him off balance. He backed up again, the revolver unwavering. Then he shot me.
I heard the pop of the silenced weapon and felt the bullet tear into my chest like a blazing-hot rivet. He shot me again. I felt a stab of pain when the second bullet hit my neck, but I seemed now to be a participant in a dream. The shot was like a bee sting, no more.
Lying on my side, my shirt blotted with blood, I watched Sid move in my direction, almost soundless on his sneakered feet. My vision was fuzzy. By the time he reached me, he appeared to be no more than a vague shape.
He put his foot against me and pushed me on my back. I gazed helplessly up at him. He pointed the revolver again. I thought he was going to administer the final coup, a bullet between the eyes, but he lowered the weapon. He had decided to let me bleed to death.
My eyes stared at the ceiling. I was paralyzed with weakness. Sid reached down and flipped open my jacket to look at the chest wound. He seemed satisfied. He went away.
I could hardly see the ceiling now. Darkness was creeping in at the corners of my mind. I thought about Hawk and how he'd react when he learned he'd lost a Killmaster. I supposed he'd put a posthumous letter of commendation in my file before he closed it for good — epitaph for an agent killed in the line of duty.
I thought about Pat Steele, the redhead who'd wished me luck. She might be a long time finding out that I had followed N1 and N2 and David Kirby into the ranks of those whose luck had failed. I thought about Kirby and Sheila Brant and told myself I'd let them down by getting myself killed....
But then, like a swimmer coming up for air, I burst out of the blackness that had engulfed me. I couldn't explain it, but I was still alive. My eyes fixed on the ceiling and brought it into hazy focus. I had no conception of time, no idea how long I had been unconscious.
The house was silent, caught in an eerie stillness. A faint light had entered the room, as though dawn had come outside. The killers were gone, I thought I was alone.
I heard a car. From the sound of the motor, I knew it had stopped outside the house. The car's door slammed. I lay listening, hoping. The front door opened. I heard footsteps in the living room. They moved toward the kitchen.
I worked my mouth, but no sound came out. I was too weak. When I tried to move, the ceiling seemed to dip and I almost fainted.
The footsteps again, steady and heavy. A man appeared in the doorway and looked in on me. He wore a striped suit and a hat. I made a sound, a strained grunt.
He heard me. He walked into the room and gazed down at me. I saw cold grey eyes in an expressionless, pockmarked face. Finally he knelt beside me. He took out a knife and slit the front of my shirt and examined my wound. I couldn't tell if he was interested in helping me or merely curious about how long I had to live.
"Who are you?" he said at last. He had a faint Sicilian accent.
My mouth formed the word. "Harper."
He got up and went to the bathroom and came back with a household first-aid kit. He knew something about gunshot wounds. He stopped my bleeding quickly, then cut up a sheet and began winding the strips around my chest like a bandage. He paid no attention to my neck wound, so I assumed it was only a graze and not serious enough to be of concern.
"Who shot you, Harper?"
I shook my head to indicate I didn't know. I was in no condition to talk about what had happened.
He studied me for a minute as if deciding what to do about me, then slit the strips of cloth binding my wrists and ankles. That pockmarked face of his was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it.
Rising, he glanced around the room once more, then left the house without speaking to me again. I heard his car start up and drive away.
The name sprang suddenly into my mind. Valante. Marco Valante. I had seen his picture in the newspapers during a Justice Department investigation of organized crime. According to reports, he was one
I heard the pop of the silenced weapon and felt the bullet tear into my chest like a blazing-hot rivet. He shot me again. I felt a stab of pain when the second bullet hit my neck, but I seemed now to be a participant in a dream. The shot was like a bee sting, no more.
Lying on my side, my shirt blotted with blood, I watched Sid move in my direction, almost soundless on his sneakered feet. My vision was fuzzy. By the time he reached me, he appeared to be no more than a vague shape.
He put his foot against me and pushed me on my back. I gazed helplessly up at him. He pointed the revolver again. I thought he was going to administer the final coup, a bullet between the eyes, but he lowered the weapon. He had decided to let me bleed to death.
My eyes stared at the ceiling. I was paralyzed with weakness. Sid reached down and flipped open my jacket to look at the chest wound. He seemed satisfied. He went away.
I could hardly see the ceiling now. Darkness was creeping in at the corners of my mind. I thought about Hawk and how he'd react when he learned he'd lost a Killmaster. I supposed he'd put a posthumous letter of commendation in my file before he closed it for good — epitaph for an agent killed in the line of duty.
I thought about Pat Steele, the redhead who'd wished me luck. She might be a long time finding out that I had followed N1 and N2 and David Kirby into the ranks of those whose luck had failed. I thought about Kirby and Sheila Brant and told myself I'd let them down by getting myself killed....
But then, like a swimmer coming up for air, I burst out of the blackness that had engulfed me. I couldn't explain it, but I was still alive. My eyes fixed on the ceiling and brought it into hazy focus. I had no conception of time, no idea how long I had been unconscious.
The house was silent, caught in an eerie stillness. A faint light had entered the room, as though dawn had come outside. The killers were gone, I thought I was alone.
I heard a car. From the sound of the motor, I knew it had stopped outside the house. The car's door slammed. I lay listening, hoping. The front door opened. I heard footsteps in the living room. They moved toward the kitchen.
I worked my mouth, but no sound came out. I was too weak. When I tried to move, the ceiling seemed to dip and I almost fainted.
The footsteps again, steady and heavy. A man appeared in the doorway and looked in on me. He wore a striped suit and a hat. I made a sound, a strained grunt.
He heard me. He walked into the room and gazed down at me. I saw cold grey eyes in an expressionless, pockmarked face. Finally he knelt beside me. He took out a knife and slit the front of my shirt and examined my wound. I couldn't tell if he was interested in helping me or merely curious about how long I had to live.
"Who are you?" he said at last. He had a faint Sicilian accent.
My mouth formed the word. "Harper."
He got up and went to the bathroom and came back with a household first-aid kit. He knew something about gunshot wounds. He stopped my bleeding quickly, then cut up a sheet and began winding the strips around my chest like a bandage. He paid no attention to my neck wound, so I assumed it was only a graze and not serious enough to be of concern.
"Who shot you, Harper?"
I shook my head to indicate I didn't know. I was in no condition to talk about what had happened.
He studied me for a minute as if deciding what to do about me, then slit the strips of cloth binding my wrists and ankles. That pockmarked face of his was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it.
Rising, he glanced around the room once more, then left the house without speaking to me again. I heard his car start up and drive away.
The name sprang suddenly into my mind. Valante. Marco Valante. I had seen his picture in the newspapers during a Justice Department investigation of organized crime. According to reports, he was one
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