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

pancake holster over his kidneys. We always put a bit of weight in a pocket
a full magis good to help the jacket flick back out of the way.
But I wasn't really looking at Kev; I was looking at Savage. I could
see his hand moving to the right side of his jacket. He wasn't some
knuckle-dragging moron from the backstreets. The moment he saw us, he knew
the score. It was decision time.
Kev drew his pistol, brought it up, and prepared to fire.
Nothing.
"Stoppage! Fuck, Nick, fuck, fuck!"
Trying to clear his weapon, he dropped on one knee to make himself a
smaller target.
That was when everything seemed to go into slow motion.
Savage and I had eye-to-eye. He knew what I was going to do; he could
have stopped, he could have put his hands up.
My bomber jacket was held together with Velcro, so at times like this I
could just pull it apart and draw my pistol.
The only way a weapon can be drawn and used quickly is by breaking the
whole movement into stages. Stage one, I kept looking at the target. With my
left hand I grabbed a fistful of bomber jacket and pulled it as hard as I
could toward my chest. The Velcro ripped apart.
At the same time I was sucking in my stomach and sticking out my chest
to make the pistol grip easy to access. You get only one chance.
We still had eye contact. He started to shout, but I didn't hear. There
was too much other shouting going on, from everyone on the street and the
earpiece in my head.
Stage two, I pushed the web of my right hand down onto the pistol grip.
If I got this wrong, I wouldn't be able to aim correctly: I would miss and
die. As I felt my web push against the pistol grip, my lower three fingers
gripped hard around it.
My index finger was outside the trigger guard, parallel with the
barrel. I didn't want to pull the trigger early and kill my self. Savage was
still looking, still shouting.
Savage's hand was nearly at his pocket.
Stage three, I drew my weapon, in the same movement taking the safety
catch off with my thumb.
Our eyes were still locked. I saw that Savage knew he had lost. There
was just a curling of the lips. He knew he was going to die.
As my pistol came out I flicked it parallel with the ground.
No time to extend my arms and get into a stable firing position.
Stage four, my left hand was still pulling my jacket out of the way and
the pistol was now just by my belt buckle. There was no need to look at it;
I knew where it was and what it was pointing at. I kept my eyes on the
target, and his never left mine. I pulled the trigger.
The weapon report seemed to bring everything back into real time. The
first round hit him. I didn't know where I didn't need to. His eyes told me
all I wanted to know.
I kept on firing. There is no such thing as overkill. If he could move,
he could detonate the bomb. If it took a whole magazine to be sure I'd
stopped the threat, then that was what I'd fire. As Savage hit the ground I
could no longer see his hands. He was curled up in a ball, holding his