"Steve Perry - Matador 01 - The Man Who Never Missed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

leader's told them they're invincible. Well, we'll show the stupid ratholesтАФ"
He triggered another blast of his carbine, waving it back and forth at hip
level like a water hose. Three hundred meters out, four or five of the
attackers went down, human wheat in the field used to grow a different crop.
"Stupid fuckers, stupid fuckers, stupid, stupidтАФ!" Jasper screamed as he
fanned his weapon back and forth. All around them, other quads burned the
air with blasts from their carbines, firing a locust-cloud of explosive bullets at
the oncoming enemy. Thousands of the attackers dropped, so many they
were stacked two or three meters high in places, with others climbing the
hills of human debris to keep coming. Those were cut down as well, until the
mounds of dead grew higher still.
 "Why don't they stop?" Reno was crying, pointing his empty carbine at the
sea of people, clicking the firing stud over and over. "Why don't they stop?
Why?"
Khadaji felt gray, he felt as if a barrel of sand had been poured over him,
ground into his eyes and nose and mouth and muscles. His arms ached from
the weight of the carbine, the stink of electrochem propellant filled his
nostrils, the roar of the explosions seemed continuous, even through the
mute-plugs in his ears. But he kept firing. And firing. And firing....
He opened his eyes suddenly, but otherwise didn't move. The sheets were
damp from his sweat and he felt chilled. Only a dream, he told himself. Just a
bad dream. He couldn't even remember it, only that it was bad. He took a
couple of deep breaths and went through a relaxation drill, but he was still
tense. And awake.
After a few minutes, he sat up, then stepped out of the bed. He padded
across the floor, the air cool on his naked skin. He bent and touched his toes,
straightened and leaned back, stretching his belly muscles. He was in good
shape, but using Reflex drained him. He always resolved to avoid the stuff
after he went through one of these nights, but sometimes it was necessary.
Only a little while more and he could stop.
He went to his desk, slid it aside, and opened the secret store box under
the flooring. In one corner was a small case, a flash-rigged packet coded to
open by the print of his left ring finger. He sat cross-legged and naked on the
floor by the desk and printed the lock open. Anybody who tried to violate
the packet without the proper print would be rewarded by a face full of
phosphoreme at 800 degrees C.
Inside the case was a writing nib and a small pad of paper. A single
number was written on the top sheet: 2376. He stared at the number for a
minute, then tore the sheet from the pad. Add four in the woods. Plus two on
the picket line, that's six. Four more in front of the T-plex made ten and the
Sub-Befal made it eleven. Twenty-three-eighty-seven. He wrote the number
on the blank top sheet. He put the pad back into its case and tucked it back
into the locked case. There was no need to count the flechettes, but he pulled
the magazines from the two spetsdods he'd used and double-checked them.
He'd canned two of the weapons after the station in the woods, but he'd kept
the ammunition. He counted the remainder of those plus the ones he'd used
later. Each magazine held twelve darts, so he should have, let's see, minus
two each from the first station, then two more, one from the left, one from the
right....
He finished the count. One short. Had he miscounted?