"Charles Ingrid - The Sand Wars 05 - Return Fire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ingrid Charles)

power sled on idle and knocked on the door.

A synthetic voice droned out of the speaker. "We're closed."

Jack was in no mood for argument. He looked at the silver mesh which
hid the source of the voice. "Green Shirt" was all he answered.

The door snapped open immediately, and then the loading dock slide as
well. Jack put the sled on auto and stepped through the doorway.

Gibbon was a massive slab of a man, head sunk into a pair of shoulders
that seemed as wide as the loading dock doors. His eyes glittered as he
looked Jack over. Jack caught the bloodshot glow of greed in them.

His right ear was a rack of jewelry that chimed softly as he looked toward
the crates being delivered into his storeroom, and then back toward Jack.

"I may or may not have been expecting you," the man said. "But some
things are damned stupid talking about on the street." He opened a beefy
hand and waved Jack into the depths of the store.

Jack looked about the scatter of crates and shipping cartons, dim corners
and far recesses. Under his heel, he heard the echo of a false floor, and
smiled thinly. "Some things are damned stupid doing," and he shook off his
host's invitation.

Gibbon's thick hand clenched. The jewelry quivered noisily, and his eyes
boiled with anger. "Are you here to do business with me or not?"

"I thought you were closed."

"I thought you were someone else." Gibbon swallowed convulsively.

"I might be yet," Jack said. "Or you might be."

"Ah! Is that the reason for your shyness? Well." The shopkeeper's closed
expression opened up, and he gave a sardonic laugh. "Good enough. What
shall I do to identify myself, for it's obvious you don't know anyone who
knows me. I'm not the sort of man easily forgotten or duplicated." He threw
his arms out and did a pirouette, in the graceful way the very large
sometimes have, as though it were the sun and moon that orbited around
them instead of the other way.

Jack felt a moment of guilt that this man would cease to exist shortly after
doing business with him. He offered his hand. "Call me Jack," he said.

"I will. And you may call me Gibbon. And who sent you to me?"

"Saint Colin of the Blue Wheel."