"Joel Rosenberg - Hidden Ways 2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenberg Joel C)
Hidden Ways 2.htm
After the racket of the engine, the silence in the small cabin was deafening.
"Looks like we made it," Greg said with a grin.
Ian was already out of his seatbelt and opening the door. It was lighter than it should have been. That was the funny thing about
these small planesтАФthe metal skin was only about the thickness of an old-style beer can. It seemed too light, too flimsy to serve
its purpose.
Then again, Ian thought, maybe that's true for me, too. He grinned.
He crawled out onto the wing and lowered himself to the tarmac. Greg followed, dropping to the ground with a practiced step-and-
bounce off the mounting Peg. Ian took a deep breath as he walked around to the other side and the door to the passenger
compartment, letting Greg open it. It didn't feel solid, like a car door; Ian was half afraid he was going to tear the door off if he
handled it.
Greg reached in and handed out Ian's blocky black leather travel bags, a matched set, designed to fit underneath a commercial
airplane seat or in an overhead luggage rack, and the cheap canvas golf bag Ian used for his fencing gear.
And for Giantkiller. Which you could call fencing gear, if you wanted to.
"You want me to watch the stuff while you walk into town and see about borrowing a car?" Greg asked. "You've got a fair walk if
Ian shook his head. "Nah. I'll just stash the bags over in the shade of the hangar and walk into town." Amazing how quickly he
was taking to small-town ways. Six months ago, he would no more have considered leaving his bags than he would have
considered leaving his wallet. "There's no need to waitтАФ unless you're going to change your mind and stay for dinner. Karin
Thorsen's fried chicken and biscuits are pretty special." Ian's mouth watered at the thought of biting through that crunchy skin and
into the moist meat beneath. Maybe it was that the chickens were grain-fed, and from the Hansen farm, or maybe it was the
seasonings Karin used, or maybe it was just magic.
Bullshit. Her cooking was good, but the chicken could have been overcooked to tasteless rubberiness, and he still would be
looking forward to dinner.
What it was, was that he was coming home.
"Wish I could, but I've got to get the plane back." Greg sealed the rear door closed, then gave it a friendly pat. "Next time, okay?"
"Fair enough." Ian reached for his wallet. "How much do I owe you for the gas?"
"Well..." Greg frowned. "We used about thirty-two, thirty-three gallons flying up. Figuring that the wind holds, itтАЩll be about a
hour and a halfтАФmaybe twenty-five gallonsтАФback. I can use my company card and get it for about two bucks a gallon."
"Good deal. And thanks. You might as well top the tank off for Jake as long as you're filling up." Ian pulled eight twenties out of
his wallet and handed them over. "Thank him for me, and I owe you dinner, next time I'm back."
"Sounds like a plan." Greg tucked the bills in his jeans and climbed back up into the plane, locking the door behind him.
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