Beirut Incident Read Free

I might get him on a ricochet or perhaps even cause a blowout that would startle him enough to break cover. At worst, it would let him know exactly where I was, and that I knew where he was.
    The shot reverberated in the silence as if we were in a small room rather than one of the emptiest spaces in the world. The tire wheezed air and slowly flattened, canting the big truck over at an awkward angle toward the right rear. The net result was that the Dutchman had a slightly better barricade than before.
    I stood up against the heavy grill and counted back. I had fired four shots so far. I would much rather have a full clip, no matter what happened. I fished some shells out of my bush jacket pocket and began reloading.
    A shot rang out, and something nudged the heel of my shoe, sand spurting up out of nowhere. I jumped, startled. I cursed myself for being careless and leaped onto the bumper of the truck in a half crouch, keeping my head below the level of the hood.
    The Dutchman could shoot under trucks, too. I was lucky. If he hadn't been shooting from an extremely awkward position — as he must have been — he could have cut my legs out from under me.
    For the moment I was safe, but only for the moment. And I couldn't remain clinging to that unbearably hot metal hood much longer. Already my body felt like it had been charcoal broiled.
    My alternatives were limited. I could drop to the ground and He there, to peer under the truck and wait for the Dutchman to make his move, hoping for a shot at him underneath the chassis. Except that with his rifle, he could reach around the protecting wheel and pretty well spray any vantage point I might choose without exposing much of his body.
    Or else, I could hop down off that bumper and leap into the clear on the left, so I would have a full view of the man. But no matter how I jumped, I would land somewhat off-balance — and the Dutchman would be kneeling or prone, and steady. He had only to move the muzzle of his rifle a matter of inches for a dead-on shot.
    If I went the other way, circling the truck and hoping to catch him by surprise from the other side, he would shoot the legs out from under me the moment I moved in that direction.
    I took the only other route open to me. Up and over. With the Luger in my right hand, I used the left as a lever and clambered onto the radiator hood, then up to the cab roof, to drop silently to the bed of the truck. With luck, the Dutchman would be fairly low in the sand behind the deflated right wheel, his attention riveted on the space under the truck bed, waiting for a glimpse of me.
    There was no shot, no flurry of movement. I had apparently made my move undetected.
    I peered through the space between the slats of the high-staked truck bed. Then, slowly, I crept across to the right rear corner of the vehicle.
    I took a deep breath and stood up to my full six-feet-four so that I could look down over the top slat of the sideboards, Wilhelmina at the ready.
    There he was, spread-eagled at an angle from the wheel, flat in the sand on his belly. His cheek was firm against the stock of the rifle — the classic prone position for marksmanship.
    He had no idea I was there, just three feet above him, staring at his back.
    Carefully, I raised Wilhelmina to chin height, then extended my arm over the side of the upper slat of the truck. I aimed at the back of the Dutchman's neck.
    He remained motionless, waiting for the first sign of movement that he could spot underneath the truck. But I wasn't coming that way. He was as good as dead.
    I squeezed Wilhelmina's trigger.
    The gun jammed! Goddamned sand!
    Instantly, I shifted my weight from my left foot to my right and snapped my arm downward to release Hugo. The stiletto slid neatly into my left hand, its pearl handle hot to the touch.
    There was no way Hugo could jam. I grasped the knife by the haft and cocked my arm, holding the stiletto ear-high. I usually prefer a blade-throw but at this distance, with no