Free The Fraternity of the Stone by David Morrell Page B

along the gravel shoulder, he found what he needed. The van's designer had not anticipated that an attacker could get this close. The caps on the air valves didn't have a lock. Drew hurriedly unscrewed the one on the right rear tire, jammed a chunk of wood inside it, and heard a hiss of air.
    The van began to list in Drew's direction, slowly sinking onto the rain-soaked gravel shoulder. He yanked the Mauser from behind his belt at his spine and scurried back to position himself with a good view of the rear door and both doors in front. His tactic was based on the assumption that as the occupant felt the van tilt beneath him, he'd conclude the rain had weakened the road's shoulder to such an extent that the van was sinking into the mud, listing toward the forest.
    Would the driver come out to check?
    A door banged open.
    Drew rolled to the ditch and lay in frigid muddy water, waiting for the driver to check the listing side of the van.
    But the driver did something else. Already nervous because he couldn't contact his partner, he bolted. Drew heard footsteps charge across the pavement toward the forest on the other side, and lunged to the top of the ditch. On his stomach, unable to reach the man, he fired the Mauser through the space beneath the van and the road, shifting his aim toward the sound of the rushing footsteps, clustering his bullets.
    He heard a groan, a body toppling onto the asphalt. He scrambled to his feet and veered past the van toward the road. He hadn't shot to kill; instead, he'd chosen the legs as a target, needing to subdue the man and get some answers. Who'd ordered the hit? Why had they tried to kill him?
    The man crawled awkwardly ahead of him.
    A cracking flash from a handgun made Drew dart left. A second shot missed even farther. The man stopped shooting, pivoted forward again, and scuttled farther toward the trees beyond the road. He reached the edge of the pavement. In a moment, he'd be into the ditch and gain the cover of bushes from which to defend himself. Drew had to stop him now.
    He sprinted at the man from the side. With no other choice, he kicked the man's forehead and stomped the hand that held the weapon. The man wailed, slumping off the pavement onto gravel, landing hard on his battered forehead. Drew yanked the weapon from his hand and kicked him again. The man groaned, rolling onto the leg that he'd been dragging, where a liquid darker than rain soaked the calf of his jeans. The resulting shriek was louder than that of the wind. The shriek broke, losing its pitch, descending to a moan, then silence.
    The man lay still. As much as Drew could tell, he'd passed out from pain and shock. Even so, the next step was risky, for now Drew had to stoop to touch him. If the man was faking unconsciousness, if he had a knife.
    Drew bound the arms with the skipping rope from around his waist. Next, he searched the man, not finding any other weapons. Then he grabbed his collar and dragged him across the pavement toward the van, tilting him slightly so that the wounded leg took a lot of stress. He needed to keep applying pain, to make sure the man stayed unconscious. He paused at the driver's door, which the wind had shut (or had it?), and studied the darkness beyond the window. Suppose he was wrong? His calculations had been based on the assumption that two men - and only two - had been left behind by the death team. After all, the fewer the members of the surveillance team, the less chance of drawing attention if the authorities arrived, and two was the minimum for the job. But suppose there was a third man who'd stayed inside, ready to shoot as Drew opened the door.
    Standing out of the line of fire, pressed against the side of the van, Drew pointed his Mauser and slowly pulled the driver's door open. As he expected, the interior light did not come on. In the old days, he himself had always unscrewed the interior light of any vehicle he drove, anticipating a night when he might not want to show