"Steve Perry - The Man Who Never Missed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

are free and the eagle doesn't fly for three days, so some are unlined, what
can I say?"

"Not to worry, Anjue. We get by."

Khadaji left and headed toward his private rooms in the basement. He stopped
by the dispensing window for a moment to tell Butch. The man sat behind a
three-centimeter-thick sheet of densecrystal set into a solid plastcrete wall.
The drug room might be a tempting target for thieves and it was well
protected. The doors were thick stainless steel with reaper locks, and nothing
short of a vacuum bomb would dent the densecris window. Chem was purchased and
delivered through the double drawers under the window.

"I'm going to catch a little sleep, Butch. No calls for an hour or so."

"Copy, Chief." His voice had a metallic ring through the speaker set into the
wall over the window. "We'll try to keep the Scum from takin' over while
you're nappin'."

"Thanks, Butch, I appreciate that."

Chapter Three

KHADAJI'S PRIVATE SPACE was a combination of office and living quarters. It
was furnished simply—a desk and comp terminal, a few chairs, a foam-pad bed in
one room; a shower, sink and bidet in the second room; a small kitchen in the
third and final room. Simple living quarters—on the surface. What didn't show
was the hidden store box set under the floor of his desk, nor the tunnel under
the refrigerator in the kitchen. He had dug the tunnel himself, using a
"borrowed" cutalong he returned before anyone knew it was missing. It was a
short, tight passage, leading from his kitchen into the housing of his
receiving transformer in the alley behind the Jade Flower. There was just
enough room for a careful man to stand inside the housing, between the ceramic
insulators and high voltage grid of the transformer. A careful man could come
up through the expanded metal grate over the floor inside the housing and wait
until the alley was clear to leave. A careless man could not, for he would be
dead, fried by the power circuits.

Khadaji checked his chronometer. Almost seventeen.

From the hidden store box, he took a set of black or-thoskins, a pair of
spetsdods and ammunition magazines for them, and a skinmask. This was going to
be a city operation and even though it was dark, he didn't want to be
recognized. He dressed quickly, tabbing the orthoskins on, smoothing the
skinmask over his face and ears and allowing the spetsdods to set on the backs
of his hands. It took a few seconds for the artificial flesh backing the
weapons to warm and mold to his own skin; once set, the spetsdods would be
almost as much a part of him as his fingers. The weapons would not shift or
move until he triggered the release.