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.“It’s alright,” he said, out of breath.“Give me a minute.”Marcus von Daniken straightened up and looked across the snowy meadow.Caught in the glare was the outline of a black figure, dark as a rook’s wing.Then it disappeared.Ransom was gone.70Jonathan slid from shadow to shadow, concealing himself in dark corners and recessed doorways, in damp alleys and deserted passageways.His head ached from the blast and he was certain that he’d bruised a few ribs.Still, he was free, and liberty was a bracing tonic.He had just one goal: to get out of town.He picked his way down a side street slick with black ice.He was anxious to distance himself from the town center.If possible, there were even more policemen patrolling the sidewalks than when he’d arrived in town.A minute didn’t pass without a soldier or a policeman appearing out of nowhere and rushing past him up the hill.The column of black smoke acted like a beacon.The security teams were falling back on the red zone as if it were the Little Bighorn.He passed several homes, an automobile garage, and an electrician’s workshop.It was difficult to walk casually.Half of him wanted to run like hell, the other half wanted to crawl into a cellar, curl up, and hide.Worst was a nearly uncontrollable desire to look over his shoulder for pursuers.Several times he’d felt certain that someone was trailing him, but upon scanning the sidewalk behind him he hadn’t been able to spot a tail.He crossed the street and descended a steep walking path that passed between several chalets.At the bottom of the hill, the path widened.To his left rose an outdoor ice hockey stadium.To his right, a commercial road that led to the train station.A cluster of police cars were parked near the tracks.He wouldn’t get out of Davos by train.He considered where he should go.The busier the road, the more likely he was to run into the police.He needed quiet.He needed to think.He jumped a low fence that bordered a long, low-roofed wooden hut.The stink of manure seeped from its rough-hewn log walls.Listening to the low and rustle of the cows inside, he continued to the rear of the hut.He pulled up abruptly.There it was again.The scratching at the base of his neck.He was certain that someone was watching him.Pressing his back against the wall, he poked his head around the corner and stared down the path.Again, he saw no one.He leaned his head against the wood, telling himself to calm down.He took the flash drive from his pocket.It was his key to freedom.The question remained: who held the lock?He gathered himself, mapping out his next steps.He would find somewhere to lay up, wait until dark, and then head up the mountain.Most of the speeches were being given after six p.m.With many visitors attending the Kongresshaus, the town would be calmer, and hopefully, the police presence reduced.Once he made it past the Promenade, the going would be safer.The outer fence surrounding the town was barely two meters tall.He could be over it in ten seconds.Keeping to the mountains, he’d walk out of the valley.By morning, he’d be in Landquart, where the whole thing had begun.From there, he’d find a train or hitch a ride to Zurich.He froze, certain that he was being watched.Turning toward the street, he found himself face to face with a compact man several inches shorter than himself.The man was dressed in dark ski attire, but Jonathan could tell that he was no skier.The black eyes bore into him quizzically, as if he were owed an explanation.Jonathan recognized the face immediately.He was the man from the train.The assassin’s arm shot forward, a stiletto in his hand.Jonathan dodged right, shoving the man viciously to one side.A knife.But of course, he thought.No one could penetrate security with a gun.The assassin slammed into the wall and fell to a knee.Jonathan knew better than to fight.He’d tried his luck twice in the past days, and both times he’d come away injured.In his view, he had two strikes against him.He ran.He crossed the length of the livestock hut, cutting between the hut and the barn next to it.Soon he was back on a paved road, running for all he was worth.After one hundred meters, he came to a fork in the road.He chose to go in the direction that climbed the hill.Ahead, he could see cars and pedestrians crowding the Davosstrasse.He looked over his shoulder [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.“It’s alright,” he said, out of breath.“Give me a minute.”Marcus von Daniken straightened up and looked across the snowy meadow.Caught in the glare was the outline of a black figure, dark as a rook’s wing.Then it disappeared.Ransom was gone.70Jonathan slid from shadow to shadow, concealing himself in dark corners and recessed doorways, in damp alleys and deserted passageways.His head ached from the blast and he was certain that he’d bruised a few ribs.Still, he was free, and liberty was a bracing tonic.He had just one goal: to get out of town.He picked his way down a side street slick with black ice.He was anxious to distance himself from the town center.If possible, there were even more policemen patrolling the sidewalks than when he’d arrived in town.A minute didn’t pass without a soldier or a policeman appearing out of nowhere and rushing past him up the hill.The column of black smoke acted like a beacon.The security teams were falling back on the red zone as if it were the Little Bighorn.He passed several homes, an automobile garage, and an electrician’s workshop.It was difficult to walk casually.Half of him wanted to run like hell, the other half wanted to crawl into a cellar, curl up, and hide.Worst was a nearly uncontrollable desire to look over his shoulder for pursuers.Several times he’d felt certain that someone was trailing him, but upon scanning the sidewalk behind him he hadn’t been able to spot a tail.He crossed the street and descended a steep walking path that passed between several chalets.At the bottom of the hill, the path widened.To his left rose an outdoor ice hockey stadium.To his right, a commercial road that led to the train station.A cluster of police cars were parked near the tracks.He wouldn’t get out of Davos by train.He considered where he should go.The busier the road, the more likely he was to run into the police.He needed quiet.He needed to think.He jumped a low fence that bordered a long, low-roofed wooden hut.The stink of manure seeped from its rough-hewn log walls.Listening to the low and rustle of the cows inside, he continued to the rear of the hut.He pulled up abruptly.There it was again.The scratching at the base of his neck.He was certain that someone was watching him.Pressing his back against the wall, he poked his head around the corner and stared down the path.Again, he saw no one.He leaned his head against the wood, telling himself to calm down.He took the flash drive from his pocket.It was his key to freedom.The question remained: who held the lock?He gathered himself, mapping out his next steps.He would find somewhere to lay up, wait until dark, and then head up the mountain.Most of the speeches were being given after six p.m.With many visitors attending the Kongresshaus, the town would be calmer, and hopefully, the police presence reduced.Once he made it past the Promenade, the going would be safer.The outer fence surrounding the town was barely two meters tall.He could be over it in ten seconds.Keeping to the mountains, he’d walk out of the valley.By morning, he’d be in Landquart, where the whole thing had begun.From there, he’d find a train or hitch a ride to Zurich.He froze, certain that he was being watched.Turning toward the street, he found himself face to face with a compact man several inches shorter than himself.The man was dressed in dark ski attire, but Jonathan could tell that he was no skier.The black eyes bore into him quizzically, as if he were owed an explanation.Jonathan recognized the face immediately.He was the man from the train.The assassin’s arm shot forward, a stiletto in his hand.Jonathan dodged right, shoving the man viciously to one side.A knife.But of course, he thought.No one could penetrate security with a gun.The assassin slammed into the wall and fell to a knee.Jonathan knew better than to fight.He’d tried his luck twice in the past days, and both times he’d come away injured.In his view, he had two strikes against him.He ran.He crossed the length of the livestock hut, cutting between the hut and the barn next to it.Soon he was back on a paved road, running for all he was worth.After one hundred meters, he came to a fork in the road.He chose to go in the direction that climbed the hill.Ahead, he could see cars and pedestrians crowding the Davosstrasse.He looked over his shoulder [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]