The Spanish Gambit
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From Stephen Hunter, whose first two novels established him as a master of the espionage thriller, comes a richly detailed, spellbinding tale of international intrigue set against the cataclysm of the Spanish Civil War.
he went. He looked back. Julian was alone now, the fool, the machine gun tucked against his hip. He fired a long burst at the hidden troops across the way and they returned his fire, their bullets cracking at the dry soil and the gravel around him. His hair blew free and his face and shirt were smeared with grime. in Venga, ingl@s, corra como el diablo! someone yelled. A man took the spool of wire from Florry and was twisting it to the contacts on the exploder box, an ominously crude-appearing
planned out. "Comrade?" "I ask," he said, feeling very much the fool, "that since ME you are going to kill me, you at least spare the girl. She had nothing to do with any of this." "If you confess, it will help," said Steinbach. "Help her, that is. You are clearly beyond mercy." "I cannot confess to what I have not done," said Florry. "You ask a great deal of me." Steinbach came over to where he was sitting and leaned over to talk more intimately. "You know," he said, "you'll make
saying. "One Anarchist may not lock up another Anarchist. Est6 libre. i Viva la anarquia! " Levitsky could see the American Bolodin through the open doorway, sitting at the cafe, and beyond that he could see an elderly man in Guardia Civil uniform head across the square, and at that same moment, a black Ford, the Twenty-ninth Division staff car, with Julian Raines and Robert Florry in the rear, pulled through the square and disappeared down the road and out of town. 11 i Viva la anarquia! "
I don't like it now, even. Being this close to it makes me nervous. And I bet you don't like it so hot either." He smiled. "Remember, old man. What, fifty years ago? With me it was only thirty years ago. But you remember it just like I do. They came in on the horses. Always with the horses. The horses so big and so tall they could smash a kid to pieces in the snow. And there was no place to run and maybe you were lucky because they only felt like doing a little killing or maybe you were unlucky
immediately inside, a man and a woman. He stepped over them. A wounded man behind the desk tried to lift his rifle toward Lenny; Lenny shot him in the chest. Another man, already on the floor, moaned, tried to climb to his feet. Lenny smashed him in the skull with his gun barrel. "Go, go," he screamed in Russian as the assault troops began to pour through the building. He could hear them on the stairs already and hear the screams beginning to spread through the hotel as they pounded through,