"Maloney, Mack - Wingman 07 - Skyfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maloney Mack)

Chapter One

From the narrow window of the tower, the woman could see for miles across the soaring, snow-covered peaks of the Canadian Rockies.

The sun was just beginning to set, and its warm, reddish hue seemed to give everything-the trees, the snow-caps, the mountains themselves-a sparkling, jeweled quality.

But the spectacular vista did nothing to bolster the woman's spirits. In fact, having all of that vast space and freedom just beyond her reach only heightened her despair.

Bravely fighting back a tear, she turned away from the window.

In stark contrast to the glimmering mountaintops and the lush forests at their feet, the woman's cell was barren. Except for a dirty, ripped mattress and a small wooden bench that held a cracked pitcher of murky water, the tiny room was empty. On the opposite wall from the small window was a heavy wooden door, held from the outside by a thick steel bar. This little piece of hell had been her prison for what seemed like an eternity.

She slumped to the floor and finally released the tears she'd been holding back.

How long can this go on? she wondered sadly.

Just then the cell door burst open and a tall woman dressed in army fatigues walked in.

The size seven, well-tailored combat jumpsuit did little to disguise the ripe curves of this woman's body. Bleached

blonde, and looking better than a whiskey bottle at midnight, the female guard's well-cultivated Amazon look was working-all the way down to the two heavy ammunition belts that crisscrossed her full breasts. Her faddishy worn-down cap was made of the same leather as her meticulously polished boots. The buttons were cast of the same silver as her three bracelets and the ring in her right ear. Everything matched.

The overall fashion statement was topped off by an AK-47 automatic rifle rakishly slung over her shoulder.

She was carrying a bowl filled with a brownish, watery substance masquerading as soup, which she immediately banged down onto the bench. Then she walked over to the tormented woman on the cell floor.

"Not hungry?" the guard asked sarcastically, placing the barrel of the AK-47 directly onto the woman's right breast. "I can't imagine why . . ."

The guard then laughed, and quickly left the cell, the door closing with a loud thump behind her.

The lovely prisoner slowly lifted her head and leaned back against the stone wall. Even streaked with dirt and tears, her face was stunning: glistening dark eyes, perfectly shaped nose, full, rich lips, a younger reflection of the 1950's French film siren Brigitte Bardot.

Add the luxurious (and natural) blond hair, the creamy skin, the sensually subtle figure and made-for-black-nylons legs and the sum equaled an astonishing Gaelic beauty.

Her name was Dominique.

The already-teetering world had turned completely upside down in the days following World War III. America alone had seen almost nonstop military action, including two major wars. Yet by some accounts, this was relatively calm compared to what was happening in nearly every other part of the globe.

It was in the midst of the battles that were fought for

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control of the American continent that soldiers on both sides first came to know Dominique.

It all started when a crazed, superterrorist named Vik-tor Robotov (alias Lucifer) kidnapped her prior to the outbreak of the first campaign for control of the American continent, a titanic struggle that came to be called the first Circle War. By distributing hypnotic, quasi-X-rated photos of Dominique, he did nothing less than entice an entire army to do his bidding.

Such was her allure and beauty.

Even in the three and a half years since this catastrophic civil war, her photos were treasured by those lucky enough to have them. Squirreled away and fought over, it was as if they were made of pure gold.