Corsican Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

Weaver, hair down over his forehead and hiding the scar that ran from the corner of his left eye across his forehead and into his hair. Lifting the .45, still two hands tight around the butt, Bolt fired.
    Boom! Boom! Then: Click! Click!
    “Shit!” yelled Bolt, frowning and looking down at the .45. Fucking things misfired, yeah, but now? Now? That’s the one thing he hated about a goddamn .45. Sometimes they broke down when they shouldn’t. Oh sure, it was a heavy gun, powerful enough to tear a man’s arm completely off.
    Shoot a man in the leg with it, and a lot of his leg disappeared. No way he’d walk right again. Or maybe even walk at all.
    Now the fucking thing wasn’t working. He cursed, shaking the gun, looking from it to the now empty ramp, seeing people cautiously move into view and stand at the top of the ramp, heads leaning forward, eyes narrowed to see what was going on down there in the garage.
    Christ, what a bitch. A fucking bitch. Of all the luck, of all the shit-ass luck. Close enough to bite the Corsican in the ass. And now he’s gone.
    Footsteps behind him and Weaver. Bolt turned. More agents. Graham and Cavanaugh. On the run, guns out, faces tight and nobody smiling.
    Graham reached them first. He said nothing, waiting for John Bolt to speak first. “Lonzu,” said Bolt, eyes moving, from Graham and back to the empty ramp, now crowded with the curious. “Car. And some friends. Two of them back there. Get on the radio. Dark blue Ford, two men. It’s shot up. Back windshield. O.K., go! Go! Take your finger out of your ass and move!”
    Graham, lips pressed together, nodded once, turned, and ran back across the garage. Cavanaugh, seeing Bolt’s pissed-off face and hearing the anger in his voice, decided he’d be better off helping Graham. Turning, he ran after him.
    Bolt wasn’t angry at them. He was angry at himself. Vanders was dead, and even if it wasn’t Bolt’s fault, even if it was “part of the job,” as they said at training school, it still hurt. A dead agent was a painful thing.
    It hurt the living—his family, his parents, and the agents who worked with him. When one of your brother agents died, it was a harsh reminder: you could be next. Think on that.
    Sad. Too fucking sad. A hell of a way to make a living.
    Turning, Bolt and Weaver stared at the burning car Vanders had been hiding behind a minute ago. Bolt felt a tug on his sleeve, and he heard Weaver’s voice coming at him, low and urgent.
    “Back off, John. Car’s gonna blow soon. Let’s back off.”
    They did, moving away, eyes still on the bright orange and red flames, hearing the fire snap at them as if to draw them closer, challenging them to come and claim the body of their brother.
    The car exploded, sending metal, glass, hubcaps flying over the garage, sending pieces of flaming material shooting out from it as if to remind them that eventually death won out over all of us.
    Hubcaps clattered to the floor, rolling around noisily, bumping into tires and steel pillars. Glass flew, landing like shiny hard rain on the hoods of parked cars.
    Metal bounced off walls, landing on cars, and for seconds the garage echoed with noise as though hundreds of sticks were beating on car hoods.
    Death is a fucking mess, thought Bolt, watching the burning frame of the car. His breathing was slow, shallow, and his face heavy with a pain that would be with him for a while.
    Clayton Harger said, “Alain’s got away, that’s all I can tell you. Two of the men who came for him got killed by federal agents. One of the agents got killed too. Christ, this thing is getting out of hand, don’t you think?” He coughed. Being scared did that to him. Tightened up his throat and made his mouth taste like bird shit.
    “Don’t think, Mr. Harger,” said Étienne Abbé. “Just do as we ask, please? Is there anything else on Alain?”
    “Uh, no, not from what I hear. Tell you this: the federal narcotics agents want him bad, real bad. They blame