1635 The Papal Stakes Read Online Free PDF Page A

made a split-second decision to fire his remaining two rounds at one assailant rather than trying to take down both men. He simply wasn’t a Wild West gunfighter—as demonstrated by the fact that only one of the four shots he’d fired so far had hit precisely where he’d aimed it.
    He chose the smaller of the last two, whose double-barreled snaphaunce pistol was almost leveled at him.He fired twice again—and was dry.
    The choice to double-tap his third target saved his life. This thug had been the furthest off, and Tom’s first shot went a little high and wide: it only grazed the assassin’s shoulder. But that had made the target flinch; he discharged both barrels a split-second too early. One round cut a seam in the back of Tom’s boot; the other bullet spanged and whined off the center of the flagstone he was straddling.
    As it did, Tom’s second and final shot vented the bottom of his target’s left ribcage. The assassin doubled over and went back with a shuddering moan. But the last of the ambushers was racing in, saber poised to start swinging through a lethal arc. Despite Tom’s ex-football-player reflexes, amplified by military training and combat, there was no way he was going to be able to—
    Three sharp reports split the air just to Tom’s left: James Nichols had finally entered the firefight. His first shot missed entirely and his second shot inflicted a minor flesh wound in the man’s side. The wound wasn’t fatal. Just a crease, really, that might have broken a rib but hadn’t done much more damage. But it stopped the man’s charge long enough for the doctor to steady down and fire a third, careful shot. That ball struck the man squarely in the chest and he went down as if he’d been struck by a mallet.
    “Damn, getting rusty,” muttered the ex-Marine from just behind Tom’s shoulder. He grinned suddenly. “Being honest, my street gang training didn’t really emphasize marksmanship.”
    Tom barked a little laugh. Like him, Nichols was no master of the handgun. The doctor had been trained as a sniper when he was in the Marines—with a proper damn rifle, with a proper damn caliber and real by-God telescopic sights.
    “Two out of three shots on time and on target are plenty good enough for me, Doc. Let’s get moving.”
    Tom’s wife Rita emerged from the Crotto Fiume, which was still silent. The muttering and then shouting of the startled clientele would start soon enough, no doubt. “Done making noise out here, honey?” Rita asked. Despite the levity of the words, her voice was shaky.
    “I sure hope so,” Tom replied. He also hoped his own voice didn’t sound as shaky as his wife’s—but he was pretty sure it did.
    Rita shuddered as she started stepping over the bodies. “I’m never going to get used to situations like this.”
    “And you shouldn’t,” put in Melissa Mailey, who emerged from the crotto , towing the shocked cardinal. “Accepting bloodshed is a necessary part of being human; failing to notice it means you’re becoming less than human. No offense, James,” she added with a glance at her Vietnam-veteran life-partner.
    “None taken,” James murmured as he snatched up the double-barreled fowling piece, searched for ammunition, and kept a swivel-necked watch on both ends of the street. That didn’t deter him from some gentle teasing: “Of course, darling wife, your own rhetorical peacenik robes are starting to fray at the edges.”
    “They’ve been reduced to threads and lint by living in this century,” Melissa responded grimly. Changing the direction and tone of her voice, she urged the cardinal, “Step quickly, Your Eminence; we need to move rapidly now.” The small, pudgy man nodded unsteadily, looking rather pathetic in the nondescript friar’s garb.
    Bringing up the rear—and scattering coins, apologies, and wildly implausible explanations in their wake—Arco Severi closed the door gently and turned toward them, smelling of old garlic and fresh