"George R. R. Martin - WC 8 - One Eyed Jacks" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

of this city that loved boasting to the world that it never slept, everyone
locked tight in their own miserable little private worlds, not caring a damn
about what was outside and praying with all their hearts to be left alone. No
one looked her way. No one knew she existed, or cared. Good. Right now,
anonymity was a most valued friend.
She twisted a little sideways to get more comfortable and caught a glimpse of
herself in the door glass, turned black by the dark tunnel roaring by outside.
Tall, too tall for a woman, her height and the power of her rangy frame working
against the clothes she was wearing, the only thing in her wardrobe that
qualified as a power suit. First time she'd worn anything like it in years.
Christ, she wondered, sifting back through the years, was it when Ben died, has
it really been that long? In-country, she'd gotten into the habit of fatigues
and T-shirts, of dressing for comfort rather than fashion-if for no other reason
than what sweat didn't ruin, the blood surely would-and one of the things she'd
loved about Wyoming was the casual nature of the people. They took her as she
was-at least, she thought with sudden bitterness, when it came to how I looked.
And here she stood, trading that in for a world where the package was at least
as important as what was inside. Wha' fuck, she shrugged, a small smile twisting
the corner of her mouth at how easily she adopted the cadence of the taxi
driver, maybe the change'll do me good. Except, perhaps, for the effing heels.
Too long in hiking boots and sneaks; dress shoes were going to take some getting
used to. And she eased one foot free to rub-massage the arch on the opposite
shin.
Automatically, she continued her inventory, hoping her brief visit to an airport
washroom had repaired most of the damage done by the seemingly endless flight.
The hair was black, except for a smattering of silver splashed above her right
eye, unruly as ever despite her best efforts with hairspray and comb. The years


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had taken the harshest edge off her scars, but to Cody they still stood out in
stark contrast to her tanned skin, one running across the crest of the right
cheekbone and up beneath the patch, where it branched to three that continued up
into her hairline. The round should have taken her head of-f-but she'd flinched
a split second before it hit, without knowing why, the firefight had been total
chaos, shells and shrapnel tearing the night to shreds, coming from every
direction, things so crazy you didn't know where to duck. So instead of her
life, she'd only lost the eye. Lucky, they'd told her in Da Nang-and later, in
the big Pacific Hospital at Pearlfantastically fucking lucky. She hadn't thought
so then, she wasn't convinced now.
That side of her head throbbed like the devil-always happened when she was
stressed, no matter that the cause was, probably psychosomatic-rubbing it didn't
help, but it was better than nothing. She curled her hand into a half fist and
pressed the heel gently against patch and empty socket. She'd never been
beautiful and the wound had made sure she'd never get the chance.
The brakes came on too hard at Queens Plaza-there was a cry of pain as someone's
body wouldn't give, a curse as someone else got stepped on-she heard a
smattering of apologies, saw a lot more rueful grimaces, this was no surprise to