"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 02 - The Blood Merchants" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'All right,' he nodded. 'There's nobody I'd sooner work with than you Ilona. I suggest we start as soon as possible.'

'I'll go and change.' She opened the door leading out into the hall and Sabat heard female laughter from somewhere up above. The evening's pleasures were already under way.

The night was warm, almost thundery as Sabat and Ilona moved away from the lighted streets, the prostitute's stiletto heels beating a tattoo on the pavement, Sabat's footsteps virtually soundless as he glided along in sneakers which matched the rest of his black attire, rendering him almost invisible in the darkness. A lot of thoughts crossed his mind; the pleasure this woman had given him in the past, the warmth of her bed which was not as other prostitute's during those times when fits of loneliness had assailed him, the physical pleasure which she was capable of giving him, according to his moods. In some ways there was a similarity between her and Catriona Lealan.

Sabat knew and understood whores, a better understanding of which he had acquired during those years he had been in priesthood when he did not really understand himself. He had weathered the storm, come through unscathed, that much richer for the psychic power which he had discovered. One exorcism followed another . . . and then Quentin! He tensed, seemed to hear laughter that could have been in his own mind. Or possibly his brother's spirit was stirring within him, once again determined to champion the cause of malevolence, hoisting the black flag of evil in support of these devilish nocturnal killers.

'Stop here,' Sabat grasped Ilona's arm, pulled her into a structure which had once been a bus shelter, now a partially collapsed ruin, rubble on the floor, aerosol graffiti on the remaining concrete walls. 'Just stand here and smoke a cigarette or two. I'll be in one of those doorways across the road. Any trouble and I'll be with you in a couple of seconds.'

'Thanks,' her voice was husky and her fingers squeezed his. There was no more to be said. She was dreadfully afraid but her choice was made.

Sabat squeezed himself into a narrow doorway. Once this building had been a shop of some kind, flow it was boarded up and from within came the stale odour of disuse, a phase of life which had rotted away and awaited the coming of the bulldozers to erase it forever. Across the street he could see the tiny glow that was Ilona's cigarette, a safety light.

He was suddenly tense now. Angry, too. Innocent girls had died and for that there was only one penalty. Death! For in Sabat's law the death penalty had never been repealed. Fury burned inside him like smouldering coals, a white hot furnace. Tonight he knew no mercy; he was as ruthless as those he sought.

You're a fool, Sabat. Go now and leave what is to be alone.

Quentin's voice, louder, clearer, mocking. The evil serpent was stirring, its venomous fangs ready to strike. Sabat cursed beneath his breath, knew the fight had already begun. Whatever evil lurked in the enshrouding darkness his brother's soul was rising to greet it, attempting to weaken Sabat's own iron resilience. I'll fight it Quentin. I'll fight it until it's destroyed and one day Til destroy you too!

Mocking laughter that could have been the gentle spring breeze through the derelict house except that Sabat knew it wasn't. But he had learned to ignore the presence of Quentin, to steel himself so that he shut out the voices and the laughter but at the same time did not lose his awareness of the latest evil.

Another sound that had Sabat stiffening until he recognised it; the hooting of an owl. Owls were not unknown in these areas, roosting by day in the darkness of partially demolished houses, by night hunting the rats and mice which abounded in the ruins. This truly was a night when hunter and hunted were abroad.

Total silence. Tranquility that could lull one into a false sense of security, the blackness around complete, the houses shutting out the glow from neighbouring lighted areas. Sabat settled back on his haunches, back resting against the door behind him, a coiled human spring ready for instant action. Occasionally he checked his watch; perfectly synchronised with a clock that struck some distance away. 1.30 a.m. It was going to be a long night. Tomorrow too, the night after, and the one after that. Weeks could be wasted on a futile vigil but patience and perseverance were the only way. Sabat was an SAS agent once again, a loner engaged upon a seemingly impossible assignment but you just stuck it out and hoped that the break would come your way.

The owl again, much nearer this time, a low 'whoo-whoo' as though it, too, was afraid to disturb the nocturnal silence. Sabat checked, saw Ilona's cigarette in the blackness opposite, tuned his acute hearing to pick up any sound and heard the scurrying of small vermin from inside the shop. And . . . something else: something which at first he failed to identify positively. A slithering noise as though a snake squirmed across dry dusty ground. He pinpointed it, across the street . . , and even as that spring prepared to uncoil Ilona's cigarette bounced on the pavement in a shower of sparks. A scream that was stifled before it was born, the thud of a falling body.

Sabat leaped, ran, a black avenging wraith in the darkness yet moving cautiously in spite of his speed. Only his eyesight could have picked out the silhouetted scene, shadows against a black background. Ilona fought and struggled as somebody knelt over her, pinioning her to the ground with a throat hold, the other arm raised, fingers clenched over something long and thin . . . some kind of weapon!

Sabat did not curse aloud until he had a firm grasp on that wrist and whatever weapon it wielded; bent it back until there was a sharp snap of breaking bone followed by a gutteral cry of pain.

'You fucking bastard!' Sabat snarled, took a backward thrust of a bullet like head on his shoulder and sank his teeth hard into the other's ear. The attacker howled like a wounded timber wolf but the cry was cut off as Sabat found a neck hold. A red haze of fury shimmered before his eyes. Somebody was screaming; it might even have been Quentin's thwarted evil soul inside himself. Sabat tightened his grip, somehow managed to check himself. The SAS had taught him to kill quickly and silently but he needed this man alive. He felt him sag as consciousness ebbed away and only then did Sabat stare into the dark, let out a low sigh of relief as he saw Ilona struggling up dusting herself down.

'You OK?' There was genuine concern in his voice.

'Just about,' she was breathing heavily, trembling. 'My God, I never heard him until he jumped me.'

'Well, I don't think he'll be jumping on anybody else for a while... if ever!' Sabat added grimly.

'He. . . he isn't

'No, he isn't dead. Only because I need to ask him a few questions before he departs this life for the next!'

Ilona caught her breath, shuddered at the way her companion dragged the unconscious man into a sitting position against the wall of the shelter, then groped around on his hands and knees, searching for something.

'Ah!' Sabat had found what he was looking for. He could not see it in the darkness so traced its shape by feel; a long cylindrical tube that appeared to be attached to a container of some kind. 'Carry this for me, will you,' he held it out to Ilona, 'and be careful because the end of that tube is sharper than a razor blade.'

She took it, held it nervously away from her body, trembling so that she feared that she might drop it. But even at the height of her fear and revulsion she could not refrain from a gasp of amazement at the ease with which Sabat picked up the inert body of the unknown man and hoisted it on his shoulder, walking on ahead as easily as though he was unburdened. Yet she was familiar with the lithe muscles which rippled beneath the dark clothing, having experienced his physical fitness in more pleasurable circumstances.