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

He found out what it meant as he staggered forward, exulting. Everything became clear with the sudden
emergence of the compact, green-eyed blond fellow from under the tarp. Rawson was only
three-quarters surprised; in the smuggling biz, you learned to count on fuck-all.

"Michael Rawson, you're under arrest," the younger man called. He wore the shoulder patch of a federal
deputy marshal on his thin deerskin shirt, a shirt too nice to perforate, though Rawson fully intended to do
that very thing.

"WellтАФain't you cute," Rawson puffed, stopping ten paces away, putting hands on hips while he fought
for breath. Very 'cute indeed, wiring a cast-off android from Wild Country Safari into the front saddle
and steering from under the tarp. The little deputy might be young but he had used guile, forcing Rawson
to run from cover and tire himself with a long, exhausting sprint. Not cute enough to have a weapon in his
hands, though. If he knew who Rawson was, he ought to know how fast Rawson was.

Death minus eight seconds and counting: The broad-shouldered little deputy saw something in
Rawson's face. "Don't do it," he said equably. But Rawson thought something in the man's face was
pleading, do it. Rawson did it while the deputy's right hand was fishing out a card, probably to read him
his rights.

Rawson's rights ended with an impossibly liquid left-handed draw by the deputy, who flicked a
seven-millimeter Chiller from its hidden armpit holster as he bounded from the cycle. Rawson got his
sidearm out, began his trusted sidewinder maneuver, swung his weapon to intersect the spot where the
deputy would landтАж and felt two paralyzing impacts in his torso.

Rawson crumpled, the slugs hurling him back. He lay with one leg buckled, both arms flung wide, the
little automatic a full pace from his nerveless fingers. He understood a great deal more, now. There were
maybe a half dozen bad dudes in Wild Country who could draw with Rawson, but only one whose
freakish reflexes were said to be absolutely lethal whether fiat-footed or airborne; a regular John Wesley
Hardin.

And the blond deputy was a wrong-hander. too. Ex-assassin for Search & Rescue, ex-rebel with Jim
Street, now a part-time lawman in Wild Country: "You'd be Ted Quantrill." Rawson grimaced, now
feeling thick fluid in his throat.

"And you had to find out the hard way," said the blond, reseating his Chiller.

Rawson's eyes were beginning to defocus, but he never lost his courage. "Well, I said you was cute." he
said, dying.

For the record, Quantrill noted that Michael Rawson's long countdown ended at 1:54 PM., central
daylight time, on the seventeenth of September, A.D 2006.

CHAPTER TWO

Quantrill finished rolling the body into a standard bodybag, spat caliche dust, hauled Rawson's bulk to the
cycle, and retrieved his own Aussie hat, flopping it on his head after wiping a film of sweat and dust from
his face. The old 'droid in the front seat had been emptied of its innards and was soon stowed in back
with Rawson.