"Dean Ing - Wild Country" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ing Dean)

Scanned by Highroller and proofed more or less by Highroller.



CHAPTER ONE

Death minus three minutes and counting: Rawson squinted through yellow sundazzle and displayed his
Mex dental work as the stranger neared maximum range. The scope of his wire-stocked assault rifle
showed only a single, helmeted rider, straight and tall on the hovercycle, its caliche dust trail writhing
behind.

Had Rawson been a praying man, he might have prayed for this break. One well-placed round could
mean the difference between Rawson afoot in Wild Country, with deputy marshals closing in. and
Rawson sitting pretty in that hovercycle with a straight run to the Rio Grande.

On the other hand, a clean miss might alert the silly bastard, and several hasty shots might render that
cycle useless. From his cover among the blistering rocks of South Texas. Rawson judged that his prey
would cross within a hundred meters of him. If he waited an extra few moments, he would have a good
headshot, and time for more if the first round missed. Rawson flicked his fire selector to semiauto,
wishing he had thought to drop his beltpac near the tracks his boots had made. A nice fat beltpac
would've provided bait to halt an unwary traveler. Well, tough shit; Rawson concentrated on the world as
it wasтАФor rather, as he thought it was. It did not occur to him that the target in his crosshairs might be
bait.

Death minus two minutes and counting: For an instant, as the cycle passed below on its cushion of air,
Rawson's imagination whacked him under the ribs. What if the rider gripped the throttlebar in his death
agony? The hovercycle might just continue on out of sight, its whirr fading with the dust trail, a
diesel-hearted horse with the bit in its teeth and a dead man in the saddle. The outlaw adjusted his aim to
the base of the neck, let the crosshairs traverse to lead the target, and squeezed gently.

The rifle's muzzle suppressor was a custom job, so that the muzzle scarcely moved and emitted only a
flat, whistling pop. The slug flew a trifle high, catching the erect rider behind the ear. Rawson sent two
more rounds after it; saw the helmet jerk again, saw shards of plastic spray bright sparkles against the
sun.

Death minus ninety seconds and counting: Rawson flung himself down from his prominence, bounding
to flat, sunbaked soil, cursing the hovercycle as it continued. The damn thing had slowed a lot, but it was
still under way, now wandering in a broad arc above the sparse brush of Uvalde County, Texas. The
rider was well-zapped, but at this pace Rawson, carrying the heavy rifle, would never catch up. He made
a snap decision, dropped the rifle, and sprinted hard. He willed his legs to pump harder. The goddamn
rifle had done its job and in any case he still had his little Chink automatic, courtesy of World War IV,
stowed in his breakaway hip pocket. In a long, gut-wrenching sprint he knew that he was gaining. And
so, in a way, he was definitely losing.

Death minus forty seconds and counting: The rider had not fallen, though his head lolled loosely on his
neck. Both hands still gripped the handlebars of the cycle, a scruffy, two-place McCullough with a tarp
over the rear saddle cowl. Rawson's thigh muscles told him he'd spent too many summer days in the
cantinas of Hondo and Eagle Pass, waiting for word that Sorel needed him for a shipment. Trembling,
gasping, he drew on his last reserves of stamina and stumbled, nearly fell. But now the diesel stammered
too. Rawson hoped that didn't mean the effin' thing was out of fuel.