Now he had repositioned himself so that a terrified cluster of SatCom staffers were between him and the front, and a line of terminals protected him from the rear. Good. In the momentary pause, he slammed a new clip into the Uzi.
These assholes aren't going to shoot up the hostages, he told himself. That wasn't how professionals worked. And these guys, wearing balaclavas, were professionals. They were fast, moving quickly, and not providing a real target. Merde. But now you've got the advantage. Just concentrate and take them out, one by one. You've been in tougher spots before.
Dimitri Spiros, approaching from the rear, also had seen him, the blond-haired terrorist who rolled behind a line of workstations. But Spiros had not recognized him; to the Greek he was merely another hostile to be taken down. He switched his MP5 to semiauto and carefully took aim between the terminals, waiting for the creep to show himself.
Hans was not planning to wait. As his boots touched the floor, he took aim and got off a single round, carefully wounding Moreau in the right bicep. The French terrorist spun around, startled, but he sensed no pain. Instead he felt satisfaction at knowing, now, where the third entry-point had been. Life had just been simplified. A three-point entry: standard, no problem. All you had to do was keep your wits.
He whirled and got off a burst toward Hans and Marcel, sending them diving to the floor, then returned his attention to the pair at the front. But now those two batards had taken cover. Where was Jamal? Salim was dead, the stupid Iranian. Good riddance. But where was his brother? Why wasn't he helping?
As it happened, during the first few seconds of the assault,
Jamal Khan had been making his own calculations. He had been figuring an assault was overdue, and he had been prepared for it for several hours now. He had long since donned a bulletproof vest, and he had made sure he had two Uzis at hand, both loaded, together with five spare clips.
The moment the first flash grenades went off, he rolled beneath a row of workstations and shoved a handkerchief over his face, ready for the tear gas he was sure would come next. Now he was surrounded by a frightened cluster of SatCom staffers. The perfect shield.
Marcel had also surveyed the room as he rappelled in, and—by previous arrangement—he had focused on the right half, whereas Hans took the left. He had seen Jamal's roll and started to cut him down with a blast, but then he thought better of it: there were too many friendlies to take a chance on ricocheting lead. Just get into position and do it right.
Pierre Armont also had seen Jamal duck out of sight, and he felt his heart sink. The element of surprise had been used with all the effect it could, and the result had been one terrorist killed and one wounded. Now they were entrenching. Bad, very bad. . . .