Read Online Calypso Directive by Brian Andrews - Free Book Online Page B

and began to walk away. He hoped that logging off would be enough to conceal Julie’s identity, but when it came to anonymity and computers, he had his doubts.
    A hand came down on his left shoulder from behind, stopping his progress toward the exit.
    â€œThank God we found you. You’ve had us all very worried. You’re quite ill, Mr. Foster. Come with me sir, we need to get you back to the hospital . . . for treatment.”
    Using his best college German, Will feigned incomprehension. “Ich heiβe Hendrick Wrobel. Entschuldigen Sie mich, bitte.”
    â€œAch, sehe ich. Moment mal. Erzählen Sie mich dann, Herr Wrobel, von welchem Staat sind Sie,” the man in the gray trench coat replied.
    Will turned. So much for that idea, he thought. “Fuck off, I’m not going anywhere with you.”
    The smirk on the German man’s face transformed into a scowl. His sinewy fingers tightened, crumpling Will’s barn jacket inside his clenched fist.
    Will’s thighs began to tremble.
    â€œMr. Foster, please don’t make this difficult, after all, you’re not well and we wouldn’t want to have to call an ambulance for you,” said the man, giving Will a shake.
    Will looked down and checked the other man’s stance. A voice inside his head reminded him that there’s no such thing as fighting dirty when you’re fighting for your life. He steeled himself and then drove his knee squarely into the other man’s groin. The bounty hunter’s eyes bulged, and he barked a hoarse, unintelligible expletive. Then, like a condemned building collapsing after the crash of the wrecking ball, Raimond Zurn fell to his knees.
    Will stepped out onto the street, trying to breathe. Trying to think. He turned left instinctively, back toward the direction of Wenceslas Square, and he ran. He kept his eyes forward, scanning faces in the crowd. It was unlikely the man in the gray trench coat was working alone. He tried to resist the urge to check for a trail, but fear overpowered. He looked over his shoulder and traded glances with a hulk of a man in a black motorcycle jacket moving toward the entrance of the cybercafé.
    Commotion erupted behind him, as the brute in the motorcycle jacket launched into pursuit. Will kicked up his speed into a full sprint. The street was a sea of pedestrians, forcing him to dodge and swivel as he ran, impeding his forward progress. He glanced over his shoulder; his lead was dwindling. He was not surprised. Foster men were like draft horses, built for power, not for speed. It was inevitable. He would have to turn and fight.
    As he entered Wenceslas Square, he heard heavy, pounding footsteps behind him. Allowing himself to be tackled would be a disastrous mistake. It was time to make the switch from defense to offense. He took two braking strides, spun one hundred and eighty degrees, and assumed a wrestler’s ready pose—knees bent, feet wide, arms up and poised for grappling.
    The look of surprise on his pursuer’s face affirmed his tactical instincts. Instead of making the take down, his foe was forced to dodge right, narrowly skirting Will’s grasp. Unlike the guy he had faced in the Internet café, this assailant was a monster. With a tree trunk neck, shaved head, and massive shoulders, he looked like a cage warrior from the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Will frowned as the other man slowed his forward momentum by running a tight arc around him and then, with surprising agility, whirled to face him.
    Udo Zurn looked into the American’s eyes and saw exactly what he wanted. Fear. He did not need a weapon to win this fight. He could pound the American into a useless, bloody pulp and toss him into a garbage dumpster without breaking a sweat. Unfortunately, his brother Raimond had been firm and explicit—their employer’s orders were to deliver the American alive and unharmed. Where was the sport in that? He grimaced in