He pitched the lit cigarette into the gutter.
The Lada was parked fifty yards from the security gate of the small port. Frenchy was over there at the gate, asking the guards for directions. There was a small knot of men, silhouettes in the fog, shadows thrown by the yellow lamps, talking and laughing through the gate. Frenchy was kind of a funny guy. He could crack anybody up.
Frenchy was smoking effortlessly. Smoke one down to the nub, pitch it, and light another one. That was Frenchy.
Suddenly gunshots rang out. They came from the other side of the wharf. Three hundred yards away, Luke saw the muzzle flashes of the guns.
POP! POP! POP! POP!
Now men were shouting. A man screamed in terror, a high falsetto wail.
Someone opened up with a heavy gun, full auto. Luke could hear the metal
