"Lane Pollock - The Slow Kill" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pollock Lane)

Survived, maybe, but lived, no.
Outer-city was the ramshackle remains of the last century's suburbia. Crumbling houses and
miniature town centers made up most of outer-city. But everywhere Skeller looked, he saw
recent constructions made out of scavenged material. It all looked as if it wanted to collapse
on the spot.

As he started into the street, an old leather football bounced in front of him. With disgust, he
watched a boy run after the ball. Glancing down a side street, he saw a number of other kids
waiting for the return of the ball. It was a sad sight. There they stood with their antique
helmets fitted around their breath masks, and their home-made shoulder pads. Here, in
outer-city, the kids couldn't afford to play the real game, so they to reverted to this outdated,
tame imitation of today's sport. Skeller shook his head and kept walking.
A quarter of a million people lived here. Anyone who failed on their rent in the inner-city was
displaced into this atmospheric wasteland. Crime was the outer-city's largest employer, and
Seth Grimes was the biggest crime boss around. It just so happened that he and Skeller
were cousins of some distance, and also friends. They did one another favors.

Skeller's first destination from the subway was Grimes' place of business. It was located in
what passed for down town in outer-city. But about a hundred feet out of the subway
entrance, Skeller spotted someone. He was dressed in work clothes, but even through the
breath mask, Skeller could see the pale skin and shadow of a beard that obviously marked
him as an inner-city resident. Outer-city people tended to have sickly yellow complexions
and their beards grew very slowly, if at all. He also had that average,
typical-of-the-profession look about him. It was another tail.

Damn, Skeller thought, I didn't give their organization nearly enough credit.
He noticed a narrow alley off to his left. Putting the athletic training of his youth to work, he
darted past several gaunt-looking pedestrians, and sprinted into the alleyway. After skirting
a trash heap, leaping over a corpse, and almost trampling a passed-out vagrant, Skeller
rounded a corner only to find his way blocked. Retracing his steps, he cautiously peered
around the corner. There were now two tails slowly following him up the alley. He glanced
back at the walls forming the dead-end. There were no hand or foot holds. Climbing was out.
This jam was getting a little sticky. It was definitely more than he had expected on this job.
The opponent's security might be flawed, he told himself, but damn it if they aren't
enthusiastic.
Skeller drew his Slow Kill. In one fluid motion, he swung around the corner, fired twice, and
stepped back into cover.
There were two gasps of shock from around the corner. A confident grin spread over
Skeller's face. Enthusiasm was no match for talent. Especially his talent.

"It was only a Slow Kill," he shouted to them. "You have time, if you leave now." But not
much, he thought, before the pain starts.

There was a momentary pause and then a muted argument from the two tails. Skeller
couldn't make out the words, but he knew the gist of it. One of the tails wanted to take
Skeller out before seeking a physician. The other wanted to go, now.
Skeller knew which way the argument would end. He drew his knife.

As he predicted, he heard footsteps resuming their way toward him. Skeller dove from his
cover, rolled, and came to his feet directly in front of the two agents. Before they could move,