Unrestricted Access: New and Classic Short Fiction by James Rollins

Author:James Rollins [Rollins, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Short Stories (Single Author)
ISBN: 9780062686800
Google: G5DpzAEACAAJ
Amazon: B0791CJ6KD
Goodreads: 49867188
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 2020-09-22T05:00:00+00:00

Malone raced down the canted passageway, a hand on the wall to keep his balance. He’d not seen Gray Pierce since that day in his bookshop a couple of years ago. He actually liked the guy. There were a lot of similarities between them. Both were former soldiers. Both recruited into intelligence services. Each seemed to have taken care of themselves physically. The big difference came with age, Pierce was at least ten years younger and that made a difference. Particularly in this business. The other contrast was that Pierce was still in the game, while Malone was merely an occasional player.

And he wasn’t foolish enough not to realize that also mattered.

He skidded to a stop as he approached the stairs that led down to the riverboat’s dining hall. Take it slow from here in. Through a window he surveyed the river outside. The boat sat askew, foundering in the swift current. Past a roil of smoke he spotted a gunmetal gray craft prowling into view. A uniformed man, whose features were obscured by a wrap of black cloth, stood at its stern, the long tube of a rocket-propelled-grenade launcher resting on his shoulder.

Which apparently was how they’d scuttled the boat.

He rounded the landing and double doors appeared below. A body lay at the threshold in a pool of blood, the man dressed as a maître d’. Malone slowed his pace and negotiated the steps with care, approaching the door from one side, and snuck a quick peek into the room.

More bodies lay strewn among overturned tables and chairs.

At least two dozen.

A large clutch of passengers huddled to one side of the spacious room, held at gunpoint by a pair of men. Another two men stalked through bodies, searching. One held a photograph, likely looking for someone who matched Trask’s face. Amid the captives Malone spotted the good doctor. Stephanie had provided him an image by email. Trask kept his back to the gunmen, hunching into his dinner jacket, a hand half covering his face, trying to be one among many.

That ruse wouldn’t last long.

Trask was strikingly handsome in a roguish way, with unruly auburn hair and sharp planes marring his face. Easy to see how he became a media darling. But those distinct looks should get him flushed out of the crowd and into the assault force’s custody in no time.

Malone couldn’t let that happen.

So he bent down and patted his palm into the maître d’s blood. Not the most hygienic thing in the world, but it had to be done. He painted his face with the bloody palm, then slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants, at the small of his back, and tugged the edge of his shirt over it.

Why he did stuff like this he’d never know.

He stumbled into view, limping, holding a bloody hand to his fouled face.

“Help me,” he called out in a plaintive tone, as he wove a path deeper into the room—only to be accosted by one of the gunman holding the passengers at bay.

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