A Mortal Terror Read Online Free PDF

apparently unused. Probably no fingerprints. Maybe Galante and Landry had been in a card game together and kept souvenirs. Maybe they’d won big, and a killer, or killers, had decided to grab their cash.
    All I knew for sure was that I had two stiffs waiting for me at Caserta, not to mention all the self-important brass throwing their weight around, demanding protection. The two cards were a flimsy connection, and the different ways the bodies had been left to be found didn’t seem like the work of the same killer. I gave up thinking about it, and wished I had a drink.
    The plane lurched as we hit some turbulence, and the file containing the photographs fell to the deck. A close-up of Galante’s head and neck sailed farthest, ending up on the congressman’s toes.
    “What the hell is this?”
    “A guy who didn’t share his booze,” I said, grabbing it from him before the reporters got too interested. The aircraft shifted sideways in heavy winds as the pilot descended.
    “It’s all gone,” he said, slurring it into one barely understandable word. The newspapermen moved away from him as he swayed in his seat, his face gone pale. I grabbed the files and moved as far away as I could just as the bomber hit another pocket of turbulence and the congressman vomited his share of the bottle into a bucket.
    A few hours ago, I’d been looking forward to a day with Diana, strolling down a peaceful country road, and hoping for at least one more night together. Now, here I was, the stink of bile and whiskey in the air, hoping this crate would land in one piece so I could search for a card-carrying killer. The air had grown colder, and I shivered as one of the reporters made his way over to me, balancing on the narrow gangplank.
    “Phil Einsmann,” he said as he sat. “International News Service.”
    “Lieutenant Billy Boyle.” We shook hands. “You’re not going to be sick, are you, Phil?”
    “No worries. I’ve flown worse than this. Combat mission over Germany a few months back, and I wish I’d had a bottle for that one.”
    “I didn’t know correspondents went on bombing raids,” I said.
    “They don’t, anymore. A few months ago, the Eighth Air Force decided to train a handful of reporters and send them on a few missions, to get the story out for the folks back home. We’ve been in ground combat, so they figured why not? Be good press for the flyboys. So they train about a dozen of us. How to adjust to high altitudes, parachuting, even weapons.”
    “You actually volunteered?” I asked, thinking that air travel was bad enough without flak and tracer rounds shredding the aircraft.
    “Yeah, crazy, huh? Some joker starting calling us the Writing 69th, and it stuck. They chose a few of us for the first mission. Me, Walter Cronkite from United Press, this kid Andy Rooney from Stars and Stripes , Bob Post from the New York Times .”
    “I think I remember hearing about Post,” I said.
    “Yeah,” Einsmann said. “The one thing they didn’t think through was the bad press if one of us got it. Post was killed over Germany. His B-17 blew up midair. Our first mission was our last. I’ll tell you, if Bob hadn’t been killed, I don’t know if I could’ve gone back up there. I’ve never been so scared.”
    “Get a good story?”
    “Best thing I ever wrote. Making it back in one piece focuses the mind wonderfully.”
    “You and your pal headed to Naples?”
    “I’m going back, believe or not. I was supposed to go to London. I left last night, and when I got to Gibraltar there was a cable from the home office. Return to Naples. Caserta, actually. I was billeted near Fifth Army headquarters. Something must be brewing.”
    “News to me,” I said, and we both laughed at the unintended joke.
    “Does that photograph have anything to do with why you’re headed to Naples, Lieutenant Boyle?”
    “Call me Billy, everyone does. And I’m going to Caserta, too. Maybe I can give you a lift. You and your