"Smith, Anthony Neil - The Dealbreaker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Anthony Neil)

"IТm sorry, but IТm here to feed the ducks."

He turned a little towards me. "DonТt mess with me, man. We had business to finish. Show me the gun, IТll hand over the cash."

A gull landed on the rail, followed by another beside it. A train of ducks flowed under the bridge. I had to make a decisionЧwhich gun would I grab? There wasnТt any rationale for it. No proof. Going by gut alone. And I probably wasnТt sure until the last hundredth of a second.

I reached for my .40. Pulled it out, held it to GeorgeТs stomach and fired. The stomach made a good muffle. His face wrinkled up fiercely and he grabbed my arms, tried to hold on. My hand, my shirt, my jeans were soaked slick.

"Jesus," he said like he meant it. I wanted away, but he was holding on to be the hero so that even in grave distress, his comrades could catch me. I spun my head to check my watchers. All of them sprinting towards the bridge, guns drawn but not taking me down. That was what I didnТt get, but bless them anyway.

I kicked George off me. He flopped over and knocked the his head against the concrete. The first guy, Chinese-looking, was almost on me, but I got the gun straightened out. Winged his thigh. He tried to buck up, but cТmon. Really.

I ran the way he had come from thinking thereТd be one less coming from that way. Already heard some hardcore shouts from behind me, but didnТt look. In front of me was freedom, a highway, the train tracks, a subdivision, and I could slide out from under their noses like I was beige.

I didnТt see what I missed until he had his arms around me, this huge black bastard who looked like a WWF contender. See, I was a flurry and the other guys were flurries so I was looking for other flurries, but this guy stood rock still like he wasnТt even a part of the posse, tossing crackers to ducks and gulls, until IТm right there on him at the end of the bridge. He held the gun hand and wrapped these monster-pumped arms around my chest so I couldnТt breath. I fought and kicked, but started fading out.

Before the nap, I caught another look down the bridge, where two of GeorgeТs friends helped the guy to his feet, started walking him my way. I thought, ThereТs a hospital right there. What are you doing? The injured guy limped behind them. All of them looked shocked at me instead of angry.

The big guy holding me said, "Jesus, Collins, look at what you did."

Like he was talking to me, but my nameТs not Collins. ItТs Dreier.

Big guy carried me to a waiting van. The two guys holding George helped him into the van, then took the driver and shotgun positions. Up close, I saw the wounded Chinese guy had a thin mustache. He stared, me fading further and further, and said, "WhatТs happened to you, Collins?"

I thought, IТm not that guy.

Then he pulled a syringe from his pocket, popped the plastic cap off, and stung my arm, pushed in something smooth that kicked my ass. I heard echoing sirens, then LetТs get out of here, and then it all felt like a Tilt-a-Whirl.

*

I came to at the island of a nice kitchen done up in country blue and natural wood. I was on a high stool, face down on tile next to a Lazy Susan with salt & pepper shakers, a coffee cup stuffed with Sweet & Low packets. My hands were tied behind me, and when I tried to lift myself, a strong hand clasped my shoulder and helped me. I saw the guys who helped George to the van, and guessed the other one behind me was the guy who squeezed my breath away.

"What about George?" I said.

One of the guys shook his head, his big nose. "DocТs in with him right now. We donТt know if heТll make it."

"IТm sorry," I said, expecting anger or a bruising. But that didnТt happen.

All I got was, "Maybe when this is over, youТll feel worse. You and George go way back, you know."

Big Guy rustled behind me. "ThatТs enough. Doc said to wait until after."

"I donТt know George. Today was my first look," I said.

The big-nosed one who spoke before wasnТt making the same mistake again.

But there was faint talk coming from the closed wooden slatted door on my left. The guys in the kitchen tried to look respectful as the voices grew louder. The door opened, and in walked a Chinese guy in a khaki suit, speaking Chinese to the one I had shot, now with a taped up leg and a crutch. They stared at me a moment. More talk. The khaki-suited guy was in his early thirties, handsome if you notice those things, Hollywood-styled black hair long in front. Glasses, wire-rimmed, small octagonal lenses.

Then in English, the khaki-suited guy said, "Please leave me and Mr. Collins alone now."