"Lane Pollock - The Slow Kill" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pollock Lane)

mass of commuters piled into the bullet shaped train. Surprisingly, once inside the train, the
crowd seemed to thin somewhat. Skeller had to stand and hold an overhead handle which
he didn't particularly care for, but otherwise, his range of motion was fairly uninhibited.

Just as the jet-powered train began to accelerate, Skeller felt a hand at his rear pocket. In a
blur, his arm shot backwards. The edge of his hand struck a wrist. He heard it snap. Behind
him there was a cry of surprise that would soon turn to a cry of pain. Skeller never even
turned around. That's one less pickpocket to trouble honest working folk, he thought with a
self-satisfied smile.
Skeller looked around for thanks or appreciation from the other people. There was none. In
fact, he actually thought he saw a few glances of accusation. That's the last time I try to help
you people out, he thought. From now on, I'll just let him rob you blind. But that was the way
Skeller was. He had no loyalties. He was a free-agent, a mercenary for hire to the highest
bidder. There was always a highest bidder. Skeller, by most opinions, especially his own,
was considered the best in the business. If he could be said to have one loyalty, it was to the
profession. That's why he carried a Slow Kill instead of a gun. The Slow Kill put a dart into
an opposing agent that would release poison into the agent's bloodstream. But if an infected
agent could reach a physician in time, the poison could be neutralized. The only catch was,
the poison slowly made a agent's joints and muscles stiffen, and after a short time, any type
of motion became not only difficult, but agonizing. That's why a smart agent sought a doctor
immediately if he was hit by a Slow Kill. So, with a Slow Kill, an agent was effectively
eliminated from a situation without necessarily being terminated. In Skeller's mind, any
agent bad enough to be hit with a Slow Kill deserved to die, but at the same time, there
weren't enough people in the field as it was. So the Slow Kill was his big contribution to
society.

The train blasted through fourteen stops before it approached the one he wanted. It was the
train's final stop, and the only one it made outside of the city dome. As the train began to
slow, a red warning light flashed overhead and a monotone, computerized voice sounded.

"Warning, stop fifteen is outside of the city's protective dome. If you are departing here, a
breath mask is strongly advised. The Public Transportation Department is not responsible
for any deaths due to lack of precautions. Thank you."

Skeller didn't have one. He didn't need one. Through modern surgery techniques, he had
been altered. It was possible for him to breathe any atmosphere with the barest trace of
oxygen. After all, he was the best, and the best were always prepared. But to go outside a
city dome without a breath mask was to scream for attention, something Skeller didn't
need.
He waited, making sure he would be the last one off the train. In front of him stood a young
blonde woman, quite pretty in fact. Oh well, he thought, things can't be helped. Just as she
was stepping through the train door, Skeller grabbed a handful of her beautiful hair and
slammed her head up against the door frame. She collapsed instantly at his feet, but she
was still alive. He even managed not to harm her pretty face in the least bit.
It was an easy task from there to roll her back onto the train and take her breath mask. No
one saw him. If they did, they didn't care.

The breath mask was cracked from the impact of the blow. It was useless to anyone else,
but Skeller only needed it for appearances. He slipped it over his face and walked up the
subway stairs into the gray, hazy, outer-dome atmosphere. Nobody really lived out here.