rl.thebourneidentity-第92章
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od at the bottom。 What followed was the core of a terrifying nightmare。 There was a short burst of automatic gunfire as the panelled wood splintered； fragments flying across the room。 The instant it stopped； Jason raised his own weapon and fired diagonally through the door； the burst was repeated。 Bourne spun away； pressing his back against the wall； the eruption stopped and he fired again。 There were now two men inches from each other； wanting above all to kill each other。 Cain is for Charlie and Delta is for Cain。 Get Carlos。 Trap Carlos。 Kill Carlos！
And then they were not inches from each other。 Jason heard racing footsteps； then the sounds of a railing being broken as a figure lurched down the staircase。 Carlos was racing below； the pig…animal wanted support； he was hurt。 Bourne wiped the blood from his face； from his throat； and moved in front of what was left of the door。 He pulled it open and stepped out into the narrow corridor； his gun levelled in front of him。 Painfully he made his way towards the top of the dark staircase。 Suddenly he heard shouts below。
'What the hell you doing man！ Pete！ Pete！'
Two spits filled the air。
'Joey！ Joey！'
A single spit was heard； bodies crashed to a floor somewhere below。
'Jesus！ Jesus； Mother of。。。！'
Two spits again； followed by a guttural cry of death。 A third man was killed。
What had that third man said？ Two wise…ass stiffs and four crumb balls now。 The moving van was a Carlos operation！ The assassin had brought two soldiers with him … the first three crumb balls from the shape up。 Three men with weapons； and he was one with a single gun。 Cornered on the top floor of the brownstone。 Still Carlos was inside。 Inside。 If he could get out； it would be Carlos who was cornered！ If he could get out。 Out！
There was a window at the front end of the hall； obscured by a black blind。 Jason veered towards it； stumbling； holding his neck； creasing his shoulder to blunt the pain in his chest He ripped the blind from its spindle； the window was small； the glass here； too； thick； prismatic blocks of purple and blue light shooting through it； it was unbreakable； the frame riveted in place； there was no way he could smash a single pane。 And then his eyes were drawn below to Seventy…first Street。 The removal van was gone。 Someone must have driven it away。。。 one of Carlos's soldiers！ That left two。 Two men； not three。 And he was on the high ground； there were always advantages on the high ground。
Grimacing； bent partially over； Bourne made his way to the first door on the left； it was parallel to the top of the staircase； He opened it and stepped inside。 From what he could see it was an ordinary bedroom； lamps； heavy furniture； pictures on the walls。 He grabbed the nearest lamp； ripped the cord from the wall and carried it out to the railing。 He raised it above his head and hurled it down； stepping back as metal and glass crashed below。 There was another burst of gunfire； the bullets shredding the ceiling； cutting a path in the plaster。 Jason screamed； letting the scream fade into a cry； the cry into a prolonged desperate wail； and then silence； he edged his way to the rear of the railing。 He waited。 Silence。
It happened。 He could hear the slow； cautious footsteps； the killer bad been on the first…floor landing。 The footsteps came closer； became louder； a faint shadow appeared on the dark wall。 Now。 Bourne sprang out of his recess and fired four shots in rapid succession at the figure on the staircase； a line of bullet holes and eruptions of blood appeared diagonally across the man's collar。 The killer spun； roaring in anger and pain as his neck arched back and his body plummeted down the steps until it was still； sprawled face…up across the bottom three steps。 In his hands was a deadly automatic field machine…gun with a rod and brace for a stock。
Now。 Jason ran over to the top of the staircase and raced down； holding the railing； trying to keep whatever was left of his balance。 He could not waste a moment； he might not find another。 If he was going to reach the first floor it was now； in the immediate aftermath of the soldier's death。 And as he leaped over the dead body； Bourne knew it was a soldier； it was not Carlos。 The man was tall； and his skin was white； very white； his features Nordic； or northern European； in no way Latin。
Jason ran into the hallway of the first floor； seeking the shadows； hugging the wall。 He stopped； listening。 There was a sharp scrape in the distance； a brief scratch from below。 He knew what he had to do now。 The assassin was on the ground floor。 And the sound had not been deliberate； it had not been loud enough or prolonged enough to signify a trap。 Carlos was injured … a smashed kneecap or a broken wrist could disorient him to the point where he might collide with a piece of furniture or brush against a wall with a weapon in his hand； briefly losing his balance as Bourne was losing his。 It was what he needed to know。
Jason dropped to a crouch and crept back to the staircase； to the dead body sprawled across the steps。 He had to pause for a moment； he was losing strength； too much blood。 He tried to squeeze the flesh at the top of his throat and press the wound in his chest； anything to stem the bleeding。 It was futile； to stay alive he had to get out of the brownstone house； away from the place where Cain was born。 Jason Bourne。。。 there was no humour in the word association。 He found his breath again； reached out and pried the automatic weapon from the dead man's hands。 He was ready。
He was dying and he was ready。 Get Carlos。 Trap Carlos。。。 Kill Carlos！ He could not get out； he knew that。 Time was not on his side。 The blood would drain out of him before it happened。 The end was the beginning： Cain was for Carlos and Delta was for Cain。 Only one agonizing question remained： who was Delta？ It did not matter。 It was behind him now； soon there would be the darkness； not violent but peaceful。。。 freedom from that question。
And with his death Marie would be free； his love would be free。 Decent men would see to it； led by a decent man in Paris whose son had been killed on the rue du Bac； whose life had been destroyed by an assassin's whore。 Within the next few minutes； thought Jason； silently checking the clip in the automatic weapon； he would fulfil his promise to that man； carry out the agreement he had with men he did not know。 By doing both； the proof was his。 Jason Bourne had died once on this day； he would die again but would take Carlos with him。 He was ready。
He lowered himself to a prone position and crept； hands over elbows； towards the top of the staircase。 He could smell the blood beneath him； the sweet； bland odour penetrating his nostrils； informing him of a practicality。 Time was running out。 He reached the top step； pulling his legs up under him； digging into his pocket for one of the road flares he had purchased at the army…navy store on Lexington Avenue。 He knew now why he had felt the pulsion to buy them。 He was back in the unremembered Tarn Quan； forgotten except for brilliant； blinding flashes of light。 The flares had reminded him of that fragment of memory； they would light up a jungle now。
He uncoiled the waxed fuse from the small round recess in the flare head； brought it to his teeth and bit through the cord； shortening the fuse to less than an inch。 He reached into his other pocket and took out a plastic lighter； he pressed it against the flare； gripping both in his left hand。 Then he angled the rod and brace of the weapon into his right shoulder； shoving the curved strip of metal into the cloth of his blood…soaked field jacket； it was secure。 He stretched out his legs and； snake…like； started down the final flight of steps； head below； feet above； his back scraping the wall。
He reached the mid…point of the staircase。 Silence； darkness； all the lights had been extinguished。。。 Lights？ Lights？ Where were the rays of sunlight he had seen in that hallway only minutes ago？ It had streamed through a pair of French windows at the far end of the room … that room … beyond the corridor； but he could see only darkness now。 The door had been shut； the door beneath him； the only other door in that hallway； was also closed； marked only by a thin shaft of light。 Carlos was making him choose。 Behind which door？ Or was the assassin using a better strategy？ Was he in the darkness of the narrow hall itself？
Bourne felt a stabbing jolt of pain in his shoulder blade； then an eruption of blood that drenched the flannel shirt beneath his field jacket。 Another warning： there was very little time。
He braced himself against the wall； the weapon levelled at the thin posts of the railing； aimed down into the darkness of the corridor。 Now！ He pulled the trigger。 The staccato explosions tore the posts apart as the railing fell； the bullets shattering the walls and the door beneath him。 He released the trigger； slipping his hand under the scalding barrel； grabbing the plastic lighter with his right hand； the flare in his left。 He spun the flint； the wick took fire and he put it to the short fuse。 He pulled his hand back to the weapon and squeezed the trigger again； blowing away everything below。 A glass chandelier crashed to a floor somewhere； singing whines of ricochets filled the darkness。 And then … light I Blinding light as the flare ignited； firing the jungle； lighting up the trees and the walls； the hidden paths and the mahogany corridors。 The stench of death and the jungle was everywhere； and he was there。
Almanac to Delta； Almanac to Delta！ Abandon； abandon！
Never。 Not now。 Not at the end。 Cain is for Carlos and Delta is for Cain。 Trap Carlos。 Kill Carlos！
Bourne rose to his feet； his back pressed against the wall； the flare in his left hand； the exploding weapon in his right。 He plunged down into the carpeted underbrush； kicking the door in front of him open； shattering silver frames and trophies that flew off tables and shelves into the air。 Into the trees。 He stopped； there was no one in that quiet； sound…proof elegant room。 No one in the jungle path。
He spun around and lurched back into the hall； puncturing the walls with a prolonged burst of gunfire。 No one。
The door at the end of the narrow； dark corridor。 Beyond was the room where Cain was born。 Where Cain would die； but not alone。
He held his fire； shifting the flare to his right hand beneath the weapon； reaching into his pocket for the second flare。 He pulled it out； and again uncoiled the fuse and brought it to his teeth； severing the cord； now millimetres from its point of contact with the gelatinous incendiary。 He shoved the first flare to it； the explosion of light was so bright it pained his eyes。 Awkwardly； he held both flares in his left hand and； squinting； his legs and arms losing the battle for balance； approached the door。
It was open； the narrow crack extending from top to bottom on the lock side。 The assassin was acmodating； but as he looked at that door； Jason instinctively knew one thing about it that Carlos did not know。 It was a part of his past； a part of the room where Cain was born。 He reached down with his right hand； bracing the weapon between his forearm and his hip； and gripped the knob。
Now。 He shoved the door open six inches a
