"Энди Макнаб. День независимости (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

"Come on, mate, remember why we're here ..."
I understood what was disturbing him and liked him for it, but not so
much that I'd let him jeopardize the job. He moved back against the wall as
I looked down to check out Zeralda's head. I caught the other one looking
into my eyes. I guessed that he knew I wasn't an Arab, that this wasn't a
GIA attack. Bad decision on my part, not waiting until Lotfi had finished
and called me in. It was just one of those fuck-ups that happen once on the
ground. And a totally bad decision on his part, having ears and eyes: no
matter what the reason for no one else being killed in the house, he would
have to die.
He seemed in control, even if his overfed face didn't look that good;
most of the blood that should have been inside his head was now on the front
of his shirt.
I kicked Zeralda over on to his back. His face wasn't too bad. He had a
few teeth missing and blood leaking out of his mouth and nose, but not much
else. His eyes were closed and his body wobbled as he, I presumed, tried to
explain why I should keep him alive.
I stepped back, raised the Makharov, and double-tapped him in the
chest. After a couple of jerks, he wobbled no more.
Zeralda's mate's eyes were shaking in their sockets now, just like
Lotfi's, but there was no gasp of horror or any begging from him as the
music took over again, punctuated by the distant cries of the boys from
somewhere else in the house.
Hubba-Hubba came back into the room.
"Where are the boys?"
"Bathroom." Hubba-Hubba pointed back the way he'd come.
"Get them out of here before the fuel cuts us off. Give them the car.
Go, mate, just get them out of here. This fucker stays, I want him to
watch." Lotfi had pulled the grease ball on to the bed and was yelling abuse
at him. He let fly with his fist, punching him hard in the mouth for good
measure.
As Greaseball tried to separate his hair from the blood on his face I
made sure he saw me take out the butcher's knife. He began to get the
message. His brown eyes bulged and shook some more.
I pulled Zeralda by the arm and rolled him back over on to his stomach,
then sat astride him and grabbed a fistful of his hair in my left hand. I
yanked it back and positioned the knife below his Adam's apple.
I looked up to double-check that Greaseball was watching, and then
started to cut. I had prepared myself for days by telling myself that this
was going to be shocking, but this wasn't the time to be shocked. I had a
job to do.
The knife was razor sharp, and I felt little resistance once it got
through the first layer of skin and I pulled back on his head to make the
cutting easier. I was beginning to feel a little lightheaded. Maybe it was
because of the cloud of wacky baccy that still hung in the air, but I
doubted it. Pink Floyd were still at full pitch, singing about the happiest
days of our lives.
Greaseball closed his eyes but Lotfi thrust his pistol against his ear,
uttering in Arabic. His eyes opened again, just in time to see blood stream
from his dead friend on to the tiles, and flow between his own feet dangling