"John Ringo - Sister Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

as she slid past a couple who were presenting their invitations, and ducked out of the building through a
fire exit. Holding her PDA up to her ear, she pretended to be dictating a voicemail to a friend, rounding a
corner before telling her buckley to page the team.


A few moments later, an antique limousine pulled up and the rear door opened. She climbed in,
gratefully slipping off the evil high heels and massaging her sore feet. The glass between the driver's seat
and the passenger compartment lowered slowly. A man in a green and black chauffer's uniform that
contrasted nicely with his properly spiked red hair glanced up into the rear view mirror and met her eyes.
The slight bulge in his cheek and the faint but unmistakable whif of Red Man tobacco was out of
character for a chauffer, but didn't surprise her in the least.


The two other men in the car couldn't have looked more different if they'd tried. Harrison Schmidt was
slightly too handsome, on his worst day, to be a field agent. If he wore the right clothes to make his
triangular frame look paunchy, and with the right makeup, he could look nondescript enough to get by in
a support role. They tried to keep him from having to do so, since if he lost concentration his native
dramatic flair tended to get in the way. He simply refused to alter the windswept, golden-brown hair that
could have made a holo-drama hero die from envy. But his talents for obtaining or making virtually
anything they needed, regardless of the circumstances, made him a valuable addition to the team.


"Oh, don't tell me you went in with your hair like that!" their fixer said.


"What's wrong with my hair?" Cally put a hand to her hair and looked around at the interior of the car
trying to find a makeup mirror.
 "Nothing, if you like split ends. And when you wash it you really need to work through a little mousse
while it's still wet. And a hot oil deep conditioning treatment once a month. My hairdresser has an herbal
shine rinse that works wonders. You need it, hon. And if you can possibly avoid it, no more color
changes for you until you can let it grow out enough to trim the damaged hair off." He flicked a nearly
invisible speck of dust off his immaculate, charcoal-gray sweater.


"Thisis my natural color. Well, now, anyway," she said.


"No, dear, it's been bleached and dyedback to your natural color. Not the same at all. When you were
first back from sabbatical it was all fresh and not that bad, but the years of chemicals have taken a toll.
Honey, you havegot to start taking better care of it if you want to be able to pass at parties like this one."


Tommy Sunday coughed into his hand, looking at Harrison.


"Dude, you're blind. Cally, ignore him. You look gorgeous as always, okay?" he said.


Tommy Sunday was a large man. He seemed to crowd the back of the limousine all by himself. His hair
was so dark it was practically black. In an earlier time, he wouldn't have looked out of place among a