The Bourne Identity Read Online Free PDF Page B

merely sending the doctor a message: Don't ever do this to me again. Not where my boat and my fish are concerned .
    Lamouche's schedule called for a return to Port Noir at sundown on the third day, the fish to be unloaded, the crew given until four the next morning to sleep, fornicate, get drunk, or, with luck, all three. As they came within sight of land, it happened.
    The nets were being doused and folded at midships by the netman and his first assistant. The unwelcomed crewman they cursed as "Jean-Pierre Sangsue" ("the Leech") scrubbed down the deck with a long-handled brush. The two remaining crew heaved buckets of sea water in front of the brush, more often than not drenching the Leech with truer aim than the deck. A bucketful was thrown too high, momentarily blinding Washburn's patient, causing him to lose his balance. The heavy brush with its metal-like bristles flew out of his hands, its head upended, the sharp bristles making contact with the kneeling netman's thigh.
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    "Merde alors!"
    "Desole," said the offender casually, shaking the water from his eyes.
    "The hell you say!" shouted the netman.
    "I said I was sorry," replied the man called Jean-Pierre. "Tell your friends to wet the deck, not me."
    "My friends don't make me the object, of their stupidity!"
    "They were the cause of mine just now."
    The netman grabbed the handle of the brush, got to his feet, and held it out like a bayonet. "You want to play, Leech?"
    "Come on, give it to me."
    "With pleasure, Leech. Here!" The netman shoved the brush forward, downward, the bristles scraping the patient's chest and stomach, penetrating the cloth of his shirt. Whether it was the contact with the scars that covered his previous wounds, or the frustration and anger resulting from three days of harassment, the man would never know. He only knew he had to respond. And his response was as alarming to him as anything he could imagine. He gripped the handle with his right hand, jamming it back into the netman's stomach pulling it forward at the instant of impact; simultaneously, he shot his left foot high off the deck, ramming it into the man's throat.
    "Tao!" The guttural whisper came from his lips involuntarily; he did not know what it meant. Before he could understand, he had pivoted, his right foot now surging forward like a battering ram, crashing into the netman's left kidney.
    "Che-sah!" he whispered.
    The netman recoiled, then lunged toward him in pain and fury, his hands outstretched like claws. "Pig!"
    The patient crouched, shooting his right hand up to grip the netman's left forearm, yanking it downward, then rising, pushing his victim's arm up, twisting it at its highest arc clockwise, yanking again, finally releasing it while jamming his heel into the small of the netman's back. The Frenchman sprawled forward over the nets, his head smashing into the wall of the gunnel.
    "Mee-sah!" Again he did not know the meaning of his silent cry. A crewman grabbed his neck from the rear. The patient crashed his left fist into the pelvic area behind him, then bent forward, gripping the elbow to the right of his throat. He lurched to his left; his assailant was lifted off the ground, his legs spiraling in the air as he was thrown across the deck, his face and neck impaled between the wheels of a winch.
    The two remaining men were on him, fists and knees pummeling him, as the captain of the fishing boat repeatedly screamed his warnings.
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    "Le docteur! Rappelons le docteur! Va doucement!"
    The words were as misplaced as the captain's appraisal of what he saw. The patient gripped the wrist of one man, bending it downward, twisting it counterclockwise in one violent movement; the man roared in agony. The wrist was broken.
    Washburn's patient viced the fingers of his hands together, swinging his arms upward like a