"Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold 3 - Better to Beg Forgiveness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Michael Z)

Okay, that was bad.


Whoever was in charge, that lieutenant, was azkurvenэ idiot. Younever let this happen. You sent out
point vehicles, outriders, had satellite or air images real time, and had enough power up front to drive
over or blow through obstacles. Whatever it took to prevent being boxed in.

Elke took in the surroundings as dust blew by, stirred by the tires scraping the surface. Her hair felt as if
it was standing on end, despite the dust and sweat starting to cake it. She'd kept an alert eye for critical
issues. Now she looked in depth. The skinnies were pouring out of somewhere, and had decided the
convoy was a target. She doubted it had been planned, because the initial attack had been incompetent
and undergunned, and the arrivals were not in any order, just groups.

She felt a jerk as they started moving again, but slowly. The convoy was still bunched up.

Large population, low employment or usage, lots of weapons. That was a bad scene for trouble,
because it became entertainment. And yes, there were people cheering on factions in matching colors,
waving banners. One group was behind a cluster of armed men and boys, who were shirtless and
wearing sandals with their rifles. Another was on a rooftop some distance away. They seemed to abide
by the formality of separating combatants and noncombatants at least.

The fire was increasing. Most of it wasn't aimed, but it was certainly concentrating more toward the
convoy, and the law of averages said a hit would occur sooner or later.

Elke swapped glances with Jason next to her and Alex a seat forward. Their movements were
imperceptible, but their expressions were clear. She knew Jason from a previous contract and trusted his
input. His look agreed with hers, and that wasn't good for her confidence.

They were all wishing for armor, weapons, and contact with their people. While the soldiers had more
familiarity with the area, they didn't seem to take it seriously. Familiarity was leading to contempt, but
casualties were inevitable even from idiots if one didn't take precautions.

She leaned out again to assess threats. Two things happened.

A round snapped by, cracking the air and making people duck. Then, the soldier nearest her reached
out an arm and said, "Miss, I think you better sit down. It's getting a little hot—"

"Just get out of my way!" Elke snapped. She got very tired being the object of protection. Especially by
some twenty-year-old infantry kid she could best use as a sandbag to tamp a shaped charge with. He did
move, though, even if he seemed offended. He was marshalling his thoughts for a retort but she turned
away and ignored it.

Her brain caught movement, she identified a threat, and pointed, "Grenade, there, now! The rocket!"


"Huh? What?" the kid replied, looking vaguely in that direction. He clearly didn't see it.

Which was fine. Forearm between body armor and face shield, right under the chin, a twist to the grip of
his weapon and a pull, and Elke raised it left-handed to her eye, clicked the safety, and squeezed. She