"Jeffrey Lord - Blade 04 - Slave of Sarma" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lord Jeffery)

The florist truck nosed to a stop behind the wedding limousine. The back doors flew open and four
burly men leaped out. They carried coshes and brass knuckles and used them expertly as they smashed a
path through the little crowd.
All of J's plans were knocked into a cocked hat. The Russians, eschewing subtlety, were going after
Blade in the most direct manner. Knock down and drag out!
The real Blade had his orders. Stay out of it. J had not even wanted him along. He clutched the area
railing, fretting, wanting to get into it and smash about a bit.
J, seeing his plans go wrong, put a silver whistle to his lips and shrilled a warning. The Bobby leaped
into the melee. The driver of the limousine came running around his car brandishing a blackjack. J's car at
the end of the block spun its wheels, burning rubber, and came tearing down to the church. Women
screamed and men cursed.
The four men got to the actorтАФBlade, smashed him over the head with a cosh and began dragging
him down the steps toward the florist truck. J, his whistle trilling all the while, fought to get down through
the mob. The Bobby grappled with the men and was knocked aside, went down, was kicked. The
limousine driver dove into the fracas, brought one of the toughs down in a superb tackle. The two men
wrestled about in the gutter. J's car screeched to a gut-chilling halt, tires smoking, skidding in to block off
the florist truck, and four of J's men spilled out eager for combat.
That, the real Blade thought with regret, should do it. The odds were with J's people now. Too bad.
He had been looking for an excuse to get into it.
Just too late he heard the oilysnuckof a door opening behind him. A door he had tried when he had
first taken up his position in the areaway and found locked.
There were four or five of them, he was never sure, and they were silent and swift and sure. Blade
spun his elbow in a face, kicked one man in the knee, got in a flurry of straight punches. He tried to yell
and a leather sleeved arm choked off the sound. Something smashed behind his ear and he went to his
knees, still fighting, smashing at the first crotch available and hearing a yelp of pain. Lightning skewered
his skull as he fought to get to his feet. They were sapping the hell out of himтАФoneтАФtwoтАФoneтАФtwoтАФ
Someone said: "Not too hard! Don't kill him!"
They stabbed him. He felt the sting of the long needle as it jammed cruelly through trenchcoat, jacket,
shirt and into his hard muscled shoulder. Blade cursed and struck out again, feeling the strength flow out
of him, seeing the wet trash strewn concrete of the area-way floor come up to meet him as his knees
buckled and he went off the high board into deep, deep darkness.


Chapter Four
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Richard Blade found that by concentrating on the oriel window at the far end of the long barren room,
and by trying to count the acanthus leaves twining on the supporting corbel, he could in some measure
resist the milder of the two drugs he was given. During the long hours he came to regard that oriel
window as the eye of Cyclops, of God or the Devil, even as a possible orifice of escape should he get
the chance. There did not seem much likelihood of this.
And yet he had the means to escape any time he chose. There was only one drawback. To escape
he would have to blow up his captorsтАФand himself along with them. He waited.
Not that he was given much choice as matters stood. He was seldom left alone. There were a lot of
them and they worked in shifts. They all spoke English and, indeed, seemed to be English. This did not
surprise him. Every nation has traitors for sale.
He lost all track of time. When he regained consciousness he was naked on a long table in the barren
room. In darkness except for four brilliant lamps trained on his massive body, so helpless now because of
drugs and straps and chains. His captors were only shadows and voices beyond the fringe of the lights.
He knew they were running a Bertillon on him. He was well drugged, yet he understood this. It gave
him hope. Credit his own brain power, or Lord Leighton's brain stretching machines and psychological