"Энди Макнаб. Кризис четвертого (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

keep my ear intact.
I managed to get my legs around his gut. I tried to squeeze, but could
only just about get my feet together. I felt the snorting from his nose move
away from my face slightly, which wasn't good news for my ear. Then his head
jerked back, taking part of the lobe with him. The pain felt like a
blowtorch on the side of my head, but now that he'd moved back a bit I could
start to get my hands around his head. I could see the blood on his face and
snot running down from his nose as he fought to breathe through his
still-gritted teeth. My fingers reached his eyes and he squeezed me up even
more, shaking his head and screaming as I began to get a good hold on his
face and dig deeper with my thumbs. He tried to bite my fingers.
I moved my right hand so I had a flat palm underneath his chin, then
switched my left to just below the crown of his head and grabbed a fistful
of his hair.
You can't just whip a head around to break someone's neck. The design
is too good for that. What you have to do is screw it off, as if you were
untwisting the cap on ajar. You're trying to take the head off at the atlas,
the small joint at the base of the skull. It's relatively easy if you're
doing it against somebody who's standing, because if you get them off
balance, their body is going down and you can twist and turn at the same
time, so their momentum works against them. But I couldn't do that; all I
could do was keep my legs around him and try to keep him in one place.
I managed to get my boots interlocked, and at last I could squeeze and
push down with my legs, at the same time twisting up with my arms as hard as
I could. I kept on turning as we both screamed at each other. The fucker
didn't like it; he knew what was going on, but fortunately for me he was too
old and too fat to do much about it.
His neck went without too much of a crack. He slumped down, and there
wasn't much noise coming from him; there wasn't even a body jerk.
He just went very still. My hands were covered in blood, snot and
saliva. I rolled over and kicked him off.
My weapon was only about five feet away. I picked it up and checked
that the magazine was on tight, and that I still had a round in the chamber.
I started to move back to Sarah, then stopped. I ran back to the
Syrian.
I could hear firing again, and people screaming and shouting, both
Brits and Arabs, maybe just thirty meters away. It's funny how these details
take a back seat when you're worrying about other things.
I scrabbled around and eventually found the piece of my ear still in
his mouth. I couldn't be assed trying to stop the bleeding on the side of my
head because I knew it wouldn't; capillary bleeding goes on forever. It
would sort itself out. But I would want to get the severed bit sewn back on.
It wouldn't be too good with a chunk missing because I'd have a VDM (visual
distinguishing mark); but worse than that, I knew a couple of people with
bits of their ear missing, and it looked fucking ugly. The only alternative
was to have a 1980s Kevin Keegan haircut to cover it up.
I got back to the room and banged on the door.
"Sarah, it's me. I'm coming in, I'm coming in."
Glen was still at the end of the corridor. When he heard my voice he
shouted, "Come on, for rack's sake! Drag her fucking ass out... now!"