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

adrenaline -- and crouched beside the body. The man's pistol had dropped
from his hand and lay beside the body. Ryan grabbed it. It was an
automatic of some sort he had never handled. It looked like a 9mm Makarov
or some other East Bloc military issue. The hammer was back and the safety
off. He fitted the gun carefully in his right hand -- his left hand didn't
seem to be working right, but Ryan ignored that. He looked down at the man
he'd just tackled and shot him once in the hip. Then he brought the gun up
to eye level and moved to the right rear corner of the Rolls. He crouched
lower still and peeked around the edge of the bodywork.
The other gunman's AK was lying on the street and he was firing into
the car with his own pistol, something else in his other hand. Ryan took a
deep breath and stepped from behind the Rolls, leveling his automatic at
the man's chest. The other gunman turned his head first, then swiveled
off-balance to bring his own gun around. Both men fired at the same
instant. Ryan felt a fiery thump in his left shoulder and saw his own
round take the man in the chest. The 9mm slug knocked the man backward as
though from a hard punch. Ryan brought his own pistol down from recoil and
squeezed off another round. The second bullet caught the man under the
chin and exploded out the back of his head in a wet, pink cloud. Like a
puppet with severed strings, the gunman fell to the pavement without a
twitch. Ryan kept his pistol centered on the man's chest until he saw what
had happened to his head.
"Oh, God!" The surge of adrenaline left him as quickly as it had come.
Time slowed back down to normal, and Ryan found himself suddenly dizzy and
breathless. His mouth was open and gasping for air. Whatever force had
been holding his body erect seemed to disappear, leaving his frame weak,
on the verge of collapse. The black sedan backed up a few yards and
accelerated past him, racing down the street, then turning left up a side
street. Ryan didn't think to take the number. He was stunned by the
flashing sequence of events with which his mind had still not caught up.
The one he'd shot twice was clearly dead, his eyes open and surprised
at fate, a foot-wide pool of blood spreading back from his head. Ryan was
chilled to see a grenade in his gloved left hand. He bent down to ensure
that the cotter pin was still in place on the wooden stick handle, and it
was a slow, painful process to straighten up. Next he looked to the Rolls.
The first grenade had torn the front end to shreds. The front wheels
were askew, and the tires flat on the blacktop. The driver was dead.
Another body was slumped over in the front seat. The thick windshield had
been blasted to fragments. The driver's face was -- gone, a red spongy
mass. There was a red smear on the glass partition separating the driver's
seat from the passenger compartment. Jack moved around the car and looked
in the back. He saw a man lying prone on the floor, and under him the
corner of a woman's dress. He tapped the pistol butt against the glass.
The man stirred for a moment, then froze. At least he was alive.
Ryan looked at his pistol. It was empty, the slide locked back on a
dry clip. His breath was coming in shudders now. His legs were wobbling
under him and his hands were beginning to shake convulsively, which gave
his wounded shoulder brief, sharp waves of intense pain. He looked around
and saw something to make him forget that --
A soldier was running toward him, with a police officer a few yards