Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,81

away his phone, she’d pasted a smile back on her face.

“Those margaritas look amazing,” Nova said, which was unusual, because she rarely drank. “Would you be a love and get me one?”

“Come with me.”

“Oh, you know I can’t wait in lines. I get impatient and say nasty things about people. Make it a tall one, and float some Patrón on top.”

“Okay.”

As he turned away, Nova grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. Her arms snaked around his waist. Her skin glowed from the heat. “I love you, Jason Bourne,” she whispered.

Those were the last words he heard her say.

He threaded his way to the tent on the far side of the festival where they sold margaritas frozen and on the rocks. Most of the people in line were loud and not on their first drink. When he looked back over the crowd, he couldn’t see Nova near the Cadillac anymore. She’d disappeared, lost among thousands of others.

He should have been worried, but he wasn’t. He was happy.

The band onstage played a cover of a Brad Paisley song. A skinny twenty-something black man in a cowboy hat talked with a wizened old man in overalls about his 1950 Studebaker Land Cruiser. Three kids no more than ten dodged the people in line as they squealed and played tag. Two teenage girls danced to the music. He smelled smoke; someone was sneaking a cigarette. Across the street, sunlight glimmered on the windows in the tower of the Lucky Nickel hotel.

Bourne heard the first shot as soon as it happened. Nobody else did.

The report of the rifle wasn’t even as loud as a firecracker, easy to miss, but he knew what it was. His head snapped around as he tried to pinpoint the source of the gunfire. The echoes played with the sound, as if it were coming from everywhere. Definitely a long gun. Definitely high up.

It had to be the hotel. He surveyed the windows, looking for the weapon.

A few seconds later, the shooter fired again.

The black man in the cowboy hat collapsed. It happened too fast for anyone to realize he’d been shot in the head. He simply fell where he stood, his hat covering his face. Another muffled pop rolled over the festival, barely loud enough to hear.

“Gun!” Bourne shouted. “Shooter! Take cover!”

Hesitation gripped the people around him. Not fear, just a frozen moment of uncertainty. No one understood what was happening; no one believed it was real. Then a woman grabbed her chest, and when everyone saw the spray of blood, the screaming began. Parents grabbed children. People ran, and shoved, and fell, trampled in a stampede. The fence around the lot penned them in, and there was nowhere to hide. More bullets rained down, faster now, one after another, randomly spraying the crowd, cutting down human beings like paper targets in an arcade. Metal pinged as rounds thudded into Fords and LaSalles.

Bourne had only one thought.

Nova.

He raced through a scene of wild panic. Bullets missed him by inches, and more bodies fell. He searched the faces, trying to find her. Look for the calm one; she wouldn’t run. She’d be helping others, dragging children behind cars, ripping off shirts to tend to the wounded.

Where was she?

Already, sirens wailed on the streets as police scrambled for the scene. Only a couple of minutes had passed since the carnage began, but every few seconds brought more death, more blood. He stopped and stared at the Lucky Nickel tower. He could see where the shooter was now, could see the reflection near the top floor and the fire of the barrel. He waved his arms, trying to draw the attention of whoever was behind the riflescope. Shoot at me, take me, leave the others.

Leave Nova.

But the gunfire went elsewhere. He shouted Nova’s name, barely audible above the tumult of voices. He found the Cadillac roadster where she’d been standing minutes earlier, but she was gone. Dozens of people lay flat on the hot pavement behind the car, covering their heads, covering their children, hiding from the assault.

The car owner in the plaid cap lay beside his prize car. He was dead, a bullet in his throat.

“Nova!” Jason screamed, turning in every direction.

Then, with the crowd parting like a curtain, he saw her. His world turned black. Someone carried her, her body slung over a man’s shoulder, her hair swishing back and forth as he took her away. He could only see half her face, but what he saw was streaked in