Page 64 of Kill and Tell (CIA Spies 1)
"The snipers did. I was a Marine, too, you know. The snipers in the Vietnam war were legendary. The best ones could take out a target at a thousand yards. Their kills had to be verified, so they kept track in their kill books."
The idea still made her feel ill. "But wouldn't the Marine Corps have kept the books?"
"I don't know. I wasn't a sniper, so I never asked. Maybe they did. Maybe he kept two books, one for his own records. It was a bad war, honey. It messed up a lot of good men."
He continued flipping through the pages, scanning each one. When he reached the last one, he said, "Sixty-one kills. He was good at his job." He started to close the notebook, and the pages fluttered; there was some writing on the last page, though about forty pages had been skipped and left clean. Frowning, Marc opened the small notebook to the last page.
"Holy shit," he said slowly.
Karen had been watching him, had seen the way his pupils flared, the quick compression of his lips. "What is it?"
"Another kill," he answered, then lifted his gaze to hers. "An American soldier. He was paid twenty thousand dollars to do it."
Karen's stomach twisted. Dear God. Her father was a murderer, a paid assassin. Killing the enemy in war was one thing, but killing a fellow soldier was hideous.
"I'll take that, thank you," a strange voice said, and a man stepped in front of the open unit. He was burly, middle-aged, but hard looking; the pistol in his hand was aimed straight at Marc's head. He was in his sock feet, which explained why they hadn't heard him approach. "I've been wondering what was in that little book that was so damn interesting. I suppose I should thank you for saving me the trouble of looking for it. Just put it down on the box, there." His tone was easy, his manner anything but. "You, cowboy, ease that piece out of the holster and toss it on the ground. Gently, now. Two fingers."
Karen sat frozen. Marc's face was expressionless, but a slight shake of his head told her he didn't want her to move a muscle. Carefully, he did as the burly man said, using his thumb and finger to ease his pistol from the holster. He tossed it to the ground at the man's feet.
"Good boy."' The man didn't even glance at the pistol, didn't take his eyes off Marc. "Who the hell are you? Boyfriend? Cop?"
"Cop," Marc answered, leaving it at that. If he admitted to a personal relationship with Karen, the man would know he could force him to do anything by threatening her.
"I was afraid of that." The man sighed. "Okay, toss over your backup piece."
Silently, Marc removed a small pistol from his ankle holster and tossed it to the ground beside the other.
"Shit," the man said. "I really don't like killing a cop. It causes all sorts of trouble."
"Then rethink your position," Marc said. He started to straighten, and the man shook his head warningly.
"Just stay where you are. Sorry about this, Cowboy, Ma'am." Oddly, his regret seemed genuine. It didn't matter. He was going to kill them anyway. Karen watched his finger tighten on the trigger, horror slowing her perception so that the tiny movement seemed to take forever. Without thinking, she cried, "No!" as she reached out as if she could catch the bullet in her hand and prevent it from striking Marc.
The man jerked, just a little, his attention fragmented by her sudden cry
. Marc uncoiled like a snake striking, shoving Karen to the ground with his left hand while his right one whipped down and out. There was a blur of something shiny, then the man made one of the worst noises she had ever heard, a mixture of a cry and a gurgle, and with his free hand he clawed at the knife sticking in his throat, the knife Marc had been using to open the boxes.
He was a professional. He pulled the trigger anyway.
There was only a coughing sort of noise. Marc staggered back, caught his balance, launched himself forward. He hit the man in the chest and drove him backward to the ground. There was another coughing sound, and the mirror in the dresser shattered.
Scrambling up, Karen dived for Marc's pistol. The two men sprawled, struggling, in the rough gravel. Marc's left hand was locked around the other man's right wrist, forcing the weapon upward. With his right hand, he jerked the knife blade sideways.
The man choked, gagging. Blood spurted from the gaping wound in his neck. His face took on a bluish tinge. Rolling so he straddled him, Marc slammed the man's gun hand hard against the ground, twice, three times. Finally, the thick fingers loosened, and the pistol dropped from his grasp. He coughed, a rattling sound, and his legs quivered. He clawed at his throat.
Marc slumped forward, breathing hard, his head down.
"Oh, God," Karen whispered as she skidded to the ground beside him, ignoring the pain in her already abused knees. She forgot about the pistol in her right hand as she put both arms around him, easing him upright so she could assess the wound and his condition.
The front of his T-shirt was already soaked bright red. There was no exit wound in his back.
She spared only a glance for the man on the ground. He wasn't dead yet, but he would be shortly. His chest heaved as he tried and failed to suck in oxygen; his face was turning darker and darker, it was almost purple now.
Marc pressed his hand hard over the wound. The bullet had hit him high in the left chest, so high it had missed his heart but hit his lung. Karen heard the terrifying whistle from his chest as air escaped from his lung. The blood seeping through his fingers had bubbles in it, and a pink froth lined his lips.
"It's okay, sweetheart, you're going to be okay," she heard herself murmuring as her mind raced. Plastic. She needed some thin plastic, like Saran Wrap, to seal the wound and keep the lung from collapsing.
Sucking chest wounds were critical, and God only knew what kind of collateral damage the bullet had done tumbling around inside his body. He would die if she didn't seal the wound and get him to a hospital, quick.
