"Jack Yeovil - Comeback Tour" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yeovil Jack)

The Op got a lock on the hoodhead's wrist, and tried to crush the bones, but they felt durium-laced.

"Nigra-lover," the hoodhead spat.

The Op carved into the man's gut, feeling the entrails uncoiling under the water like anemone tendrils.

His enemy had lost the dagger, but got a surprisingly strong grip on his throat. The Op corded his neck
muscles, and kept the air passage open. He had Zarathustra threads in there, and could lock his pipes
open. But the hoodhead was more interested in pulling him under the water than throttling him.

The Op struck a couple of karate blows to the hoodhead's neck, and felt the grip relaxing, but only
slightly. Out of the water, his karate training would tell and he would be able to use the man's weight
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against him. Here, they were just a couple of scratching and biting animals.

The 'gator came from somewhere, and latched onto the hoodhead. It must be the intestines trailing in the
water, calling to predators, signalling the presence of something mortally wounded and edible. The Op
kicked in the water, and swam away from the thrashing mass where the reptile was clamping its jaws into
the hoodhead, tearing limbs free, scattering blood in droplets. A hand reached for a frag, and flipped the
top.

The Op threw himself under the waters again, as his merciful grenade blew hoodhead and 'gator to
pieces. The Shockwave knocked him off balance, and he felt his hand sink into the mud as he tried to
steady himself. His Rapide, still slung around his arm, floated on the surface, pulling him up.

He broke the waters, and struggled towards the island. The fighting was dying down.

The third spidercopter was gone. The CAF had been stung badly, and were withdrawing.

There were dead and burned people floating thick around the island. With their skins and clothes
napalmed off them, they all looked the same colour.

The gunshots weren't so frequent now. The fighting was more or less over. The cross had burned itself
out. There was a half-hearted cheer as it toppled hissing into the swamp.

The Op pulled himself out of the swamp, water cascading out of his clothes, and walked across the
island. Soule was down on one knee near the crashed chopper, a friend trying to tighten a tourniquet
around his leg. His boot was exploded, and three of his toes were gone.

Soule grinned, and gave the Op the thumbs-up.

"We rocked," he said. "We rocked and rolled!"

His leathers heavy with water, his hair over his face, the Op walked towards the wreckage. The Yazoo
Krewe were clustered around a few wounded and captured hoodheads, prodding them with rifles,