"Thomas E. Sniegoski - Sleeper 1 - Sleeper Code" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sniegoski Thomas E)

The sleeper awoke knowing that his life was in danger.
There was a man somewhere in the thick, dark jungle who had been hired to kill him.

Springing up from the bed of moss and leaves where he was lying, the sleeper was
immediately in tune with his surroundings. The jungle was alive with the cries of birds, the
chirps and hum of a variety of insects, the growls of nocturnal predators. But the sleeper was
silent as he moved through the thick underbrush.

It was a test, his superiors had told him.

They had given him a file on the man who was somewhere nearby, a professional killer
known as the Mensajero de Muerte—Messenger of Death. He had read the file with great
interest; the messenger was proficient in all means of killing, from guns to knives, poisons to
explosives.

The sleeper came to a steep slope, almost vertical, and used the gnarled roots protruding
from the face of the muddy cliff to aid his descent. Once down, he again paused to listen to the
cacophony of the nighttime jungle. In the distance he heard the sound of a stream and moved
toward it.

A fog had developed close to the ground, and it grew thicker as he traveled closer to the
water. Carefully he left the concealment of the tropical forest and approached the water,
squatting at its side. The movement of the stream was barely discernable below the veil of fog.
He plunged his hand down into the liquid’s coolness, bringing it up to wash the sweat and
residue of sleep from his eyes.

As he rubbed the grime from his face, the fog pulled back momentarily, and out of the
corner of his eye he noticed the partial impression in the soft earth left by the sole of a boot.

Death’s messenger had been there already.

The sleeper was starting to rise, every sense tingling, when the figure exploded from
concealment behind him.
 Correction. Death’s messenger was still there. Waiting.

The moonlight glinted fleetingly off a lash of thin wire as it passed over his head.
Instinctively the sleeper’s hand shot up in front of his throat, stopping the garrote from
wrapping around his neck. He grunted in agony as the wire dug into the soft flesh of his hand,
stopping only when it hit bone. The pain was excruciating, but the alternative was worse.

He drove his heel back into the knee of his attacker. There was a sharp crack and the
messenger grunted, his body listing to one side as the garrote went slack, enough for the
sleeper to get out from beneath the wire and spin to face his foe.

The messenger had already recovered, the garrote discarded, a knife appearing in his hand.
There would be no second chance.