Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [71]
He scanned first the bottom threshold, then, finding nothing, he moved on to the hinges before finishing with the doorknob and striker plate. Clear. There was nothing. He withdrew the cam. Behind him, Showalter and Bianco had made it over the railing. Ding pointed at Bianco, then at the doorknob. The Italian nodded and went to work with his pick set. Thirty seconds later the lock snicked open.
Using hand signals, Ding gave them final instructions: He and Bianco would take point and clear the rooms on the right; Showalter and Ybarra the left.
Ding gently turned the knob, opened the door a crack. He waited for ten beats, then swung the door open another foot and peeked his head through. The hall was clear. Three doors, two on the right, one on the left. In the distance he heard murmured voices, then silence. A sneeze. He withdrew his head and swung the door open all the way, letting Showalter catch it and hold it.
MP5 at ready-low, Ding stepped into the hall. Bianco followed two paces behind and to his left, taking the hall’s centerline. On the south wall, Showalter reached the left-hand doorway and stopped. The door was partially closed. “At south-hall door,” Showalter radioed.
“Looking,” Loiselle replied. “No movement.”
Showalter squared himself with the door, swung it open, and went in. He emerged twenty seconds later and gave a thumbs-up. Chavez crept down the north wall.
Johnston’s voice: “Hold.”
Ding held up a closed fist, and the other three stopped, dropped into a crouch.
“Movement,” Johnston said. “North wall, second window from east corner.”
The next room, Ding thought. Twenty seconds passed. Tempted as he was to press Johnston for an update, he resisted. The sniper would respond when he had something.
“Window’s covered in mini-blinds,” Johnston radioed. “Half open. I see one body moving.”
“Weapon?”
“Can’t tell. Stand by. Moving to the door. Three seconds.”
Chavez slung his MP5, drew his suppressed MK23, stood up, and slid down the wall until he was within arm’s reach of the door.
“At door,” Johnston called.
It swung open, and a figure stepped out. Chavez took a half-second, saw the AK-47 slung across the man’s chest, then put a round above his right ear. Ding pivoted on his heel, brought his left arm up, and grabbed the man across the chest as he fell. Bianco was already moving up, going through the door, looking for more targets. Chavez eased his man to the ground.
“Clear,” he radioed five seconds later, then came out and helped Chavez drag the body into the room. They closed the door behind them, got themselves restacked, and crouched down to wait. If his shot had attracted any attention, they’d know in short order. Nothing moved. “At second door, north wall,” he radioed.
“Don’t see any more movement,” Johnston replied.
Ding and Bianco cleared the room and came back out.
“Command, Blue Actual. Upstairs clear,” Ding called. “Heading to main floor.”
“Roger,” Stanley replied.
Twenty feet down the hall lay an arch and a sharp right turn to what Chavez knew was the stairway to the first floor. The stairs were open, twenty feet wide, bordered on the right by a wall, and open on the left, overlooking what they’d decided was probably the embassy’s main work area—and the most likely place the terrorists had bunched the hostages.
This had advantages and disadvantages, Ding knew. If the hostages were bunched together, there was a good chance most of the bad guys were as well. This would make Rainbow’s job easier, having targets concentrated like that, but it also meant the hostages, sitting cheek by jowl, were fish in a barrel should the terrorists open fire.
Then we just don’t give ’em that chance, mano.
He crept forward, moving slowly on flat feet until he reached the arch. A quick glance