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

'Seig Heil!' A fanatical screech, the leg irons rattling.

'Two things I want to know,' Sabat's voice was a low hiss, a deadly reptile preparing to strike. 'Where are your headquarters? Who is your leader?' He glanced at his watch, turned away. 'You have three minutes in which to make up your mind whether or not you are going to cooperate with me. I do not promise you freedom if you choose to answer my questions, only that your death will be swift and painless. If you decide to remain silent then I can promise you that you will die slowly and ... painfully!'

Ilona wished that she could leave; surely Sabat would not wish her to witness inhuman tortures such as he was capable of inflicting upon this young Nazi skinhead. At the moment he seemed totally oblivious of her presence, an executioner in black who had a job to do. A teenage killer who had a choice, two ways in which to die. She had seen the look in Sabat's eyes a few seconds earlier and knew that he would carry out this threat - that he wanted to kill!

'You have thirty seconds left.'

No answer.

'Fifteen.'

Still no answer.

After what seemed an eternity Sabat swivelled on his heel to face the one who hung on the wall like a butterfly in a collection and there was a terrible expression on the dark man's features. Ilona looked away, wanted to flee, she tried to remind herself of what this youth had done to four girls the night before, what he would have done to her tonight. Now he was about to experience Sabat's justice, Sabat's wrath!

'If you wish to change your mind,' Sabat picked up the syringe-like instrument, tested its trigger action, heard a sucking sound like a drowning man gulping down a mixture of air and water, 'you have a few bonus seconds in which to do so.'

'Sabat...' Ilona swayed on her feet.

'Ilona . . . I'm sorry,' Sabat turned, so obsessed with what he was about to do that he appeared to have forgotten her presence. 'Please go ... this is no place for you.'

He watched as she ran for the steps, stumbling up them, heard the door closing behind her. Then he turned back to his captive, saw that same expressionless stare. The youth had abandoned hope, knew he was going to die, that pleading would not help him. He had just one crumb of revenge left; silence! Sabat knew also that a promise of freedom might give him the answers to the questions he had asked but when the killing urge was prevalent nothing would deter him. Roughly he slammed the cropped head back against the wall, held it firmly there, brought the 'gun' up until the pointed tube was barely an inch away from the other's throat.

'You're going to die, boy!' he muttered. 'And nobody will miss you.'

A thought crossed his mind; possibly some systematic torture might have extracted the required information but it was exceedingly doubtful. This guy had not only been on drugs, he'd been indoctrinated by whoever was using him for this mysterious purpose. Probably he didn't know enough, anyway - he'd been instructed to go out and kill by another minion of whoever was running this set-up. But the night had not been wasted, he'd found the weapon that was being used, knew what they were up against, human vampires on the rampage, merchants of blood preying on innocent victims.

Sabat stared hard into those eyes, saw again the hate and defiance reflected there. The lips pursed, a snake spitting its venom, a blob of phlegm splatting on his cheek.

'Die, bastard!' Sabat plunged the needle into1 the neck, felt it cutting its way through the soft flesh; pressed the trigger. Crimson fluid spurted thickly into the container.

The victim was squirming now as much as Sabat and his manacles would allow, gurgling incomprehensibly; possibly he'd changed his mind, would have told the little he knew. But it was too late! Nothing could save him now.

Sabat smiled grimly, watching the level in the plastic canister rising. He raised his head, looked into those eyes again. This time the terror was there; the bravado and defiance were gone. The killer was suffering the agonies of the hell he served, knew he was destined for the black beyond, shuddering violently as his blood was sucked from his body.

Sabat released his hold on the cropped head, worked swiftly with his free hand, unshackling the clamped limbs, took the weight of the dying youth as it sagged forward. Then Sabat moved with incredible speed; the blood sucking tube still deep in the other's throat, the level of the liquid in the container almost at the top, three bounds took him to a wash basin in the corner. Holding his prisoner around the waist he thrust the face and neck into the bowl, withdrew the weapon with a glugging sound like a blocked plug-hole. Thick crimson blood spurted with force, half filled the bowl, sluggishly began seeping away down the outlet pipe.

Sabat sniffed the iron smelling odour, laughed softly to himself, still supporting his burden with ease, holding it in place until the spurts died to a trickle, then to a steady drip. The trembling body became still and flaccid, and finally the open jugular vein was empty.

He turned on the tap, flushed away the last of the sticky crimson stain, wiped the surface clean with his fingers. Only then did he lower the corpse to the floor and plug the wound with a paper tissue. He glanced around, made sure that no tell-tale droplets of blood were on the floor. Then he went back upstairs.

Ilona was in the lounge, a tumbler of whisky in her hand, the fingers encircling it trembling. 'Oh God,' she muttered, 'it was awful. I'm sorry, Sabat, but I couldn't remain down there. I.. . '

'Console yourself with the thought that what happened to him could have happened to you.' Sabat slipped an arm around her, kissed her lightly. 'As it happens, all's well that ends well, as they say.'

'Did you . .. find out anything?'

'No,' his lips were compressed into a tight bloodless line.