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The beams shot forward, bouncing back in blinding reflection off the metal and chrome of the car in front.
#Jason bourne free online 123 driver#
The driver lowered the window, then switched on the headlights. The man next to the driver opened his door, his foot plunging down to the pavement, a gun in his hand.
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The crash echoed through the quiet street, it was followed by a series of cracks as the rock clattered across the bonnet of a car and dropped to the pavement. He inched around the corner of the building, cocked his arm, and threw the stone as far as he could above and beyond the saloon. Bourne reached into his pocket and pulled out the stone it was barely a quarter the size of the petrol-soaked brick, but it would serve the purpose. The windows of that dining room with their splendid view of the quaint, rich Parisian street would do. An inside hall light spilled over to the casement bay windows on either side of the staircase, the left was obviously a dining-room he could see chairs and a long table in the additional light of a rococo sideboard mirror. Directly across from Jason, beyond the Bentley, was a white stone building, its windows outlined in black enamel. Behind their car were three others, a small Mercedes, a dark brown limousine and a Bentley. The two men in the saloon were still low in the front seat, their concentration still on Villiers's house. He crept back to the edge of the building at the corner of Villiers's street. He wrapped the cloth around the cobblestone, twisting and crisscrossing the sleeves, tying them firmly together, holding his missile in place. Three minutes later he pulled the drenched shirt slowly out of the tank, the fumes mingling with the rain, the residue of oil covering his hands. He picked it up along with a smaller fragment and started back towards the motorbike, the fragment in his pocket, the large brick in his hand. He pried it loose by kicking his heel into the slice that separated it from its jagged wall.
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A partially dislodged cobblestone, forced from its recess by a decade of careless drivers jumping the kerb. He found it at the next corner, by a sewer drain. He replaced the top he was not yet ready to douse his shirt. Better yet, the opening was relatively wide, the petrol level nearly full. He put his hand on the tank top and turned it it unscrewed easily. He looked up and down the street there was no one, no sound other than the quiet spattering of the rain. Nine litres of fuel was not forty the risk of any theft had to be balanced against the proceeds, and two gallons of fuel was hardly worth a five-hundred franc fine. The top would have a chain attached, but it was unlikely to have a lock. It was a motorbike, its petrol tank a metal bubble between handlebars and seat. And then he saw what he wanted to see directly ahead on the pavement, chained to an iron gate.
Most, but not all, there had to be an unsecured top among the line of cars at the kerb. He needed petrol, but this was Paris and most fuel tanks would be locked. He peered into the night rain, scanning the cars in the street. Then he took off his shirt, ripping the cloth from collar to waist he put both coats on again, pulling up the lapels, buttoning the overcoat, the shirt under his arm.
Bourne crept back behind the comer building into the intersecting street and ran silently to the nearest doorway, where he stopped and removed his jacket and overcoat.
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