Chapter 20 - THE GENEVA PROTOCOL
"They tracked the signal from the data drop!" I yelled over the rattle of incoming fire, unholstering my sidearm and leaning around the concrete barrier to return a controlled double-tap toward the attackers.
One of the assassins spun hard and collapsed against a bronze statue in the center of the plaza, while the remaining two dove behind a stone retaining wall, maintaining a steady, professional suppressing fire that pinned us in place.
"We can't stay here! They've got the entire square bracketed!" my father shouted, blood trickling from a shallow graze along his left forearm where a stray round had clipped his sleeve.
"Move on my mark!" I barked, pulling a smoke grenade from my tactical belt, pulling the pin with my teeth, and hurling it into the center of the open plaza.
THUMP-HISSSSS!
A thick, blinding cloud of gray tactical smoke instantly billowed outward, swallowing the waterfront in an opaque fog that choked out the sunlight.
"Go!" I grabbed my father by the shoulder, hauling him up from the concrete and pushing him hard toward the narrow stone steps leading down to the lake's ferry docks below.
Footsteps pounded heavily on the cobblestones behind us as the remaining assassins tried to flank through the smoke, firing blindly into the gray haze. We scrambled down the steep embankment, sliding the final ten feet through wet mud and gravel before hitting the wooden decking of the lower boat pier.
A small, high-speed RIB (Rigid-Inflatable Boat) painted in flat matte gray idling against the wooden pylons revving its twin outboard engines caught my eye immediately. Standing at the helm, holding a submachine gun ready in her lap, was a familiar face with sharp tactical gear and a cold, focused expression: Marshal Vance’s lead tactical liaison from the D.C. operation, who must have flown commercial across the Atlantic the moment the federal lockdown lifted.
"Get in! Get in now!" she yelled over the screaming roar of the twin Yamaha engines.
My father dived into the bow of the boat first, rolling low behind the fiberglass console. I leaped aboard the stern, firing three rapid shots back up the stone steps to discourage pursuit before slamming my weight against the throttle.
The boat surged forward with bone-crushing acceleration, lifting its bow out of the dark water of Lake Zurich and rocketing away from the docks at fifty knots as bullets slapped harmlessly into the churning wake behind us.
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As the Swiss shoreline shrank into the misty distance, I pulled the titanium drive from my pocket, sliding it alongside the data card resting against my ribs.
The war wasn't over. In fact, looking across the cold water toward the snow-capped peaks of the Alps, I knew we had only just fired the opening salvo.
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