The Meridians Read Online Free PDF Page A

hustled through the city on a daily basis, trying to do nothing more vicious than claw their way up on some anonymous corporate ladder.
    Only the man's eyes were arresting. Like the rest of him, they were gray. But they were not the slate gray of a human's eyes. Rather, they were the soulless gray eyes of a predator; of a man who has exchanged his services of death for cash so many times that he was no longer, in fact, a man, but just one more animal in the jungle. A rogue beast that no longer hunted to survive, but hunted for the simple fact that hunting was the only way he had left to feel.
    They were the eyes of a madman. But not a schizoid personality. No, these were the dead eyes of a man who is methodical in his madness; for whom carelessness serves no purpose and so is never indulged in. The worst kind of madman.
    "Swampy says -"
    That was all the contract killer got out before Scott moved. Before Scott turned. Before Scott aimed and fired.
    The surprise registered on the man's face for only an instant as the bullet Scott had fired ricocheted off a nearby wall, sending a hail of concrete chips into the man's face, momentarily blinding him. But the man was a professional, and even though he was blind, he already had his own gun out, and fired it almost the same instant that Scott did.
    Scott felt something tug at his stomach. He felt something like a cold breath of air in his center, and knew that he had been shot. He felt himself pitch backward with the force of the shot, and that was what saved his life as the killer before him racked off a second shot, a shot that whizzed millimeters over Scott's head - so close that it cut a furrow through his close-cut hair - and that would have surely taken his head off if Scott hadn't just fallen back with the force of the first hit.
    He put one hand to his stomach and felt something slippery. Blood, yes, but also something more. It felt like his guts were trying their best to go from inside him to outside.
    He didn't care. He racked off a second shot of his own, and saw the killer's dead eyes come to life as pain ripped through the man's shoulder - a shoulder that had suddenly turned into a mass of meat and bone with the force of Scott's bullet.
    There was a clatter as the killer's gun hit the pavement, falling from now-nerveless fingers.
    Scott brought his gun up to shoot again, to finish the job, to kill the bastard that had killed his family, but his vision suddenly doubled, then tripled, then went black.
    It was only a moment, a split-second. But it was long enough that when he could see again, the killer was a good twenty paces away, running as fast as he could down the alley.
    Scott tried to stand, but felt the gushing wetness at his center again, and faltered.
    No, dammit .
    He shoved his fist into his stomach, the small remaining part of his brain that was acting rationally shocked that his wound was so big that he could actually put his fist into his innards. But it was enough to slow the blood flow, at least, and keep his intestines from spilling out of him.
    Then he put a foot below him and painfully shoved himself into a standing position. More wetness came forth, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything except hunting - and killing - the man who had killed his family.
    Scott lurched down the alley, bouncing off a wall before he managed to get his feet properly underneath him and start doing something that approximated running. Luckily his quarry didn't seem to be moving much faster or having much more luck running a straight line: blood stains marked the walls on either side of the alley every few feet, and Scott could hear the hitman bouncing off things only a few feet ahead.
    The sound gave him an extra burst of strength, and he continued after the predator who had suddenly become prey. He saw a flash of gray up ahead, then heard another gunshot and a crashing noise. Apparently the hitman had a spare firearm, and it sounded like he had used it to shoot