Free The Fraternity of the Stone by David Morrell Page A

corkscrew winding turns, was the nearest town, Quentin. He tried to imagine the strategy of the death team. If he was one of two men they'd left behind to check the monastery - he wouldn't want to be camping in the woods. Too damp and cold. He'd want a dry, warm place in which to sleep and change, clothes and get something to eat while his partner took his turn on the hill. But he'd also want mobility, the chance to leave the area in a hurry if he had to. That combination of requirements suggested a vehicle large enough to hold equipment and a bed - a camper-truck, for example, or a van. And he certainly wouldn't park it where the authorities might drive by. Its probable hiding place would not be along the portion of the road that led toward Quentin. Instead, it would be on the opposite side of the monastery. On Drew's right. Where the road led toward the maple syrup factory, and after that, scenery, little else.
    He found a van fifteen minutes later. On the far shoulder of the road, just before a curve would have made it impossible for an occupant to see the entrance to the lane up to the monastery. The position was logical, Drew thought. The only sure sign that I escaped would be a lot of vehicles arriving at the monastery -ambulances, cops, the coroner. Who else could have warned the authorities except a survivor of the killings? As soon as the team felt confident that I wasn't in the area, their back-up pair could pull out. Conversely, the longer the authorities failed to arrive, the more suspicious the team would be that I hadn't escaped.
    But he had to verify that the van wasn't parked here simply because of a breakdown or an innocent sleepy driver. He crawled farther through the undergrowth along the road until he faced the rear of the van - no windows along the side but a bubblelike window in back. Ducking to keep from being spotted through that window, he sprinted across the pavement to crouch beside the rear right tire. The convex back window could have been designed to deflect the heat of the sun; on the other hand, it could have been designed to keep an outsider from getting an undistorted view of the interior. Perhaps the window worked only from inside to out; or perhaps it had a pull-down blind. The glass might even be bullet-proof, the body as well reinforced against attack. These possibilities were hypothetical, of course, unverifiable except by assault.
    Nonetheless, there was one easy test to find out if a seemingly ordinary vehicle had been designed to go into combat. All Drew needed to do was sink to the pavement and peer beneath the chassis. In the dark, he had to wait for lightning to reflect its gleam off the asphalt, but even with the brief illumination, he saw what he needed. The van had no visible gas tank.
    The conclusion was obvious. Mounted inside the back compartment of the van, the fuel tank would be as protected as the vehicle's occupants. There wasn't any question now. He had to believe that the van was armored. To get into it, he'd need a weapon considerably more powerful than a Mauser pistol.
    But even Goliath could be defeated. A reinforced vehicle was designed to survive an attack while it was moving. Stopped, it became more vulnerable, especially if the enemy got close to it. He knelt to feel the right rear tire, concluding without surprise that the rubber was extra thick and no doubt layered with metal. A bullet from the Mauser would do little damage, not enough to prevent the driver from speeding away.
    The trick was to convince the occupant - already distressed because he couldn't raise his partner on the walkie-talkie - that he had another and more immediate problem: the rain's long-term effect on the gravel shoulder of the road. Even a bullet-resistant tire had to be inflated, or to use that logic in the reverse, it could also be deflated. True, by letting air from the tire, Drew wouldn't be able to drive the van away, but this well-equipped vehicle would surely have a spare.
    Feeling