San Diego Siege Read Online Free PDF Page A

late."
    "Hate these fuckin' milk runs," the other complained.
    "Me too." The handsome one sighed, adding, "This will be the last for awhile." He turned off the radio. "Maybe they hit some bad weather." "Go ask the guy inside," Ramirez suggested. "Aw no. He'll be here."
    Two men wearing the white coveralls of the flying service rounded the corner of the terminal building and approached the vehicle. "Ask these grease monkeys." "What the tell do they know?" Fizzi growled. "He's been late before. Just cool it."
    The men in white were making a casual approach, laughing softly between themselves until reaching the LTD, then they split and came down opposite sides of the car.
    The one moving along the driver's side was about medium height, somewhat thickset, dark hair and skin, smile-wrinkles setting the expression of the face.
    The man at the other side was tall, broad-shouldered, athletically built — a bit younger than his companion — with chiseled features and eyes that dominated the entire appearance. "Ask 'em," the wheelman insisted. Fizzi growled a profanity and thrust his head outside just as the tall man drew abreast. "Hey, jock, what's the weather report for the mountains?" he asked in a snarly monotone.
    "Stormy," the big guy replied in a voice of sheerest ice. A silencer-tipped black auto appeared in his hand from seemingly nowhere, to graft itself to Fizzi's outthrust forehead.
    A gasp from the other side of the car signaled that the same unsettling event had occurred over there. The young triggerman very carefully relaxed his tightening muscles and his tone was entirely respectful as he said, "Okay, all right, okay. Let's cool it. What's the beef?"
    The tall man issued another quiet single-word response: "Outside."
    It was like a voice from some deepfreeze, not calculated to encourage inane argument.
    The guy backed off, just a little, the ominous tip of that black pistol unwaveringly remaining on target though, his free hand opening the door and swinging it wide.
    Fizzi slid carefully to the outside, keeping his hands in clear view. As though acting out a conditioned reflex, he then turned his back on the big guy, spread his feet, raised his hands, and fell forward against the roof of the car in a "frisk" stance.
    Somewhat the same scene was being enacted at the opposite side of the vehicle.
    Ramirez was growling, "Where's your warrant? I wanna see a warrant."
    "What're you guys — feds?" Fizzi wanted to know as the tall man relieved him of his weapon.
    That same icy voice replied, "Sort of."
    Before he quite realized that it was happening, Fizzi then found that his wrists were securely taped together at his back and the guy was applying a wide strip of adhesive to his mouth. An instant later he and Ramirez were curled into the trunk compartment and the guy was shoving something into his fist — something small and metallic with irregular edges.
    Then the trunk lid was closed and he was sharing the cramped darkness with Ramirez.
    He maneuvered the little metallic object into his palm and rubbed his fingers along the outline — and suddenly Fizzi knew what that object was.
    He also knew who the big bastard was.
    And he knew, with a flooding sense of relief, that he was one lucky goddam triggerman if he was really going to get off this easy.
    Not many guys ever met Mack Bolan and lived to brag about it.
    Yeah. Jack the Schoolteacher was one goddam lucky son of a bitch.
    But why? for God's sake
why
had the guy left him breathing?
    A sharp little red and white Cessna came in just ahead of the sunrise to execute a standard landing approach in the Montgomery Field traffic pattern. It touched down smoothly on the main runway, completed a short landing roll and crossed over to the service area, halting at the gas pumps just uprange from the waiting automobile.
    One Sammy Simonetti, the lone passenger, stepped outside, then leaned in for a final instruction to the pilot. "After you've gassed up, put her away. We won't be