Callsign: King II- Underworld

As they stepped through the doors of the rehab facility, King scanned the street for a passing taxicab.

“So,” Pierce said, matching his friend’s pace as they descended the concrete steps of the brownstone. “What can you tell me?”

King barely heard him. There weren’t any taxis, but he had spied four men sitting in a black tricked-out Mercedes directly across the street, and now alarm bells were sounding in his head. He could only make out the facial features of the two sitting on the left side—they were Caucasian, with high Slavic cheekbones that made him think Russians—but it was the barely glimpsed object one of the men fidgeted with that commanded his attention.

Gun!

New York wasn’t Fallujah or Kandahar. It wasn’t even the same city it had been thirty years previously, in the grip of a war between criminal empires violently vying for dominance in the burgeoning crack cocaine trade. But no matter where in the world he was, King knew that a man sitting in an idle car, nervously playing with a gun, was a precursor to trouble. Whether or not it directly involved him, whether or not he was their target, he knew immediate action was called for.

His instincts took over. He spun toward Pierce and tackled his uncomprehending friend into the rose shrubs on the side of the stairs.

There was a resounding crack as something struck the side of the building, knocking a chip of stone loose. Half a second later, the sound of a distant shot reached King’s ears. The report had not come from the car; somewhere nearby, a sniper had just taken a shot, and only King’s dumb luck in spotting the potential ambush had saved him.

I am the target, he thought. Or George.Or both of us.

That was all the thinking he had time for. The vegetation offered no protection and hardly any concealment from the unseen shooter, and now the men in the Mercedes were entering the fray. Three of the four doors, every one except the driver’s, flew open to disgorge the passengers, all of whom carried old Soviet-era ?korpionvz. 61 submachine pistols.

“George, back inside! Stay low!”

He hauled the archaeologist to his feet and propelled him toward the staircase. It seemed unlikely that they would be able to survive the short crossing, but slim chances were better than none. Pierce stumbled against the steps and almost went down on his face, but King maintained a constant grip on his friend’s biceps, and turned what would otherwise have been a face-plant into forward momentum. King managed to be a step ahead of Pierce, and wrenched the nearest door open, flinging it aside with such force that the hydraulic closer mechanism snapped off its mounts.

Gunfire erupted behind them and a storm of 7.65 millimeter rounds sizzled through the air above their heads. There was a noise like a jackhammer as some of the rounds smacked the other door; the rest of the burst shattered the ceiling plaster in the entryway. White dust rained down on them as King angled toward the lobby, still dragging Pierce, who was still struggling to find his footing. None of the bullets had found King, and he didn’t think Pierce had been hit either, but there wasn’t even a moment to stop and check.

On an impulse, he snatched up a pressboard side table, scattering dog-eared and tattered back-issues of Time and People, and heaved it toward the entry just as the first of the gunmen ventured through. The table struck the man in the chest and bowled him backwards into his companions.

King did not linger to survey the results of his hasty counter-attack. With Pierce now solidly on his feet it was time to go, but the only other way out of the lobby was through the electronically secured door to the left of the receptionist’s window, and the gatekeeper had evidently fled as soon as the bullets had started flying. King analyzed the situation with the efficiency of a chess master, and immediately saw that getting through the door would require a lot more time than they had.

“Shortcut!” he yelled, diving headfirst over the counter and into the receptionist’s office. He tucked and rolled, making the maneuver actually look easy; he’d done similar things in both training and actual combat, and it was a whole lot easier without fifty pounds of body armor, weapons, and other sundry pieces of gear hanging off his body. Still, all things considered, he would much rather have been fully equipped, because then he’d have something more than furniture to throw at the gunmen.