"Hunter, Jeffrey - A Secret Affair" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hunter Jeffrey)

John handed over his wallet, making sure it was the one without the badge. Then the bitch gave him a vision. It was him, handing over his wallet, only it was the one with the badge. When the asshole opened it up, wide-eyed and disbelieving like dime-store robbers always are when they thought they'd cased the joint so thoroughly, John would sink down under the table, and all in one motion, draw, point, and blow the ass out of his socks. Instead, he sat motionless, staring at the yellow mash of eggs and grits on his plate, praying there would be no gunfire. The robber moved on down the line of tables, collecting booty, including Stern's ruby ring and Rolex. John figured with that loot, they'd be satisfied and get da'Hell out without shooting.

"C'mon, nigga," yelled the man with the shotgun. He'd just collected the register cash from Charlie the Cook. Some words were exchanged as the transfer took place, but John was hardly listening, until the deafening roar shook the fear of God into him. A wash of panic flooded the restaurant, and Charlie the Cook fell back onto the griddle, his head terribly misshapen and red.

"What da fuck nigga! What you shootin fo'!"

"He recognized me!"

The shotgun man ratcheted another shell into the chamber.

"Nobody fucking move! Shut up!"

Silence. The spent shotgun shell bounced hollowly onto the linoleum floor. The wallet man waved his Tech-9 machine pistol in John's direction and yelled something at everyone like, I got all your fucking wallets so I's better not see nobody in no court! His belly danced wildly as he bounced backwards towards the door, behind the slim one. Draw. Point. Shoot. John knew it was time. His eyes moved towards the door. No. She was there. That bitch, holding him back, cajoling him into doing nothing. He was feeling so good, why go and ruin it by catching a bullet in the head? This is the safe way, John, the easy way. No need to be a hero. Especially a dead hero. Okay, he told himself, just be cool. Once they were outside, John stood up and began walking towards the door, his .45 in hand.

"911," he yelled to nobody in particular.

"Dammit, Butscher, do something!"

It was Stern, whining. That instant gave John a bit of cheer. A man who was used to doing the shitting just got shit on.

John could hear muffled sobs and a frightening gurgle noise from the area of the griddle. Charlie the Cook dying. The metallic stink of gunpowder was heavy there. John was about to push open the door when a paralyzing wave of air and noise hit him all at once. Glass shattered and exploded around him. Everyone cascaded to the floor. Except the black woman with the weave. She was hunched in a shooter's position, but her pistol wasn't working anymore. A round had stove-piped in the chamber and she was shaking the pistol violently.

John rolled onto his back, feeling the sharp glass crackle under his weight. He found a sight picture and squeezed off a round. The woman dropped her weapon, turned and ran down a narrow corridor. Once she swung open the emergency exit door, a piercing alarm wailed from some unknown source within the building. A mad stampede of people poured out of the place, nearly trampling John on their way. All he saw before he fell again was the weave disappearing into that black Ford Taurus, which was already moving. The cloth of his slacks opened up at the knee, but there was no pain.

Where was all this sudden bravado originating, John thought to himself. Before he knew it, he had ripped open the door of his sedan, fallen into the driver's seat and shoved the key into the ignition In seconds, he was flying down the alley in an attempt to head them off. He yelled into the radio mike, giving his location, direction of travel and a brief description of the fleeing vehicle, hoping the dispatcher could translate it.

The car was a relatively new Crown Victoria, but the internal electronics were not the same as the patrol cars. There was no intricate console that controlled the lights and siren, there was no console at all. Instead, a blue bubble light was mounted on the dashboard, but John could not figure it out. It remained lifeless. He couldn't find the siren either.

The sedan lurched onto a side street. John opened it up, heading for the main highway to the west. A deep, metallic hum arose from the engine, and eventually it became a scream. Still no siren.

John updated his location to dispatch. He braked hard, then turned right onto 610. A sickening odor of exhaust and burned rubber rushed into the car. He'd made it. They were behind him, and closing fast. In the moment the Ford overtook him, John saw the heavy-set black man in the front passenger's seat, his gold teeth gleaming brightly as he mouthed the words, FUCK YOU. And then the Ford was gone, charging ahead of him like a black missile.

In minutes the pursuit left the city limits and continued into the rural pastures and gentle hills of horse country, yet no marked units were involved. Only John. Only you, you drunk fucking idiot, he said over the shrilling in his head.

The air was a deafening whoosh against the windshield, and John pushed the sedan as fast as it would go. 100...110.... Far ahead, he saw brake lights, and the Ford disappeared around a bend in the road.

John approached the bend quickly. A billow of brown dust rose lazily into the treetops off to the left of the road, just before the Chocatawa River bridge. He slowed the sedan to a stop, reversed, and found the Ford resting on an old dirt road that many locals used to access the river. Apparently it had lost traction and slid off the hardtop, colliding with a huge oak tree. It had spun 180 degrees and now sat facing the road. John shifted the sedan into PARK. The Crown Vic ticked incessantly while he assessed the situation. He approached the Ford with his .45 in a high ready position.

Mixed with the smell of hot pine was the smoldering odor of engine oil and a variety of other fluids that leaked out of the Ford. From inside came the feeble whine of a person broken in many places. The heavy man was obviously dead, his neck crooked in such a way that his right cheek was resting on the back of his left shoulder. Somehow the spider-webbed windshield had kept the flying body inside, though by doing so it cracked the man's neck. Hooray for Ford, John thought.

The woman, who had been in the rear seat, had sailed headfirst into the vertical door post on the passenger's side. She was by far the messiest. A deep fissure had opened up on top of her head, spilling brain matter and fluids all around her. With a crushed skull, her head was compacted, and John thought she looked like a pumpkin.

The driver sat sideways in his seat. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt, but the air bag saved him from his accessories' fate. John moved the .45 close to the driver's face.

"Officer, officer, please. I can't move my legs. Don't let me drown, officer, please."

"Shut da'fuck up," John said. He was still wired with adrenaline, not to mention the fact that these assholes not only interrupted his breakfast, but shot at him.

"Please, I can't swim, Officer."