just the movement that he had rehearsed. Draw, thumb the safety, pull the trigger hard. He shot the man on his right and hit him in the groin. For a brief second, Terzian saw his pinched face, the face that reflected such pain that it folded in on itself, and he remembered Adrian falling in the Place Dauphine with just that look. Then he stuck the pistol in the ribs of the man on his left and fired twice. The arms that grappled him relaxed and fell away.
There were two more men grappling with Stephanie. That made four altogether, and Terzian reasoned dully that after the first three fucked up in Paris, the home office had sent a supervisor. One was trying to tug the Nike bag away, and Terzian lunged toward him and fired at a range of two meters, too close to miss, and the man dropped to the ground with a whuff of pain.
The last man had hold of Stephanie and swung her around, keeping her between himself and the pistol. Terzian could see the knife in his hand and recognized it as one he’d seen before. Her dark glasses were cockeyed on her face and Terzian caught a flash of her angry green eyes. He pointed the pistol at the knife man’s face. He didn’t dare shoot.
“Police!” he shrieked into the wind. “Policia!” He used the Spanish word. Bloody spittle spattered the cobblestones as he screamed.
In the Trashcanian’s eyes, he saw fear, bafflement, rage.
“Polizia!” He got the pronunciation right this time. He saw the rage in Stephanie’s eyes, the fury that mirrored his own, and he saw her struggle against the man who held her.
“No!” he called. Too late. The knife man had too many decisions to make all at once, and Terzian figured he wasn’t very bright to begin with. Kill the hostages was probably something he’d been taught on his first day at Goon School.
As Stephanie fell, Terzian fired, and kept firing as the man ran away. The killer broke out of the passageway into a little square, and then just fell down.
The slide of the automatic locked back as Terzian ran out of ammunition, and then he staggered forward to where Stephanie was bleeding to death on the cobbles.
Her throat had been cut and she couldn’t speak. She gripped his arm as if she could drive her urgent message through the skin, with her nails. In her eyes, he saw frustrated rage, the rage he knew well, until at length he saw there nothing at all, a nothing he knew better than any other thing in the world.
He shouldered the Nike bag and staggered out of the passageway into the tiny Venetian square with its covered well. He took a street at random, and there was Odile’s hotel. Of course: the Trashcanians had been staking it out.
It wasn’t much of a hotel, and the scent of spice and garlic in the lobby suggested that the desk clerk was eating his dinner. Terzian went up the stair to Odile’s room and knocked on the door. When she opened—she was a plump girl with big hips and a suntan—he tossed the Nike bag on the bed.
“You need to get back to Mogadishu right away,” he said. “Stephanie just died for that.”
Her eyes widened. Terzian stepped to the wash basin to clean the blood off as best he could. It was all he could do not to shriek with grief and anger.
“You take care of the starving,” he said finally, “and I’ll save the rest of the world.”
Michelle rose from the sea near Torbiong’s boat, having done thirty-six hundred calories’ worth of research and caught a honeycomb grouper into the bargain. She traded the fish for the supplies he brought. “Any more blueberries?” she asked.
“Not this time.” He peered down at her, narrowing his eyes against the bright shimmer of sun on the water. “That young man of yours is being quite a nuisance. He’s keeping the turtles awake and scaring the fish.”
The mermaid tucked away her wings and arranged herself in her rope sling. “Why don’t you throw him off the island?”
“My authority doesn’t run that far.” He scratched his jaw. “He’s
There were two more men grappling with Stephanie. That made four altogether, and Terzian reasoned dully that after the first three fucked up in Paris, the home office had sent a supervisor. One was trying to tug the Nike bag away, and Terzian lunged toward him and fired at a range of two meters, too close to miss, and the man dropped to the ground with a whuff of pain.
The last man had hold of Stephanie and swung her around, keeping her between himself and the pistol. Terzian could see the knife in his hand and recognized it as one he’d seen before. Her dark glasses were cockeyed on her face and Terzian caught a flash of her angry green eyes. He pointed the pistol at the knife man’s face. He didn’t dare shoot.
“Police!” he shrieked into the wind. “Policia!” He used the Spanish word. Bloody spittle spattered the cobblestones as he screamed.
In the Trashcanian’s eyes, he saw fear, bafflement, rage.
“Polizia!” He got the pronunciation right this time. He saw the rage in Stephanie’s eyes, the fury that mirrored his own, and he saw her struggle against the man who held her.
“No!” he called. Too late. The knife man had too many decisions to make all at once, and Terzian figured he wasn’t very bright to begin with. Kill the hostages was probably something he’d been taught on his first day at Goon School.
As Stephanie fell, Terzian fired, and kept firing as the man ran away. The killer broke out of the passageway into a little square, and then just fell down.
The slide of the automatic locked back as Terzian ran out of ammunition, and then he staggered forward to where Stephanie was bleeding to death on the cobbles.
Her throat had been cut and she couldn’t speak. She gripped his arm as if she could drive her urgent message through the skin, with her nails. In her eyes, he saw frustrated rage, the rage he knew well, until at length he saw there nothing at all, a nothing he knew better than any other thing in the world.
He shouldered the Nike bag and staggered out of the passageway into the tiny Venetian square with its covered well. He took a street at random, and there was Odile’s hotel. Of course: the Trashcanians had been staking it out.
It wasn’t much of a hotel, and the scent of spice and garlic in the lobby suggested that the desk clerk was eating his dinner. Terzian went up the stair to Odile’s room and knocked on the door. When she opened—she was a plump girl with big hips and a suntan—he tossed the Nike bag on the bed.
“You need to get back to Mogadishu right away,” he said. “Stephanie just died for that.”
Her eyes widened. Terzian stepped to the wash basin to clean the blood off as best he could. It was all he could do not to shriek with grief and anger.
“You take care of the starving,” he said finally, “and I’ll save the rest of the world.”
Michelle rose from the sea near Torbiong’s boat, having done thirty-six hundred calories’ worth of research and caught a honeycomb grouper into the bargain. She traded the fish for the supplies he brought. “Any more blueberries?” she asked.
“Not this time.” He peered down at her, narrowing his eyes against the bright shimmer of sun on the water. “That young man of yours is being quite a nuisance. He’s keeping the turtles awake and scaring the fish.”
The mermaid tucked away her wings and arranged herself in her rope sling. “Why don’t you throw him off the island?”
“My authority doesn’t run that far.” He scratched his jaw. “He’s
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