Corsican Death Read Online Free PDF

ducking down again. They kill me, I kill them, what’s the goddamn difference?
    It’s all a game, isn’t it? Still, a man felt fear even in games, especially a game like this one. The Count and Remy Patek can hurt us if something happens to their brothers.
    And the Americans—now they’re shooting at us. It’s all a game. But sometimes I wish I didn’t have to play this game.
    Inside the car Alain Lonzu cursed the driver, a stocky sailor named Reynald. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! Can’t you drive, can’t you—!”
    “American car, American. I can’t—”
    “Goddamn fool!”
    Alain, feeling pain in his arm and side from bullet wounds, reached over to twist the key in the ignition, his mind racing, spit running down his face, eyes wide with panic. Escape. Must get out of here. Must …
    Bolt. Crouching, he ran closer, keeping low, heading for a panel truck. Get behind that and I’ve got a shot at them. It’ll put me in front of the dude with the gun and give me a shot at the car. Bastard’s having trouble getting the Ford started. But that won’t last forever. No way.
    The Corsicans’ car started again, stopped, then started once more. It backed up, stopped, rocking on its axle, then started to move again. More shots from behind the Volkswagen, aimed at Weaver, who had shifted but was still firing at the Volkswagen and breaking car windshields right and left.
    Broken glass lay shiny and bright on the concrete floor, a hard frost lying in patches of oil and dust.
    Bolt, sitting on the concrete, back against the panel truck’s front tire, held his breath and counted. One … two… three.
    He leaped up, face twisted into something hard and unfeeling, and spun around to face the Volkswagen and the Corsicans’ Ford, both hands on his .45 and his trigger finger moving as fast as he could make it move.
    The Ford was moving, backing up, tires squealing and shrieking and the two Corsicans inside looking over their shoulders as the car picked up speed.
    Weaver moved in, tripping, cursing, getting up and running after the Ford.
    So did Marcel, and that cost him his life.
    Marcel cried out in French, “Bastards, fucking bastards! You’re leaving me! Fucking bastards! Alain! Alain!”
    Marcel was on his feet, thinking and not thinking. Thinking of survival, of being left behind. His anger ruled him, which meant he wasn’t thinking at all. For when he stood up, turning-his back to the two narcotics agents, anger making him stare at the speeding car, he stepped into sunlight, into gunfire, into death.
    Bolt’s .45 sent a bullet crashing into Marcel’s spine, right between the shoulderblades. Before Marcel could cry out, he left his feet as though leaping after the speeding Ford. His mouth was open but nothing came out, and his eyes, Jesus, his eyes hurt him, and so did his back.
    Marcel thought he’d been hit by a car, and he frowned, because he hadn’t heard the motor start, and no one had warned him, so where did this car come from?
    Oh God, the pain. It tore up and down his back, up and down, then he was in midair, flying, and suddenly he came down hard, smashing into the concrete, face hitting gray stone, elbow smashing into a steel pillar, and the pain owned him, owned him body and soul. Blood poured from him—his eyes, nose, mouth—and he made a small gurgling noise like a baby. Then he died, lying on his side, eyes open and bright as marbles.
    Bolt shouted, “The car! The car!”
    Weaver, big but paunchy, receding hair puffed into a modified afro, knew what to do. He ran after the car as it turned right into the ramp, firing until his gun was empty, hearing the flat sounds of his .38 Smith & Wesson echoed all around him. Sheeit. Fuck me, he thought. They’re gonna make it; them suckers are gonna get up that ramp.
    Suddenly there was small satisfaction. The back window of the Ford turned into a spiderweb as bullets shattered it, clouding it over as though there were steam inside the car.
    Bolt ran up to