Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Janson Option (Paul Janson) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Paul Garrison
among his crew could navigate home by the shape of the swells and the light in the sky. But they needed the radar to warn them of the Navy patrols.
“Where is that boat?” he asked angrily.
“Drifted away.”
“Find it.”
“Why?”
“Run it down! Drown that devil captain.”
Farole laid a hand on Maxammed’s arm. “My friend, we must get the ship to Eyl. We have no time for revenge.”
Maxammed’s face was tight with rage, eyes bulging, lips stretched across his teeth. Farole prayed to God that he would come to his senses before he exploded like a volcano.
“Humanitarians, my friend. Remember?”
TWO
48°9' N, 103°37' W
Bakken Oilfield
North Dakota, near Montana
P aul Janson steered a drunk out of the path of an ambulance racing from the Frack Up Bar & Grill’s parking lot. Then he shouldered through a crowd of derrick hands, pipe wranglers, and rig mechanics who were cheering two men fighting in a cage made of chain-link fence.
The night was cold and the air stank of diesel exhaust from the trucks men left running to warm up in between bouts. A hundred-foot pillar of fire burning waste gas off a flare stack behind the bar lighted the cage bright as day.
The bigger fighter had blood dripping from his nose into his chest hair.
A bare-legged woman in a short down jacket circled the ring with a cardboard marking Round Two. Phones flashed as fans took her picture. When she stepped out and closed the gate, Janson asked, “Where’s the sign-up sheet?”
“Nowhere. Dudes on law enforcement radar won’t write their particulars. You want to fight, get in line.”
“Where’s the line?”
“The end of it’s that truck driver getting his head stomped by the dancing Chinaman. Cranked-up dude put three in the ambulance. Everyone else decided to call it a night.”
The “dancing Chinaman” was a rangy, six-foot-two Chinese-American bouncing in a frenzy on the balls of his feet. He had a head full of shaggy dreadlocks that he shook like a mop, and he was cranked up, indeed, his eyes yawning wide with crystal meth. But his body was rock hard, and he moved, Janson observed, with the lethal grace of a martial-arts sensei.
He was showboating, playing to the crowd. A blazing-fast backflip drew cheers when he bounced high off the canvas, turned over in the air, and landed on his feet in icy command. A second backflip landed him closer to the truck driver. The driver—inches taller and sixty pounds heavier—lunged, throwing skillful combinations.
The Chinese-American jabbed him twice in a heartbeat and bounced out of range, leaving a circle of cuts and bruised flesh around his eye. The truck driver lunged again, willing to take punishment to get close enough to bring his size and weight to bear. The Chinese-American swirled into another of his seemingly impossible backflips. This time he landed on one foot, off balance, it appeared, until his other foot rocketed up in a shoulder-high kick that dropped the trucker with a heel to his jaw.
The crowd whooped and whistled. Cell phones flashed. The bare-legged woman signaled her assistants to carry the loser out of the cage. The winner cursed the crowd, daring men to fight.
Paul Janson took off his windbreaker and stepped into the cage. The floor was slippery with blood.
The Chinese-American greeted him with a backflip and ran in circles, taunting Janson. “Gray dude? What you doing in here? Run away, old man.”
Janson spoke softly.
“ What? Who are you? How the fuck you know my name?” The meth made Denny Chin too impatient to wait for an answer. He jumped, levitated into another backflip, and ran circles around Janson, herding him into the middle of the cage. He flipped again, landed on one foot, and launched a kick.
Janson stepped close and hit him hard.
The dreadlocked fighter landed on his back. He tried to sit up. Janson dropped onto him. The man’s neck was strong but not thick. A broad hand spanned both carotid arteries. When Chin stopped
“Where is that boat?” he asked angrily.
“Drifted away.”
“Find it.”
“Why?”
“Run it down! Drown that devil captain.”
Farole laid a hand on Maxammed’s arm. “My friend, we must get the ship to Eyl. We have no time for revenge.”
Maxammed’s face was tight with rage, eyes bulging, lips stretched across his teeth. Farole prayed to God that he would come to his senses before he exploded like a volcano.
“Humanitarians, my friend. Remember?”
TWO
48°9' N, 103°37' W
Bakken Oilfield
North Dakota, near Montana
P aul Janson steered a drunk out of the path of an ambulance racing from the Frack Up Bar & Grill’s parking lot. Then he shouldered through a crowd of derrick hands, pipe wranglers, and rig mechanics who were cheering two men fighting in a cage made of chain-link fence.
The night was cold and the air stank of diesel exhaust from the trucks men left running to warm up in between bouts. A hundred-foot pillar of fire burning waste gas off a flare stack behind the bar lighted the cage bright as day.
The bigger fighter had blood dripping from his nose into his chest hair.
A bare-legged woman in a short down jacket circled the ring with a cardboard marking Round Two. Phones flashed as fans took her picture. When she stepped out and closed the gate, Janson asked, “Where’s the sign-up sheet?”
“Nowhere. Dudes on law enforcement radar won’t write their particulars. You want to fight, get in line.”
“Where’s the line?”
“The end of it’s that truck driver getting his head stomped by the dancing Chinaman. Cranked-up dude put three in the ambulance. Everyone else decided to call it a night.”
The “dancing Chinaman” was a rangy, six-foot-two Chinese-American bouncing in a frenzy on the balls of his feet. He had a head full of shaggy dreadlocks that he shook like a mop, and he was cranked up, indeed, his eyes yawning wide with crystal meth. But his body was rock hard, and he moved, Janson observed, with the lethal grace of a martial-arts sensei.
He was showboating, playing to the crowd. A blazing-fast backflip drew cheers when he bounced high off the canvas, turned over in the air, and landed on his feet in icy command. A second backflip landed him closer to the truck driver. The driver—inches taller and sixty pounds heavier—lunged, throwing skillful combinations.
The Chinese-American jabbed him twice in a heartbeat and bounced out of range, leaving a circle of cuts and bruised flesh around his eye. The truck driver lunged again, willing to take punishment to get close enough to bring his size and weight to bear. The Chinese-American swirled into another of his seemingly impossible backflips. This time he landed on one foot, off balance, it appeared, until his other foot rocketed up in a shoulder-high kick that dropped the trucker with a heel to his jaw.
The crowd whooped and whistled. Cell phones flashed. The bare-legged woman signaled her assistants to carry the loser out of the cage. The winner cursed the crowd, daring men to fight.
Paul Janson took off his windbreaker and stepped into the cage. The floor was slippery with blood.
The Chinese-American greeted him with a backflip and ran in circles, taunting Janson. “Gray dude? What you doing in here? Run away, old man.”
Janson spoke softly.
“ What? Who are you? How the fuck you know my name?” The meth made Denny Chin too impatient to wait for an answer. He jumped, levitated into another backflip, and ran circles around Janson, herding him into the middle of the cage. He flipped again, landed on one foot, and launched a kick.
Janson stepped close and hit him hard.
The dreadlocked fighter landed on his back. He tried to sit up. Janson dropped onto him. The man’s neck was strong but not thick. A broad hand spanned both carotid arteries. When Chin stopped
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