"Richard Harding - Outrider 01 - Premier Volume" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harding Richard)

"Come on, Bonner..." Bonner dug the tip of the blade into Hatchet's neck. A
tiny spot of blood appeared in the ripple of the skin. "Okay, okay, shit...
Dara's alive." "You're lying to me. Hatchet." Bonner's jaw had tightened and
he had raised his voice for the first time since Hatchet ploughed through the
door. Hatchet couldn't see Bonner's face, but he could feel his fury through
the shaft of the blade. "No, its for real. Honest." "Prove it." "I can
prove it, but I have to get up." "Where's your gun?" "I lost it when you
jumped me." "Where's your spare?" "Ain't got one." The knife dug a tiny bit
more into Hatchet's thick neck. "It's in my belt. I.'m lying on it for
Chrissake." "Get it, slowly..." That was just what Hatchet wanted to hear.
If he was fast enough he might be able to roll away from Bonner and get off a
shot. Maybe two. Before Hatchet made his move, Bonner spoke.
"Hatchet?" "Yeah?" "Before you do anything stupid, I want you to take a look
at the bed." Slowly, Hatchet raised his eyes. The woman still knelt on the
bed, still naked, but she looked back at him along the twin barrels of a
shotgun, the stock pressed into the firm flesh of her shoulder, her finger
resting lightly on the two triggers. "Very pretty, Bonner. Really nice." "Now
get your gun." He pulled the gun from his belt and laid it on the floor next
to him. The girl sprang from the bed and picked up the gun, allowing Hatchet a
quick sideways glimpse at her smooth lithe legs and tight buttocks. "All the
comforts of home," said Hatchet. "Get up, slowly," ordered Bonner. The girl
returned to bed, watching as Hatchet crept to his knees, then gradually
straightened himself. H? held his arms away from his sides. "Good. In there."
Bonner gestured toward a doorway on the far side of the room. To the woman he
said: "Go back to bed." Without taking his eyes off Hatchet, Bonner lit the
kerosene lamp that sat on the table between them. As the golden light filled
the room. Hatchet could see that they were in a large space almost empty of
furniture. A big room always favored a man with a gun. And Hatchet had a gun,
tucked up under his left armpit, hidden by his leather jacket. Hatchet settled
himself in a rickety wooden chair. Maybe Bonner wasn't as smart as they said,
or he had gotten soft since his outriding days. Back then he didn't have to
depend on a naked broad with a shotgun. If it hadn't been for her, Bonner
would be dead now. Hatchet looked around the room. "Christ, Bonner, I heard
you were making a fortune smuggling. This place is pig-shit. You ought to see
how we live in the Capital. Leather runs the whole thing, we got slaves and
women... You ought to come join us..." Bonner ignored him. "So, where's the
proof?" Hatchet did not have any proof. The way he figured it, he didn't need
any. "Okay," he said, "I'm going to reach inside my jacket and I'm going to
pull out a letter. It's from her..."I'm going to pull out a forty-five and
blow your fucking head off, he thought. Then take out the pussy in the next
room-maybe have a little fun first-then head home to Leather and the ten
thousand gold ones, the price Leather had put on Bonner's head. Hatchet
thrust his hand into his jacket, grasped the handle of his revolver and
whipped it from its nest. As he did so, four inches of blade, thrown like
lightning, slammed into his thick breast bone. Bonner was on his feet.
Hatchet had slumped to the floor, a fine trickle of blood running from his
mouth. His breathing was short and labored. Bonner stood over him. "Hatchet,
listen to me..." Hatchet's eye's swiv-elled in their sockets. "Is Dara alive?
Nod if she is." Through a blaze of pain and shock. Hatchet had more than
enough life left in him to hate Bonner. Fuck you, he tried to say. "Hatchet,