"Brookmyre, Christopher - Bampot Central" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brookmyre Christopher)

"We have all exits covered," resumed the loud hailer. "Please put down your weapons, release your hostages and come out with your hands on your heads."

"Come on," said Parlabane tiredly. "Do what the man asked. He said please, after all."

"You think we're fuckin' stupit, don't ye?" Jyzer observed, accurately. "Smart-arsed cunt," he added, hitting a second bullseye.

"Well, maybe you'll prove me wrong by explaining how you were ever planning to get out of here, with or without your, ahem, Insurance Bonds."

"Stop windin' him up, mate," warned the crusty who had earlier proffered the highly constructive wallet suggestion.

"I'm not winding him up. I'm just curious to know the secrets of how true professionals work."

"Want me tae slap the cunt, Jyzer?" Tommy offered.

"Just keep the heid and keep your hauns on the gun, Tommy. Dinnae let him distract ye. He's up to somethin', this cunt."

A telephone started ringing on the other side of the counter as the teller returned with the sports bag, presumably now containing cash and very possibly
a dye-charge, seeing as Jyzer had made Mistake Number Fuck-knows by leaving her alone to fill the thing.

"Get that," Jyzer commanded. "No you," he added, as Tommy made to reach for the receiver.

"It's for you," she said. "The police."

He gestured to her to rejoin the human shield, taking hold of the bag as she passed, then picked up the phone. Tommy stayed in place, sweeping the gun back
and forth along his line of vision like it was a searchlight. The crusties' skinny dog ambled lazily over to him, yawned once and began half-heartedly
shagging his leg.

"Get tae fuck, ya wee shite," he hissed, kicking out at it to shake the thing off, his eye relaying between his prisoners and his foot. "Fuckin' dirty wee
bastard."

"TOMMY!" Jyzer barked, placing a hand over the mouthpiece, "will ye fuckin' keep it doon - I'm on the phone here."

"Aye, awright. Fuck's sake," whined Tommy, hurt.

Jyzer shook his head and took his hand off the blue plastic.

"Sorry, what were ye sayin'?" he resumed. "Naw, naw. You listen. Fuckin' just shut it an' listen ya polis cunt."

The Morningside contingent tutted in stereo either side of Parlabane.

"Before we even have this conversation, I want to be lookin' oot that front windae an' seein' nae polis, right. Nane. Get them away fae the front o' the
shop then phone us back." He slammed down the handset with an obvious satisfaction.

Parlabane suspected the sense of accomplishment would be short-lived, but was admittedly impressed at this first sign of Jyzer having any idea what he was
doing. In fact, he had noted with some surprise that neither of the pair had shown much sign of panic at the arrival of the ARU, and started to wonder
whether their grossly conspicuous entrance had been less of an obvious blunder than he had first assumed.

Jesus, these heid-the-baws couldn't have a plan, could they?
He looked back over his shoulder, Jyzer and Tommy peering between the arrayed hostages. The marksmen got to their feet and moved out of sight left and right,