The muzzle flashed four times, brightening the laboratory for a half second with each squeeze of the trigger. Michael lowered the weapon and stared at his handiwork. Three rounds to the chest and one to the head made sure Heimrich was dead.
Michael glanced back into the corner near the door. He’d disabled the camera earlier. The little red light on the side no longer glowed. There would be no evidence, no witnesses as to what just happened.
Hurriedly, he put away his gun and set about collecting the samples of mutated DNA. He found a medical cooler he’d placed in the room under one of the tables and put the samples inside. It was still very cold in the box, which would protect the DNA long enough for him to get to the drop-off point.
Next, he deleted all the computer files that contained anything about the Charlemagne DNA. The last thing he needed was for the police to accidentally find what the doctor had been investigating.
Satisfied the information was secure and all the samples taken, he grabbed the cooler and strolled out the door into the hallway. All the cameras in that wing of the building had been disabled so he’d have a clear path to his getaway car.
Soon, he would return to North Korea a hero.
Chapter 3
A small section of the building’s corner exploded in a burst of debris and dust as the bullet smashed into the decades-old brick. Sean ducked his head and jumped into the alley as his pursuer fired another round — this one sailing wide of the corner and into the façade of the building next door.
He drove his legs harder, pounding the concrete with the balls of his feet as he approached the next intersection of the sidewalks.
Sean had visited Venice several times in the past. That didn’t change the fact that the mazes of causeways, sidewalks, and canals were extremely confusing — even for Venetians. Based on his previous tack, another canal would be up ahead on the right. That or he’d find himself — quite literally — in a dead end.
He clutched the brown paper package tight in his right hand and tucked it under his armpit like a football as he darted toward the next turn.
The gunman behind him fired again. The bullet ricocheted loudly off the concrete close to Sean’s right foot. Another bounced off the windowsill near his left elbow.
He reached the turn and ran ahead, finding a bridge that spanned one of the old city’s many canals. A few tourists stood on it with their elbows on the railing, probably talking about how romantic the city was or how they’d like to stay another day if they could.
Other than for its historical value, Sean didn’t feel the same way about the old city on the water. It smelled in the morning and — as mentioned before — was extraordinarily confusing to navigate. He didn’t particularly care for the people either, noting that the Italians farther to the south seemed to be much friendlier.
Maybe he’d just been to Venice for the wrong reasons. Like the one under his arm.
He cut to the left and found himself staring at steps that descended into the water. No sidewalks lined this canal.
“Crap.”
He heard the footsteps of the gunman approaching the bridge. The guy was running at a furious pace.
Sean stuffed the package into his jacket pocket and pressed his back against the building nearest him, and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. As soon as Sean felt the pursuer was close enough, he spun around the corner, extended his arm, and clotheslined the guy squarely across the throat.
The gunman flipped 90 degrees, his face smacking the ground as he landed. His weapon tumbled through the air, struck one of the steps leading into the water, and plopped into the murky liquid.
Disoriented and desperate, the gunman grasped at his throat. Sean knew he’d crushed the man’s larynx. Without immediate medical attention, he would be dead in less than ninety seconds.
Apparently, the gunman didn’t care.
He kicked his leg and caught Sean off guard, squarely in the ankle. Sean fell to one knee. Alertly, he sensed the next attack and raised his elbow in time to deflect the man’s downward punch. The momentum brought the attacker too close. Sean instantly twisted his body, getting as much force behind the counter as possible, and drove his fist into the man’s gut.
The two tourists on the bridge stood in awe for a moment and then took off running in the other direction, the woman yelling something in Serbian.
Sean rose quickly and swung with his right fist. His target was hunched over yet still managed to deflect the first punch. He couldn’t stop the second one. Sean’s left fist snapped like lightning, striking the man’s jaw. His head rocked back, and he staggered toward the bridge rail. Sean pressed the attack, landing a second and third blow until the man could barely stand.
Sean stared at him for a second with fists still up and ready. The guy’s nose bled, his right eye already swelling. He wavered — gasping for breath — and then collapsed, prostrate, onto the sidewalk.
A nudge with his shoe against the man’s side told Sean the guy was dead. Sean took in a deep breath and sighed. He picked up the object he’d dropped during the fight and stared at the wrapping.
He considered opening it but knew he should wait.
Sudden movement in the corner of his eye confirmed his caution. He ducked back for cover as another pursuer fired a pistol. The bullet thumped into the building on the left across the bridge.
“These guys just don’t give up.”
He drew his weapon and whipped around the corner. His finger squeezed the trigger three times, unleashing a deadly metallic volley at the second gunman. Sean didn’t wait for the man to return fire. The second he saw the guy duck for cover, Sean sprinted across the bridge and into the next alley.
More gunfire erupted behind him, but the shooter was too far away to be accurate. No doubt the man was trying to chase while shooting, which would only make it worse.
Sirens whined from somewhere beyond the buildings. The tourists must have alerted the police. Of course, it could have been the gunshots that alerted the citizenry to trouble.
Either way, Sean had no desire to deal with the authorities. He had to get away.
He ducked down a pathway running alongside one of the canals and then turned right into another parallel alley. He didn’t need to check what time it was. Sean knew he was at least five minutes late. Fortunately, there was no way his ride was going to leave him.
He burst through one of the archways of Saint Mark’s Square and into the crowded plaza. Dozens of pigeons sprang to life, startled by his sudden appearance. The flocks of birds flapped their wings furiously as they climbed into the air and swirled over the piazza.
Sean kept running, now leery of an attack from above and behind.
Tourists pointed at the mass of birds as they took flight. But some continued taking pictures or drinking their morning coffee. Only one or two people noticed the American running at full stretch as he turned toward the harbor.
Another gunshot echoed from the square as Sean cleared the last pillars and crossed over the main thoroughfare on the edge of the city. A woman screamed from behind him, but he didn’t turn around to see what happened. His focus was straight ahead, on a brown speedboat waiting at one of the docks.
A man off to his left yelled something in Italian. Sean knew what the word meant, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to stop. His eyes stayed locked on the boat less than forty yards away. He sensed the police rushing toward him. Fortunately, the gunman fired again, and their attention immediately turned his way.
Sean didn’t see the bullet strike an innocent tourist in the leg just a few feet away from him. With the police now on his side, Sean pumped his muscles faster.