"Richard Harding - Outrider 02 - Fire And Ice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harding Richard)

was at once comforting and disquieting. He asked God: why? Why was Dara
tortured by Leatherman? Why had the mechanics of the world placed Bonner in a
position to chose between saving the woman he loved through killing her and
allowing her torturer to live? The questions multiplied. Why was the world
ruined by the maneuverings of the men that were supposed to know better? Why
had the world become a place where Leather and Berger and Carey held sway over
innocent people. God was supposed to have the answers. He was supposed to
know. He was supposed to guide the balanced, gentle action of the earth.... So
little made sense to Bonner. And he wondered about it all the time. No good.
No answers. No satisfaction. No long-dead man writing from beyond the grave.
But Dara spoke to him, she was always there, always driving him, always
carrying him back to those terrible minutes when he killed her and failed to
kill Leather. Saomehow, Dara's death had sucked the soul from him. His
ordinary red blood had been replaced with the hot liquor of hate. He lived now
only to avenge her, to kill Leather, to kill the people-be they Slavestaters,
Hotstaters, Snowstaters-who had been her enemies. Bonner could feel the old
Outrider impulses coming back to him, but no longer felt the gentle guidance
they had provided in the old days. He wanted to be an Outrider again but this
time he wanted to kill. He wore his hate like a medal, a talisman that
protected him. Bonner was fast, he was lethal, he was deadly, he had become a
killing machine, fueled by hate. Chapter 2 He walked through Chicago's cold
broken streets headed for Dorca's. Dorca's was the only bar in Chicago and it
was run by an old bear of a smuggler who decided to settle down and set
himself up in business. If you needed anything-a drink, a girl, some
information-you got it at Dorca's. A couple of street workers, the lowest
form of life in Chicago, ducked into an alleyway as Bonner passed. A street
worker was a common thief who would try to take you down in the dark streets.
The street workers preyed on the weak, the dumb, and the new arrivals, those
runaways from the states who hadn't yet learned the ropes in wide-open
Chicago. They didn't mess with Bonner, the smart ones, anyway, though some had
tried. They died. Bonner was lightly armed. He carried a Supermatic
Citation.22. It took a ten-shot clip. Bonner's trademark weapons-his three,
heavy, lethal throwing knives and his cut-down Winchester shotgun-had been
lost on his raid into Leather-man's Slavestates. The usual riot was going on
at Dorca's. The long low room was jammed with the toughest men on the
continent. Bonner knew them all and even trusted a few. A number of the
patrons had women draped over their shoulders or hanging off their arms. Dorca
was no whoremonger, but he didn't object to freelancers in his bar. "Hey
Bonner," shouted out a slimy pimp named Comer. Bonner nodded in his
direction. Comer was always at Dorca's, and he always had a drink in his hand.
He longed to be accepted by the elite, the real men of Chicago, men like
Bonner and those men he numbered among his friends "Hey, Bonner, lemme give
ya a drink." "Later, Comer." "How about a girl? Hey Suzie, come over here and
take care of the man." A slim blond girl detached herself from a knot of women
who stood in a comer gossiping. She walked toward Bonner, putting all the
allure she could muster into her stride. He held up his hands. "No thanks,
Suzie." Suzie stopped, put her hands on her hips, and looked hurt.
"Whatsamatta?" yelled Comer. "You don't want my booze, you don't want my
broads. What do you want, you prick?" His face was red and he had lurched up
from the table; his hangers-on, his pilot fish, tried to restrain him. "Lemme