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

Paladin flipped to the next telegram-and froze as he spotted the sender's address: Matthew
Blake, Sky Haven, Free Colorado.

Paladin dropped the telegram like it was on fire.

Matthew Blake. Paladin thought of his brother as a dead man, and had for the last eight
years. Paladin knew Matthew was really alive; it was just easier to pretend he wasn't.

Paladin opened his lower desk drawer and retrieved his bottle of fourteen-year old bourbon.
He also pulled out the yellowed photograph of his father sitting on the wing of his plane,
pistol in one hand, and in the other, a bottle identical to the one on Paladin's desk.

The picture was snapped on Thanksgiving 1927, when there had still been a Blake family:
his father; his brother, Matthew, his sister, Flora; and, of course, Paladin.

The next day pirates shot his father down as the wily old bootlegger flew moonshine across
the Colorado-Texas state line-pirates that Paladin had sworn he'd pay back. Every last one
of them.

Matthew had his revenge on pirates, too. He took their money and planes, and whenever he
could, their lives. He had become a pirate preying upon pirates, until eventually, he took
anything from anyone that crossed his path. Now, Matthew was the thing he most hated.

Paladin uncorked the bottle of bourbon and poured a shot. He cradled the glass, warming
the liquor until he smelled its smoky aroma.

His mouth watered. It brought back those days when he and Dad and Matthew had flown
and fought and drank together. Like it was yesterday. Like it was a million years ago...and
when Paladin had been a very different man.

Paladin poured the bourbon back into the bottle, replaced the cork, and then stowed it back
in its drawer. Drying out was one of the hardest things Paladin had ever done. He should
have poured the last of this booze into the ocean once and for all.

Ironically, his family crest appeared not only on the Blake Aviation Security masthead, but
also on the labels of the most infamous brand of bourbon in speakeasies from Hawai'i to
Iceland-Matthew still carried on the family tradition of moonshining and bootlegging. Anger
burned in Paladin's gut every time he saw the rampant black knight.

"Okay, Matthew," he whispered. "Let's see what you want."

Paladin tore the telegram open and shook out a slip of paper. It read:

DON'T KNOW IF YOU CARE IF I LIVE OR DIE STOP. CORRECTION STOP. SURE YOU
PREFER ME DEAD STOP.

SENDING THIS FOR FLORA STOP. OUR SISTER IS NO STRANGER TO TROUBLE STOP.
BUT THIS TIME SHE HAS BITTEN OFF MORE THAN SHE CAN CHEW STOP.

MEET ME ALONE STOP. DUSK SATURDAY DURANGO FIELD FREE COLORADO STOP.