Enemy Agents Read Online Free PDF

blood that soon became a torrent. Thorpe twisted the gun free and pistol-whipped the kid across the cheek, triggering another crunch as the cheekbone caved. This time he really would stay down.
    Thorpe stumbled his way outside, only now discovering that he was at a warehouse on the waterfront a mile from the port. There was only one obvious way to go from the open door: to follow the string of lights at led to the water. He jogged at a slower pace than he would have in his younger days, but even taking it easy on himself he was still out of breath.
    Morris was just untying the mooring ropes on the speedboat when Thorpe spotted him and fired four shots. Morris ducked at first, then as more shots came he dove into the frigid water. Thorpe would have liked to find him and finish him, but there was no time; the boat was more important.
    Letting Morris swim away, Thorpe jumped into the speedboat, already running in neutral, and threw the throttle forward. He was in the open water within seconds, and heading south.
    He had no doubt that Sidorov’s yacht would have filled up at this warehouse, and he knew they were heading southeast toward France. It only took a few minutes before the yacht came into view.
    He was close enough now to make out the yacht’s name , Democracy!, painted in blue script along the stern. There was a small platform on the back of the yacht, barely above the water. That platform might have been used for sunbathing or launching scuba divers, but now it would make an obvious place to board. Thorpe jammed the throttle until he rammed the larger craft, then ran along his speedboat and jumped. He hit the platform gracefully, staying on his feet.
    He kept his pistol cocked and raised as he worked his way along the deck. Much of the cabin was glass, with massive windows along almost every wall. But there was no sign of movement, inside or out. Working slowly and steadily along the massive boat, it took Thorpe a few minutes to reach the cockpit. He took a quick peek through a porthole and saw nothing inside. Taking a deep breath, he yanked the door open and stepped into the doorway, gun ready.
    It was empty. There was nobody driving the boat. Thorpe paused just long enough to throttle down the engines before he headed below deck.
    The lower level was the same as above. No drugs. No guns. No henchmen. No Sidorov. Anton Sidorov was the most notorious smuggler, murderer, kidnapper, and all-around villain in Europe. He had gone to such trouble to arrange this boat, this warehouse. Was there really nothing on it? Or was Thorpe too late? He hadn’t seen a helicopter in the air, but maybe…
    After a quick but not exhaustive search, Thorpe barged into the captain’s cabin. The bed was made. Towels were neatly folded, sitting on a dresser. There was almost no sign that the boat had ever been lived in. Except for the obvious one lying on the floor at the foot of the bed.
    The dead woman.
    Black hair, a blue dress, olive skin. She was lying in a crimson puddle that would soon turn brown.
    “Carmen,” sighed Thorpe. He could still smell her perfume on himself. As he knelt next to her, gently brushing the hair from her face, he realized his mistake. Behind her body, a flashbang grenade went off, blinding and deafening Thorpe.
    True to the nautical setting, he felt a fishing net drop on him, just before a group of men tackled him to the floor. By the time William Thorpe regained his senses, layers of rope wrapped the net around him, his ankles were tied, and his watch was gone. And as his eyes relearned how to focus, Thorpe saw his target enter the room.
    Anton Sidorov, tall and gaunt, with oiled-back hair and thin lips, smiled at Thorpe and puffed on a cigar.
    “Agent Triple-Eight of the British Secret Service.” Sidorov said. “Pleased to finally meet you face-to-face.”
    “The pleasure is all mine,” said Thorpe.
    “I do admire you,” the Russian spoke English, heavily accented. “I love the British. So many