"Maloney, Mack - Wingman 03 - The Lucifer Campaign UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maloney Mack)

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If you're worth a billion dollars to The New Order, you're worth at least half that to whoever wants to win the most when the war kicks back up."

Hunter reached inside his flight suit and pulled out the picture of Viktor. He passed it to Lard.

"Who is this guy?" he asked.

Lard produced a monocle and examined the photo. "Ah, Hunter," he said, handing it back to him. "Don't tell me you've got yourself tangled up with the almighty 'Lucifer'?"

"Forget this 'Lucifer' bullshit," Hunter told him. "I know this man as Viktor Robotov. I'm damn sure he's a Russian agent. He was recently in America engineering a war that set us back four to five years. He's a master terrorist."

"Terrorist? Oh, but he is also a 'god,' this Lucifer," Lard said mockingly.

Hunter was getting aggravated. "Look, I know he's a manipulator and a genius for brainwashing the masses. But pumping this guy up like he's a god - it's a joke. Who the hell can believe it?"

Lard laughed again, and gulped down the rest of the martini. "Major Hunter, get with it. This is The New Order. Look at yourself. You're sitting in a movie set that people have turned into a real thing. They believe it. So it's real. They'll believe anything. People want to follow gods, major. 'Lucifer' makes sense to half of them. And he's paying the other half."

Hunter didn't want to waste any more time. "Where is he?" he said. "Where's his HQ?"

Lard opened his mouth as if to s,ay something, but only one word came out. It sounded like "Algiers." Then a bloody foam flowed up from his throat and out his mouth. His eyes turned up and his head slammed down on the table in front of him with a

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loud "wham!"

Lard was dead. Poisoned. Probably by the martini. Luckily Hunter had never cared for the petrol-tasting gin bombs, and he had left his untouched.

The sound of Lard's head cracking on the table had been loud enough to stop the singer singing and the piano-player playing. Two soldiers - undoubtably Lard's hired security people -appeared and helplessly shook the body. They knew they'd fucked up. Someone should have been testing the drinks.

More soldiers appeared. Guns were being drawn. All of a sudden it seemed as if everyone in the place was carrying a piece. Hunter turned around and tried to catch sight of el-Fauzi, but the man was long gone. He immediately had the sinking feeling that either he or the big fat slob on the table in front of him had been set up.

Hunter knew it was time to leave. A dangerous tension ripped through the cafe. Suddenly the lights went out, and that's when the lead started flying. Women screamed, men yelled as there was a mad dash for the darkened door. Guns were going off all around him, though he never figured out who was shooting at whom, or why. He had dropped down to the floor at the sound of the first gunshot, glad he was carrying his flight helmet. He quickly put it on and checked the clip in his M-16. As usual it was filled with tracer rounds.

He made his way along the line of tables, feeling in front of him with the snout of the M-16. The only light around him was coming from the many gun flashes erupting all over the club. Soon the place was thick with the smell of spent gunpowder.

He spied the front door and noticed that most of the crowd had made good their escape. However, an unhealthy barrage of pistol fire was coming from

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very close to the exit. It was concentrating on some unseen enemy located at the back of the room. Bullets were pinging and ricocheting around the darkened cafe, sometimes accompanied by a groan or a scream when one of them found flesh. This was no place to be, he thought. Still, he couldn't help thinking that this sort of thing must apparently happen quite often at the cafe.

He decided to create a distraction, something that would cause everyone to take cover and give him the precious four or five seconds he would need to make a break for the front door.

He raised the M-16's nose until it was pointing at the ceiling, then ripped off a long burst of tracers. The bright trails of white-hot phosphorous illuminators lit up the interior of the cafe brilliantly. The bullets scraped the plastered ceiling, causing a rain of cracked and sparkling material to fall. The chatter of the automatic weapon filled the walls with a loud, echoing, dangerous sound. Immediately all the gunmen dove for cover.

Hunter was out the door in three seconds . . .

He found the jeep unattended outside the cafe. El-Fauzi was nowhere to be seen. Despite the gunplay in the club, the people in the streets of the movie set town seemed unaffected. Hunter started the jeep and headed back for the airport, glad to be out of the strange place.