Robert Ludlum's the Blackbriar Genesis: a Blackbriar Novel Series Book 1 Read online

  The agent gave Manton an MP5 with three full magazines. Manton quickly inspected the magazines and inserted one into the submachine gun’s well. Manton glanced at the side mirror. Aged vehicles in various states of repair swarmed all around their SUV, and it would only get worse the closer they got to the city center. On their right, an old, horribly beat-up white sedan accelerated past them. Manton tightened his grip on the MP5, but relaxed when he saw two young children seated in the rear. One of the kids looked at Manton and waved, a big smile on her face. Caught off guard, Manton tried to return the smile, but only managed a twitch of his lips.

  He turned his attention to Russell and was surprised at the intensity with which the bureaucrat was staring back at him. Although Russell had almost jumped out of his socks when Manton had made initial contact with him on the bridge linking Terminal 3 and the Le Méridien, he certainly didn’t look scared now.

  “What’s your name?” Russell asked.

  “Oliver.”

  “Which PMC are you guys with?”

  “Does it matter?” Manton replied.

  “Guess not.”

  “By the way, this is Patrick,” Manton said, pointing to the driver. “And the big guy next to you is Trent.”

  Trent nodded at Russell, then turned his attention to Manton and asked, “You want me to grab the rest of the kit?”

  Manton nodded. “Yeah. Why not? And get a vest for Mr. Russell, too.”

  “Hold on a second, will you? Did I miss something?” Russell asked. “What’s with going to the alternate safe house and all the guns? Is something wrong?”

  Manton realized he hadn’t kept Russell in the loop about his thought process.

  “Let me first apologize for the series of detours we imposed on you,” he said. “But we needed to see if you were being followed or if someone was waiting for you at the terminal.”

  “I figured that much,” Russell said. “So I’m clear?”

  “No.”

  Russell’s eyes widened in surprise. “What? On the bridge you told me I was—”

  “I lied,” Manton said, cutting him off. “I didn’t want you to panic and start looking everywhere.”

  “Are . . . Are you sure?”

  “Very. But I don’t know who they are or what their intent is.”

  “I didn’t see anyone. Is it possible you’re—”

  “I said I’m sure,” Manton said, once again interrupting Russell.

  The assistant deputy secretary of state was doing his best to maintain a straight face, but Manton could see the concern in the man’s eyes. Russell’s presence in Egypt and the meetings he was scheduled to lead were supposed to be kept under wraps. Now that the cat was out of the bag, decisions needed to be made.

  “I don’t know you, Oliver, but my boss told me you’re good at what you do,” Russell said after a moment. “So, what do you suggest I do?”

  “It’s up to you, sir. You can go back to DC, or we can try to fix this.”

  “Fix this? What does that even mean?”

  “It means that we have numerous contingency plans for situations like this,” Manton said with a hint of impatience.

  “Like what?”

  “You don’t need to bother yourself with that, Mr. Russell.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but I’d like you to tell me anyway. If you don’t mind?”

  Manton did mind, but if giving the chatty bureaucrat a two-sentence answer would shut him up . . .

  “I can go into the details later if you insist, but we’re going to make a series of detours and stops on our way to the safe house. The second stop will be in an underground parking garage right off Tahrir Square, and this is where you, Trent, and I will switch vehicles.”

  “Okay. I assume the objective is to get to the alternate safe house unnoticed?”

  “That’s right. If we believe you’re still under surveillance, or that the alternate safe house is compromised in any way, then we’ll have no choice but to recommend you call off your meetings.”

  “I see. And what are the odds of that happening?” Russell asked.

  “Hard to say without knowing how the opposition found out you were coming,” Manton admitted. “Very few people outside this vehicle knew about your trip to Cairo. It’s possible that the people who were waiting for you at the airport weren’t hostiles, but members of the Muslim Brotherhood making sure you arrived okay. I think there’s a fair chance you’ll be able to carry on with your mission.”

  “You think?” the bureaucrat asked with a chuckle. “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “Well, that’s all I can offer you. There are no guarantees—”

  Manton caught a bunch of flashes at the edge of his peripheral vision and turned his head toward their origin—the parking lot of a McDonald’s on El Nasr Road two hundred yards away.

  Before Manton could scream a warning, the driver yelled, “RPGs!” as he punched the gas and cranked the wheel right, aiming for the drainage ditch on the side of the road. Few men could have reacted as quickly to the threat as the driver did, but even he wasn’t fast enough. Manton saw several trails of smoke, and then the white sedan carrying the two kids flew into the air on a pillar of flame, a vicious explosion splitting the air. A millisecond later, a second projectile struck the pavement and detonated less than one meter from the left rear tire of the Audi, tilting the bulky SUV onto two wheels. The driver lost control and hit the ditch at an odd angle at almost fifty miles an hour. Manton’s heart lurched into his throat as the Audi took flight. The SUV flipped twice and landed upside down on the other side of the ditch with a sickening, metallic crunch.

  THREE

  CAIRO, EGYPT

  Edward Russell opened his eyes, aware that his legs were higher than his head. He was completely disoriented. His ears were ringing and there was the distinct taste of blood in his mouth. His seat belt was digging into his chest, and there was a dull but prevalent pain in his back and left side. Trent, who had unfastened his seat belt to reach into the cargo area of the SUV, was lying in a heap on the Audi’s ceiling. His eyes were open, but his head was twisted at an obscene angle.

  What the hell had just happened? The driver had yelled something Russell hadn’t entirely caught, then there was a formidable explosion. That was the last thing he remembered.

  “Russell? Russell?” came Oliver’s insistent voice, his words like light piercing through thick fog.

  “I’m here. I’m okay. Trent’s dead, I think.”

  “Stay there. I’m coming to you.” Oliver opened his door and unbuckled his seat belt. Russell watched as Oliver ungracefully fell to the ceiling of the Audi and rolled out of the vehicle, an MP5 in hand.

  Oliver hadn’t been out of the vehicle for more than a few seconds when a storm of bullets raked the side of the SUV. The engine began to hiss, and black smoke started filling the interior of the Audi.

  Oh shit. They killed Oliver.

  Russell heard eight distinct gunshots fired in quick succession.

  They finished him off. Oh, my God! They’re coming here next.

  He swallowed hard. He was going to be the next one to die, he was sure of it.

  Do something! Don’t let them slaughter you like a scared animal. Move!

  He had to find a weapon. He saw Trent’s MP5 and stretched his arm toward it.

  Too far. Russell called out to the driver, who, like him, was still hanging upside down from his seat belt.

  “Patrick! Hey! Patrick! Talk to me!”

  The man didn’t move.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Then, out of the blue, Oliver appeared outside his door, almost giving Russell a heart attack. His MP5 was slung across his chest. Oliver tugged hard on Russell’s door, but it didn’t budge.

  There was another crackle of gunfire, and Oliver disappeared from view. A series of
six individual shots, once again fired rapidly, followed. This time Russell understood who had fired them.

  Oliver.

  Whatever happened next, at least Russell would die knowing the contractors hadn’t run away. He’d heard horror stories about PMC guys abandoning their principals. This Oliver guy was a fighter. State hadn’t hired the cheapest ones this time around.

  For whatever that was worth.

  The black smoke was now hanging heavy inside the overturned SUV, and Russell’s next breath caused an agonizing cough that sent bolts of sharp pain throughout his entire rib cage. Behind the wheel, Patrick had regained consciousness and was in the process of unbuckling his seat belt.

  Bullets pinged off the Audi’s doors and windows. Spiderweb cracks stretched over the glass only inches from Russell’s face.

  Shit! I need to get out of here.

  The rear passenger-side door was suddenly yanked open.

  “This way!” Oliver yelled at him. “Hurry up. They’re coming.”

  It took more effort than it should have for Russell to unfasten his seat belt. When it finally disengaged, he fell on his right shoulder, and it knocked the wind out of him. An instant later, Oliver grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him over Trent’s lifeless body and out of the Audi.

  FOUR

  CAIRO, EGYPT

  Manton saw that Russell was unsettled, but at least he was ambulatory and still in the fight. The same couldn’t be said about Trent. Not much Manton could do about it now.

  Manton pulled a satellite phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and called Treadstone Director Levi Shaw’s direct line. The device was equipped with a chip that held an encryption package that guaranteed only the person at the other end of the line would be able to hear him talk.

  Director Shaw picked up right away.

  “I’m listening,” Shaw said, his voice strained. Agents didn’t usually call him when deployed—unless something had gone horribly wrong.

  “We were ambushed on Airport Road at the intersection of El Nasr Road.”

  “What? By whom?”

  “Don’t know. Trent’s down, but the principal, Patrick, and I are fine. For now,” Manton told him. “But we’re about to get hit again.”

  “Understood. I’ll do what I can. Keep your phone with you.”

  Manton disconnected the call, then reached inside the SUV and snatched an MP5 from under the fallen Treadstone agent. Trent wouldn’t need it anymore.

  Manton inserted a fresh magazine into his own MP5 and pocketed the partially spent one for future use. So far, he had fired fourteen well-placed shots at six different assailants. The six bastards had come at him in two waves of three and begun shooting in his direction the moment he had rolled out of the Audi. Clearly the ambush had been well planned and these guys had been the mop-up crew. Had the six men been better shots and coordinated their final assault on the SUV the same way the first phase of the ambush had been orchestrated, it would be Manton lying dead in the street instead of them.

  But the fight wasn’t over. Far from it. To his right, Patrick had taken cover behind the capsized SUV.

  “What do you see?” Manton asked, handing Patrick the MP5 he’d just retrieved from the Audi.

  “Two pickups, each loaded with half a dozen fighters heading our way.”

  Manton grabbed one of Russell’s shoulders and looked at the man. The bureaucrat was holding his shit together surprisingly well considering the clusterfuck they’d suddenly found themselves in.

  “Have you fired a pistol before?” Manton asked.

  “A few times, but never in combat. I was a logistics officer in the army before joining the Foreign Service,” Russell said, his eyes sharp, his voice perfectly even.

  Manton made a judgment call and reached for the SIG Sauer P365 SAS concealed at the small of his back in a waistband holster. The pistol wasn’t an offensive weapon by any means—the P365 SAS was a straight-up close-quarter-engagement handgun—but that’s all he had to share with Russell.

  “You have eleven rounds of nine-millimeter goodness. Ten in the magazine, one in the pipe. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Russell said, accepting the pistol.

  “Cover our six,” Manton said, pointing in the direction he wanted Russell to keep his eyes on.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Just point and shoot,” Manton continued. “There’s no iron sight on this one, no manual safety, either. And please, don’t try to hit anything farther away than fifty feet. You’ll only waste ammo. Yell if you see something.”

  Russell nodded, but Manton had already moved to the other end of the SUV. He glanced over the rear bumper of the Audi. The two pickups were barreling down the side street perpendicular to Airport Road, zigzagging between stopped or slow-moving vehicles.

  “If they flank us, we’re dead,” Manton said to the other Treadstone agent.

  Bullets clanged against the SUV and both agents took cover.

  “These assholes are taking long-range potshots at us,” Patrick said. “They want to keep our heads down.”

  Manton took another peek. One of the pickup trucks had stopped and fighters were dismounting from its bed, fanning out quickly.

  “These guys are the fire base!” he yelled at Patrick.

  Manton leaned slightly out of cover, took aim at one of the running men, and squeezed the trigger. The man spun and fell. Patrick fired, too, and another fighter tumbled, dead. Manton searched for a target, but the remaining four had taken cover. He shifted his aim to the pickup’s windshield and fired five rounds. His first shot went too low and ricocheted off the hood of the truck, but the next four punched the driver’s side of the windshield just above the wipers, two of them hitting flesh and muscle.

  The second pickup had banked sharply to their right and was moving into a flanking position, confirming Manton’s suspicion.

  Shit!

  “Patrick, keep the fire base pinned down!”

  When Patrick began to fire, Manton stood up, abandoning his cover, and emptied the rest of his magazine at the second pickup. The passenger-side window exploded and the pickup veered left, its tires barely gripping asphalt. The driver lost control and slammed directly into the back of a dump truck parked on the shoulder. Two of the fighters in the bed of the pickup were ejected and flew headfirst into the side of the dump truck.

  “We need to get out of the X!” Patrick yelled.

  “Check,” Manton replied, changing his MP5’s magazine.

  Manton took in his surroundings. It was chaos. Dozens of vehicles were immobilized on Airport Road, their windows shattered, their tires ripped apart by shrapnel. Fifty feet to his left, a red minivan was on fire. One of its occupants seemed to have successfully climbed out of the burning vehicle but now lay dead in the middle of the road, part of his clothes still alight. Steps behind the minivan, inside a black Toyota Corolla, a driver was slumped over the steering wheel. Here and there, people were sluggishly exiting their damaged vehicles. As appalling as it all was, Manton didn’t give the injured men and women a second thought. His priority was to find a vehicle—preferably another SUV, but he’d settle for anything with four unscathed tires and a functioning motor—and disengage from the firefight before the attackers could regroup and continue their assault.

  The sudden cracks of a pistol sent Manton spinning on his heels, his MP5 up. It took him half a second to find what Russell was shooting at. Forty yards away, one of the attackers Manton had shot earlier was on his knees, about to fire an RPG. Manton squeezed the trigger twice. The man fell to his side, but the RPG was already sailing right at them. The projectile raced over Manton’s head, clearing the Audi by only a couple of feet, and exploded somewhere in the background. Before Manton could nod his thanks to Russell, he heard the high-pitched snapping of bullets hitting the opposite side of the Audi. To make matters worse, the
surviving assailants from the second pickup truck were getting into position. Within seconds, Manton, Russell, and Patrick would be caught in the middle of multidirectional gunfire.

  They had to move. Now.

  “On me!” he called to Russell and Patrick. “We’re going to use the drainage ditch that follows the fence to move west toward the stadium.”

  Manton wished he could pop a smoke grenade to obscure their dash across the fifty feet of open ground that separated the overturned Audi from the ditch, but the grenades were with the rest of his kit inside the Audi cargo compartment. Getting to them would take time they didn’t have. Manton glanced over his shoulder. Russell and Patrick had bunched up behind him and were awaiting his command.

  “Russell, I want you to stay to the left of Patrick, understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m gonna lay down some covering fire. Then you two go.”

  Patrick’s left hand moved to Russell’s back. “You ready for this?” the Treadstone agent asked. “Don’t overthink it. Just run, stay low, and don’t stop for any reason.”

  Russell’s mouth must have run dry because he only managed to nod, but Manton saw that the man’s hands were steady, his eyes fierce. Taking a deep breath, Manton tightened his grip on the MP5 and sprang into action. The moment he broke cover, he knew the timing couldn’t have been worse. They had stayed too long at the X, and the enemy had zeroed in their fire.

  His instinct told him to get back behind the armored Audi, but Patrick and Russell had already stepped out of cover, so he held steadfast, unwavering despite the withering hail of 7.62-millimeter rounds thumping against and around the SUV. Manton felt a round pluck at his jacket but stayed focused, squeezing shot after shot and downing one man. Another fighter got to his knees and shouldered an RPG just as another round snapped inches from Manton’s left ear. Manton engaged the new threat, one of his bullets striking the wannabe rocket man square in the gut. As Manton’s 9mm round tore its way through his organs, the fighter dropped the RPG and grabbed his belly in shock. Manton’s next round hit him in the throat.