Free The Prone Gunman by Jean-Patrick Manchette

where no one was paying her any mind. She suddenly got up and grabbed the long toasting fork in the hearth. Holding the utensil with both hands, she charged Rossana Rossi. Anne was screaming.
    She was so fast that she reached the brunette before the woman could even begin to turn around. The three giant tines of the fork, entering under a shoulder blade, ran through one of the Italian’s lungs.
    Terrier jumped instantly to his feet and wrenched the Colt Special Agent from Rosanna Rossi’s hand. A geyser of foaming blood was spurting from her mouth. When the two women fell flat on their bellies, one on top of the other, Terrier and the short fat man opened fire at the same time. The short fat man missed Terrier. A .38 caliber bullet burst the fat man’s heart, and he fell. Terrier turned toward the kitchen, where the panic-stricken young guy was clumsily pulling a Savage automatic from his pocket. Terrier put a bullet in his stomach. Ducio dropped his automatic and fell to his knees, wailing. He caught hold of the kitchen door and slammed it shut. Terrier emptied the Colt through the door, then ran toward the terrace, picking up the HK4 on his way. He went out of the house, raced around to the other side as fast as he could, slipping in the pine needles and sand, and went up to the broken kitchen window. In the ravaged room, the man called Ducio leaned against the kitchen door. In his back were two craters the size of tomatoes. Hanging on to the doorknob, he was still trying to get up. Terrier entered the kitchen through the window. He picked up the Savage automatic and put it in his pocket, seized Ducio by his hair, and pulled him away from the door before going back into the living room.
    The short fat man was dead, the two women unconscious. Terrier quickly examined Anne, noted that she had no physical wound, picked her up, and carried her to the convertible sofa. He hurried back to the kitchen. The young Italian was dead. Terrier returned to the living room, took out his handkerchief, and mopped his brow. His lips were trembling. After a moment, they stopped trembling. Then he saw that Anne had opened her eyes and was looking at him.
    â€œI have to go,” he said. “You have to say that you were upstairs, that you saw nothing, heard nothing. No, you heard gunshots, you came down, you found everyone dead. . . . ”
    â€œI’m going with you,” Anne cut in.
    For a moment, Terrier seemed incapable of formulating an answer.
    â€œYou don’t have to,” he said. “You just have to say . . .”
    She interrupted again: “I’m going with you. Isn’t that what you want?”
    â€œYes,” said Terrier. “Yes.”
    He turned on his heel, striking his left palm with his right fist.
    â€œWait,” he said. “I’d like you to go upstairs for a minute. You must . . . I should. . . . ” He leaned over Rosanna Rossi and saw that she was dead. “No,” he said. “Okay. Let’s go.”

12
    They passed a police van, an Estafette, on the shoreline road.
    â€œThe neighbors must have heard something,” said Terrier.
    He glanced at Anne. She didn’t seem in shock. She was sitting in a relaxed manner. She was looking straight ahead. There was a black spot on her lower lip, where she’d bitten it and made it bleed. She didn’t respond.
    â€œI can’t run the risk of stopping back at my hotel or your house,” said Terrier after a moment. “But I could drop you in the center of Nauzac.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOr I can get right on the highway, and we head for Paris.”
    The young woman gave a small quick nod.
    â€œYou’re sure you know what you’re doing?”
    â€œYes!” she said. “Do you want something to drink?”
    â€œNo,” said Terrier.
    Anne turned around awkwardly under her seatbelt to grab the bottle of Martell cognac from the backseat. Before leaving, Terrier had