Read Online The Gemini Contenders by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Ludlum
Ads: Link
Get inside!”
The roadside guardhouse seemed even smaller than it appeared from the Via Canelli. The depth was no more than five feet, the length perhaps six. There was barely enough room for the four of them. And the look in the partisan’s eyes told Vittorio that the close quarters was an advantage.
“Search them,” ordered the sergeant.
The private placed his rifle on the floor, barrel up. The partisan driver then did a strange thing. He pulled his arms across his chest, protectively over his coat, as though it were a conscious act of defiance. Yet the man was not armed; he had made that clear to Fontini-Cristi.
“You’ll steal!” he said, louder than was necessary, his words vibrating in the wooden shack. “Soldiers steal!”
“We’re not concerned with your
lire, paisan
. There are more impressive vehicles on the highway. Take your hands from your coat.”
“Even in Rome reasons are given!
Il Duce
, himself, says the workers are not to be treated so! I march with the fascist guards; my rider served in Africa!”
What was the man doing?
thought Vittorio.
Why was he behaving so? It would only anger the soldiers
. “You try my patience, pig! We look for a man from Maggiore. Every road post looks for this man. You were stopped because the license on your truck is from the Maggiore district … Hold out your arms!”
“Baveno!
Not Maggiore! We are from
Baveno!
Where are the lies?”
The sergeant looked at Vittorio. “No soldier in Africa says he was with the Seventh Corps. It was disgraced.”
The army guard had barely finished when the partisan screamed his command.
“Now, signore!
Take the other!” The driver’s hand swept down, lashing at the revolver in the sergeant’s grip, only inches from his stomach. The suddenness of the action and the shattering roar of the partisan’s voice in the small enclosure had the effect of an unexpected collision. Vittorio had no time to watch; he could only hope his companion knew what he was doing. The private had lurched for his rifle, his left hand on the barrel, his right surging down to the stock. Fontini-Cristi threw his weight against the man, slamming him into the wall, both hands on the side of the soldier’s head, crashing the head into the hard, wooden surface. The private’s barracks cap fell off; blood matted instantly throughout the hairline and streaked down over the man’s head. He slumped to the floor.
Vittorio turned. The sergeant was wedged into the corner of the tiny guardhouse, the partisan over him, pistol-whipping him with his own weapon. The soldier’s face was a mass of torn flesh, the blood and ripped skin sickening.
“Quickly!”
cried the partisan as the sergeant fell. “Bring the truck to the front! Directly to the front; squeeze it between the road and the guardhouse. Keep the motor running.”
“Very well,” said Fontini-Cristi, confused by the brutality as well as the swift decisiveness of the last thirty seconds.
“And,
signore!”
shouted the partisan, as Vittorio had one foot out the door.
“Yes?”
“Your gun, please. Let me use it. These army issues are like thunder.”
Fontini-Cristi hesitated, then withdrew the weapon and handed it to the man. The partisan reached over to the crank-telephone on the wall and ripped it out.
Vittorio steered the truck to the front of the guardhouse, the left wheels by necessity on the hard surface of the highway; there was not sufficient room on the shoulder to pull completely off the road. He hoped the rear lights were sufficiently bright for the onrushing traffic—far heavier now—to see the obstruction and skirt it.
The partisan came out of the guardhouse and spoke through the window. “Race the motor,
signore
. As loud and as fast as you can.”
Fontini-Cristi did so. The partisan ran back to the guard house. Gripped in his right hand was Vittorio’s pistol.
The two shots were deep and sharp; muffled combustions that were sudden, terrible outbursts within the
The roadside guardhouse seemed even smaller than it appeared from the Via Canelli. The depth was no more than five feet, the length perhaps six. There was barely enough room for the four of them. And the look in the partisan’s eyes told Vittorio that the close quarters was an advantage.
“Search them,” ordered the sergeant.
The private placed his rifle on the floor, barrel up. The partisan driver then did a strange thing. He pulled his arms across his chest, protectively over his coat, as though it were a conscious act of defiance. Yet the man was not armed; he had made that clear to Fontini-Cristi.
“You’ll steal!” he said, louder than was necessary, his words vibrating in the wooden shack. “Soldiers steal!”
“We’re not concerned with your
lire, paisan
. There are more impressive vehicles on the highway. Take your hands from your coat.”
“Even in Rome reasons are given!
Il Duce
, himself, says the workers are not to be treated so! I march with the fascist guards; my rider served in Africa!”
What was the man doing?
thought Vittorio.
Why was he behaving so? It would only anger the soldiers
. “You try my patience, pig! We look for a man from Maggiore. Every road post looks for this man. You were stopped because the license on your truck is from the Maggiore district … Hold out your arms!”
“Baveno!
Not Maggiore! We are from
Baveno!
Where are the lies?”
The sergeant looked at Vittorio. “No soldier in Africa says he was with the Seventh Corps. It was disgraced.”
The army guard had barely finished when the partisan screamed his command.
“Now, signore!
Take the other!” The driver’s hand swept down, lashing at the revolver in the sergeant’s grip, only inches from his stomach. The suddenness of the action and the shattering roar of the partisan’s voice in the small enclosure had the effect of an unexpected collision. Vittorio had no time to watch; he could only hope his companion knew what he was doing. The private had lurched for his rifle, his left hand on the barrel, his right surging down to the stock. Fontini-Cristi threw his weight against the man, slamming him into the wall, both hands on the side of the soldier’s head, crashing the head into the hard, wooden surface. The private’s barracks cap fell off; blood matted instantly throughout the hairline and streaked down over the man’s head. He slumped to the floor.
Vittorio turned. The sergeant was wedged into the corner of the tiny guardhouse, the partisan over him, pistol-whipping him with his own weapon. The soldier’s face was a mass of torn flesh, the blood and ripped skin sickening.
“Quickly!”
cried the partisan as the sergeant fell. “Bring the truck to the front! Directly to the front; squeeze it between the road and the guardhouse. Keep the motor running.”
“Very well,” said Fontini-Cristi, confused by the brutality as well as the swift decisiveness of the last thirty seconds.
“And,
signore!”
shouted the partisan, as Vittorio had one foot out the door.
“Yes?”
“Your gun, please. Let me use it. These army issues are like thunder.”
Fontini-Cristi hesitated, then withdrew the weapon and handed it to the man. The partisan reached over to the crank-telephone on the wall and ripped it out.
Vittorio steered the truck to the front of the guardhouse, the left wheels by necessity on the hard surface of the highway; there was not sufficient room on the shoulder to pull completely off the road. He hoped the rear lights were sufficiently bright for the onrushing traffic—far heavier now—to see the obstruction and skirt it.
The partisan came out of the guardhouse and spoke through the window. “Race the motor,
signore
. As loud and as fast as you can.”
Fontini-Cristi did so. The partisan ran back to the guard house. Gripped in his right hand was Vittorio’s pistol.
The two shots were deep and sharp; muffled combustions that were sudden, terrible outbursts within the
Similar Books
