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the traffic along Beach Street. She said in a thin voice, "You believe they'll want to kill me next?" |
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"Oh, God," Anna Neville whispered. "Look there, across the street." |
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Morgan saw a dark-colored Bronco, menacing on its theatrical cleated tires, exhaust emerging eerily from its rear, poised for flight. He got to his feet, looking past Anna's shoulder. A man appeared in the open doorway to the restaurant, about twenty feet away. He had a shaved head and wraparound reflective dark glasses covering most of his face, what the grunts in the Corps called "fuck you shades." He was dressed in hunting camouflage, that showy imitation of military combat fatigues. The man held a concussion grenade in one hand and as Morgan moved forward, he rolled the grenade along the floor toward Anna. |
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Morgan changed directions in midleap. He scooped up the grenade and threw it through the window fronting Beach Street. The glass disintegrated. The bartender and the waiter, who had retreated to the back room, appeared in the archway, shouting their outraged protest. |
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Morgan roared, "Get down!" |
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He saw the Bronco burn rubber and start up Hyde Street, the grenade thrower clinging to an open door. Morgan wrapped his arms around Anna, pulled her out of her chair, and rolled with her to the floor. |
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Outside the night turned glare-white as the grenade exploded. The glassware behind the bar as well as the mirror shattered and fell like a shower of ice. |
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Morgan was on his feet in an instant. He pulled Anna up and dragged her after him, through the front door and out of the heavily damaged restaurant. In less than three minutes they were in his rented car, speeding around the perimeter of Fort Mason in the direction of the Pacific Coast Highway. |
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