"Энди Макнаб. Огненная стена (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

have a choice; I desperately needed the cash.
"What's it called again, Sergei?" I mimed the disembowelment
Eyes staring straight ahead, he gave a brief, somber smile and
muttered, "Viking's revenge."
It was just before seven p.m. and it had already been dark for three
and a half hours. The air temperature had been well below freezing all day;
it hadn't snowed for a while, but there was still a lot of the stuff about,
plowed to the sides of the roads.
The two of us had been sitting very still for the best part of an hour.
Until I'd just spoken, our breathing was the only sign of movement. We were
parked two blocks away from the Intercontinental Hotel, using the shadows
between the streetlights to conceal our presence in the dirty black Nissan
4x4. The rear seats were down flat to make it easier to hide the target
inside, complete with me wrapped round him like a wrestler to keep him
there. The 4x4 was sterile: no prints and completely empty apart from the
trauma pack lying on the folded seats. Our boy had to be delivered across
the border alive, and a couple of liters of Ringer's solution might come in
handy if this job turned into a gang fuck Right now, it certainly had all
the ingredients of one. I found myself hoping it wouldn't be me needing the
infusion.
It had been a while since I'd felt the need to pre canulate making it
quicker for me to replace any fluid from gunshot wounds, but today had just
that feel about it. I'd brought a catheter from the U.K. and it was already
inserted into a vein under my left forearm, secured by tape and protected by
an Ace bandage. Anticoagulant was preloaded inside the catheter's needle and
chamber to stop the blood that filled it from clotting. Ringer's solution
isn't as good as plasma to replace blood loss-it's only a saline mix-but I
didn't want anything plasma-based. Russian quality control was a
contradiction in terms, and money was what I wanted to return to the U.K.
with, not HIV. I'd spent enough time in Africa not treating anyone's gunshot
wounds because of the risk of infection, and I wasn't about to let it happen
now.
We sat facing Mannerheimintie, 600 feet down the hill from our
position. The boulevard was the main drag into the city center, just a
fifteen minute walk away to the right. It carried a constant stream of slow,
obedient traffic each side of the streetcar lines. Up here it was like a
different world. Low-level apartment buildings hugged each side of the quiet
street and an inverted V of white Christmas lights sparkled in almost every
window.
People walked past, straining under the weight of their purchases,
crammed into large shopping bags with pictures of holly and Santa. They
didn't notice us as they headed home to their smart apartments; they were
too busy keeping their footing on the icy sidewalks and their heads down
against the wind that howled and buffeted the 4x4.
The engine had been off all the time we'd been here, and it was like
sitting in a fridge. Our breath billowed like low cloud as we waited.
I kept visualizing how, when, and where I was going to do my stuff, and
more importantly, what I was going to do if things got fucked up. Once the
target has been selected the basic sequence of
a kidnapping is nearly always the same. First comes reconnaissance;