The Great Game Read Online Free Page A
poisons.
  The things the mind conjures⦠He'd often argued with her about it, to no avail.
  Smith disliked guns. They were loud, and showy, the weapon of bullies and show-offs. A gun had swagger behind it, but little thought. Smith preferred the intimacy of killing, the touch of flesh on flesh, the hissed intake of breath that was a mark's last. He liked neatness, in all things.
  Then everything happened very quickly and almost at once.
  The windows broke inwards â a loud explosive sound â shards of glass flying through the air, showering the floor and furniture.
  Something heavy slammed into the front door, and the back one, sending both crashing to the ground, as dark figures came streaming through, and Smith found himself grinning. A single candle had been left burning on the bedside table and now it died with a gust of cold wind, and the house was dark.
  Five pouring in from the front. Five more from the back. And there'd be others outside by now, forming a ring around the house. They wanted him badly. He was almost flattered. And they wanted him alive â which was an advantage.
  He killed the first one with a knife thrust, holding the body gently as it dropped down to the floor. Black-clad, armed â he took the man's gun out of its holster, admiring its lightness, and fired once, twice, three times and watched two of them fall, one rolling away. When they fired back, destroying the bedroom, he was no longer there.
  He worried about his library but there was nothing he could do. He came on two more of them there and killed the first one by breaking his neck, twisting it with a gentle nostalgia, then dropped the corpse to the floor, and the second one turned, and with the same motion Smith flipped the knife and sent it flying.
  He went to retrieve it, pulling it out of the man's chest. The man wasn't quite dead yet. His lips were moving. " Zu sein ," the man said, the softest breath of air. To be . Smith strained to hear more but there was nothing left in the man, no words or air.
  Smith straightened. He couldn't take them all. He was against the wall when he heard a barked question â " In der Bibliothek?"
  Two more bullets, a man dropped at the open door. Shouts behind now, no more pretence at secrecy or stealth. Smith said, " Warten sie !"
  Wait.
  "Mr Smith."
  The voice came from beyond the door, a voice in shadows.
  " Ja ."
  "You come with us, now, Mr Smith. No more play."
  The voice spoke good English, but accented. It was young, like the others. A fully trained extraction team, but too young, and they did things differently these days.
  "Don't shoot," Smith said.
  The voice chuckled. "You are late for an appointment," it said, "arranged a long time ago."
  Smith smiled. "Take them," he said, loudly.
  There was the sudden sound of gunfire outside. Heavy gunfire. Smith ran, jumped â dived out of the broken window. The whistle of something flying through the air, entering the room he had just vacated. He rolled and covered his head and there was a booming thunder and he felt fragments of wood and stone hit his back and his legs and the night became bright, momentarily.
  When it was over he raised his head, lookedâ
  The old lady from M.'s, the lace and china shop, was standing with her hair on edge, a manic grin spread across her face. She was holding the controls of a giant, mounted Gatling gun, a small steam engine belching beside it. "Take one for the Kaiser!" she screamed, and a torrent of bullets exploded out of the machine like angry bees, tracer bullets lighting up the night sky, as M. screamed soundlessly and fired, mowing the black-clothed attackers as though they were unruly grass.
  Spies, Smith thought, trying to make himself as small as possible. They'll take any excuse to let their
  The things the mind conjures⦠He'd often argued with her about it, to no avail.
  Smith disliked guns. They were loud, and showy, the weapon of bullies and show-offs. A gun had swagger behind it, but little thought. Smith preferred the intimacy of killing, the touch of flesh on flesh, the hissed intake of breath that was a mark's last. He liked neatness, in all things.
  Then everything happened very quickly and almost at once.
  The windows broke inwards â a loud explosive sound â shards of glass flying through the air, showering the floor and furniture.
  Something heavy slammed into the front door, and the back one, sending both crashing to the ground, as dark figures came streaming through, and Smith found himself grinning. A single candle had been left burning on the bedside table and now it died with a gust of cold wind, and the house was dark.
  Five pouring in from the front. Five more from the back. And there'd be others outside by now, forming a ring around the house. They wanted him badly. He was almost flattered. And they wanted him alive â which was an advantage.
  He killed the first one with a knife thrust, holding the body gently as it dropped down to the floor. Black-clad, armed â he took the man's gun out of its holster, admiring its lightness, and fired once, twice, three times and watched two of them fall, one rolling away. When they fired back, destroying the bedroom, he was no longer there.
  He worried about his library but there was nothing he could do. He came on two more of them there and killed the first one by breaking his neck, twisting it with a gentle nostalgia, then dropped the corpse to the floor, and the second one turned, and with the same motion Smith flipped the knife and sent it flying.
  He went to retrieve it, pulling it out of the man's chest. The man wasn't quite dead yet. His lips were moving. " Zu sein ," the man said, the softest breath of air. To be . Smith strained to hear more but there was nothing left in the man, no words or air.
  Smith straightened. He couldn't take them all. He was against the wall when he heard a barked question â " In der Bibliothek?"
  Two more bullets, a man dropped at the open door. Shouts behind now, no more pretence at secrecy or stealth. Smith said, " Warten sie !"
  Wait.
  "Mr Smith."
  The voice came from beyond the door, a voice in shadows.
  " Ja ."
  "You come with us, now, Mr Smith. No more play."
  The voice spoke good English, but accented. It was young, like the others. A fully trained extraction team, but too young, and they did things differently these days.
  "Don't shoot," Smith said.
  The voice chuckled. "You are late for an appointment," it said, "arranged a long time ago."
  Smith smiled. "Take them," he said, loudly.
  There was the sudden sound of gunfire outside. Heavy gunfire. Smith ran, jumped â dived out of the broken window. The whistle of something flying through the air, entering the room he had just vacated. He rolled and covered his head and there was a booming thunder and he felt fragments of wood and stone hit his back and his legs and the night became bright, momentarily.
  When it was over he raised his head, lookedâ
  The old lady from M.'s, the lace and china shop, was standing with her hair on edge, a manic grin spread across her face. She was holding the controls of a giant, mounted Gatling gun, a small steam engine belching beside it. "Take one for the Kaiser!" she screamed, and a torrent of bullets exploded out of the machine like angry bees, tracer bullets lighting up the night sky, as M. screamed soundlessly and fired, mowing the black-clothed attackers as though they were unruly grass.
  Spies, Smith thought, trying to make himself as small as possible. They'll take any excuse to let their
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