"Nance, John J. - The Last Hostage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nance John J)

11:43 P.M.

The unkempt head of Bradley Lumin swam into perfect view in the
high-powered rifle scope, the crosshairs holding steady just behind his
left eye. With great care, the shadowy figure holding the Winchester
30.06 chambered a round and clicked off the safety. He took a deep
breath and moved his index finger next to the trigger. For hours he had
remained hidden in a row of low, scraggly trees some thirty yards away,
patiently waiting for the occupant of the ramshackle trailer to plop
himself in front of his aging computer. Every night Lumin's pattern was
the same, though this time later than usual. The image in the scope
wavered momentarily as the heavyset nan adjusted the yellowed undershirt
he was wearing and scratched him- self, then leaned forward again into
the crosshairs. Bradley Lumin, I sentence you to death. A sudden shiver
ran the length of the sniper's body, and he relaxed his finger and
pulled his eye away from the scope for a second to regain his composure,
the weak light of a quarter moon revealing a pair of angry eyes within
the cloak of a black ski mask, dark coat, and pants. In the far distance
he could hear the never-ending stream of traffic between Cheyenne and
Denver whining up and down the Interstate, five miles removed from the
scruffy farm that Lumin had rented for his sudden exile from
Connecticut. And from the nearby town of Ft. Collins, the gunman heard
the wail and warble of an electronic siren as authorities responded to
another emergency. He took a deep breath and raised the 30.06 again to
eye level, steadying his aim in the crook of a branch, bringing the
crosshairs to rest once again on the left side of Lumin's head. His
index finger caressed the trigger lightly, looking for the right
position, then touched it in earnest, the ball of his finger against the
cold steel of the trigger, feeling the resistance from the springs
within as he checked the target once more and began to squeeze.

ONE

Aboard AirBridge Flight 90, Colorado Springs International Airport, Gate
8. 9:26 A.M.

The captain was late.

Annette Baxter, the lead flight attendant on AirBridge Flight 90 to
Phoenix, tossed back her shoulder-length red hair and studied her watch
as she turned toward the cockpit. She could see the copilot's left hand
adjusting things on the overhead panel as he ran through his preflight
procedures, but she could see that the left seat-the captain's seat-was
still empty.

As small as AirBridge was, there always seemed to be a new pair of
pilots up front on every other leg. Annette paused and closed her eyes
briefly, trying to recall the copilot's name. He was barely in his
mid-twenties and already a two-year veteran of AirBridge, sandy-haired
and almost too cute to be acting like such a gentleman. Yet he had