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

about what happened to your old stuff.'' As quickly as he could, Bonner
recapped his long, long, bloody strike deep into the dark gut of Leatherman's
empire. He spoke flatly, telling the Armorer only the details he needed to
know. Bonner wasn't big on war stories. He finished by telling him that
Leather now held the weapons. "And he's probably slicing the shit out of his
slaves right now," said the Armorer. "No," said Bonner firmly, "he's
not." "How do you know?" "He has no hands," said Bonner
matter-of-factly. The Armorer looked puzzled. Bonner wasn't the type that
went in for mutilations. Bonner seemed to read his thoughts. "It was an
accident," he said. "You accidentally cut off his hands?" "I was trying to
kill him." "What did you use to bring him down?" "An ax." "Oh." Bonner
said nothing about the circumstances of Dara's death. That he had not been
able to save her was a shame he would never allow himself to forget. Nor would
he be able to forgive himself so grotesque a failure. "Tough time all over,
sounds like," said the Armorer sympathetically. He sat back in his rickety
chair. "So what do you need?" "Knives, shotgun... some ammunition." "Yeah, I
can fix you up." The Armorer stood heavily. "Have you ever heard of a gun
called a Steyr AUG?" asked Bonner. "I got a book that lists it. Never seen
one. You have one?" "Yes. Picked it up in New York." "How is
it?" "Semi-automatic, fast, tough, ugly." "Sounds good." "Do you have any
ammunition that'll fit it?" "You making a change, Bonner? You never carried
an automatic before." "It came in handy." ' The Armorer's eyes narrowed.
"You headed out again?" Bonner's mouth set in a hard line. "Yes, guess
so." "Yeah," said the Armorer, "I got some ammo that should help you out
some." "Good." "Shotgun first." The Armorer rooted around in the metal mess
and tangle that littered the rooms. He came up with the object of his search a
moment later, a long slim bundle wrapped in an old gray blanket. The Armorer
slipped the gun out from its covering, his eyes bright with
admiration. "Nice," said Bonner. "Purdy Special," said the Armorer. "They're
old, very old, but its the finest work I've ever seen. Back then, Bonner, in
the old days, they knew how to do things." Bonner took the gun in his hands.
It was a long, slim, elegant piece of work, and somehow it reminded him of the
body of the girl. He could feel the balance of the gun in his hands, and as he
ran his fingers over the butter-smooth stock and barrels he could sense the
sure hand of the long-dead craftsman who had fashioned it. "Can you cut it
down?" A look of intense pain dashed across the Armorer's face. "Yeah, I
can," he said, "but it won't be the same gun." "I know," said Bonner bluntly.
He couldn't allow himself to worry about besmirching this thing of beauty. He
needed the firepower. "Knives," said the Armorer, producing three
flat-bladed, razor-sharp blades, the identical counterparts of Bonner's old
ones. They had the same weight, the same black bone handles, the same cold
assuredness of purpose as the knives that Leather now had. The Armorer found
ammunition to fit the shotgun, the Steyr, and even threw in a belt or two of
the ammunition that would fit the heavy machine gun that Bonner had mounted on
his car. "What do I have to pay you." "A thousand slates," said the Armorer.
The price was high but fair. Bonner was not the sort of man who would haggle.
The Armorer wasn't the sort of man who would cheat him. Bonner paid in the
currency of the day: odd pieces of gold and silver that had been melted down
and re-stamped into rough, round wafers. The money lay glittering on the
table, but the Armorer paid very little attention to it. His large brown eyes