"Chase, Feliks - Shades Of Grey" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chase Feliks)

"You're Ian Porter's son?" He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Detective Ian Porter was the most crooked cop I'd ever had the displeasure of partnering on the force - what is it they say? Like father, like son.
"I know what you're thinking." he said coldly. I doubted that he did. "...Why'd the son of a cop go into dealing." I stayed silent, and he carried on with a bitter laugh. "If you knew my father like I do..." He trailed off, suddenly realising where he was, and where he was going. He froze up again, and for a second I thought he was considering jumping out of the moving car. Then he relaxed, and laughed again.
"What's funny?" I demanded, as we drove towards Farcroft's hideout. I didn't think I'd be laughing if I was in his position.
"He's gonna kill me for this." For a second, I thought he was talking about his father, then realised he meant Stoner. Again, I didn't say anything. He was probably right. Well, not Stoner maybe, but one of his cronies. There was no place for a nark on these filthy city streets.
"Him, and everyone else who's been nailed by the cops since I moved into the neighbourhood is gonna want a piece of me."
"I offered to put you in a cell." I said, and felt him shoot me a glance.
"I'd rather die, than go to jail." he said deliberately, and I wondered what his logic was.
"If you're afraid you'd shame your family, I think your father's already taken care of that one." I said, then instantly regretted it. It doesn't matter how bent a cop is, you don't bad-mouth a guy to his own son. Damon stared at me, and I felt a stab of guilt. I started to speak, then stopped. we were there.
I recognised the car from the police report. Dark grey Ford, with a stone shatter in the rear window. I slowed down, and pulled over half a block down the road. Damon locked his door.
"You're not staying here." If I needed to get out in a hurry, I didn't want to come back and find my car missing.
"What do you want me to do - introduce you?" he asked me. I snorted.
"Why not?" I knew my gun was loaded, and that gave me eight chances of hitting my target. I looked over at Porter, and he gave me back a scared rabbit look. "Here." I took the rounds out of his clip, and gave the gun back to him. He had a Glock - probably a gift from his father, caring soul that he obviously was. I had to leave a round chambered, otherwise any idiot could tell it was empty. "Shoot me with that bullet, and you'd better make sure you kill me." But he just nodded, pathetically grateful. He really didn't expect to be alive, come morning. Before I got out of the car, I felt I ought to say something - something to make up for the comment about his father.
"For the record - " I made sure he was listening. "For the record, your dad was a good cop. I mean, he did a good job."
"Yeah, sure." He said, but I could tell he didn't believe me. My comment probably just confirmed what he already knew.
We got out of the car, and he took off into the shadows. I didn't blame him - things were bound to get ugly. I didn't call for backup, there wasn't time - and I couldn't pass up the chance to catch this slime ball.
There was a light on in the living room, and I could see the flicker of a TV set though the stringy curtains, even though I couldn't hear anything. I picked my way across the yard, trying not to impale myself on the old car parts, and broken beer bottles that littered the place.
sloppy all around - the door wasn't locked. I let myself into the hallway, and got out my Maglite.
There are guys on the force who'll tell you the best weapon they ever carried is a Maglite torch. You hit someone with one of those 5-D cells, and they're not getting back up again in a hurry. Mine didn't exactly have blood stains on it, but it'd seen some action, if you know what I mean.
I did a five second tour of the rest of the house - every room was dark, every room empty, except the living room. I came up to the door, and put my ear up to it. I could hear a funny sound, and it wasn't the TV - heavy breathing, and a kind of rhythmic thump - like the noise a rickety chair makes when you rock on it. I stepped back in disgust. The guy was obviously keeping himself amused. But, repulsed as I was, I knew this was the best time to jump him - so to speak.
I busted through the door, and sure enough, there was Stoner, boxers around his ankles, hand in his lap, and a look of amazement on his face. But he wasn't alone. There was a prostitute on the floor between his skinny legs, still half-dressed. Porn played on the TV, perfect backdrop.
Stoner stayed where he was for a second, then jumped up, kicking the prostitute out of the way as he did, pulled his shorts up and reached for a weapon.
I didn't hesitate - I didn't doubt what he was going to do. I squeezed off a round into his leg, and he fell sideways, down behind the couch. The prostitute screamed, and quit the room. Behind me, someone switched off the lights, and I turned and pulled the trigger - only my gun was empty. My heart stopped, and for a second I could hardly breathe. That sonofabitch - he'd switched his Glock for mine, somehow. I could hear Stoner scrabbling around on the floor like a scared cockroach, and I shone the torch around the room, trying to find him, and keeping in mind that we weren't alone.
In the light from the TV, I could see cartons of junk stacked all over the room, but no Stoner. Then something hit me on the side of the head, and a bright light flashed behind my eyes, Mag dropping out of my hand as I fell. I felt for it, and found the thing that'd hit me - a brick - a damn brick, in his house! Feet moved past my head, and I reached out, grabbing Stoner's shot leg. He screamed like a stuck pig, and reached for his weapon of choice.
I could feel blood trickling down my face, and I knew my eyesight was going. I pulled on his leg, trying to pull him down, but he was above me, holding that brick, ready to bring it down.
With my last bit of strength, I sank my teeth into his leg, deep as I could, hearing him howl. I felt him tense to bring the brick down - and then a gunshot rang in my ears. Stoner fell to his knees, and then collapsed on top of me, the brick falling just short of caving in my skull.
I lay there in the silence, waiting for the second gunshot. There wasn't one. After half an hour, I got up enough strength to push Stoner off, and crawl back to my car, then drove down to a payphone.
Ballistics matched both bullets to service-pistols, which I found kind of funny, even in hospital with my head in a bandage. Seemed the first shot had been fired from my old buddy Ian Porter's gun, and the second, the killing bullet had been from mine. They tracked Porter Senior down and asked him about it - I think he told them to go screw themselves.
Besides, Stoner was dead, and between us, we'd managed to save a third street walker from being brained. Where I come from, it's results they want, not accountability. And I guess there's something in that. Kept me alive, anyway. As far as I'm concerned, it's all shades of grey.
The End


Feliks Chase was conceived somewhere in New Zealand, and rumor has it, is still there, hidden somewhere amongst tall stands of Flax and Pukeko.