"Steve White - The Prometheus Project" - читать интересную книгу автора (White Steve)

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- Chapter 2

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 - Chapter 2




CHAPTER TWO
The attack came as we were crossing F Street.
Cautious habit, reinforced by my apprehension about this job and crystallized by my first look at the
address inside Stafford's envelope, had taken me on a route that was both indirect and very different
from the one I'd followed to National Airport earlier. After crossing over into the District, I did a half
circle around the Lincoln Memorial and turned right onto Constitution Avenue. As we passed the
Ellipse, with the Washington Monument to our right and the White House in the distance to the left,
"Miss Smith" gave me a look of arch inquiry, but held her tongue. I affected not to notice as I drove on
past the National Archives and turned left on Seventh Street. I intended to continue north past
Chinatown, maybe as far as Mount Vernon Square, before turning left again and looping around.
I was silently congratulating myself on my cleverness when the nondescript delivery truck came
careening into the intersection from the left, seemingly out of control, and capsized with suspicious
precision directly in front of us.
I slammed on the brake, managing to bring us to a screeching stop a few feet in front of that overturned
truck . . . which, I could now see, had no driver. I could also see the inconspicuously dressed figures
emerging purposefully from behind the buildings at the corner of F Street. Their purposefulness was of a
particular kind, which I had learned to recognize: that of armed men. They circled around toward each
side of us.
As I brought my raging thoughts under control, one of them would not be suppressed: How could they
have known? There was no way to predict I'd take this route.
I turned to "Miss Smith" and met her dark brown eyes. They held none of the shocked panic they should
have. All I could see there was a resigned, slightly exasperated Oh, shit.
I dismissed all of this from my mind as I unlocked the door on my side and opened it a crack. Then I
reached under my jacket with my left hand and grasped the Colt. It was awkward as hell, but I'd had
practice.
As the first of the nondescript figures approached my side of the car, I kicked the door open, to slam into
him. As he reeled back into the man behind him, I grabbed "Miss Smith" by her upper left arm and
pulled her behind me as I flung myself out of the car. Simultaneously, I whipped out the Colt and got off
a shot that entered the first man's head under the chin and blew off its top in a pinkish-gray shower.
The crowd of sightseers that a traffic accident always attracts began to scream.
I was too busy to notice. I hit the street rolling, still pulling "Miss Smith" behind me. Out of a corner of
my eye, I noticed that she was still clutching her overnight bag. I got to my feet, pulling her up with me.
In life-and-death situations, you don't pause to worry about trivia like a dislocated shoulder. But she had
the feel of a woman in good condition . . . and, praise be, she wasn't screaming hysterically. As she
staggered to her feet, I fired off three rapid shots that didn't hit anybody but made all the attackers take