"Moon, Elizabeth - Vatta 2 - Marque And Reprisal V5" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

She cracked open the booth door to let her security escort know that she would be making more calls, but before the door was fully open she saw a trio of masked figures push through the inner door of the lobby, weapons out. Her escort, standing at the desk chatting with the assistant manager, whirled, but too late: he was dead and so was the assistant manager before either of them could push a panic button. Ky ducked back into the booth, but did not latch the door; that would turn on theENGAGED light. Instead, she held very still.
“What room?” she heard one of the intruders ask. A mumble, then the same voice said, “Upstairs.” An instant of relief. She eased around to peek out the door. One of the figures was crouched over the bodyguard, going through his pockets. No chance then to run out the door and get help. She could almost feel the blow in her back if she tried it. But once they found she wasn’t in her room they’d search the place, including this booth.
The booth held nothing she could use as a weapon. The booth could not be used for local calls—and would not function anyway without the door being latched, at which the telltale light would come on. All this ran through her mind, a cascade of logic that came down to one conclusion—and she was already in motion when she became aware of it.
The masked figure frisking the dead guard had his back to her at the moment—five strides took her across the lobby. Three before he noticed anything and whirled, but she was already moving so fast that his hasty shot missed, and she was on him. Primary disarm—the weapon flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor. Her chop at his throat met a hard surface; he wore armor under his clothes. He uncoiled a vicious kick; Ky evaded it, whirling and noticing the movement of his left hand toward his side. The next weapon—instead of trying to intercept that movement, she dove toward the dead guard, snatching his weapon as part of a sideways roll, and shot her attacker square through his mask before he had his weapon all the way out. She recognized the stab of emotion that passed through her, sharp and sweet; a wave of guilt followed: Not again. She shook it away.
Seconds had passed. They would be at her floor now. They would be opening the door. And how many were left outside, in case she managed to escape and try to flee? If she’d had an implant, she could have called for help by now. Ky reached over to the reception desk’s outside line. It hummed, and she punched in the local emergency code. A faint rhythmic buzz . . . three, four, five. Behind the reception desk was the office—she hadn’t been in it, but brief glimpses when the clerk came in and out suggested the usual work space, which might or might not have another exit. The corridor to the left led to the dining room, and from there to the kitchens and presumably another exit, which might also be covered by the assassins. But offices, dining rooms, and kitchens had lots of hiding places. Which . . . ?
The lift hummed suddenly, then clanked into motion. The assassins? Or some innocent bystander? For the first time she thought about the other possible captains in residence. Two—but they might or might not be in their rooms. Around the desk, a glance at the assistant manager, a crumpled heap on the floor, at the monitor. The lift stopped, but now she heard footsteps on the stairs. No time to make it to the corridor. She ducked into the office with its desks, cabinets, shelves stocked with office supplies. Another door led into a smaller room that seemed to function as a storeroom for linens and cleaning supplies. She moved into it, checked that nothing had a reflective surface to reveal her to someone outside, and flattened against a stack of toilet paper cartons.
Voices outside. “Piet’s dead . . . somebody’s given the alarm.”
“Stupid bitch wasn’t in her room—could be her?”
“Doesn’t matter. No time—we go now.”
“Piet?”
“Leave him. Come on.”
Footsteps across the lobby floor, the squeak of the inner door opening, then hissing shut, a clear invitation to someone in hiding to emerge. Ky stayed where she was, counting to herself. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty. Something scraped, thumped faintly. The hair on her arms stood up; she held her breath. She hadn’t felt nausea this time when she killed, but now her stomach clenched. The outer door of the office swung suddenly, banged against the wall.
“Hey! Anybody home? What’s going on here?”
It was not the officials. A different voice, but not the officials because she would have heard the front door.
“I seeeee youuu . . . ,” the voice mocked. “Better come out, sweetheart . . .”
Ky held still. She could not be seen; she knew she could not be seen. She heard a breath drawn in, let out.
“If you’re here, bitch, we’ll get you later,” the voice said, now quietly serious. “But I don’t think she is,” it went on, this time clearly a comment-to-self. “And here come the puds.” The footsteps retreated. She dared not peek out to see where the man went, but a moment later she heard a cry from the direction of the kitchen.
Now the wheeze of the front doors, banging, stomping, clattering, several loud voices. Ky slid out of the storage room, her knees shaking with reaction, and looked out of the office to see a startled man in uniform staring at her.
“Freeze!” he yelled, bringing his weapon to bear. Ky stopped. “Drop the weapon!”
“But I’m the one—”
“Drop the weapon!”
Now there were five of them, their own weapons leveled at her. She dropped the guard’s weapon.
“Get on the ground!”
“But I’m the one who called—”
“Now! Face down! On the ground!”
“I’m the one who called you!” Ky said. “They were trying to kill me—!”
“Get. On. The. Ground.”
It was infuriating. How could they think she’d done it? Though she had killed the one. With a sigh, Ky got down on the ground. Feet came closer. It occurred to her, just as the feet came into her range of vision, that maybe these weren’t the police.
“Who are you?” Ky asked. “I hope you’re official.”
“We’re official all right,” a voice said overhead. “Just don’t give me any trouble now.”
“There were three of them that I saw,” Ky said. “All with masks—”
“Hands behind your back,” the voice said.
Ky complied, in the hope they would finally listen to her when they had her trussed up. Instead, she was rolled over, propped against the wall, and told to stay put. The hand she’d whacked against the assassin’s armor throbbed unpleasantly. At least now she could see . . . men in dark green uniforms with markings she didn’t recognize on cuffs and collars. They were hunched over the dead clerk, with more beyond the desk.
One of them came to her again. “Is this your weapon?” he asked, holding out the one she’d taken from her bodyguard.
“No—it belonged to my security escort.”
“Yours—he was working for you? Then why did you take his gun?”
“He was dead at the time,” Ky said. “And the other one was trying to kill me.”
The man looked at her sourly. “So you say—” A voice from down the corridor interrupted him.
“Shem! Here’s another one!”
The man left. Ky fretted. No one ever seemed to consider that the person being restrained might be innocent. Her instructors had commented on that fact when telling cadets how to behave if they were ever stopped by law enforcement. She’d already violated rules one and two: don’t be where trouble happens, and never be caught with a weapon in your hand.
And here she sat, immobilized. What if the assassins came back? Her muscles twitched; she took a long breath, trying to calm herself.
The man reappeared. “You say you’re the one who called us?”
“Yes,” Ky said.
“When? Why?”
“Because of the attack,” Ky said. “I had seen them kill my bodyguard and the clerk, and then—”
“Them? How many?”
“Three on the inside,” Ky said. “I was over there in the combooth—” She gestured with her chin. “—when they came in. My bodyguard and the clerk were at the reception desk, chatting. The assassins shot them both, then two went upstairs. Looking for me, probably. The other was searching the guard’s body.” She stopped for a moment to get her thoughts in order.
“Go on.”
“I couldn’t use the combooth because the light would come on and they’d know where I was.”
“Why do you think they were after you? You, particularly?”