Blaze of Glory by Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky
Authors: Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Suspense fiction, War & Military, Political Science, Men's Adventure, Terrorism, Political Freedom & Security, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
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He tasted gun oil. He thought he tasted gunpowder.
Details mattered. The .45 had to be angled just right. Too shallow and he’d blow a hole in the back of his neck but might continue to live. Or die slowly. Too steep and he would only succeed in removing his face.
He pushed the muzzle to his palate. The front site scratched his gums.
His finger moved the trigger a millimeter then stopped. He relaxed, inhaled deeply through his nose, then again applied pressure to the trigger.
Seconds became minutes.
Do it. DO IT!
Tears streaked his face. He couldn’t. God help him, he couldn’t.
He removed the gun from his mouth, reset the safety, replaced the weapon in the drawer, and shut it.
Zinsser pulled his gear together, loaded his car, and started for Fort Jackson.
EZZAT EL-SAYYED WORE A black polo shirt, tan pants, and a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo Python Loafers. At $900 the shoes were not his most expensive pair, but he was dressing down for this occasion. Still, it only seemed right to wear Italian shoes in Italy.
The Mercedes E moved through the streets of Rome easily. It should. El-Sayyed’s chauffer was one of his most trusted guards and had spent the week before his arrival driving these streets, familiarizing himself with the intricacies of every avenue, memorizing every turn and every possible place of ambush.
The Saint Bernadette Hotel stood ten stories and catered to traveling executives. It wasn’t the most luxurious facility in the city, but it offered enough amenities to keep CEOs of mid-range businesses content, and the attention lavished on patrons by the staff made it a popular place to stay. For El-Sayyed its location, off the main street, and its reputation for employees who didn’t ask questions and knew how to look the other way made it a suitable choice for a brief meeting.
Tony Nasser drove by the front entrance slowly, his eyes directed to a spot ten meters further along the walkway. A dark-skinned man leaned against the façade of the adjoining hotel. He was tall, thin, and seemed more interested in the cigarette he was smoking than the passing traffic. El-Sayyed knew better. As the Mercedes rolled along the man on the sidewalk raised his head, took a long draw on the cigarette, and blew the stream of blue smoke into the air. He then dropped the butt to the ground. It was the signal El-Sayyed hoped to see. He saw Nasser give a small nod. Before they had passed the man’s location, he pivoted, walked to Saint Bernadette’s front doors, and entered the lobby. Nasser drove on.
After driving side streets for ten minutes, the Mercedes arrived at the curb in front of the hotel. A young man in a red uniform stepped to the car and opened the back door. El-Sayyed exited. Nasser was by his side before the attendant could close the door. A second man in a yellow shirt and jeans appeared at El-Sayyed’s side. He was of average height, and his build stretched the shoulder stitching of the sport coat he wore. The three men walked into the building.
The lobby sported a hand-painted ceiling showing ancient Romans doing whatever Romans did. El-Sayyed ignored the marble floor, the hand-crafted counter with a short line of people checking in, and made his way to the elevators. Brass doors parted, and three men in uniforms of pin-striped suits exited. El-Sayyed and his men filled the elevator. The cigarette-signal man joined them.
A bald man with a billiard-ball build started to enter the elevator cab but changed his mind when Nasser raised a hand. El-Sayyed smiled, shrugged, and stroked his mustache.
The elevator doors closed.
“You are satisfied with the room, Abasi?” El-Sayyed asked the signal man.
“Yes, sir. They arrived ten minutes ago. I searched the room before their arrival and swept for listening devices. The room was clean, but they’ve been alone in the room. I would assume you are being recorded and videotaped.” He paused. “I do not trust these men.”
“Do you trust anyone,
Details mattered. The .45 had to be angled just right. Too shallow and he’d blow a hole in the back of his neck but might continue to live. Or die slowly. Too steep and he would only succeed in removing his face.
He pushed the muzzle to his palate. The front site scratched his gums.
His finger moved the trigger a millimeter then stopped. He relaxed, inhaled deeply through his nose, then again applied pressure to the trigger.
Seconds became minutes.
Do it. DO IT!
Tears streaked his face. He couldn’t. God help him, he couldn’t.
He removed the gun from his mouth, reset the safety, replaced the weapon in the drawer, and shut it.
Zinsser pulled his gear together, loaded his car, and started for Fort Jackson.
EZZAT EL-SAYYED WORE A black polo shirt, tan pants, and a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo Python Loafers. At $900 the shoes were not his most expensive pair, but he was dressing down for this occasion. Still, it only seemed right to wear Italian shoes in Italy.
The Mercedes E moved through the streets of Rome easily. It should. El-Sayyed’s chauffer was one of his most trusted guards and had spent the week before his arrival driving these streets, familiarizing himself with the intricacies of every avenue, memorizing every turn and every possible place of ambush.
The Saint Bernadette Hotel stood ten stories and catered to traveling executives. It wasn’t the most luxurious facility in the city, but it offered enough amenities to keep CEOs of mid-range businesses content, and the attention lavished on patrons by the staff made it a popular place to stay. For El-Sayyed its location, off the main street, and its reputation for employees who didn’t ask questions and knew how to look the other way made it a suitable choice for a brief meeting.
Tony Nasser drove by the front entrance slowly, his eyes directed to a spot ten meters further along the walkway. A dark-skinned man leaned against the façade of the adjoining hotel. He was tall, thin, and seemed more interested in the cigarette he was smoking than the passing traffic. El-Sayyed knew better. As the Mercedes rolled along the man on the sidewalk raised his head, took a long draw on the cigarette, and blew the stream of blue smoke into the air. He then dropped the butt to the ground. It was the signal El-Sayyed hoped to see. He saw Nasser give a small nod. Before they had passed the man’s location, he pivoted, walked to Saint Bernadette’s front doors, and entered the lobby. Nasser drove on.
After driving side streets for ten minutes, the Mercedes arrived at the curb in front of the hotel. A young man in a red uniform stepped to the car and opened the back door. El-Sayyed exited. Nasser was by his side before the attendant could close the door. A second man in a yellow shirt and jeans appeared at El-Sayyed’s side. He was of average height, and his build stretched the shoulder stitching of the sport coat he wore. The three men walked into the building.
The lobby sported a hand-painted ceiling showing ancient Romans doing whatever Romans did. El-Sayyed ignored the marble floor, the hand-crafted counter with a short line of people checking in, and made his way to the elevators. Brass doors parted, and three men in uniforms of pin-striped suits exited. El-Sayyed and his men filled the elevator. The cigarette-signal man joined them.
A bald man with a billiard-ball build started to enter the elevator cab but changed his mind when Nasser raised a hand. El-Sayyed smiled, shrugged, and stroked his mustache.
The elevator doors closed.
“You are satisfied with the room, Abasi?” El-Sayyed asked the signal man.
“Yes, sir. They arrived ten minutes ago. I searched the room before their arrival and swept for listening devices. The room was clean, but they’ve been alone in the room. I would assume you are being recorded and videotaped.” He paused. “I do not trust these men.”
“Do you trust anyone,
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