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

hands fluttering like the wings of a baby bird. Jack wanted to reach out
to her, to tell her everything was all right, but the three feet of
distance might as well have been a thousand miles -- and his shoulder was
telling him that things were definitely not all right.
There were now about ten police officers around the car, many of them
panting for breath. Three had handguns out, and were scanning the
gathering crowd. Two more red-coated soldiers appeared from the west. A
police sergeant approached. Before he could say anything Cathy looked up
to bark an order.
"Call an ambulance right now"'
"On the way, mum," the Sergeant replied with surprising good manners.
"Why don't you let us look after that?"
"I'm a doctor," she answered curtly. "You have a knife?"
The Sergeant turned to remove the bayonet from the first guardsman's
rifle and stooped down to assist. Cathy held the coat and vest clear for
him to cut away, then both cut the shirt free from his shoulder. She
tossed the handkerchief clear. It was already blood-sodden. Jack started
to protest.
"Shut up. Jack." She looked over to the Sergeant and jerked her chin
toward Sally. "Get her away from here."
The Sergeant gestured for a guardsman to come over. The Private
scooped Sally up in his arms. He took her a few feet away, cradling her
gently to his chest. Jack saw his little girl crying pitifully, but
somehow it all seemed to be very far away. He felt his skin go cold and
moist -- shock?
"Damn," Cathy said gruffly. The Sergeant handed her a thick bandage.
She pressed it against the wound and it immediately went red as she tried
to tie it in place. Ryan groaned. It felt as though someone had taken an
ax to his shoulder.
"Jack, what the hell were you trying to do?" she demanded through
clenched teeth as she fumbled with the cloth ties.
Ryan snarled back, the sudden anger helping to block out the pain. "I
didn't try -- I fucking did it!" The effort required to say that took half
his strength away with it.
"Uh-huh," Cathy grunted. "Well, you're bleeding like a pig, Jack."
More men ran in from the other direction. It seemed that a hundred
sirens were converging on the scene with men -- some in uniform, some not
-- leaping out to join the party. A uniformed policeman with more ornate
shoulder boards began to shout orders at the others. The scene was
impressive. A separate, detached part of Ryan's brain catalogued it. There
he was, sitting against the Rolls, his shirt soaked red as though blood
had been poured from a pitcher. Cathy, her hands covered with her
husband's blood, was still trying to arrange the bandage correctly. His
daughter was gasping out tears in the arms of a burly young soldier who
seemed to be singing to her in a language that Jack couldn't make out.
Sally's eyes were locked on him, full of desperate anguish. The detached
part of his mind found all this very amusing until another wave of pain
yanked him back to reality.
The policeman who'd evidently taken charge came up to them after first
checking the perimeter. "Sergeant, move him aside."