The Venetian Judgment Read Online Free
Author: David Stone
canal, its stern digging in and white wings now curling from its prow. They made no other radio call, which meant there was probably no backup man out there.
Time to move.
He ran lightly, keeping close to the shadows by the walls, until he was almost at the bridge. The launch was nearly there as well. He could hear the men talking, cheerful, an after-action tone in their voices: Of course Zorin had killed the Krokodil . . . Zorin was the Bull of Srebrenica . . . Zorin was the man. Dalton bent down, keeping himself below the edge of the stone railing that ran along the side of the bridge. Now the launch was directly under him, passing slowly through the narrow opening, filling the tunnel with the mutter of its engine and the smoke of its exhaust, gliding carefully along. Dalton waited, in a low crouch, timing his move, trying to catch his breath without making a sound, his pulse pounding in his throat.
He slipped across to the other side, stood poised at the railing, watching the prow of the launch as it began to emerge from the tunnel.
The bow was fully out, then the curve of the windshield, then the faint red glow of the instrument panel, the silhouette of the driver at the wheel on the right, another silhouette standing beside him, peering over the windshield as the canal opened up, and a third silhouette in the stern, crouching as the bridge loomed over him, straightening now as the launch came clear.
Dalton reached down from the railing, caught the last man by the collar of his coat and plucked him off the deck. There was a strangled grunt from the man as he felt himself jerked upward.
Dalton sliced the man’s throat wide open, feeling the edge grate along the vertebrae as he jerked the blade through gristle and tendon. A black spout of blood shot out onto the backs of the two men in the front seat. The man in the passenger seat had already turned. Dalton let his dead man drop into the canal. The man who turned around had his pistol aimed. There was a bright blue flash and a deafening blast, and Dalton felt a slug pluck at his cheek.
He brought the Ruger up and put two rounds into the pale oval of the man’s face, pushing him backward onto the windshield. The driver hit the accelerator and the props roared up.
Dalton saw the driver’s silhouette backlit by the red glow of the dash. His lungs heaving, he steadied the Ruger. Even with the luminous tritium dots, the sight picture was jumping around like a compass needle, the roar of the engine echoing off the buildings lining the canal. The launch was twenty yards away when Dalton fired off two careful shots.
The launch swerved to the right, scraping along the pier. Dalton put out three more rounds, heard a cry of pain. The driver reached out to clutch at the pier, missed, and tumbled into the canal, taking with him the safety switch that was tethered to his wrist.
The engine cut off in a second, and then there was nothing but the slow surging of the boat wake against the walls of the canal, the graveyard reek of churned-up water, and Dalton’s ragged breath rasping in his throat.
THE GATES of the San Maurizio chapel stood open, and a soft amber light was pouring out through the open doors, pooling on the snow-covered steps that led up to the entrance. Dalton climbed the stairs slowly, blood running freely down his thigh from the knife wound that had opened up the flesh over his ribs. The left side of his face was swollen and numb from the glancing strike of whatever it was the man had fired at him.
He thought perhaps his cheekbone was broken, and he was having a hard time keeping his left eye open. The collar of his turtleneck was warm and sodden with the blood that flowed from the gash. His left forearm had four even rows of flesh deeply shredded by Zorin’s nails.
God only knows what standards of personal hygiene Zorin maintained. If Dalton didn’t get killed tonight, which now seemed unlikely, he was going to need a tetanus
Time to move.
He ran lightly, keeping close to the shadows by the walls, until he was almost at the bridge. The launch was nearly there as well. He could hear the men talking, cheerful, an after-action tone in their voices: Of course Zorin had killed the Krokodil . . . Zorin was the Bull of Srebrenica . . . Zorin was the man. Dalton bent down, keeping himself below the edge of the stone railing that ran along the side of the bridge. Now the launch was directly under him, passing slowly through the narrow opening, filling the tunnel with the mutter of its engine and the smoke of its exhaust, gliding carefully along. Dalton waited, in a low crouch, timing his move, trying to catch his breath without making a sound, his pulse pounding in his throat.
He slipped across to the other side, stood poised at the railing, watching the prow of the launch as it began to emerge from the tunnel.
The bow was fully out, then the curve of the windshield, then the faint red glow of the instrument panel, the silhouette of the driver at the wheel on the right, another silhouette standing beside him, peering over the windshield as the canal opened up, and a third silhouette in the stern, crouching as the bridge loomed over him, straightening now as the launch came clear.
Dalton reached down from the railing, caught the last man by the collar of his coat and plucked him off the deck. There was a strangled grunt from the man as he felt himself jerked upward.
Dalton sliced the man’s throat wide open, feeling the edge grate along the vertebrae as he jerked the blade through gristle and tendon. A black spout of blood shot out onto the backs of the two men in the front seat. The man in the passenger seat had already turned. Dalton let his dead man drop into the canal. The man who turned around had his pistol aimed. There was a bright blue flash and a deafening blast, and Dalton felt a slug pluck at his cheek.
He brought the Ruger up and put two rounds into the pale oval of the man’s face, pushing him backward onto the windshield. The driver hit the accelerator and the props roared up.
Dalton saw the driver’s silhouette backlit by the red glow of the dash. His lungs heaving, he steadied the Ruger. Even with the luminous tritium dots, the sight picture was jumping around like a compass needle, the roar of the engine echoing off the buildings lining the canal. The launch was twenty yards away when Dalton fired off two careful shots.
The launch swerved to the right, scraping along the pier. Dalton put out three more rounds, heard a cry of pain. The driver reached out to clutch at the pier, missed, and tumbled into the canal, taking with him the safety switch that was tethered to his wrist.
The engine cut off in a second, and then there was nothing but the slow surging of the boat wake against the walls of the canal, the graveyard reek of churned-up water, and Dalton’s ragged breath rasping in his throat.
THE GATES of the San Maurizio chapel stood open, and a soft amber light was pouring out through the open doors, pooling on the snow-covered steps that led up to the entrance. Dalton climbed the stairs slowly, blood running freely down his thigh from the knife wound that had opened up the flesh over his ribs. The left side of his face was swollen and numb from the glancing strike of whatever it was the man had fired at him.
He thought perhaps his cheekbone was broken, and he was having a hard time keeping his left eye open. The collar of his turtleneck was warm and sodden with the blood that flowed from the gash. His left forearm had four even rows of flesh deeply shredded by Zorin’s nails.
God only knows what standards of personal hygiene Zorin maintained. If Dalton didn’t get killed tonight, which now seemed unlikely, he was going to need a tetanus
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