"Eric Nylund - Paladin Blake and The Secret City" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nylund Eric)

Paladin's squinted, lining up his shot.

His finger tightened on the trigger-

-then, reluctantly, relaxed.

What was the matter with him? Was it because he had used Tennyson trick rocket to take
Matthew out? No. Fairness in dogfights was a luxury Paladin could rarely afford.

Matthew would have shot Paladin down if their positions were switched. Paladin couldn't
bring himself to shoot, though. Maybe that was the biggest difference between them. And
Matt, like it or not, was his brother. Like Flora, Matthew was a part of him-no matter what
kind of man he was.

Paladin flicked on the radio. "Get out of here," he said. "I'll get back to you soon enough."
He broke off, opened the throttle to three quarters, and banked east, towards New Orleans.
"I've got better things to do right now. Like save our little sister."




Paladin cradled his coffee and stared at his black reflection at the bottom of the cup. He had
gotten nowhere fast. It had been twenty-four hours since he landed at Pontchartrain
Aerodrome. Since landing, he had canvassed the city searching for Flora-and her new
smuggler friends.

He had rented a room, cleaned up and bought a suit, and then hit the high-class joints: Four
Aces, Bourbon Beach, and King's Retreat. His questions about importers only got him leads
on a legitimate French textile manufacturer and an invitation to the Banker's Cotillion.

His luck changed as he worked his way down the lists of reputable bars and jazz clubs to
places like Furious Fists, The One-Legged Dog, and Le Petit Scandal, establishments where
the bouncers frisked everyone as they entered and handed out receipts for confiscated
sidearms.

Paladin got plenty of leads on importers, illegal and otherwise, especially since he was
buying drinks for those talking...until he mentioned the name Matt gave him, "Derspins."
When Paladin dropped the name, the flow of information vanished like water into sand.

Whoever this guy is, Paladin thought, he values his privacy.

He had stopped on his way back to the hotel for coffee at a tiny bar called Officer's Roost
located atop a three-story colonel on Cataouatche Avenue. The interior was decorated with
polished copper and brass ship fixtures and had open balconies overlooking the Mississippi
with a view beyond of the brightly canopied storefronts and gas lanterns of Jefferson
Heights. An occasional barge drifted by on the river, almost serene if you ignored the anti-
aircraft guns mounted on their prows.

"More coffee?" The bartender refilled Paladin's cup before he could reply. He was in his in
mid-sixties, had a slight Creole accent, and a slick of long black hair streaked gray. He