Assassin Read Online Free Page B

there was a tiny island, just a few yards wide, poking up out of the sound, about a thousand yards from the shore. Carver, however, had no intention of landing on it. He would be far too visible, even if he could hit it and stop himself before his momentum carried him right over the far edge. His aim had always been to touch down in its lee, out of sight of the Secret Service personnel guarding the Roberts estate. And that meant landing in the water.
    Even for a regular parachutist, that is a tricky enough procedure. The key issue is to know exactly when to detach the parachute canopy. Do it too soon, while still too far above the water, and you’ll hit the surface too fast and just keep going down unstoppably into the depths. Plenty of special forces men have perished that way, dragged to their deaths by the speed of impact and the excess weight of their gear.
    Anyone who waits too long, however, risks becoming tangled in lines and canopy fabric. Unable to swim, they will then drown like a dolphin trapped in a tuna-net. The Goldilocks knack is to release the canopy not too high and not too low, but just right: ‘When you feel the water on the tips of your toes,’ as one of Carver’s instructors had told him.
    He might also have added, had he known what his pupil would one day attempt: ‘And for Christ’s sake don’t wear a wing-suit.’
    It’s hard enough to swim when your arms are prevented from moving more than 45 degrees from your body because you’re dressed like a man-sized bat. When your legs are hobbled by a triangle of tough, unyielding material it’s absolutely impossible. So long before Carver got rid of his parachute, he had to deal with his wings.
    A thousand feet above the water, he pulled on the cutaway handles that released his arm wings. He felt the ripping sensation of opening Velcro, raised his arms, yanked them outwards and exhaled with relief as the two black triangles fluttered like flags on the wind before disappearing into the night.
    His leg wing had no instant cutaway system. It had to be released by its zip. Carver raised his knees towards his chest, felt for the zip handle and tugged. Nothing happened. He tugged again. Still no response. The zip was jammed.
    Carver was twenty seconds, maximum, away from impact. He forced himself not to panic, but to think clearly and act calmly. All was not lost. Attached to his suit he had a lightweight combat-utility knife with a titanium handle and a steel blade, hardened with tungsten and carbon-diamond. It could cut through the toughest fabric as easily as it could cut through a man. Carver had counted on being able to do both.
    He grabbed the blade, reached down and started slashing desperately at the tough black material between his legs. The bottom end of the wing was reinforced with a panel of extra-stiff fabric, designed to increase stability and rigidity during flight.
    The water was rushing towards him. The knife was sawing back and forth across the panel. Carver cut through the final strands just in time. His legs were free, even if there were now two strips of fabric flapping round them like a pair of seventies disco flares. But then he realized something else. He had to release the parachute, which he could not do with a knife in his right hand. Nor could he risk hitting the water holding a deadly blade.
    With a muttered, ‘Shit!’ Carver threw the knife as far away from himself as he could. He had lost one of his most valuable weapons. But there was no time to waste worrying about that. He pulled at the release-cord and freed himself from his canopy.
    An instant later, he hit the water. And he kept going down.
    For a second or two his momentum seemed un-diminished, but then his descent slowed, he kicked out with his legs, pulled at the water above him with his hands and slowly, oh so slowly, he felt himself rise up towards the surface.
    At last he broke through and felt the glorious rebirth of that first desperate breath of fresh air. He