PERONI WANTED TO SCREAM, TO SWEAR, TO LEAP ON THE prone Englishwoman with her deadly rifle, shrieking: Why, why, why? PERONI WANTED TO SCREAM, TO SWEAR, TO LEAP ON THE prone Englishwoman with her deadly rifle, shrieking: Why, why, why?
Wanted to know why too he hadn’t done what duty demanded. Shot her straight out in cold blood.
There were people at his back now, a commotion. Violence loomed, that curt, dark confrontation he’d come to know too well.
Then, as he got to her, the sniper’s rifle barked again and she let loose a squeal of satisfaction.
He was cursing, pointing his pistol at the long, corpulent form on the concrete roof, ready to fire. But Elizabeth Murray rolled over, dropped the black rifle, held her big hands wide open, looked him in the face—and grinned.
Peroni kept his gun aimed straight at her face, unable to think of a sensible thing to say.
“Oh, don’t look so cross, Gianni,” she said, still beaming. “A couple of minutes earlier and you could have got us all into real trouble, my boy.”
The weapon wavered in his hand. She stretched out her right arm.
“Now. Will you help an old lady up? Please? I really am past these games, you know.”