In For the Kill Read Online Free PDF Page B

freedom. Almost.
    He fought to control his bowels as he shuffled forward. A heavy wind of fear blew him back. The Taurus revolver he had stolen from Aleksei was tucked into the small of his back. His body heat, such as it was, could not warm it. The metal against his clammy skin made him shudder. He’d been forced to tighten his belt to hold the hateful thing in place, he was so skeletally thin. Food sickened him.
    The man caught sight of him and half rose from the table. “Lei è Alexsandr Cherchenko?”
    Sasha coughed but could not get the words out. He nodded.
    Mongelli was a sharp Italian guy, well groomed. His deep, even tan was set off by discreet glints of man jewelry. He looked politely repelled, as well he might. Sasha knew he looked like a walking corpse.
    The barista came out, bearing a tray. A cappuccino, a cornetto. He glanced at Sasha. “Qualcosa per lei?” he asked, almost fearfully.
    â€œNiente.” Nothing. Sasha mouthed the word but couldn’t voice it.
    The barista fled. Mongelli sank back down to his chair, indicating the chair opposite, but Sasha hesitated, not sure if he could tolerate such close proximity to Mongelli’s rich, buttery cornetto without disgracing himself. Nausea churned inside him.
    â€œSta bene?” Mongelli asked. Are you well?
    Sasha suppressed a cackle of hysterical laughter and nodded.
    The man’s eyes dropped to the envelope he clutched to his chest. “That’s the photographic evidence?”
    â€œSí,” Sasha forced out. He tried to say more, coughed, sighed out the tension, concentrated. Nothing coming out. Fuck. He pulled out the pen and pad he kept in his pocket and scribbled the words down.

    Take the police to the location I wrote in the e-mail, immediately. The proof is there. I brought the pictures to demonstrate that it is worth your while to do so.

    He ripped the note off. Handed it to the journalist.
    Mongelli studied it. “Why not just go to the police directly yourself?” His eyes were beady and suspicious.
    Sasha closed his eyes, his jaw twitching, and put the pen to the pad again.

    I tried, before. People died. This must be made public, as fast and loud as possible. Do you understand the danger?

    Mongelli read the note and nodded, but Sasha could tell by his glittering eyes that he was thinking about career advancement, not danger. “You have photos of these thermonuclear generators?”
    Sasha shook his head and scribbled.

    I have photos of their shielded containers. The cylinders have been pulverized for easy bomb construction. Strontium-90. If I had opened the container to photograph the contents, I would have died very quickly.

    The man’s eyes slitted as he read. “And this deadly radioactive material has been hidden out behind Torre Sant’ Orsola for six years? And no one ever found it? It seems improbable.”
    Sasha nodded, wearily, and wrote.

    Indeed, that was the point.

    Then it happened, and so fast, but time warped in his head so that it seemed hideously slow. His body felt locked in tar as the silver Mercedes gunned its engine and jumped the curb, but he must have leaped backward. He glimpsed Aleksei at the wheel as the car barreled up onto the sidewalk.
    Mongelli could barely turn and gasp before it mowed him down, smashing into the glass-topped tables.
    From where Sasha lay on the street, he saw table and chair legs stuck out at crazy angles. Mongelli lay beneath them on his belly, the Mercedes’ front wheel crushing his back. Blood trickled from his mouth. His eyes were wide, accusing.
    There was the pop of a car door, but the pole holding up the awning had been knocked down, and a curtain of heavy canvas fabric had fallen over the vehicle, blocking the door.
    Someone screamed from inside the bar. Shrill, continuous. Aleksei cursed, kicking at the car door against the weight of the thick canvas awning, like a chick trying to hatch from a big striped egg.
    The