"Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold 3 - Better to Beg Forgiveness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Michael Z)

Of course, Alex reflected, that understatedness probably was to her advantage. She was not a small
woman, but didn't come across as imposing, either. She had good credentials and Jason, his deputy and
friend, spoke highly of her. They'd been on contract together.

"So we do what we always do. Bound to have some advantages and disadvantages," he said.

Ripple Creek Security sounded very sophisticated and classy. They charged accordingly, and paid their
operators likewise. But if need be, that sophistication devolved to six or eight nasty operators with guns,
who carried their principal to safety while shooting anything in their way. Their primary clients were
governments and multinational and multisystem corporations. It was said they rarely lost a principal, but
of principles, they had none.

"So what would be each?" Sykora asked.

"Oh," Alex replied, and engaged his brain from peripherally alert to responsive. "Likely to have decent
quarters for us, and lots of indoor time. Likely facilities to check incoming individuals. Likely to have
good control of vehicles and facilitiesа.а.а."

"Likely someone has a ChiNaTech Mark Fifteen missile with a microburst remote control aimed at the
palace, a few planted informants in the existing indigeneeous security, bugs and a horde of savages
outside?" Sykora asked.

"Elke, you've been doing this enough months that's a rhetorical question, right?" Alex asked back.

She nodded with a wry smile. She ate steadily and neatly from the tray, not in the ravenous fashion


Anderson had. She was always methodical and thoughtful. You had to be to work with explosives.

Bart Weil had sat next to her when Anderson hadn't. Weil was poring over maps of Celadon, their
destination. Weil was a big, grizzled German, a wet-navy vet turned bodyguard. This was a different
mission from guarding idiot musicians and their retinues, but Weil did both well. He could be as polite or
intimidating as necessary. He had the most actual security experience, and Alex aimed to exploit that. The
man was quiet but not slow. He recalled their duty together during the meteorite strike on Novaja Rossia,
keeping a starving mob in a blasted wasteland from looting supplies that had to be issued in a proper
program. It wasn't easy telling families with hungry children to wait, or threatening fathers who were trying
to see that those children did get fed when they cut the fence. At least, it wasn't easy for Alex. Bart was
coldly professional.

Across from Bart, occasionally pulling the screen flat to see better, Shaman read the same maps upside
down. He was slim and looked the part of an executive. He was also a damned fine doctor with lots of
combat experience during Liberia's Third Civil War (or Eighth, depending on who did the counting),
more than once using rigger tape, rags, and a pocketknife to perform lifesaving surgery. Horace
"Shaman" Mbuto might leave you a scarred mess when done, but you'd probably be aliving scarred
mess, and reconstructive biosculp was covered under Ripple Creek's generous benefit package. Alex
wasn't sure if the native rituals Mbuto used alone and on patients were a religious matter for him or simply
an act meant to disturb and creep out observers, and wasn't going to ask. The man was one hell of a
cutter and one hell of a shooter with years of experience.