away, he dragged the lone survivor to the middle of the atrium where Jones could keep an eye on him.

Payne growled, ‘If you move, you die. Understand?’

The guy nodded, then laid on his stomach in a submissive position.

‘Is anyone else coming?’ Payne demanded.

‘No! I’m all that’s left!’

‘If you’re lying to me, I swear I’m gonna—’

‘I’m not lying!’ he screamed. ‘He only sent us! I swear to God he only sent us!’

Payne dropped to one knee and put the rifle in the man’s face. ‘Who the fuck is he?’

The man gulped, trying to decide whom he feared more: his boss or Payne.

And Payne sensed the hesitation. ‘Righty or lefty?’

‘What?’ he asked, confused.

Payne got closer. ‘Are you a righty or a lefty?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m a nice guy.’

‘I don’t understand!’ he whimpered.

Payne took a deep breath, annoyed. ‘I’m about to shoot off one of your fucking hands, and I’m willing to start with the hand you use less. So, which is it? Righty or lefty? Or do you want me to take a guess?’

‘François!’ the guy shouted. ‘François Dubois! He lives in Bruges!’

Payne smirked. The ruse worked every time. ‘What was your mission?’

‘To kill you and your friends.’

‘What else?’ Payne demanded.

‘Nothing! That’s all we were supposed to do!’

‘What about the letter?’

‘What letter? I don’t know anything about a letter!’

Payne stared at him. He seemed to be telling the truth. ‘Your only goal was to kill us?’

‘I don’t know what you did, but François wants you dead!’