Page 85 of Nobody's Hero

The squad had whooped and hollered and high-fived each other. Even Cotton Pope. They were already spending their share. Boats or Vegas hookers, sometimes both. Lots of laughter. Snow hadn’t joined in. He had the nagging feeling that someone with five million bucks on his head had to get very good at killing just to stay alive. The way Snow saw it, Koenig might be worth five million bucks, but no one had managed to claim it so far.

*

But so far, the assault had gone to plan. The jammer had turned everyone’s cell phones into bricks, and they’d entered the building in well-rehearsed moves. Four members of the squad ahead of him, Snow was covering the rear. Tail-end Charlie. The remaining two on the street watching the fire escape.

Cotton Pope was point. He’d gotten all the way to the third-floor landing when it started to go wrong. And all it had taken was the sound of glass breaking. It wasn’t an uncommon sound, not in New York. Along with yelling, car horns and sirens, the sound of breaking glass was part of the city’s soundtrack. If Snow had been in a bar, he’d have cheered. Laughed at whoever had dropped their drink. But in the silence of a covert assault, it was eerily out of place. Like giggling at a funeral.

The broken glass was followed by someone falling down a flight of stairs. It was an unmistakable sound.Thud. Thud. Thud.Sounded like a muffled bass drum. Snow heard Pope cry out, ‘Shit, I’ve broken my damn—’

Two gunshots rang out. A double tap. Fired so closely together it sounded like a single shot. Snow would have bet every dollar he’d ever earned it was Koenig.

A lesser squad might have panicked. They’d have selected automatic fire and let rip. But this wasn’t a lesser squad. This squad was well trained and highly motivated. All they’d lost was the element of surprise, and they could only lose that once. They’d also lost Cotton Pope, but as French said when he spoke into their earpieces a fraction of a second after the double tap, ‘More candy for us when this is over. Stick to the plan.’

Snow held his position.

‘Move,’ he heard French say.

Little Sam was the bigger of the two Samoans. Military humour. He was the fourth guy in the assault team and the guy directly in front of Snow. Little Sam moved onto the second-floor landing. He gave Snow the all-clear sign. Snow followed him up, then turned to face the way he’d come. His job was to protect the rear. If he saw Koenig, things had gone terribly wrong. His eyes occasionally swivelled to the second-floor apartments, but the doors stayed shut. The occupants were either out or pretending they were out. New York was a safe city, but not safe enough to get all curious when you heard gunshots on the other side of your front door.

Glass broke again. Then a curse.

‘He’s throwing bottles of oil!’ Big Sam, the shorter Samoan, hollered. Big Sam was now point. ‘Can’t stay on my goddamned feet.’

Snow understood why the assault was stalling. Koenig – and it could only be Koenig – was using oil to slow them down. Snow had studied military history in college. He knew hot oil had rarely been used as a defensive weapon. It took too long to heat. It was unwieldy and it was expensive. It was also a fire hazard. What the besiegedhadused oil for was making vulnerable approaches too slippery to walk on. Even on stone, oil was hazardous.

And the squad was standing on polished tile. They were wearing rubber-soled combat boots. Oil, rubber, nonporous porcelain tiles. No wonder they were falling over themselves. Someone else fell down a flight of stairs. Big Sam. Another scream, then another double tap. Chaos.

And then there were three, Snow thought. He ignored the rear and turned to face the action. He couldn’t help himself. It was what marines did.

Semper fi, motherfucker.

Samoa has no standing army, so Little Sam had served his time with the Royal New Zealand Infantry Regiment. Tough unit. Snow knew Little Sam would stand his post. He signalled that the Samoan should advance. The big guy nodded and turned the corner.

Nothing happened.

‘Stairs clear,’ Little Sam said.

He advanced up the stairs carefully, weapon pointing up. Snow followed him. Little Sam stopped on the landing platform. They were now between the second and third floor.

‘What is it?’ Snow asked.

‘The boss,’ he replied. ‘I can see his ass, but he isn’t moving. Looks like he don’t like being promoted to point.’

That’s because he ain’t a marine, Snow thought. He waited for French to decide what to do. Koenig had evened the odds. Maybe he even held the upper hand. A tactical retreat would be sensible. Lick their wounds and go after him on the street.

‘To hell with this,’ French said. ‘That’s five million bucks up there. We have automatic weapons. All he has is bottles of oil. Cover me.’

Little Sam rolled his eyes and crossed himself. He raised his weapon and covered his squad leader as best he could. But the floor was now slippery with oil, and Little Sam couldn’t keep up with French.

Which saved his life.

Another crash-bang-wallop, another double tap. No million bucks for Lester French.

Little Sam stepped back down the stairs, carefully. He joined Snow on the landing.

‘Now what?’ he said. ‘Just the two of us left in here. Two more outside. That’s nearly a million and a half each, but I don’t know about you, I’m getting the feeling we’ll never get to spend it. Whoever this Koenig is, he’s better than us.’

Snow nodded. ‘I feel like one of theHome Aloneburglars.’