The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Read Online Free PDF

nervously aiming the old Webley, which he had retrieved from the floor.
    "You're liable to hurt someone with that," Quatermain said.
    "I—I just wanted to help—"
    "Allan!" Bruce the bartender called out. "Heads up, man!"
    Quatermain whirled and barely dodged a swarm of sharp silver throwing knives.
With a staccato patter, the blades thunked like arrows up the face of a wooden
pillar in the middle of the gathering room. The last few knives stapled
Quatermain's collar to the mahogany.
    The man who had been grazed by the elderly hunters  shotgun blast looked
badly wounded, his right shirt sleeve soaked with blood. But he was still
coming, and  he could throw with his uninjured arm.
    Quatermain grimaced. "Just my luck the bastard's left handed."
    Bending awkwardly, he tried to pull the knives loose, but the thick material
of his sweat-damp shirt would not tear free. He succeeded only in slicing his
callused hand. Seeing his victim pinned like a moth to a specimen board, the
wounded assassin brandished a big gutting knife. He smiled as he stabbed at
Quatermain's head.
    Though he had limited mobility, the old adventurer thrashed and evaded the
wicked strikes. So the assassin gripped the big knife and tried for his victims
gut, using an underarm swing.
    Amazed at his own resilience after being so long out of practice, Quatermain
squirmed his hips and hauled his body up out of the way, just as the assassin's
blade stuck
into the wood, driven by all his force.
    Coming down from his agile move, Quatermain whacked the man on the head. The
assassin grunted, and his own weight finally succeeded in pulling the wedged
blade free—just in time for him to fall onto the point of his own gutting
knife.
    Then, covered with cream and jam like a monster from a mad bakers nightmare,
the last assassin broke from beneath the tea trolley, where he had lain stunned.
He lunged forward, frothing frosting, and picked up his own gun.
    Quatermain spun, now that he was free of the knives. With a roar, he hefted a
table as a shield, scattering checkers. He charged the pastry-clotted killer at
full hitting the man hard and driving him back toward the trophy-covered
wall.
    The blow spiked the assassin on a curved rhino horn mounted for show over the
fireplace. The man's eyes bulged and he coughed powdered sugar, then oozed a
bright red that was definitely not raspberry jam.
    The impact knocked loose a large British flag hanging overhead; it floated
down, smartly shrouding the assassin in his final death throes.
    "Rule Britannia," Quatermain said, standing back and lifting his chin in
satisfaction. He wiped perspiration off his forehead, catching his breath.
    Reed shook his head, amazed by what he had just seen. "Well, Mr. Quatermain,
I believe that only verifies—"
    Impatient and still angry, the adventurer looked around. "Wait. Wasn't there
one more of these buggers? I don't think I lost count—"
    The black valet gestured at the door, calling out in high-pitched alarm,
"Mister Quatermain!"
    He looked to see the last killer running for his life. He'd been wounded in
the scuffle, but that hadn't slowed him in the least. The assassin had already
left the Club grounds and sprinted some distance down the dirt street toward the
milling villagers, vegetable stands, shacks, and rickety cattle corrals.
    "Bloody jackrabbit," Quatermain said, and turned to the bartender. "Bruce,
it's time for Matilda."
    The barman reverently pulled an elephant gun from behind the bar. "Matilda,
sir." He tossed the long weapon to Quatermain, who caught it in mid-stride on
his way to the Club doorway.
    Quatermain glanced down at a small leather case that he thought one of the
four assassins had been carrying when they'd entered the room. He frowned,
wondering why the killers would have tucked it under a small table by the
bar—but he turned his attention to the immediate problem at hand. The last of
the four assassins was getting away.
    Eyes