Dark Soul Vol. 3 by Aleksandr Voinov Read Free Book Online Page B

orange juice, which he poured into two tall glasses.
    “You always hated juice with bits,” Franco observed.
    Silvio grinned. “Yeah, because it used to make me retch. But I got my throat muscles more under control now.”
    Franco glanced at the glass of orange juice. He’d never see the floating pulp quite the same way again. “So, you were thinking?”
    “Yeah. I think best in bed, when I’m fal ing asleep.” Silvio settled on the high chair at the bar and took his fork. “You’re a sniper.”
    “Was.” Franco began to eat. “And?”
    “Teach me.” Silvio stared at him. “I can shoot with a rifle, but I’m sure you could show me some more tricks.”
    “Why? Who do you want to take out?”
    “There’s . . . I have enemies that need to die. One has some serious security, I doubt I could just walk up to him and shoot him in the head. But a sniper . . . in an urban territory. Unless you’re Obama and have the secret service shut down half the town, a sniper is difficult to protect against. My target doesn’t have quite that amount of power.
    He’s rich, and his security is ex-military, you know, Spetsnaz and SAS
    and shit like that.”
    “Spetsnaz? You’re dealing with Russians?”
    Silvio nodded, chewing his eggs, then swallowed. “Stefano can get us whatever rifles you need to train. I was thinking to blow him up, but I like the idea of shooting him from far away.”
    Franco shook his head. Like the idea. Like planning an excursion to the zoo. “I’d say Bushmaster. It’s an easy rifle to shoot with, and legal in the States. It worked for John Muhammad.”
    “Who?”
    “The DC Sniper.” Franco sipped his coffee. “You’d need a driver for the car, but if he hadn’t started bragging about it, he could have gone on a fair bit longer.”
    “No bragging here. I’ll take him out and move on.” Silvio’s face lit up. “So, you’re going to help me?”
    Before Franco had to answer, he heard a sound from the door.
    Silvio’s gaze settled just for a moment on a block of vicious-looking cooking knives, but then he took another forkful of eggs and half-turned to look at the door.
    A man stepped into the living room. He walked stiffly, and his face bore fading discoloration like from a car crash or a beating. Still, with his fashionably tousled wavy black hair and tanned features that made his light eyes stand out, he was attractive in that entirely pleasant way that looked accidental but wasn’t.
    “Good morning, Silvio.” Shit, a nice voice, too.
    Silvio grinned. “Morning. The eggs are done, but we have orange juice left.”
    “I’ve had breakfast,” the stranger said. He was in his early to mid-thirties, and he stood there like he owned the place. Which was really the clue. Stefano Marino, Italian businessman and procurer of high-powered hunting rifles.
    Silvio took a mouthful of his orange juice, entirely unconcerned, but Franco felt the tension in the room. That Silvio did nothing to defuse it was a message. He didn’t think for a moment that Silvio didn’t feel it.
    “Who’s your guest?” Marino asked, looking Franco up and down, and Franco was very aware that Silvio was half-naked, that they’d slept in the same bed and were now having breakfast together.
    “Franco Spadaro.”
    “My brother.”
    They said it at the same time.
    The old connection had established itself again. Silvio’s eyes flashed with triumph? Joy? Yes, his younger brother was thinking exactly the same thing.
    Stefano forced a smile and came toward him. “Stefano Marino.
    I’m Silvio’s employer.” His hand felt warm and strong in Franco’s, and again that odd current that Franco didn’t like. Unlike with Falchi, though; Marino didn’t want him here.
    “I told him he can stay with me.” Silvio finished his eggs. “He’s looking for a place to stay.”
    “So you’re visiting?”
    “Maybe he’s staying,” Silvio said immediately. “There’s no reason why he has to leave.”
    Franco lifted