[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
strong enough to overwhelm both men instantly.
Unable to breathe, Craig dropped to the floor himself, seeking cleaner air. Jackson collapsed beside
him, wheezing. Like a distant hallucination he heard footsteps clanging down the fire escape and running
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
away.
Desperately, Craig dragged himself toward the broken window and fresh air. He gulped in gasps that
still reeked of chlorine but at least caused no further damage to his seared lungs.
The gas clouds clustered at the ceiling, making the paint blister.
Jackson wasn t moving, though, and so Craig turned back, grabbing his partner s collar, dragging him by
the arms toward the air. Reaching out with one spasming hand, Craig fumbled with the back door, trying
to turn the deadbolt. Finally, he succeeded in cracking open the porch door, which led out onto the
wrought-iron bal-cony.
Craig and Jackson huddled by the door, trying to draw in deep breaths, but each gasp burned. Craig s
lungs were ablaze, as if he had breathed in the acid that had been used to destroy Dumenco s computer.
Jackson retched and coughed beside him, incapacitated. Craig raised his head to the window, took
another huge gulp of fresh air.
On the other side of the building, he heard a car start, then drive off. Their attacker had escaped, but
Craig couldn t continue the pursuit. He slumped back, strug-gling just to remain conscious.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wednesday, 4:33 p.m.
Bangalore, India
Nicholas Bretti did not loosen his grip on his airline seat until the small plane had landed safely at the
Bangalore airport. He wondered if he ever relax again, ever sleep without nightmares, would ever stop
jumping and twitching at every little unexpected sound.
It wasn t likely to happen any time soon.
Exactly two hours after leaving Mr. Ambalal and the Liberty for All party in New Delhi fifteen hours
after taking off from O Hare in Chicago, and less than a day after shooting an FBI agent Bretti was
sober and ready to meet the people who had paid his bills over the past year. He had to make this good,
or else they would never help him out of this mess. What other choice did he have?
He worried that his reception in Bangalore would be no different from what he had experienced in New
Delhi. Despite the $25,000 he had already pocketed, he was beginning to wonder if Chandrawalia would
make good on his promise to come through with the rest of the money.
Twenty-five grand a year s salary. Was that enough for the hell he had gotten himself into? Shit, no.
Now it was up to the Indian government to salvage the situation, but he had no idea if they would be
sympathetic.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Exiting the jet ramp into the terminal, Bretti was mobbed by a dozen children. They swarmed around
him, plunging their hands into his pockets, searching for coins and jabbering the only English phrases they
knew, Please give, sir! Please give!
Scents of incense and curry mixed with the pungent odor of unwashed bodies. Unprotected by the
buffer of a customs area this time, Bretti fought his way through an ever-shifting mob toward the airport
exit.
The terminal building bustled with people, some wearing sarongs, others, like the children around him, in
shorts and dirty white T-shirts. He saw men, women, boys& but there were no little girls in sight. Maybe
the families kept them locked up somewhere.
A cackling chicken flew into the air as a family tried to stuff it back into a cage at the check-in counter.
A dark-robed old woman with a small gold stud through her nose and a red mark on her forehead,
clutched a baby goat to her breast.
Fifty feet away by the outside door, a man wearing a black-and-yellow splotched shirt held up a sign,
Bretti. Bretti made eye contact with the man, who waved for him to follow. Here, sir!
Bretti pushed through a forest of chattering, begging children. They all tried to touch him, all pleaded for
his help. Bretti felt one hand slip into his back pocket. Grab-bing a slender wrist, Bretti whirled the young
pickpocket around, keyed up and angry from his long tension.
With wild black hair and a dirty face, the boy could not have been older than ten. He laughed as Bretti
held him up by his arm; the boy dangled in front of the other children and tried to swipe at Bretti with his
free hand.
Before Bretti could admonish the pickpocket, another hand clawed at the back of his pants. Bretti threw
the boy backward, bowling over two other children behind him. He knocked the prying hands away.
Get out of here, you little bastards! He shouted, and the kids howled with laughter.
Bretti pushed his way through the crowd, paying no attention to who he ran into or pushed out of the
way.
He kept a free hand on his wallet. The crowd parted as he shoved through.
The man with the sign waved out the door. He smiled beneath a scrawny mustache. This way, please,
sir. He disappeared from sight.
Bretti pushed out of the crowded building toward a dark blue sedan with tinted windows. A driver
wearing a black British polo cap stood beside the long car. When he saw Bretti, he opened the car door.
The humid air still stank outside the terminal, but at least there were fewer people. Bretti strode toward
the car, his skin crawling from the overpowering crowds. The driver opened the door, and Bretti dove
into the luxury of the air-conditioned interior. As he relaxed back into the seat, someone pounded at the
tinted window. It was the first boy who had tried to lift his wallet. The boy and two of his friends pressed
their faces against the tinted window, trying to look in. They hammered with their fists, then pressed their
tongues against the window, leaving long, slimy wet spots.
The man with the sign slipped into the car s front seat, and the driver pulled out immediately, oblivious to
the children, the crowds, or any other obstacle. The first man turned and grinned. Welcome to India, Dr.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]