"George R. R. Martin - WC 5 - Down and Dirty" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

what this meant to Lazy Dragon's human form. He paused to pat the tiger
sympathetically, then quickly moved on.
Bursts of automatic gunfire still rattled below as Brennan cautiously made his
way down to the second-floor landing and carefully peered over the rail to the
ground floor.
The foyer's double doors were open. Half a dozen Egrets, shot to pieces by
automatic gunfire, lay on the stained marble floor. As Brennan watched, the few
living members of the assault team backed grudgingly through the wreckage of the
front door, swapping gunfire with the Egret guards and their reinforcements.
Within moments the firefight had moved unto the stret outside, where gunfire
echoed loudly in the night.
Brennan stood up. "Goddamn wops."
He looked over his right shoulder. A pair of blue eyes, nerve tendrils and
connective tissue dangling eerily from them, were floating five and a half feet
above the floor. Fadeout blinked into existence, looking slightly rumpled and
very, very angry.
"The Mafia?" Brennan asked.
"That's right, Cowboy. Rico Covello's men. I recognized what was left of their
ugly faces from our dossiers." He paused, his anger replaced by sudden
gratefulness. "I owe you one. They would've had me if you hadn't knocked me
down."
Brennan shrugged. "If not for Lazy Dragon, we'd both be chopped meat. Wed better
see if he's okay. His tiger got shot to shit."
"Right."
They went back upstairs. Brennan was relieved to see then immediately angry at
himself for the feeling-that Dragon was sitting calmly in one of Fadeout's
comfortable chairs. He looked up as they entered the room.
"Everything is all right?" he asked.
"I wouldn't say that," Fadeout replied, still angry. "Those guinea bastards just
waltzed in here and almost offed me." He looked angrily at Whiskers, who was
standing uncertainly in the middle of the room. "What were you doing about it,
you joker shitbag?"
Whiskers shrugged. "I-I thought someone should stay with Deadhead--"
"Take off that goddamned mask when you talk to me!" Fadeout ordered angrily.
"I'm sick and tired of looking at Nixon's mug. No matter how ugly you are, it
can't be worse."
Lazy Dragon watched Whiskers with calculated interest, and Brennan's hand crept
closer to his holstered Browning. Werewolves had been known to fly into killing
rages when unmasked, but Whiskers, as indicated by his earlier actionor lack of



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action-wasn't the fiercest of Werewolves. He took off his mask and stood in the
center of the room uncomfortably shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Every bit of his face, except for his eyeballs, was covered with thick, coarse
hair. Even his tongue, which was nervously licking his lips, was furred. No
wonder, Brennan thought, his voice was so mushy.