Corsican Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

with unbelievable agony and the horror of dying.
    The sound of a man staring at death. And you trembled because it could be you. So very, very easily. Ripped apart by the hot metal pieces of a grenade, pink-and-gray-colored guts slithering out of your stomach onto oily concrete. Your skull exploding into pieces of pink, bloody bone.
    And the flames. Jesus. Christ, the flames. All over you. Swallowing you in bright orange and red.
    Bolt, hot with fear and hatred, his brain pounding out the message “Stay alive, fool, stay alive,” dropped to his stomach in a hurry, feeling the sudden ache in his bones as the concrete hurried up to meet him.
    He jerked the trigger on the .45 twice, tightening his two-handed grip, feeling the heavy gun kick back at him and pull up toward the ceiling as though trying to leave his hands. Not now, baby, not now. Don’t leave me now, sweet thing.
    Two shots. Loud, the heavy handgun sending out huge waves of sound in the garage. Somewhere a woman screamed, and footsteps behind Bolt moved swiftly off to the side, out of danger. Civilians. All they did was pay taxes and complain to their congressman. They didn’t have to die for a living.
    One of the Corsicans went up in the air, gun flying from his hand, the man flying backward as though performing an acrobatic trick. It was no trick. There was a huge red blotch the size of two hands on his shirt front, while a pain inside his chest squeezed his heart until he thought it would burst.
    Bolt’s .45 had caught the Corsican dead center and he never cried out. He just left his feet, flying backward into a car fender, bouncing off it, then smashing into the concrete and lying there. The .45’s bullet crushed his chest, smashing ribs, ripping both lungs apart, and turning his heart into powdered meat.
    Bolt saw him hit the floor and didn’t take time to congratulate himself on good shooting. The narc rolled across the concrete, smelling oil, stopping dead when he hit a tire, then crawling and scrambling under a car, his chest heaving because he was nervous and suddenly goddamn tired.
    Tension did that to you. Tired you out in a hurry.
    Well, one of you pricks won’t be around for Vanders’ funeral.
    More gunshots. To Bolt’s right. Weaver. Christ, Bolt hoped so. A man screamed and a car engine started, its backfire adding to the gunfire and echoes.
    Crawling clear of the car, Bolt crept forward to its left fender, keeping low, holding his breath, mouth open, eyes unblinking. Stay alive. Yeah. That’s what I really and truly want to do.
    He saw the Corsicans. Two were inside the Ford, one gunning the motor loudly, another beside him cursing and turning back and forth from the driver to where the agents were. Too dark to see who’s inside the car, thought Bolt.
    A thought exploded in his mind. Damn, did I kill Alain Lonzu? Just as swiftly, he got an answer from himself: right now I don’t give a rat’s ass.
    One Corsican was still outside the Ford, crouched behind a small Volkswagen, bobbing his head up and down, from side to side, firing at Weaver. Weaver. A black agent who kept complaining about working the street too much, who was tired of putting his life on the line working undercover in ghettos but who just couldn’t get transferred to that desk job he wanted so much.
    He was too damn good at what he was doing. Except that he thought he was getting too old to do street work anymore. Too old. Thirty-five years old.
    Keep your black ass down, brother Weaver, thought Bolt, and you’ll still live to be too old.
    Shouts from the Corsicans’ car. Slurred words in Italian, maybe French. A warning, a threat to the outside man. Get in the car now, you dumb bastard. Now, goddamnit!
    The Corsican outside of the car, a short, bearded man named Marcel, fired at Weaver, aiming at the bright, quick flashes of orange gunfire he’d just seen. To hell with American policemen. Cops, agents, what’s the goddamn difference? thought Marcel. He frowned,