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

behind. One of the Palace guards, Jack thought. The man had lost his
bearskin shako but still had an automatic rifle with a half-foot of steel
bayonet perched on the muzzle. Ryan quickly wondered if the rifle might be
loaded and decided it might be expensive to find out. This was a
guardsman, he told himself, a professional soldier from a crack regiment
who'd had to prove he had real balls before they sent him to the finishing
school that made windup toys for tourists to gawk at. Maybe as good as a
Sea Marine. How did you get here so fast?
Slowly and carefully, Ryan held the pistol out at arm's length. He
thumbed the clip-release button, and the magazine clattered down to the
street. Next he twisted the gun so that the soldier could see it was
empty. Then he set it down on the pavement and stepped away from it. He
tried to raise his hands, but the left one wouldn't move. The guardsman
all the time ran smart, head up, eyes tracing left and right but never
leaving Ryan entirely. He stopped ten feet away with his rifle at
low-guard, its bayonet pointed right at Jack's throat, just like it said
in the manual. His chest was heaving, but the soldier's face was a blank
mask. The policeman hadn't caught up, his face bloody as he shouted into a
small radio.
"At ease, Trooper," Ryan said as firmly as he could. It was not
impressive. "We got two bad guys down. I'm one of the good guys."
The guardsman's face didn't change a whit. The boy was a pro, all
right. Ryan could hear his thinking -- how easy to stick the bayonet right
out his target's back. Jack was in no shape to avoid that first thrust.
"DaddeeDaddeeDaddee!" Ryan turned his head and saw his little girl
racing past the stalled cars toward him. The four-year-old stopped a few
feet away from him, her eyes wide with horror. She ran forward to wrap
both arms around her father's leg and screamed up at the guardsman: "Don't
you hurt my daddy!"
The soldier looked from father to daughter in amazement as Cathy
approached more carefully, hands in the open.
"Soldier," she announced in her voice of professional command, "I'm a
doctor, and I'm going to treat that wound. So you can put that gun down,
right now!"
The police constable grabbed the guardsman's shoulder and said
something Jack couldn't make out. The rifle's angle changed fractionally
as the soldier relaxed ever so slightly. Ryan saw more cops running to the
scene, and a white car with its siren screaming. The situation, whatever
it was, was coming under control.
"You lunatic." Cathy surveyed the wound dispassionately. There was a
dark stain on the shoulder of Ryan's new suit jacket that turned the gray
wool to purple-crimson. His whole body was shaking now. He could barely
stand and the weight of Sally hanging on his leg was forcing him to weave.
Cathy grabbed his right arm and eased him down to the pavement, sitting
him back against the side of the car. She moved his coat away from the
wound and probed gently at his shoulder. It didn't feel gentle at all. She
reached around to his back pocket for a handkerchief and pressed it
against the center of the wound.
"That doesn't feel right," she remarked to no one.
"Daddy, you're all bloody!" Sally stood an arm's length away, her