The Nosferatu Scroll by James Becker

Author:James Becker [Becker, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers
ISBN: 9781101575475
Google: UGo5fR9l3SUC
Amazon: B006CUFUHU
Barnesnoble: B006CUFUHU
Goodreads: 11699295
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2011-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

40

Behind the tomb on the island of San Michele, Bronson spotted a glint of metal from one side of the unconscious man’s belt. Risking a closer look, he saw a dull black shape: the lower end of the magazine for a semiautomatic pistol, tucked into a quick-release leather pouch. There was no reason why a man would carry a magazine unless he also had a pistol, which meant he must be wearing a belt holster, not a shoulder rig.

Bronson looked up again at the man with the pistol. He was taking a couple of steps closer to him—shortening the range to ensure that his next shot would be the last he would have to fire.

The unconscious man was lying faceup, which meant the weapon had to be tucked into the small of his back; otherwise Bronson would already have seen it. Jerking him over onto his side, he rammed his other hand behind the man’s back, inside the Windbreaker he was wearing.

His fingers closed around a familiar shape and, as the approaching man stopped and took aim, Bronson rolled sideways behind a vertical gravestone. As he moved, he racked back the slide of the automatic pistol with his left hand to chamber a round.

His movement took him just beyond the gravestone and, as he emerged from that fragile shelter, he aimed the pistol straight at the approaching figure, who swung his pistol toward him and fired two rapid shots.

Bronson flinched as a copper-jacketed nine-millimeter bullet slammed into the gravestone right beside him, but he held his aim and squeezed the trigger.

During his short career as an army officer, Bronson had become quite proficient with the Browning Hi-Power semiautomatic pistol, then the standard officer’s sidearm, but he also knew how inaccurate such weapons were at anything other than very close range. So he wasn’t surprised when his shot went wide.

But his target was clearly shocked to be under attack himself. He turned and ran, dodging around the gravestones as he fled.

Bronson rose cautiously to his feet, the pistol he’d grabbed—which he now saw actually was a nine-millimeter Browning, the weapon he’d gotten so used to firing in the army—still pointing toward the fleeing figure. The second man had also taken to his heels, and was a few yards ahead of his accomplice, a bulky bag clutched in his left hand.

Bronson glanced down at the man lying on the ground. He was obviously unconscious, and no doubt would remain that way for some time. The noise of the shots had echoed around the island, and Bronson knew that people would start heading toward the area very soon, which would add to the confusion. He looked over at the tomb, at the two fleeing men, and made a decision.

What he should do was call the police, hand over the thug he’d knocked out and explain that he was one of the men who’d attacked him and Angela the previous evening. The problem was that he had absolutely no proof. And he knew only

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