Superbolan 48 Dead Center by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

The harsh cracks of gunshots rent the air, but it was a sound Jericho Light had become accustomed to in another life. He was in motion now, rounding the house on the right with the Beeman/Hammerli in his fist. He'd fired the .45 dry and abandoned it.

The stone wall at the side of the house kept his attackers from seeing him. He knew from experience that the aim was to go into the house from the rear and set fire to everything they could, forcing Julia DeVincenzo and her people out through the front.

Near the back of the house, Light jumped up and caught the top of the wall. He hauled himself over easily as bullets chipped stone splinters against his legs. Drawing immediate attention from two gunmen as he landed on the soft ground, he lifted the target pistol smoothly, then squeezed off one round to each man.

The .32 rounds caught both targets squarely in the forehead like small black kisses and knocked them backward.

A man with a backpack-mounted flamethrower moved toward the house, spewing out gouts of fire. Most of the rear of the house was in flames now, and black smoke swirled thick and deadly under the leafy boughs of the trees. The fire spread, climbing upward rapidly.

The staccato roar of autofire to his right sent his reflexes into overdrive. He threw himself to the side, taking advantage of a half-dozen fruit trees. The branches and leaves shook as the bullets cut into them over Light's head. Raising the Model 280, he fired a single round that took out the gunner's right eye above the sights of the assault rifle he carried.

He watched as the flamethrower operator tried to come around. Taking deliberate aim, he punched his last two rounds through the tanks on the man's back. Instantly the man was enveloped by a rush of flame that quenched his final screams.

Light palmed his empty magazine, slipped in a fresh clip, and shoved the old one deep into his pants pockets. It was an old habit, even surer than his fingers on the rosary.

He broke cover and rushed into the back of the house, pulling his jacket over his face as he plunged through the layer of fire wreathing the broken door. Smoky, superheated air seared his lungs for an instant, then he was inside the house. Smoke created a burning fog that filled the interior.

If the art pieces he'd been assigned to recover were in the house, he needed to know. He found the staircase and followed it up. Magaddino wouldn't have left them out where everyone could see them. Their history was tied too closely to the church. Someone would have recognized them.

He took the steps two at a time, pounding upward. At the top of the staircase, he stepped over a dead man and gazed into the burning study. Sparks flew as the fire in the center of the room burned out the computer's electrical connections.

None of the paintings on the walls were what he was looking for.

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