Moonlight Rises (A Dick Moonlight Thriller) by Vincent Zandri Page A
Authors: Vincent Zandri
Tags: thriller, Suspense, adventure, Mystery, Ebook, bestselling author, New York Times bestseller, Kindle bestseller
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vision.
Partial blindness is also a mistake.
The tall and lanky Georgie is able to maneuver his arms enough towards his left hip to get a hold of my wrists and to begin working his long fingers on my tape. He also has the benefit of long fingernails as so many pot smokers do. The easier to roll a ducktail joint with. He works until I feel a tear in the tape, and then another, and finally one more.
I’m able to take it from there.
When my hands are free, I’m better able to attack Georgie’s tape in the same manner. When he’s free, we don’t have to say a single word to one another to know what to do next. Georgie and I have known one another for a lot of years. We’re as close as brothers. Twin brothers.
We move at the same time.
Georgie going for Commander Obama with both hands thrust out in front. Me springing my claws on the lady Obama beside me, snatching the .9mm out of her hands, slamming her over the cranial cap with the barrel.
She falls into my lap as I swing the barrel around, and press the pistol against the short Obama in the middle. When he pulls out his own piece I blow his pumpkin head all over the windshield.
Georgie wrestles with Commander Obama. I cock back the hammer on the .9mm, press it up against his brain and blood-spattered head.
“The piece. Give me the piece!”
But the driver swings the wheel hard to the right, making the car fishtail to the left, sending me and the woman in my lap against the door. Georgie falls back, and Commander Obama takes a shot that shatters the rear glass. With the tires squealing the BMW still spinning circles, I know this is our only shot at getting out.
“Bail!”
Georgie opens his door, falls on out.
I open my door, and both I and the woman fall out. I stand up as quickly as I can, plant a bead on the Beemer, trigger off three quick rounds that explode what’s left of the rear and front glass.
But when it comes to driving, the surviving Obamas are presidential material. The damaged Beemer burns rubber, and like Air Force One on takeoff, disappears into the thick black night.
CHAPTER 25
DIZZINESS SETS IN.
I collapse onto the pavement. I don’t pass out this time, but I’m aware of that little piece of bullet lodged inside my brain and for the briefest of moments, I feel myself drifting off to never never land. It isn’t exactly like an out-of-body experience because I’m not dying. But it’s close enough, and I feel like my soul is once again trying to escape the blood, bone, sweat, and tears.
And who can blame it.
All three of us lie in the middle of an empty road.
Behind us in the distance I am able to recognize the fenced-off perimeter of the Albany International Airport. Civilization has all but abandoned this end of the mammoth facility. Or should I say eminent domain evicted the residents a long time ago when the airport authority bought out entire neighborhoods in order to lengthen the runways. Evidently the houses were all torn down, but not all the basements were filled in. I’m guessing our Obama friends know all about these basements.
I somehow manage to grip the .9mm in a trembling hand.
The small female Obama on the ground is struggling to get up. So am I. But I make it to my feet first.
Georgie follows me. When the masked woman raises herself up onto her knees, I press the pistol barrel against her head. She witnessed me put a cap into her teammate’s head just a minute ago. She knows now that I won’t hold back from shooting just for the sake of making a new friend.
“Stay there,” I order.
Then I pull off the mask.
The face that’s revealed is a real beauty.
It also nearly causes me to pass out.
This time for real.
CHAPTER 26
THE FACE BELONGS TO a woman I’ve been seeing a lot of in the past few days. The nurse from the Albany Medical Center. The pretty one with the cleavage and the push-up bra who most definitely got a concussion-induced rise out of me as soon as I was revived from the beating her
Partial blindness is also a mistake.
The tall and lanky Georgie is able to maneuver his arms enough towards his left hip to get a hold of my wrists and to begin working his long fingers on my tape. He also has the benefit of long fingernails as so many pot smokers do. The easier to roll a ducktail joint with. He works until I feel a tear in the tape, and then another, and finally one more.
I’m able to take it from there.
When my hands are free, I’m better able to attack Georgie’s tape in the same manner. When he’s free, we don’t have to say a single word to one another to know what to do next. Georgie and I have known one another for a lot of years. We’re as close as brothers. Twin brothers.
We move at the same time.
Georgie going for Commander Obama with both hands thrust out in front. Me springing my claws on the lady Obama beside me, snatching the .9mm out of her hands, slamming her over the cranial cap with the barrel.
She falls into my lap as I swing the barrel around, and press the pistol against the short Obama in the middle. When he pulls out his own piece I blow his pumpkin head all over the windshield.
Georgie wrestles with Commander Obama. I cock back the hammer on the .9mm, press it up against his brain and blood-spattered head.
“The piece. Give me the piece!”
But the driver swings the wheel hard to the right, making the car fishtail to the left, sending me and the woman in my lap against the door. Georgie falls back, and Commander Obama takes a shot that shatters the rear glass. With the tires squealing the BMW still spinning circles, I know this is our only shot at getting out.
“Bail!”
Georgie opens his door, falls on out.
I open my door, and both I and the woman fall out. I stand up as quickly as I can, plant a bead on the Beemer, trigger off three quick rounds that explode what’s left of the rear and front glass.
But when it comes to driving, the surviving Obamas are presidential material. The damaged Beemer burns rubber, and like Air Force One on takeoff, disappears into the thick black night.
CHAPTER 25
DIZZINESS SETS IN.
I collapse onto the pavement. I don’t pass out this time, but I’m aware of that little piece of bullet lodged inside my brain and for the briefest of moments, I feel myself drifting off to never never land. It isn’t exactly like an out-of-body experience because I’m not dying. But it’s close enough, and I feel like my soul is once again trying to escape the blood, bone, sweat, and tears.
And who can blame it.
All three of us lie in the middle of an empty road.
Behind us in the distance I am able to recognize the fenced-off perimeter of the Albany International Airport. Civilization has all but abandoned this end of the mammoth facility. Or should I say eminent domain evicted the residents a long time ago when the airport authority bought out entire neighborhoods in order to lengthen the runways. Evidently the houses were all torn down, but not all the basements were filled in. I’m guessing our Obama friends know all about these basements.
I somehow manage to grip the .9mm in a trembling hand.
The small female Obama on the ground is struggling to get up. So am I. But I make it to my feet first.
Georgie follows me. When the masked woman raises herself up onto her knees, I press the pistol barrel against her head. She witnessed me put a cap into her teammate’s head just a minute ago. She knows now that I won’t hold back from shooting just for the sake of making a new friend.
“Stay there,” I order.
Then I pull off the mask.
The face that’s revealed is a real beauty.
It also nearly causes me to pass out.
This time for real.
CHAPTER 26
THE FACE BELONGS TO a woman I’ve been seeing a lot of in the past few days. The nurse from the Albany Medical Center. The pretty one with the cleavage and the push-up bra who most definitely got a concussion-induced rise out of me as soon as I was revived from the beating her
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