Private Monaco

Chapter 91

I took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. My shoulder was a fiery, bloody mass of pain, and I almost blacked out. I tried to hold on to the world, to fight the bleak pull of unconsciousness, but part of me wanted to surrender to the darkness.

Angie ran to her husband and the two of them embraced and kissed. Their loving display reminded me of Justine. I wanted to see her more than anything, and fought the black cloud fraying the edges of reality.

Pain cut through everything and shocked me to life. Like fear, I knew it could be channeled, so I tried to tame it. I wanted to escape it somehow and my body’s autonomic processes knew unconsciousness was the best way, but I tried to convince myself I could outrun it and used it as a prompt to action, rising quickly and moving across the room once I’d got to my feet.

I heard sirens, close now, and knew I didn’t have long. Twitchy with the searing pain, I staggered over to Stamp and Angie.

“You okay?” I asked, looking down at the wounded man.

He had removed his belt and was tying a tourniquet around his upper thigh to stem the flow of blood.

“I feel better than you look,” he said. “You need a doctor.”

I nodded and moved on. Standing still meant the pain would catch me. Movement helped me outrun it.

I lurched over to Roman Verde, who lay clutching the wounds in his chest. There was blood, but not the heavy, pulsing flow of a ruptured artery, so I thought I’d missed his heart. However, the bubbling, rasping sound he made with each gasping breath suggested I’d punctured a lung.

I loomed over him and kicked his pistol well clear of his grasp.

“Why?” I asked.

I bit my lip to keep myself from crying out in pain and resisted the urge to inflict my suffering on the man who’d done this to me. He was clearly in his own physical hell.

“Why?” I asked again.

He looked up from contemplating the holes in his chest and fixed me with hostile eyes. There was nothing but contempt radiating from the man, and he knew the feeling was mutual.

“Why Carver?” I pressed him.

He shook his head and for a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“Peace,” he gasped, his voice wet and rasping. “Peace is the enemy of all we stand for. He was supposed to die, then evidence would have been released implicating participants in the peace negotiation. The treaty would have collapsed, leading to permanent war in Europe.”

“Why?” I asked. “What kind of people want never-ending war?”

He smiled. “If you have to ask that question, you wouldn’t understand the answer.”

“Who is behind Propaganda Tre?” I asked. “Who are you people?”

Verde smiled. It was insincere and full of hatred. “Keep looking over your shoulder, Jack Morgan.”

The sirens were almost upon us. The first set of tires crunched over the gravel at the front of the house.

“Lying on your back, shot and bleeding out, and you threaten me? I can handle whatever you send my way. Can you say the same thing?” I growled. “All your people will meet the same end. Broken and ready to answer for what they’ve done.”

Verde’s smile fell away and his eyes narrowed.

We both looked in the direction of the front door, which cracked and splintered as it was smashed open. Then came the tramp of heavy boots over hardwood floors, and moments later Valerie Chevalier stormed into the room at the head of a squad of cops in tactical gear.

“Jack!” she yelled, and I followed her gaze to see that Verde had produced a second pistol from behind his back.

It was a snub nose .22 revolver, the kind of gun used in street muggings and gangland killings, and it was pointed directly at my head.

“Can you handle everything I send your way?” he rasped. “Goodbye, Mr. Morgan.”

The sound of the shot turned my blood to ice. It took me a moment to realize it hadn’t come from Roman’s gun.

A volley of bullets tore through his left eye, creating a bloody crater and ripping a path deep into his skull. His other eye went glassy and rolled back as his body went limp. His hand fell to the floor and the gun clattered against the floor, but even in death he held it firm.

I looked round to see Kendrick Stamp holding his sub machine gun, the barrel still smoking.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it. We’re even,” he replied, pulling Angie close.