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Bourne pulled his lighter out of his right pocket and ignited the flareScrambling, he raced across
the balcony doors hurling the hissing, blinding missile out into the darknessTwo snaps followed,
the bullets ricocheting off the tiled ceiling and shattering the mirror of a dressing table“He’s got a
MAC-ten with a silencer,” said Medusa’s Delta, rolling into the wall, grabbing his inflamed neck as
he did so“I have to get out of here!”
“David, you’re hurt!”
“That’s nice Jason Bourne got to his feet and raced to the door; slamming it back, he rushed
into the villa’s living
silver chanel room, only to face a frowning Canadian physician
“I heard some noise in there,” said the doctor“Is everything all right?”
“I have to leave
“Now, see here! There’s blood on your bandage, the sutures—”
“Get your ass on the floor!”
“You’re not twenty-one, MrWebb—”
“Get out of my life!” shouted Bourne, running to the entrance, letting himself outside, and
rushing up the lighted path toward the main complex, suddenly aware of the deafening steel band,
its sound amplified throughout the grounds by a score of speakers nailed to the trees
The undulating cacophony was overwhelming, and that was not to his
sale gucci handbags disadvantage, thought
JasonAngus McLeod had been true to his wordThe huge glass-enclosed circular dining room
held the few remaining guests and the fewer staff, and that meant the Chameleon had to change
colorsHe knew the mind of the Jackal as well as he knew his own, and that meant that the assassin
would do exactly what he himself would do under the circumstancesThe hungry, salivating wolf
went into the cave of its confused, rabid quarry and pulled out the prized piece of meatSo would
he, shedding the skin of the mythical chameleon, revealing a much larger beast of prey—say, a
Bengal
chanel bag classic tiger—which could rip a jackal apart in his jawsWhy were the images important? Why?
He knew why, and it filled him with a feeling of emptiness, a longing for something that had
passed—he was no longer Delta, the feared guerrilla of Medusa; nor was he the Jason Bourne of
Paris and the Far EastThe older, much older, David Webb kept intruding, invading, trying to find
reason within insanity and violence
No! Get away from me! You are nothing and I am everything! Go away, David, for Christ’s
sake, go away
Bourne spun off the path and ran across the harsh, sharp tropical grass toward the side entrance
of the
dior saddle innInstantly, breathlessly, he cut his pace to a walk at the sight of a figure coming through
the door; then upon recognizing the man, he resumed runningIt was one of the few members of
Tranquility’s staff he remembered and one of the few he wished he could forgetThe insufferable
snob of an assistant manager named Pritchard, a loquacious bore, albeit hardworking, who never let
anyone forget his family’s importance in Montserrat—especially an uncle who was deputy director
of immigration, a not so incidental plus for Tranquility Inn, David Webb suspected
“Pritchard!” shouted Bourne, approaching
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