1635 The Papal Stakes Read Online Free Page B

you! Tom, do you know this suino ? Do you hear what he said about your sick mother?”
    Tom looked up from under ominous brows at the same moment the newcomer turned around, stunned; evidently, it had taken him a second to realize that the outburst behind was both aimed at, and about, him.
    Arco’s outburst flowed on like an alpine cataract. “He calls your mother a—a puttana del diavolo! Merda! I will—”
    The other patrons looked up, aghast. The fellow’s mouth leaked food forgotten in mid-chew and his eyes widened: partly in surprise, partly in fear.
    Because Tom was up and moving. With reflexes so fast that they were incongruous in so large a man, he had jumped out of his seat and closed to combat range even as the startled faux -patron was rising from his chair. A denial was half out of his mouth, but his lowering brow suggested a dawning realization that he was being suckered.
    Or rather, sucker-punched. Tom’s right fist came shooting straight out from his shoulder, landing with a sharp crack on his target’s somewhat pointy jaw. The much smaller man went straight back, unconscious as he hit the table, sending his own bowl of soup and beer flying up in a cascade of chunks, dark red broth, and foam. “Bastard!” shouted Tom, who, feigning sudden emotional distress, moved quickly for the door, his apparently solicitous companions rising to follow and comfort him.
    As he reached the door, Tom snaked the Hockenjoss & Klott revolver out from under his cloak, cocked it, and nodded Melissa toward the door.
    “Tom?” Rita whispered, not noticing that the dark red broth had splashed along the left-hand side of Tom’s cloak.
    “Yes?”
    “You’re a lousy actor, darling.”
    “I know,” Tom said as he nodded at Melissa Mailey to yank open the door. “Now, here we go.”

CHAPTER THREE
    Tom Simpson leaped out into the cool alpine air, the cap-and-ball revolver ready in a two-handed grip. As he drew a bead on his first target, he saw exactly what he had expected to see.
    Four armed men—medium-to-large in height and build—were positioned around the entry to the crotto . Because they were in a public street, they were not in combat-ready postures or positions. Neither were their weapons; the tools of their grim trade were concealed in their cloaks, or by their bodies. And while Tom wasn’t a great shot, at these ranges—six to twelve feet—he didn’t need to be.
    Tom started firing, double-tapping as he went. His first target was not the closest of the thugs, but definitely the most dangerous, already raising a double-barreled flintlock fowling piece that had a menacingly short profile. Tom’s first shot missed completely but the second .44 caliber bullet punched a red hole in the man’s chest. He went down without a sound.
    Sidestepping to clear the doorway, the American shifted his aim to the big swordsman who was even now rushing forward, blade rasping out of its sheath and reflecting the failing sunlight. He fired two more shots from the H&K revolver, both of which went higher than he’d aimed. That was the adrenaline at work, making his motions jerkier than he’d intended them to be. Tom understood the reaction and had tried to be ready for it. But “being ready” simply wasn’t a substitute for the constant training that special forces and assault troops underwent. He was an artillery officer, not accustomed to fighting at close range with a pistol.
    Luckily, the “miss” didn’t matter. The first shot struck the thug high on his forehead. The ball gashed open the flesh and ricocheted off the skull, throwing the man’s head back—and leaving his trachea exposed to take the second ball full on. He fell backward, out of the fight and mortally wounded.
    Tom had only two rounds left. He felt a moment’s sharp desire for an automatic pistol with a large clip—and an even sharper desire for a twelve-pounder loaded with canister.
    Doc, you better be out here when you’re supposed to be…
    Tom