The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Read Online Free PDF Page A

see Quatermain coolly cocking his Webley, then
realized their mistake. "That's him!" They dove for cover, returning fire even
as the famous hunter shot again.
    The room became a hail of bullets that chewed the club's already-battered
paneling to pieces. Bottles shattered, and stuffed animals exploded. Quatermain
dashed over to take cover behind Nigel's sagging leather sofa, dragging Reed
with him. As he ran, ducked low, he took perfect shots at his attackers. His aim
was accurate from a lifetime of practice—but the bullets ricocheted off their
chests.
    "They're indestructible!" Reed stared in amazement from behind the sofa,
until Quatermain pulled him back down. The assassins returned fire, and bullets
tore through the upholstery, popping out coarse hemp stuffing near Reed's
ear.
    "No. Just armor-plated." Quatermain cautiously reached around the couch to
check Nigel's nonexistent pulse. "Remember what I was saying about losing
friends every time someone wants me to get involved in another adventure?" He
sighed with utter world-weariness. "Nigel was one of the last friends I
had."
    As the young bureaucrat huddled against the continuing gunfire, Quatermain
grabbed a handy wicker chair and heaved it over the back of the bullet-riddled
sofa. Using the chair as a distraction, he leaped up and over the couch.
    The three bulletproof assassins fired with new weapons now—fully automatic
machine rifles, far more modern than Quatermain's Webley revolver. After the
thrown wicker chair exploded into splinters and dust, the killers turned their
noisy, deadly weapons at the new target.
    Shocked to see the automatic machine rifles cause faster and more thorough
carnage than he had ever imagined, Quatermain realized he was caught in the
crossfire. He dove for cover so frantically that his trusted revolver went
skittering across the debris-strewn floor of the club. He ducked a stuffed lion
that was shot to pieces, then took cover next to an elderly hunter, who was
clumsily loading his shotgun.
    "What in God's name! Automatic rifles?" he said.
    "Dashed unsporting, if you ask me," said the elderly hunter. "They're
probably Belgian. Shouldn't be allowed in the Club." Indignant, the old man
stood up and fired his shotgun, winging one of the assassins. Quatermain was
glad to see that their armor protection did not extend to their arms as
well.
    A second assassin coolly shot the elderly hunter dead, using at least a dozen
more bullets than was necessary and expending the last rounds in his automatic
machine rifle.
    Furious, Quatermain snatched up the elderly mans fallen shotgun and blasted
with the second barrel. His shot sent the assassin diving for cover, then he
waded in, his anger endowing him with more confidence than the bulletproof
plating gave his attackers.
    Recovering from the shock, the downed assassin crawled across the floor,
clutching the flesh wound on his blood-soaked sleeve. The second killer
struggled to reload his empty automatic rifle. The third assassin wrenched a
thick paw from the ruined stuffed carcass of a lion; the taxidermist had
extended the lion's claws to make the trophy look more ferocious. Using the
stiff paw as a club, he slashed at Quatermain with the hooked claws.
    But the old adventurer was faster. He smashed the man with a liquor bottle he
grabbed from the bar, shattering it over his unprotected head. "Wicked waste of
good scotch."
    Finally finished reloading his machine rifle, the second assassin raised his
weapon to fire—but Quatermain crashed into him with a rattling tea trolley. He
sprawled with a yelp, and the famous adventurer lifted the cart and broke it
over the man's head. Cakes and china cups went flying in all directions.
    The distinctive click of a gun being cocked made Quatermain whirl, ready. His
heart pounded, his blood flowed, his muscles worked—just as they had in his
younger days. But instead of another enemy, he saw pallid Sanderson Reed