"Marc Laidlaw - Flight Risk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laidlaw Marc)

Flight Risk

by Marc Laidlaw



They brought Foster to the boy by a route of back alleys and parking garages, shifting him from car to
car several times, until eventually, although he'd thought he knew the city very well, he found himself
uncertain of his whereabouts. They were near the airport, he knew that much. Condemned buildings,
empty shops, and the rumbling pall of jet trails over everything. With a massive extension of the runways
planned, this part of the city had known it was doomed; the exodus occurred before delays set in. A
perfect place to hide the boy without seeming to hide him.

The final car, a black sedan with dented doors and fenders thinned by rust, drew to a stop at the rear of
a building that had too many windows to be a warehouse, too few to be a residence. The man riding
shotgun stepped out and opened the door. Foster slid from his seat in back, clutching his worn black bag
to his gut. Along the alley, tips of garbage poked through humps of snow. There was just enough warmth
in the air to carry a threat of the sourness and rot waiting beneath the ice. A black wrought-iron gate
swung open in the rear of the building, and a third man, large and heavy browed, appeared there,
beckoning. Foster recognized features of gigantism, but felt no thrill at the fact that he was seeing his first
giant.

As Foster passed inside, the door clanged shut, cutting the rumble of a jet engine to something felt rather
than heard. Foster saw a dim hall with access to a slightly brighter lobby just ahead. The giant held back
the accordioned bars of an elevator cage. Foster stepped in and waited for the giant to crowd in beside
him.

"I'll meet you up there," the giant said, his voice thick with menace. "Don't get off until I let you out."

"No," said Foster. "Of course not."

The giant pressed a button and retreated, letting the doors clang shut. The elevator jerked and began a
scraping ascent.

If the illuminated numbers above the door were to be believed, the elevator was skipping floors. More
likely the lights were burned out. When the car finally ground to a halt, Foster knew only that he was
somewhere above the seventh floor. He waited what seemed a full minute before he heard clanging, and
then the giant appeared, hauling open the door and peering in at him. Out of breath and sweating
profusely, he made scooping motions with his hands.

"Yes, yes," Foster said, following him out and down the hall.

The giant stopped at a door with 909 painted on a frosted glass pane. He dug into his pocket until he
found a ring with two keys on it. In the giant's hand they looked like keys to a child's diary or a toy
padlock. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, making it clear to Foster that he should go in first.

Foster heard a hum of voices mixed with the rumble of another jet passing above. They stepped into
what had been the waiting room of an office, more recently being used as a residence. The domestic
touches were few: a small refrigerator, a microwave oven, a card table and several folding chairs. An old
office desk butted up against a sofa bed. Pizza boxes, cereal cartons, dozens of paper coffee cups. A