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

THE MAN WHO NEVER MISSED
Steve Perry
Chapter One

DEATH CAME FOR him through the trees.

It came in the form of a tactical quad, four people walking the three-and-one,
the point followed by the tight concave arc; the optimum number in the safest
configuration. It was often said the Confed's military was always training to
fight the last war and it was true enough, only there had been enough last
wars to give them sand or cold or jungle troops as needed. These four were
jungle-trained, they wore class-one shiftsuits with viral/molecular computers
able to match backgrounds within a quarter second;"they carried . 177 Parkers,
short and brutal carbines which held five hundred rounds of explosive ammoтАФone
man could cut down a half-meter-thick tree with two waves of his weapon on
automatic. The quad carried heat-sensors, corn-implants, Doppler gear and
personal sidearms; they were the deadliest and best-equipped soldiers the
Confed could field and they were good. They moved through the cool rain forest
quietly and efficiently, alert for any signs of the Shamba Scum. If something
moved, they were going to spike it, hard.

Khadaji felt the fear in himself, the familiar coldness in the pit of his
belly, an old and unwelcome tenant. He had learned to live with it, it was
necessary, but he was never comfortable when it came to this. He took a deeper
breath and pressed his back harder against the rough bark of the sum win tree.
He practiced invisibility. The tree was three meters thick, they couldn't see
him, and even without his confounder gear their directional doppler and heat
sensors wouldn't read through that much solid wood. He listened as they moved
past him. The soft ferns brushed against the shiftsuits of the quad; the humus
of a thousand years made yet softer sounds under their slippers as they
walked, but Khadaji knew exactly where they were when he stepped away from his
tree.

He was behind them, a tall figure in plain tan orthoskins with spetsdods
molded to the backs of both hands. He held his breath for steadiness and
brought his arms up, as might a man lifting a small child. He hyperextended
the index fingers of both hands and each of the spetsdods fired once, a polite
cough. Two hits, sounding like knuckles on wood as they pierced the too-light
armor.

They were fast, the last two. The bacterially-augmented reflexes had been
well-trained, but in this case, the instruction was wrong. Instead of dropping
flat, the point and left rear spun, carbines cleared for killing.

Khadaji fired both spetsdods again. The flechettes hit the soldiers halfway
through their turns, on the sides instead of the backs. The point managed to
trigger off a few rounds before he crumpled. The sound of the .177 was very
loud in the thick forest. The smell of the electro-chemical explosive tainted
the air with an acrid tang.