"Destroyer 009 - Murder's Shield.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

THE DESTROYER #9: MURDER'S SHIELD
Warren Murphy
Pinnacle books. First printing, April 1973. Second printing, March 1974. Third printing, March 1975. Fourth printing, April 1976. Fifth printing, April 1978. Sixth printing, April 1979. Seventh printing.
ISBN: 0-523-41224-X
For Steve and Chris-our friends, gee!

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


"THE WRONG SIDE?"
"Something is bothering you, my son," said Chiun.
Remo nodded. "I think I'm going to be on the wrong side."
Chiun's frail parchment face became puzzled. "Wrong side? What is a wrong side? Will you cease to work for Doctor Smith?"
"Look, you know I can't explain to you who we work for."
"I've never cared," said Chiun. "What difference would it make? You are a pupil of the Master of Sinanju and you perform your assassin's art because that is what you are."
"Dammit Chiun, I'm an American, and I do what I do for other reasons. And now, they've told me to get up to a peak right away, and I find out I'm going against the good guys."
"Good guys? Bad guys? Are you living in fairy tale, my son? There are killing points, nerve points, hearts and lungs and eyes and feet and hands and balance. There are no good guys and bad guys. If there were, would armies have to wear uniforms to identify themselves?"
With that, Chiun was silent, but Remo paid no attention to his silence. He was angry, almost as angry as he had been that day a decade before when he had recovered from his public execution, waking up in Folcroft Sanitarium on Long Island Sound. He was angry at the thought of his new assignment.
He had to kill his fellow cops!

CHAPTER ONE
Big Pearl Wilson sent the white fox into the bedroom to get him two handfuls of money. He eased his $185 Gucci slippers into the ankle-high white rug that circled to his bar and around to the drape-covered windows. The drapes were drawn, separating his lush pad from the decaying, teeming Harlem streets-a touch of paradise in Hell. The curtains separating the two were fireproof, somewhat soundproof, and had cost him $2,200. He had paid in cash.
"Have a drink, officer?" said Big Pearl, moving his slow easy majestic way to the bar, the slow and easy way that foxes sniffed.
"No, thank you," said the detective. He looked at his watch.
"A snort?" offered Big Pearl, pointing to his nose.
The detective refused the cocaine.
"I don't snort myself," said Big Pearl. "You waste yourself a little bit every time you use it. These cats on the street live baddest a year, and are broke or dead or forgotten before they see the weather change. They beat on their women and one of 'em talks and it's off to Attica. They think it's a big game with their flashy cars. Me. My women get paid, my cops get paid, my judges get paid, my pols get paid and I make my money. And I've been ten years without a bust."
The girl came bustling back with a manila envelope, unevenly stuffed. Big Pearl gave the insides a condescending glance.