"Энди Макнаб. Удаленный контроль (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

direction. I could see his profile; his chin and top lip were full of zits,
and I knew what that meant.
Under pressure, his acne always blew up.
Savage was still at the Renault. He turned, now with his back to me,
pretending to sort his keys out, but I knew he'd be checking the telltales.
A sliver of Scotch tape across a door, things arranged in a certain way
inside the vehicle; whatever, if they were not as he had left them. Savage
would lift off.
Kev and Slack Pat would be somewhere near the entrance to the square,
ready to "back." If I got overexposed to the target, one of them would take
over, or if I got in deep shit and had a contact, they would have to finish
it and we'd all worked together long enough for me to know that, as friends
as well as colleagues, they'd let nothing stand between them and the task.
The buildings were casting shadows across the square. I couldn't feel
any breeze, just the change in temperature as I moved out of the sunlight.
I was too close to Savage now to transmit. As I walked past the car I
could hear the keys going in and the click of the lock.
I headed for a wooden bench on the far side of the square and sat down.
There were newspapers in a trash can next to me; I picked one out and
pretended to read, watching him.
Savage made a suspicious move and I got back on the net:
"Alpha, this is Delta that's his feet outside, he's fiddling underneath
the dashboard, he's fiddling under the dashboard.
Wait..." I had my finger on the button, so I was still commanding the
net. Could he be making the final connection to the bomb?
As I was doing my ventriloquist act, an old guy wandered toward me,
pushing his bike. The fucker was on his way over for a chat. I took my
finger off the button and waited. I was deeply involved in the local
newspaper but didn't have a clue what it said. He obviously thought I did. I
didn't want to stick around and discuss the weather, but I wasn't going to
just blow him off either because he might start jumping up and down and draw
Savage's attention.  The old guy stopped, one hand on his bike, the other
one flailing around. He asked me a question. I didn't understand a word he
was saying. I made a face that said I didn't know what the world was coming
to, shrugged, and looked down again at the paper. I'd obviously done the
wrong thing. He said some angry shit, then wheeled his bike away, arm still
flailing.
I got back on the radio. I couldn't exactly see what Savage was doing,
but both of his feet were still outside the Renault.
He had his ass on the driver's seat and was leaning under neath the
dash. It looked as if he was trying to get something out of the glove
compartment as if he'd forgotten some thing and gone back to get it. I
couldn't confirm what he was doing but his hands kept going into his
pockets.
Everything was closing in. I felt like a boxer I could hear the crowd,
I was listening to my seconds and the referee, I was listening for the bell,
but mostly I was focused on the boy I was fighting. Nothing else mattered.
Nothing. The only important people in the world were me and Bravo One.
Through my earpiece I could hear Euan working like a man possessed,
trying to get on top of the other two terrorists.