"Kristine Kathryn Rusch & Dean Wesley Smith - Xmen and Xmen 2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

He reacted as he’d been trained: He took a split second to confirm the target, then opened fire. His
weapon was a Sig-Sauer P226, one of the finest handguns in the world, and like every agent in the
President’s detail, he was rated expert. As fast as he could pull the trigger, he emptied his fifteen-round
magazine, and impossible as it was for him to admit—in the heartbeats he had to do so—not one of his
rounds came close.

The intruder bounced off the walls, he leaped from floor to ceiling, he ran as easily upside down as he
did on the floor, he almost seemed to dance around Vanscoy’s shots until, so smoothly that it seemed
choreographed, he hurled himself through the air in a somersault that ended with both feet hammering
Vanscoy full in the chest.

It was like being hit by a battering ram. Vanscoy flew backward through the air, holding on to his gun
but losing the replacement magazine he’d been trying to load, to crash through the set of double doors
that led to the main suite of offices.

The intruder followed, straddling Vanscoy’s body only to find a half-dozen agents blocking his way. He
glanced over his shoulder to see a half dozen more taking position behind him. Scarlet dots flared all over
his torso as he was illuminated by their laser sights. The agents all had good cover; he was wide open.
They could fire at will with minimal risk to their colleagues. They pinned him with pistols, with automatic
weapons, with a sniper rifle centered right on his head. It was a drop-ceiling overhead; if he tried to stick
to it, the removable panels would simply collapse. They figured they had him.

The intruder looked down, almost in surprise, at the grating sound of Toby Vanscoy’s voice. Battered
and broken as he was, the agent had his own weapon in a two-handed grip, aimed right up at him.

“Hands behind your head,” Vanscoy ordered. “Get down on your knees! Right now!”

“Right now!”repeated the lead agent from the group ahead of them. “No tricks, or we’ll fire.”

The intruder snarled, baring fangs. Vanscoy pulled the trigger, hammer falling uselessly on an empty
chamber . . .

. . . and the intruder vanished.


“Mr. President,” snapped Sid Walters, one hand pressing against his earbug in a vain attempt to make
sense of all the chatter jamming his radio, “we’ve gotta go!”

Hank Cartwright, his deputy, grabbed Walters’ arm. “We don’t know the sitch, Sid. We don’t know
how many there are. We’ve got a solid defensive position, we’ve got the firepower. We’re better off
staying put!”

Walters turned on the other man in a fury. He was boss, he called the plays, there wasn’t time for
debate—but before he could say a word, both entrances to the Oval Office crashed open to admit the
agents who’d been stationed outside. They were coughing and choking, shrouded in gouts of thick, oily
smoke.

That same instant, the intruder appeared in midair, right in front of Cartwright. Without missing a beat,
the assassin lashed out with a powerful kick to the chest. Even with Cartwright’s flak jacket and