The Curse of Medusa

They dived for cover behind the workbench while Hawke scanned the area outside the garage to see where the enemy was. He located three men with machine pistols who were using Brooke’s old Winnebago across the yard for cover.

Hawke immediately opened fire with the M9 and hit one of the men in the chest, killing him instantly. The other two retreated further back in the shadow of the RV to a low wall running along the edge of the main driveway.

“Looks like the coast is clear,” Brooke said. “But for how long, I don’t know…”

“Get over to the outbuilding,” Hawke said. “I’ll slow the bastards down here as much as I can.”

Before she could object, Brooke took his daughter’s arm and pulled her away toward the line of spruce trees across the yard which divided the main property from the outbuilding where he stored his cars.

Hawke covered them as they ran, pinning down the gunmen behind the wall. Then he made a break for it, firing as he went. Two simple parkour rolls later he was sprinting through the row of spruces and heading for the outbuilding.

He heard a burst of machine pistol fire from behind him and turned to see the men closing in on him. One of the men — one with heavily gelled-hair combed back in a slick — was laughing as he fired.

“We have to get out of here, Jack!” the Englishman yelled.

“So move your ass!” Alex screamed back.

The men fired at Hawke and puffs of gravel dust flew up all around his feet. He was only just out-running the lethal rounds.

“The thought had crossed my mind, Nightingale…”

* * *

Angelika Schwartz watched with her usual carefully measured excitement as the battered, shot-up Cadillac DTS containing the world’s most powerful man reversed out the back of the Pepsi truck. When it hit the ground, she smiled as it crawled like a wounded bear across the loading bay of their temporary home — an abandoned paint factory in New Orleans’s Bywater district.

She was chewing gum and wore torn denim jeans and a leather jacket. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other she now stood with a Mossberg 500 pump-action shotgun casually resting on her shoulder. She ran a hand through her spikey pink hair and glanced at the platinum Rolex on her wrist, smiling — bang on time. The Boss would be impressed.

She waited with growing impatience while somewhere across town the rude Australian techie used the tiny night vision camera in the car’s front fender to control the vehicle. He brought Cadillac One to a gentle remote-controlled stop less than three yards from her biker riding boots. The engine shut down, and a dozen men armed with submachine guns encircled the presidential limo.

She walked forward and pulled the shotgun from her shoulder. Smiling, she tapped the muzzle of the gun gently on the reinforced glass of the Caddy’s rear window.

Inside, the President was in animated dialogue with his Secret Service agent.

Angelika frowned. “Out you come, Mr President. Now.” Her German accent was thick, but understandable.

The politician inside looked through the bullet-proof window at her and hesitated, thinking through his options one last time. He looked nervous, but she could see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. That would be gone soon enough.

“Three seconds or we do it the hard way.”

She raised her fingers to her mouth and wolf-whistled. A second later a man in black overalls stepped out of the shadows. He was holding a bundle of Composition C-4 blocks in his hands, better known to the world simply as C-4, a type of malleable plastic explosive. He began to mold the explosive in specific locations around the driver’s door of the limo and then inserted several blasting caps into it before turning and giving Angelika an emotionless nod. He stepped far away from the vehicle.

Angelika pulled a detonator from her jacket and waved it at the President. “Vielen dank, Jakob… Now I will count to ten, and on ten I hit the detonator. There will be consequences for making me get you out the hard way. One…”

Inside, more heated debate, and then finally, President Grant’s shoulders visibly slumped as he turned and opened the rear door. He stepped cautiously out into the warehouse.

“You did the right thing, Mr Grant.”

“You can’t possibly hope to get away with this,” Grant said. “My people will be all over this place in minutes.”

He’d barely finished speaking when Angelika smacked him across his face with the back of her gloved hand. “Silence!”

Partridge leaped forward but his attempt to defend the President was met by a savage blow in the center of his back with the butt of one of the men’s guns. He fell forwards and hit the hard concrete floor, crying out in pain.

“No more silliness, Mr President, please,” Angelika said coolly. “Besides, if you’re referring to the tracking devices in your limousine, they are are currently residing in the chassis of the identical limo you saw in the underpass a few moments ago. That should keep your people busy for a while.”