"Clancy, Tom - Jack Ryan 02 - Patriot Games" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clancy Tom)

"They're supposed to have a good dining room. Still early, though.
These civilized places make you wait until eight or nine." He saw another
Rolls go by in the direction of the Palace. He was looking forward to
dinner, though not really to having Sally there. Four-year-olds and
four-star restaurants didn't go well together. Brakes squealed off to his
left. He wondered if the hotel had a baby-sitting --

BOOM!

Ryan jumped at the sound of an explosion not thirty yards away.
Grenade, something in his mind reported. He sensed the whispering sound of
fragments in the air and a moment later heard the chatter of automatic
weapons fire. He spun around to see the Rolls turned crooked in the
street. The front end seemed lower than it should be, and its path was
blocked by a black sedan. There was a man standing at its right front
fender, firing an AK-47 rifle into the front end, and another man was
racing around to the car's left rear.
"Get down!" Ryan grabbed his daughter's shoulder and forced her to the
ground behind a tree, yanking his wife roughly down beside her. A dozen
cars were stopped raggedly behind the Rolls, none closer than fifty feet,
and these shielded his family from the line of fire. Traffic on the far
side was blocked by the sedan. The man with the Kalashnikov was spraying
the Rolls for all he was worth.
"Sonuvabitch!" Ryan kept his head up, scarcely able to believe what he
saw. "It's the goddamned IRA -- they're killing somebody right --" Ryan
moved slightly to his left. His peripheral vision took in the faces of
people up and down the street, turning and staring, in each face the black
circle of a shock-opened mouth. This is really happening! he thought,
right in front of me, just like that, just like some Chicago gangster
movie. Two bastards are committing murder. Right here. Right now. Just
like that. "Son of a bitch!"
Ryan moved farther left, screened by a stopped car. Covered by its
front fender, he could see one man standing at the left rear of the Rolls,
just standing there, his pistol hand extended as though expecting someone
to bolt from the passenger door. The bulk of the Rolls screened Ryan from
the AK gunner, who was crouched down to control his weapon. The near
gunman had his back to Ryan. He was no more than fifty feet away. He
didn't move, concentrating on the passenger door. His back was still
turned. Ryan would never remember making any conscious decision.
He moved quickly around the stopped car, head down, keeping low and
accelerating rapidly, his eyes locked on his target -- the small of the
man's back -- just as he'd been taught in high school football. It took
only a few seconds to cover the distance, with Ryan's mind reaching out,
willing the man to stay dumb just a moment longer. At five feet Ryan
lowered his shoulder and drove off both legs. His coach would have been
proud.
The blind-side tackle caught the gunman perfectly. His back bent like
a bow and Ryan heard bones snap as his victim pitched forward and down. A
satisfying klonk told him that the man's head had bounced off the bumper
on the way to the pavement. Ryan got up instantly -- winded but full of