Лесли Чартерис - The Saint in Trouble

The bullet entered just above her heart. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a whimpered cough escaped before she sagged limply forward.

It was one of the most callous acts of total selfishness that the Saint had ever been forced to witness. And since he could only hold himself responsible, in essence, for having made it happen, the first duty of vengeance had been abruptly bequeathed to him.

He felt his blood turn to slow rivers of ice, and he fired.

A neat black-rimmed hole appeared in Hakim’s forehead. Yasmina slipped from his grasp and he pitched over, falling across her body, and lay still.

Masrouf spun around and fired wildly in the direction of the Saint, but the bullets zipped harmlessly above Simon’s head. The Saint took careful aim again, but before he could fire, Leila and Yakovitz opened up from the positions where he had left them. Khaldun clutched at his belly, floundered, and went down. The third terrorist had barely started to run when a bullet bowled him over like a rag doll. Masrouf, somehow unscathed by the fusillade, was still searching blindly for a target when the Saint released his last shot with no more compunction than the grenade that had been flung through the window of his living room the night before.

The electric light was weak against the strengthening sun and the room was chilly. In Kensington Gardens, outside the embassy, first one bird and then another heralded the morning until the air was ringing with their song. The Saint stared silently at the black liquid in bis cup while Leila finished her report.

Garvi turned to the Saint and smiled.

“So your plan worked out perfectly,” he said. “It was an ideal ending.”

“Tell that to Yasmina,” Simon returned stonily, and the smile faded from Garvi’s face.

“It was a pity about her, Simon. But she knew the sort of people she was associating with. You knew the risks when you set your trap, but you must not blame yourself for what happened to her.”

“Yasmina was Masrouf and Co.’s only remaining link with Hakim,” said the Saint. “Having lost him it was a pretty safe bet that they’d go after her again as soon as they’d got their car working again, and follow her when she left her flat. Leila and I used the guns I’d taken from them at the factory, and we swapped guns around before we left so that the police will think it was just a private shoot-out between terrorists.”

He rose slowly to his feet, finally allowing the strain of the past two days to show.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I must be going home. I’ve still got to get some redecorations organised. After which I’ll be looking forward to keeping my promise to show Leila some of the more cheerful sights of the town, as soon as she feels up to it.”

Leila looked away from him, studying her hands and avoiding his eyes. Garvi shifted awkwardly in his chair.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it. “But Captain Zabin is under orders to return at once to Tel Aviv. There is nothing I can do about it.”

The Saint walked over to her and gently ruffled her hair. He bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips before walking to the door. He turned and smiled ruefully.

“Some other time, then,” he said gently. “ Shalom, Captain Zabin.”

Leila looked up at him and did not try to hide the moisture clouding her eyes.

“L’chayim, Mr. Templar,” she whispered.