Countdown to Mecca Read Online Free PDF Page B

the base of the famous tourist destination. Its concrete and metal stairway rose above them, nestled in the brown hills, green grass, moss, and trees of Telegraph Hill.
    As Jack jumped out, he fervently wished he had access to the gun collection back at the boat where he lived. What he wouldn’t have done for his Colt Combat Commander .45 or SIG-Sauer .380 right now. As if reading his mind, Sol reached across the seat and tapped the glove compartment release. Inside were two narrow, polished pine-wood boxes. Sol opened one and removed a SIG-Sauer Mosquito automatic with a custom suppressor. He nodded toward the other box. Jack grabbed it. Inside was a suppressed Ruger MK II, its silencer already installed in the barrel.
    â€œRight tool for the right job,” Sol grunted.
    The mobster hurried from the car. He was loving this. The return of youthful pursuits bolstered by the wisdom of experience—what wasn’t there to love? The two hurried up the steps, going as fast as their legs would allow.
    â€œThese are twenty-two caliber,” Sol wheezed. “We gotta get close.”
    â€œThese are probably ex-military boys,” Jack said. “They may not act like the soldiers in your world—”
    â€œTeam players,” he said. “Lone wolfs trump ’em every time.”
    The men saved their breath as they ran up the Filbert Steps. They pushed hard, and not just for Sammy: there was no way either of them wouldn’t keep pace with the other. They passed the art deco classic Malloch Building then surged up the final, moss-covered, stone stairs leading to Montgomery Street, Coit Tower glowing above them.
    The sight of Sammy’s apartment house galvanized them. Jack motioned Sol to slow and, guns hidden against their sides, they shuffled to the building’s front door as if they were occupants. They studiously ignored the SUV still parked at the curb. Sol quickly ran his fingertips over the door’s lock, then raised his eyebrows at the skill of their quarry’s entry. Any casual onlooker wouldn’t know that the front door of the building had been jimmied. Jack saw Sol’s right hand tighten almost imperceptibly on his gun. Jack didn’t use the key Sammy had given him when he was in rehab. He just went in the front door with Sol close behind.
    They made it to the second floor without trouble and stepped into the empty hallway. The bulb was out, the doorways dark. They listened. The door to Sammy’s apartment was opened a sliver; probably jimmied as well. There were hushed voices inside. Male voices.
    Sol kept a lookout while Jack tapped his cell phone’s keyboard, sending Sammy a text: Open door. Seconds later the door across from them eased open. Jack and Sol pushed quickly inside, closing the door behind them as swiftly and quietly as possible.
    â€œThanks to God!” Anastasia blurted in relief.
    Jack snapped a forefinger to his lips. Sammy went one better: he clapped a hand over the escort’s mouth. He looked at Sol curiously.
    Introductions could wait. Jack had to get them out of the building and now there was only one way out. He motioned them all toward the window. He would go first, covering their exit, then Sammy, who’d catch Anastasia, with Sol covering the retreat. It was sloppy and risky, but there was no other option.
    Jack never got the chance to see if the plan would work. They heard footsteps at the door. The men must have heard Anastasia’s cry, her Russian accent, and were coming to investigate. Sol slipped to the left side of the doorjamb. Jack gave Sammy the Ruger and crouched at the door, ready to tackle whoever came in first. Sammy stood straight, framed in the window, the Ruger straight out in front of his face. Its sights aligned with his right eye. Every Marine must be able to deliver accurate fire on targets of up to five hundred meters, so whatever he fired at in that small space, he hit. Jack hoped he would be targeting