Tom Clancy Under Fire Read Online Free PDF Page B

was covered by a balaclava.
Quiet bastard,
Jack thought. Was he dealing with one of Matt Spellman and Raymond Wellesley’s men? If not, this was a hell of a coincidence.
    The man held a semi-auto affixed with a noise suppressor the size of a soda can. With a suppressor of that size, a shot would be softer than a paperback book being slammed on the floor. Jack’s heart started to pound.
    “Hands up,” the man said.
    Jack raised his hands.
    The bag of carrots he’d had pressed to his thigh hit the floor.
    The man asked, “Did you kill him, that one out there?”
    “Not quite.”
    “Bloodied him up a bit, though.”
    “Him or me. Friend of yours?”
    “Shut up. I ask, you answer.”
    If these two men were partners, this one was giving nothing away.
    “You got his gun, yeah?” the man said. “Face away from me and pull it out—two fingers on the barrel, nice and slow, put it on the floor.”
    Jack turned away from the man and, as he pulled out the nine-millimeter, sucked in his gut, then hunched forward slightly, edging the wallet down the front of his pants. He knelt down, repeating the undulation motion, then, hoping the wallet was out of view, laid the gun on the floor.
    “Turn around and kick it over to me,” said Balaclava.
    Jack did so. The nine-millimeter spun across the hardwood floor and bounced to a stop at the man’s feet. His own gun never wavering, Balaclava knelt down, picked up the gun, and stuffed it into his waistband.
    Jack thought,
I’m still alive
. That was both very good news and very bad news. Something told Jack this new player wasn’t the kind of man you wanted to spend any alone time with.
    “Listen,” Jack said, “I walked in here and that guy attacked me. That’s all I know. Let me go and—”
    The man chuckled. “Not happening, pal. Walk toward me. Careful or I’ll put one in your knee, got me?”
    “Got you.”
    Hands raised, Jack walked down the hall. The man maintained his distance, backstepping until he and Jack were in the main room.
    “Stop there.”
    The man stepped to the door and flipped off the overhead light. The room went dark, save what little light filtered out from the kitchenette.
    “On your knees, ankles crossed.”
    Jack hesitated, considering his options. There was almost no chance he could close the gap. The man could put three rounds into Jack before he took two steps.
    “Best not to think about it too much,” the man said. “Do what I say and maybe we’ll get to be friends.”
    Jack knelt down.
    The man walked to the unconscious figure on the floor, knelt down, and pressed his fingers to the man’s throat.
    “Still alive?” Jack asked.
    “He is. Good luck for you.”
    “Maybe he’s got identification—”
    “Damn, man, shut your mouth. You’re not exactly a quick learner, are you?”
    Jack shrugged.
    “Turn around, face away from me.”
    Jack shook his head. “If you’re going to kill me—”
    “Nah, see, I’m more of a face-to-face guy. We’re going to have a nice private chat. How you come out the other end will depend on your answers. Turn around.”
    Jack’s heart was in his throat. He had no choice. He was going to turn around either of his own volition or because he had a bullet in his knee.
Shit, is this where it ends?
he thought. Again he quashed the impulse to charge the man. Jack guessed this man’s idea of a chat was going to involve a lot of pain and blood, but it might also buy him some time. Either way, at the end of whatever was coming, Jack was going to end up dead.
Play for time, then.
    The man groaned, rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, man—”
    He fired a round into the floor before Jack’s knees. Wood chips peppered his thighs. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Son of a bitch.
    “—you’re testing my patience. Turn around. Last warning.”
    Jack maneuvered himself so he was facing the windows.
    Footsteps clicked on the wooden floor behind him.
    He felt something slam into the back of his head. Then nothing.

J ACK