THIRTY-EIGHT
The light that spilled across the driveway gave Chaise a perfect view of the huge double oak doors. He crouched behind the bonnet of the Jeep and took a bead with Vladimir’s automatic. It was a Russian-made Stechkin variable automatic, a weapon he was not too familiar with; he would have preferred the Walther, but time was pressing.
He knew enough about the g*n to alter the fire-rate, then blazed away at the door, bullets smashing into the solid wood, sending up a mass of broken shavings in all directions. Moving fast, he ripped open the car door, scrambled inside and started it up. He swung the Jeep around the driveway before anybody had the courage to come out of the house, and gunned the engine, flying out of the drive and down the winding approach road.
He had no idea w
