"Dibdin, Michael - Aurelio Zen 02 - Vendetta UC - part 01" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dibdin Michael)

terror. Vianello's expression did not change, except to
harden slightly.
'What do you want?' Burolo repeated, his brows knitted
in puzzlement and annoyance. Abruptly, he pushed his
chair aside and strode towards the intruder, staring
masterfully downwards as though to cow an unruly child.
You could say what you liked, thought Zen, but the man
had guts. Or was he just foolhardy, trying to show off to
his guests, to preserve an image of bravado to the last? At
all events, it was only in the final moment that any fear
entered Oscar's eyes, as he flung up his hands in an
instinctive attempt to protect his face.
A brutal eruption of noise swamped the soundtrack.
Literally disintegrated by the blast, Oscar's hands dis-
appeared, while bright red blotches appeared all over his
face and neck like an instant infection. He reeled away,
holding up the stumps of his wrists. Somehow he man-
aged to recover his balance and turn back, only to receive
the second discharge, which carried away half his chest
and flung him against the corner of the dining table, where
he collapsed in a bloody heap at his wife's feet.
Rita Burolo scrambled desperately away from the corpse
as Vianello dived under the table, a pistol appearing in his
hand. The ratchet sound of a shotgun being reloaded by
pump action mingled with two sharp light cracks from the
architect's pistol. Then the soundtrack was bludgeoned
twice more in quick succession. The first barrel scoured the
space below the table, gouging splinters out of the wood,
shattering plates and glasses, wounding Signora Vianello
terribly in the legs and reducing her husband to a night-
mare figure crawling about on the floor like a tormented
animal. The second caught Rita Burolo trying desperately
to climb out of the window that lay open on to the terrace.
As she was further away than the others, the wounds she
sustained were more dispersed, covering her in a spray as
fine and evenly distributed as drizzle on a windscreen.
With a despairing cry she fell through the window to the
paving stones of the terrace, where she slowly bled to
death.
Despite her lacerated legs, Maria Pia Vianello somehow
struggled to her feet. For all her diminutive stature, she
too gave the impression of looking down at the intruder.
'Just a moment, please,' she muttered over the dry,
clinical sound of the gun being reloaded. 'I'm afraid I'm
not quite ready yet. I'm sorry.'
The shot took her at close range, flaying her so fearfully
that loops of intestine protruded through the wall of her
abdomen in places. Then the second barrel spun her
round. She clutched the wall briefly, then collapsed into a
dishevelled heap, leaving a complex pattern of dark