Read Online Two Graves by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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through the low creosote bushes, heading for the paved road at the edge of town. A steady sound of futile gunfire came from the vehicle, punctuated by flashes of light.
Pendergast gunned the Ducati, fishtailing into a ninety-degree turn and then accelerating after them.
He rapidly caught up, keeping to the south in a flanking maneuver, forcing the vehicle into an easterly trajectory, away from the factories and the town. But the road to the nearest factory, lined with sodium lights, was approaching fast.
More shots rang out from the vehicle, kicking up dirt to oneside of him. A man was aiming out the back window with a handgun. But the Escalade was lurching so violently that Pendergast was in little danger of being hit. He accelerated the bike, again tracing a track behind and parallel to the Escalade. He eased the rifle into position once more. More futile shots came from a man leaning out the window.
Pendergast swerved into a converging trajectory and goosed the bike, eking out one last burst of acceleration, bringing himself alongside the car and letting loose with a burst aimed low and front, taking out a front tire. At the same time, a fusillade of gunfire from the car struck the Ducati, breaking its chain and sending the bike into a slide. Pendergast rapidly worked the front and rear brakes to avoid going into an uncontrollable spin. As his speed abruptly dropped, he leapt off into a creosote bush before the bike tumbled into a narrow ravine.
Immediately he rose with the rifle, aimed, and fired again at the receding car. The Escalade was already slewing about on the burst tire, and the shot took out the rear wheel on the same side, the SUV fishtailing to a stop. As it did so, four men leapt out and knelt down by the car, unleashing a steady fire.
Pendergast threw himself to the ground and—as the bullets kicked up dirt all around him—aimed carefully. His superior weapon took out first one man, then another, in rapid sequence. The remaining two retreated out of sight behind the vehicle and stopped shooting.
Unfortunate.
Pendergast rose and, running as fast as he could—barely more than a shambling limp—charged. He kept up a continuous fire as he did so, making sure his shots went high. Suddenly both figures appeared at one side of the vehicle; one was dragging Helen with a gun pressed to her head, and the other—the tall, muscular, snowy-haired man who had piloted the plane—was crouching behind, using the others as protection. He did not appear to be armed—at least, he was not firing.
Once again Pendergast threw himself down and aimed, but he did not dare fire.
“Aloysius!” came a thin scream.
Pendergast aimed afresh. Waited.
“Drop your weapon or I will kill her!” came a sharply accented cry from the man using her as a human shield. The three figures were backing up now, away from the Escalade, the white-haired man keeping behind the other two.
“I will kill her, I
swear
!” the man screamed. But Pendergast knew he wouldn’t. She was his only protection.
The man fired at Pendergast twice, but the handgun, at a distance of a hundred yards, was inaccurate.
“Let her go!” Pendergast cried. “I want her, not you! Let her go and you can walk away!”
“No!” The man gripped her desperately.
Pendergast slowly stood, letting his rifle fall to one side. “Just let her go,” he said. “That’s all. There will be no problems. You have my word.”
The man fired another shot at Pendergast, but it went wide. Pendergast began limping toward them, rifle still held to one side. “Let her go. That’s the only way you’ll get out of here alive. Let her go.”
“Drop your gun!” The man was hysterical with fear.
Pendergast slowly laid his gun down, stood up, hands raised.
“Aloysius!” Helen wept. “Just go,
go
!”
The man, dragging Helen backward, fired at Pendergast again, missing him. He was too far away—and too panicked to shoot straight.
“Trust me,” Pendergast said in
Pendergast gunned the Ducati, fishtailing into a ninety-degree turn and then accelerating after them.
He rapidly caught up, keeping to the south in a flanking maneuver, forcing the vehicle into an easterly trajectory, away from the factories and the town. But the road to the nearest factory, lined with sodium lights, was approaching fast.
More shots rang out from the vehicle, kicking up dirt to oneside of him. A man was aiming out the back window with a handgun. But the Escalade was lurching so violently that Pendergast was in little danger of being hit. He accelerated the bike, again tracing a track behind and parallel to the Escalade. He eased the rifle into position once more. More futile shots came from a man leaning out the window.
Pendergast swerved into a converging trajectory and goosed the bike, eking out one last burst of acceleration, bringing himself alongside the car and letting loose with a burst aimed low and front, taking out a front tire. At the same time, a fusillade of gunfire from the car struck the Ducati, breaking its chain and sending the bike into a slide. Pendergast rapidly worked the front and rear brakes to avoid going into an uncontrollable spin. As his speed abruptly dropped, he leapt off into a creosote bush before the bike tumbled into a narrow ravine.
Immediately he rose with the rifle, aimed, and fired again at the receding car. The Escalade was already slewing about on the burst tire, and the shot took out the rear wheel on the same side, the SUV fishtailing to a stop. As it did so, four men leapt out and knelt down by the car, unleashing a steady fire.
Pendergast threw himself to the ground and—as the bullets kicked up dirt all around him—aimed carefully. His superior weapon took out first one man, then another, in rapid sequence. The remaining two retreated out of sight behind the vehicle and stopped shooting.
Unfortunate.
Pendergast rose and, running as fast as he could—barely more than a shambling limp—charged. He kept up a continuous fire as he did so, making sure his shots went high. Suddenly both figures appeared at one side of the vehicle; one was dragging Helen with a gun pressed to her head, and the other—the tall, muscular, snowy-haired man who had piloted the plane—was crouching behind, using the others as protection. He did not appear to be armed—at least, he was not firing.
Once again Pendergast threw himself down and aimed, but he did not dare fire.
“Aloysius!” came a thin scream.
Pendergast aimed afresh. Waited.
“Drop your weapon or I will kill her!” came a sharply accented cry from the man using her as a human shield. The three figures were backing up now, away from the Escalade, the white-haired man keeping behind the other two.
“I will kill her, I
swear
!” the man screamed. But Pendergast knew he wouldn’t. She was his only protection.
The man fired at Pendergast twice, but the handgun, at a distance of a hundred yards, was inaccurate.
“Let her go!” Pendergast cried. “I want her, not you! Let her go and you can walk away!”
“No!” The man gripped her desperately.
Pendergast slowly stood, letting his rifle fall to one side. “Just let her go,” he said. “That’s all. There will be no problems. You have my word.”
The man fired another shot at Pendergast, but it went wide. Pendergast began limping toward them, rifle still held to one side. “Let her go. That’s the only way you’ll get out of here alive. Let her go.”
“Drop your gun!” The man was hysterical with fear.
Pendergast slowly laid his gun down, stood up, hands raised.
“Aloysius!” Helen wept. “Just go,
go
!”
The man, dragging Helen backward, fired at Pendergast again, missing him. He was too far away—and too panicked to shoot straight.
“Trust me,” Pendergast said in
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