Patriot Game

Author: (USA) Tom Clancy
Translator: Sun Kangqi, Tong Xingeng
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-07-01
Features: This book tells the story of Jack Ryan, a retired Marine Corps lieutenant and historian, who gets inadvertently involved in an event where members of the British royal family are kidnapped by a terrorist organization in Northern Ireland during his vacation in London. Thanks to his former Marine Corps training background, Ryan kills two of the terrorists, and the third is arrested by the British police. As a result, the terrorist organization retaliates by hunting Ryan and his family in the United States, putting them in mortal danger. Later, Ryan returns to the CIA, but the terrorist organization plots again to attack Ryan's family and kidnap members of the British royal family. The police from the UK and the US engage in a life-and-death struggle with the terrorist organization, and ultimately, with the great wisdom and courage of Ryan and his friend, the terrorist organization's plot is completely foiled.
This kid isn’t easy to deal with. Another shooter placed his AK rifle on the ground, firing a pistol at the car with one hand while holding something in the other. Ryan took a deep breath and emerged from behind the car, pointing the gun at his chest. The shooter turned around first, then suddenly turned the gun on Ryan. They fired their guns at the same time. Ryan felt a heavy blow to his shoulder and saw his bullet hit the man in the chest. The 9mm bullet sent the man staggering backward as if he’d been punched hard. Ryan seized the opportunity as the man fell backward and fired another shot. This second bullet entered from the man’s chin and exited from the back of his head, leaving a large stain of blood. The man fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut, motionless on the sidewalk. Ryan immediately aimed the gun at his chest until he realized his head had been shattered.
"Oh, my God!" The excitement came on suddenly and left just as quickly. As his emotions returned to normal, he felt dizzy and short of breath. He opened his mouth and struggled to breathe. The strength that had supported him earlier had now faded. He felt weak all over, on the verge of collapse. The black car backed a few yards before accelerating and speeding past him, turning into a side street on the left and disappearing. Ryan didn’t think about memorizing the license plate number; he was too stunned by the series of events that had just unfolded to even understand what had happened. The man he had shot twice was definitely dead, his eyes still wide open, as if unable to comprehend what had happened to him. A large pool of blood flowed from the back of his head. Ryan noticed that the left hand of the man, wearing gloves, still clutched a hand grenade, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of fear. He bent down to check and confirmed that the grenade was still safe before disarming it—a slow and arduous process. Then, he turned his attention to the Rolls-Royce inside.
A hand grenade had completely destroyed the front of the car. The two front wheels were twisted, the tires flat, and the driver was dead. The person sitting in the front passenger seat was also slumped over, dead. The thick windshield was shattered. The driver’s face was a bloody pulp, unrecognizable. A fresh stain of blood covered the partition glass between the driver’s seat and the rear passenger seat.
Jack turned to the rear passenger door and looked inside. Someone was lying on the floor of the car, and a corner of a woman’s dress was visible beneath them. Ryan knocked on the car window with his gun, and the person inside stirred, then lay still again. At least he wasn’t dead. Ryan glanced at his pistol—it was out of ammo. The slide was jammed. Now, every breath he took triggered a sharp pain. His legs were barely holding him up, and his hands began to tremble, making the pain in his shoulder even worse. He looked around, but what happened next momentarily distracted him from the pain. A soldier ran toward him, followed by a police officer.
Jack guessed they were guards from Buckingham Palace. The soldier’s bearskin hat had fallen off, and he held an automatic rifle with a bayonet half a foot long. Ryan instinctively wondered if the rifle was loaded. But finding out would likely be too costly. He knew this soldier, who looked like a toy soldier, wasn’t just there for show. Anyone qualified to be a royal guard was rigorously selected—brave, skilled, and no less capable than a Marine. But why did he get here so quickly?
Ryan placed the pistol in his hand and slowly but carefully extended it. He pressed the safety catch with his thumb, and the magazine fell to the ground. Then he opened the bolt, so the soldier running toward him could see the pistol was empty. He gently placed the gun on the ground and took a few steps back. He tried to raise his hand, but his left arm was completely immobile. The soldier ran up, chest puffed out, though he glanced left and right, his eyes fixed on Ryan. He stopped about ten feet away, the rifle not yet loaded, but the bayonet aimed at Jack’s throat. His movements were exactly like those in the infantry manual. His chest rose and fell, but his face was expressionless.
The police officer running behind shouted into his radio, his face grim.
"Please don’t be nervous, soldier," Ryan thought, trying to speak calmly, but it didn’t sound right. "We took care of those two bad guys. I’m a good guy."
The soldier’s expression didn’t change. Oh, this kid wasn’t easy to deal with. Ryan could guess what was going through the soldier’s mind: it would be so easy to stab him in the back. If that happened, Jack probably wouldn’t have been able to avoid the first attack.
"Dad! Dad!" Ryan turned around and saw his daughter, Sally, running toward him from the parked car. A few feet away, the four-year-old suddenly stopped, her face filled with fear. Then she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around her father’s legs and shouting at the soldier, "Don’t hurt my dad!"
The soldier’s gaze shifted from Ryan to his daughter, and he seemed bewildered. At that moment, Cassie stepped forward cautiously, her hands open.
"Soldier," she said in an authoritative tone, "I’m a doctor. Let me handle his wound. But you can put the gun down. Please drop it now!"
The police officer who had caught up grabbed the soldier’s shoulder and said something to him, but Ryan couldn’t understand what they were saying. The soldier’s demeanor slightly softened, and the angle of his gun changed.
Ryan saw more police officers running over, along with a white car with its siren blaring. At least things were gradually getting under control. Cassie began examining Ryan’s wound.
"You’re crazy," she said calmly. The shoulder of Ryan’s new suit was stained with a deep mark, turning the gray wool a purplish-red. He was trembling all over, and his legs, still held by Sally, couldn’t support him anymore. He collapsed.
Cassie grabbed his right arm and helped him onto the sidewalk, making him sit against the Rolls-Royce. She separated his shirt from the wound and gently touched it. Ryan winced in pain. Cassie reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, pressing it against the bleeding wound.
"I’m afraid it’s not going to work," she muttered to herself.
"Dad, you’re all bloody!" Sally stood a few feet away, her small hands trembling as if she were a young bird flapping its wings endlessly.
Ryan wanted to reach out and comfort her, let her know everything was okay, but the three feet between them felt like an endless distance. He knew his arm was badly injured.
About a dozen police officers had gathered, most still breathing heavily. Three of them were holding guns, scanning the crowd. Two more guards in red uniforms arrived from the west.
A police sergeant approached Ryan, but before he could speak, Cassie raised her head and commanded loudly, "Call an ambulance immediately!"
"It’s already on the way, ma’am," the sergeant replied, his tone unexpectedly friendly.
"Why didn’t you let us take care of him?"
"I’m a doctor," she snapped. "Do you have a knife?"