"Tim LaHaye & Jerry Jenkins - Left Behind Series 4 - Soul Harvest" - читать интересную книгу автора (LaHaye Tim)

and pitched face forward. He took the brunt of the fall on his palms and chest.
He pulled himself up and knelt next to the tennis shoes, which were attached to a
body. Thin legs in dark blue jeans led to narrow hips. From the waist up, the small
body was hidden under the pew. The right hand was tucked underneath, the left lay
open and limp. Buck found no pulse, but he noticed the hand was broad and bony,
the third finger bearing a man's wedding band. Buck slipped it off, assuming a
surviving wife might want it.
Buck grabbed the belt buckle and dragged the body from under the bench. When the
head slid into view, Buck turned away. He had recognized Donny Moore's blond
coloring only from his eyebrows. The rest of his hair, even his sideburns, was
encrusted with blood.
Buck didn't know what to do in the face of the dead and dying at a time like this.
Where would anyone begin disposing of millions of corpses all over the world?
Buck gently pushed the body back under the pew but was stopped by an
obstruction. He reached underneath and found Donny's beat up, hard-sided
briefcase. Buck tried the latches, but combination locks had been set. He lugged the
briefcase back to the Range Rover and tried again to find his bearings. He was a
scant four blocks from Loretta's, but could he even find the street?


Rayford was encouraged to see movement in the distance at Baghdad Airport. He
saw more wreckage and carnage on the ground than people scurrying about, but at
least not all had been lost.
A small, dark figure with a strange gait appeared on the horizon. Rayford watched,
fascinated, as the image materialized into a stocky, middle-aged Asian in a business
suit. The man walked directly toward Rayford, who waited expectantly, wondering
if he could help. But as the man drew near, Rayford realized he was not aware of his
surroundings. He wore a wing-tipped dress shoe on one foot with only a sock
sliding down the ankle of the other. His suit coat was buttoned, but his tie hung
outside it. His left hand dripped blood. His hair was mussed, yet his glasses
appeared to have been untouched by whatever he had endured.
“Are you all right?” Rayford asked. The man ignored him. “Can I help you?”
The man limped past, mumbling in his own tongue. Rayford turned to call him
back, and the man became a silhouette in the orange sun. There was nothing in that
direction but the Tigris River. “Wait!” Rayford called after him. “Come back! Let
me help you!”
The man ignored him, and Rayford dialed Mac again. “Let me talk to Carpathia,” he
said.
“Sure,” Mac said. “We're set on that meeting tonight, right?”
“Right, now let me talk to him.”
“I mean our personal meeting, right?”
“Yes! I don't know what you want, but yes, I get the point. Now I need to talk to
Carpathia.”
“OK, sorry. Here he is.”
“Change your mind, Captain Steele?” Carpathia said.
“Hardly. Listen, do you know Asian languages?”
“Some. Why?”
“What does this mean?” he asked, repeating what the man had said.
“That is easy,” Carpathia said. “It means, 'You cannot help me. Leave me alone.'”
“Bring Mac back around, would you? This man is going to die of exposure.”