The Night of the Mosquito Read Online Free PDF

rumble. Anderson swilled his cup clean under the tap, drying the outside and bottom surface only before placing it ready on the worktop. He turned to pick up the teaspoon he’d left on the drainer earlier and paused. Something’s wrong. The light outside grew brighter and flashed with brilliant intensity. Instantly, every shadow was scoured from the walls and ceilings. Plugs exploded. The burglar alarm signalled power failure, its stand-by battery beeping a warning. He smelled burning. The smoke alarm kicked in. The pulsing pitch pierced his ears. He covered them. Shit! I’m going to need an electrician.
    Unholstering his mobile, he took it from his hip. Looking at it, he frowned. The screen was blank. Turning it off and on made no difference. Lightning flashed. Thunder grumbled. My book! He dashed outside as it started to rain. The pages seemed to have changed from white to yellow. He blinked, convinced the brightness of the light he’d just witnessed had affected his vision – and then he noticed the mosquito had vanished. He snatched the book out from under the shelter provided by the magnifier, checking to see if the creature had definitely gone before closing it. Puzzled, he scanned the table top looking for the insect. His brow furrowed. Did I really kill it? If so, where is it now? Great splats of water – two, three, a dozen – machine-gunned him, chasing him inside.
     
    Clifton Bridge.
     
    The cellular, purpose-built Ford Transit was, in effect, a mobile prison. Once Wolfe was secured in the wheelchair within one of the two cells, Chisolm split eight of the guards between the escort cars.
    The vehicle cleared security and departed the exit gates. Confident he’d hear nothing from his prisoner for the duration of the journey, Chisolm stretched the length of the bench seat and closed his eyes.
     
    The driver saw the simultaneous failure register on the instrumentation panel a split second before a brilliant surge of light blinded him. Instinctively he hit the brakes. The servo system cut out. No longer power-assisted, the steering wheel pulled left. The driver’s arms heaving, he hauled right to compensate for the unexpected drift.
    Ahead, the lead vehicle screeched, braking hard. It collided with the back of a line of cars that had also stopped suddenly.
    Desperate not to crash, the driver half stood, his body weight pushing down on the brake pedal, his face a mask of terror.
    BANG. The bus slammed into the rear end of the escort.
    Behind, the second car skidded and struck the transport vehicle, adding momentum to its superior weight. Unstoppable, it crushed the car in front, jamming it further up the line and compressing it to half its normal size. Metal creaked and crumpled. Tyres exploded.
    Thrown from his seat, Chisolm leapt to his feet. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he shouted above the noise. ‘A hijack?’ Oblivious to the dazzling light outside, he anchored himself, feet planted square, hands clamped firm around two of the handcuff straps fitted to the wall. The van banked. Rose swiftly to forty-five degrees. Chisolm braced himself. The vehicle flipped, rising sharply on the driver’s side like it had hit a stunt ramp, smashed through a brick wall and left the road. Chisholm’s body twisted; his feet left the floor. Desperately gripping onto the straps, legs flailing, he was flung upward.
    BOOM. He realised they’d hit something – hard. The vehicle’s trajectory changed; it spun in the opposite direction. His weight, combined with forces greater than he could handle, snapped his arm. He screamed, eyes bulging in disbelief as bone, piercing skin, dug through his sleeve. Unable to hold on one-handed, Chisolm tumbled end over end, smashing into the van walls, ceiling and seats, cracking ribs, battering his head, hips and thighs. He cried out in agony, helpless as a shirt in a washing machine, trying to make sense of the feeling of weightlessness that followed. Airborne, he thought he’d