The Italian Mission by Alan Champorcher Read Free Book Online Page A

her body limp. Every few steps, the last man turned and took a wild shot back in his direction. Conti watched for a moment, then ran back to the trail. He needed to retrieve whatever other weapons special ops had given her. He found and shouldered her backpack, then rushed back to the clearing.
    Although he hadn’t gotten a clear view of their faces, he was reasonably sure they were the same South Africans he’d seen at the Vatican and again on the train. Jill must have stumbled on the aftermath of a confrontation between them and the Chinese. Now that Conti had a few moments to examine the dead man’s pockets, he found a map, binoculars, and a walkie-talkie. The clearing where he’d found the body commanded a good view of the trail as it wound its way north through the hills. The Chinese agent must have been monitoring the trail, on the lookout for the monks. Somehow the South Africans had caught him unawares. But why did they kill him? Who were they working for? He took off down the hill, moving as fast as he could through the brush with the bulky pack slung over his shoulder.
    After a hundred yards, he broke out onto a sunlit hillside. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he scanned the valley in front of him. Golden fields — wheat, he guessed — sloped down on both sides of a dirt road. The trampled path the South Africans had taken led straight to the road, then disappeared. It took only a few minutes for Conti to stumble down the slope where he again picked up their trail, footprints in the dusty track. He loosened the straps of the backpack enough to get both his arms through, pulled them tight again, and set off running in the same direction.
    The heat of the midday sun and the heavy pack slowed him to a gasping jog. As he rounded a bend, he saw a panel truck parked a quarter mile ahead. Stepping into the tall wheat stalks, he watched the two men open the back. They rolled Jill’s body in, latched the door, then moved around either side of the truck. The front doors opened and slammed shut again.
    He shrugged off the pack and dumped the contents on the ground, quickly finding what he wanted — the miniature sniper’s rifle that special ops had been foresighted enough to include. It came in three pieces. He quickly attached the stock, screwed on the barrel, slid the scope into the groove and shoved a clip into the magazine. Taking careful aim at the rear tire, he held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Dabbing the sweat from his eyes, he examined the magazine. Jammed. As he struggled to pull the clip out, the truck spun its wheels and sped away.

11.

    Conti slumped against the backpack, exhausted, sweaty and still sucking wind. A faint noise came from somewhere inside the pack. A metallic beeping. He dug through the contents. Several more clips for the rifle, a waterproof parka, two flares, what looked like a burglar’s tool kit, and half a dozen military ration packs. Below that were packages of spare socks and underwear. No wonder she’d labored climbing the steep Tuscan hills. The thing must have weighed fifty pounds. Finally, he got to the bottom and the source of the noise — a small, brushed steel box. Opening the latch, he found a computer screen inside that showed a map of the area. As he watched, a small icon moved across the map. The truck. Thank God for the tech nerds at headquarters. And thank God Jill had brought all this with her. He’d never mock her again.
    He stood up, stuffed everything back into the pack and began jogging again down the dirt road. Checking the tracker, he saw that the truck was moving on the outskirts of Siena toward what looked like a small rural settlement, perhaps a farm with several outbuildings. The read-out at the bottom of the screen said that it was 2.8 kilometers away. He could get there in half an hour if he hurried. The South Africans had killed a Chinese agent in cold blood. God knows what they might do to Jill, especially if they found out she was