"Lover At Last" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ward, J.R.)

And now it was too late.

Dumb-ass. What a fucking dumb-ass he was.

тАЩCuz it sure as hell appeared that his library card was getting stamped tonight.

Straightening up so the full force of that cold blast hit him square in the face, Qhuinn glared into the rush, picturing those pines ahead that he couldnтАЩt see because his eyes were watering from the wind. Opening his mouth, he screamed bloody murder, adding his voice to the maelstrom.

Goddamn it, he wasnтАЩt going down like a pussy. No ducking, no pathetic oh-please-God-no-saaaaaave-me. Fuck that. He was going to meet death with his fangs bared and his body braced and his heart pounding not from fear, but from a whole boatload ofтАж

тАЬBlow me, Grim Reaper!тАЭ



As Qhuinn was trying to get airborne, Blay had his gun muzzle pointed into the tree line and was pumping off rounds like he had an endless supply of leadтАФwhich he didnтАЩt.

This was a total goat fuck. He and John and Rhage were without any cover; there was no way of knowing how many slayers were in those woods; and for the love of God, all that ancient airplane was doing was leaving a toxic cloud of smoke in its wake as it rattled off like it was on a Sunday stroll.

Oh, and that POS was far from fucking bulletproof, but evidently had gas in its tank.

Qhuinn and Z were not going to make it. They were going to slam into that forest at the end of the fieldтАФassuming they didnтАЩt get blown up first.

In that moment, when he knew that one way or another a fireball was imminent, he split in half. The physical part of him remained plugged into fending off the attack, his arms sticking straight out, his forefingers squeezing out bullets, his eyes and ears tracking the sounds and sights of muzzle flashes and the movements of his enemy.

The other part of him was in that airplane.

It was as if he were watching his own death. He could imagine so very clearly the violent vibrating of the plane, and the out-of-control bumps over the ground, and the sight of that solid line of trees coming at himтАФsure as if he were staring out of QhuinnтАЩs eyes and not his own.

That foolhardy son of a bitch.

There had been so many times when Blay had thought, HeтАЩs going to kill himself.

So many times on and off the field.

But now this was the one that was going to stickтАФ

The bullet struck him in the thigh, and the pain that raced from his leg to his heart suggested that his full attention needed to shift back to the fight: If he wanted to live, he had to completely focus.

Yet even as the conviction hit him, there was a split second when he thought, Just end this all now. Just be done with all the bullshit and the punishment of life, the almost-theres, the if-onlys, the relentless chronic agony heтАЩd been inтАжhe was so tired of it allтАФ

He had no idea what made him hit the snow.

One moment he was staring toward the plane waiting for the burst of flames. The next he was chest-down on the ground, his elbows digging into the frozen, intractable earth, his injured leg throbbing.

Pop! Pop! PopтАФ

The roar that interrupted the sound of bullets was so loud he ducked his head, like that would help him avoid the chronic airplaneтАЩs fireball.

Except there was no light and no heat. And the sound was overheadтАж.