Read Online The Pandora Directive: A Tex Murphy Novel by Aaron Conners - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Aaron Conners
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toward me.
Suddenly, I saw my quarry jump up and wave his arms, his back toward me, facing the oncoming speeder. He was on the sunken section of road between Rusty’s and the pawnshop, maybe ten metres from me. The speeder was closing in. I got my feet and ran toward the man. As I leapt towards him, he saw or heard me, but had no time to dodge or fire his gun. I hit him square, and we fell in a stunned heap. He was the first to recover and planted a fist into the left side of my head. As I reeled back, I saw the speeder hovering a short distance away. I managed to unleash a kick into the man’s ribs, which left him gasping for breath. Then I got to my feet and lunged, but he avoided me neatly and jammed an elbow into the space between my shoulder blades. I dropped to my hands and knees. A boot slammed into my ribs, rolling me onto my side.
The man moved away from me, toward the edge of the roof overlooking the street. His gun had been thrown clear, three of four metres from where he’d left me. I grabbed a handful of loose gravel. As he bent to pick up his gun, I gathered the last of my strength and jumped to my feet. Everything shifted into slow-motion. I started to run toward the man. He looked up, saw me, raised his gun. I threw the gravel. He flinched and threw his left arm up to cover his face. The gun went off. I lowered my shoulder, felt it hit his chest. Another gunshot. He staggered backwards, hit the barrier at the edge of the roof, and toppled over the side. The gun went off again. A scream, the fall, the horrible sound of crushing bones.
The Black Avatar shifted down and sped off into the night.
Chapter Seven
“Coffee, wheat toast, eggs over easy.”
Mac Malden leaned way back in his chair and pulled a Merit out from under his moustache.
“What do I look like, Murphy? A damn waiter?”
“Okay, then, a cup of coffee and a doughnut.”
“There’s nothing here to eat.”
He reached around his gut and stuffed the cigarette butt into the hollow centre of a ceramic dog. Slumping back in his chair, he folded his hands atop the lumpy dome that ran from his sternum to well past his belt. No shame, no attempt to camouflage. Oh, they warned him about high cholesterol, a heart attack risk. He even cut back on a few things, like pastrami, egg rolls. But Mac loved his gut and was damn proud of it. Never in a million years would he turn his back on his gut.
“No doughnuts?”
Mac shook his head and reached for another cigarette.
“You’ve got to be yanking me. A huge building, full of cops… no doughnuts?”
“You know, Murphy, I get so damn tired of those half-ass doughnut gags, I could puke. I’m not serving breakfast here. All I wanna do is ask you a few questions, listen to some of your stupid jokes, maybe get a couple coherent statements out of you, and kick your but out of my office. Then you can buy your own breakfast.”
He stared at me, looking for all the world like a Basset hound, she exhausted from a trip to the slippers. “What d’ya say?Are you gonna play along?”
It was late, at least 10:30am it had been five or six hours since Emily’s would-be murderer hit Chandler Avenue. I was still on the roof in mid-lucky when the cops showed up. They called me down, and I got a look at the face of the Black Arrow Killer. It was the same mug I’d seen in the photo at 771 Santa Cena, shaking hands with President Linderman.
The cops took a statement, then asked me if I’d like to come with them and try the new coffee blend down at the station. I happen to know that the coffee tasted like camel spit — they were just being civil. At the SFPD complex, I was politely asked to take a seat and enjoy one of the many fine magazines available. Some of them were no more than two years old.
There was no smoking allowed in the waiting room. Instead, they had a TV. It was a crappy trade-off. I made one attempt to step outside for breath of unfilled refreshment, but the sergeant assigned to keep an eye
Suddenly, I saw my quarry jump up and wave his arms, his back toward me, facing the oncoming speeder. He was on the sunken section of road between Rusty’s and the pawnshop, maybe ten metres from me. The speeder was closing in. I got my feet and ran toward the man. As I leapt towards him, he saw or heard me, but had no time to dodge or fire his gun. I hit him square, and we fell in a stunned heap. He was the first to recover and planted a fist into the left side of my head. As I reeled back, I saw the speeder hovering a short distance away. I managed to unleash a kick into the man’s ribs, which left him gasping for breath. Then I got to my feet and lunged, but he avoided me neatly and jammed an elbow into the space between my shoulder blades. I dropped to my hands and knees. A boot slammed into my ribs, rolling me onto my side.
The man moved away from me, toward the edge of the roof overlooking the street. His gun had been thrown clear, three of four metres from where he’d left me. I grabbed a handful of loose gravel. As he bent to pick up his gun, I gathered the last of my strength and jumped to my feet. Everything shifted into slow-motion. I started to run toward the man. He looked up, saw me, raised his gun. I threw the gravel. He flinched and threw his left arm up to cover his face. The gun went off. I lowered my shoulder, felt it hit his chest. Another gunshot. He staggered backwards, hit the barrier at the edge of the roof, and toppled over the side. The gun went off again. A scream, the fall, the horrible sound of crushing bones.
The Black Avatar shifted down and sped off into the night.
Chapter Seven
“Coffee, wheat toast, eggs over easy.”
Mac Malden leaned way back in his chair and pulled a Merit out from under his moustache.
“What do I look like, Murphy? A damn waiter?”
“Okay, then, a cup of coffee and a doughnut.”
“There’s nothing here to eat.”
He reached around his gut and stuffed the cigarette butt into the hollow centre of a ceramic dog. Slumping back in his chair, he folded his hands atop the lumpy dome that ran from his sternum to well past his belt. No shame, no attempt to camouflage. Oh, they warned him about high cholesterol, a heart attack risk. He even cut back on a few things, like pastrami, egg rolls. But Mac loved his gut and was damn proud of it. Never in a million years would he turn his back on his gut.
“No doughnuts?”
Mac shook his head and reached for another cigarette.
“You’ve got to be yanking me. A huge building, full of cops… no doughnuts?”
“You know, Murphy, I get so damn tired of those half-ass doughnut gags, I could puke. I’m not serving breakfast here. All I wanna do is ask you a few questions, listen to some of your stupid jokes, maybe get a couple coherent statements out of you, and kick your but out of my office. Then you can buy your own breakfast.”
He stared at me, looking for all the world like a Basset hound, she exhausted from a trip to the slippers. “What d’ya say?Are you gonna play along?”
It was late, at least 10:30am it had been five or six hours since Emily’s would-be murderer hit Chandler Avenue. I was still on the roof in mid-lucky when the cops showed up. They called me down, and I got a look at the face of the Black Arrow Killer. It was the same mug I’d seen in the photo at 771 Santa Cena, shaking hands with President Linderman.
The cops took a statement, then asked me if I’d like to come with them and try the new coffee blend down at the station. I happen to know that the coffee tasted like camel spit — they were just being civil. At the SFPD complex, I was politely asked to take a seat and enjoy one of the many fine magazines available. Some of them were no more than two years old.
There was no smoking allowed in the waiting room. Instead, they had a TV. It was a crappy trade-off. I made one attempt to step outside for breath of unfilled refreshment, but the sergeant assigned to keep an eye
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