Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment Read Online Free PDF

service stairs, always moving north. He made the ground floor, spotted the exit, and skidded to a stop. The palazzo guard at the door had spotted him. He’d been alerted to the chase. One hand unstrapped a baton. The other brought a whistle to his lips.
    Renzo was about to double back when the plastered wall beside his head exploded. A spray of debris stung his cheek. He bolted forward like a racehorse out the starting gate. One of his pursuers was at the far end of the corridor, his silenced pistol extended. Two more rounds ricocheted off the marble floor at his heels. A woman screamed, tourists scattered, and Renzo barreledinto the exit guard. Both men went down in a heap. Renzo’s pistol slipped from his waistband. It skittered across the marble floor. The startled guard kicked it out of reach. He latched onto Renzo’s leg, and the shrill whistle sounded between his lips. Renzo tried to twist free, but the man hung on like a mastiff to an extended towel. It took a kick to the man’s temple to loosen the grip. Renzo wrenched free and rushed out the exit.
    The sudden brightness narrowed his vision, but he didn’t stop running. He weaved through a river of tourists, around a corner, and down an alley. The maze of cobbled walkways was his only hope of escape.
    Past
gelaterias
and pastry shops, clothing stores, galleries, and shops filled with masks. Deeper into the ancient city he fled. Heading northwest. Away from the lagoon. The crush of tourists didn’t let up. Neither did the commotion of his pursuers behind him. He wedged through a Japanese tour group at an arch that bridged a canal. A raised fist, an irritated shout, and a gondolier’s song cut off midchorus. He ignored it all. His focus ahead.
    High-end jewelry shops lined either side of the next stretch. A throng of window shoppers narrowed the pathway. He pushed through, took the next alley, and found a less-busy straightaway. Renzo poured on speed. A vaporetto, or water bus, cruised across the end of the stretch dead ahead. It was the Grand Canal. A glance over his shoulder. Two men bobbed and weaved through the crowd. They were thirty paces back.
    He skidded around the corner and kept moving. The Ponte di Rialto loomed a hundred meters ahead. Two inclined ramps covered by a portico with shops on either side. He recalled from his map that the ornate bridge was one of four that spanned the Grand Canal. It led to the less-crowded San Polo district. If he could make it across, he’d have a chance to pull away. He skirted past an artist chalking an image of the bridge, grinding his jaw over the loss of the peaceful life he’d embraced only twenty-four hours before. He was halfway to the bridge when a herd ofuniformed children exited an alley ahead of him. They squeezed five deep between the sidewalk vendors and the water’s edge. The path was blocked. Beside them, a row of docked gondolas bounced in the wakes of the water traffic.
    An angry shout. The men behind him had turned the corner. Renzo leaped onto the bow of one of the gondolas and kept running, arms outstretched for balance, skipping from one boat to the next, thankful for the grip of his runners. Children shouted at the sight. They surged together like fans at a rock concert, cell phones held overhead. Their mass created an impassable palisade.
    Three more leaps and he was past them and back on the walkway. A quick sprint and he turned the corner onto the bridge. The two men behind him had vanished, and Renzo assumed they’d detoured down the alley behind the children. This was his chance. Up the stone steps three at a time, sticking to the outer walkway along the balustrade. He dodged an arrangement of knockoff purses displayed on rugs and hurried over the top.
    The sight of dark sunglasses and rubber-soled shoes stopped him cold. The man stood at parade rest at the bottom of the other side of the bridge.
    Renzo sidestepped under the portico to the central walkway. Glittery shops lined either