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

felt it thump her shoulder as it banged.

Oh, good. His safety was cut, too. Otherwise, she would have looked very silly, right up until they all
looked very dead.

"God damn you, bitch!" the kid shouted, and tried to wrestle it back. She could have kept it, but she'd
accomplished what she needed to and let him take it.

"Thanks," Alex leaned back and acknowledged. He'd seen the same threat.

"No problem," she nodded.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the kid asked, snarling. The patronizing politeness was gone
now.

"Your job," she replied as she turned back. They were just roaring past the building corner she'd pointed
to. Her grenade had blown the motor compartment off a ground car, and shredded some indigene with
an antitank launcher. She pointed again for emphasis. She controlled the shaking she felt.

The grunt looked offended. Likely that wasn't due to her gender, just due to his attitude. Somebody
needed to remind him that all Ripple Creek Executive Protection Division contractors were military
veterans, and either special operations vets or civilian security vets as well.

Hopefully, they'd quickly be at their destination, where her better, high-quality weapons were waiting,
along with her crate of toys.

She grinned and felt a tinge of lust.

CHAPTER 2



They traveled in silence the remaining few kilometers to the palace, the troops fuming and distant, even if
close enough to touch.

As they neared the edifice, Alex assessed it with a practiced eye. He recognized it from photos, but it
was a bit worse for wear. Random fire had hit it, and not much maintenance had been done. It was
apparent why the press always showed it from a distance, even apart from security concerns. The palace
had never been impressive architecturally, merely large. With a scruffy faзade, it just wasn't eye-catching,
especially through heat-crazed air.

As they got closer it grew larger, and didn't get much worse, but certainly not better. There were
desiccated lawns around it, with some weeds creeping in, and low walls and spike fences that had been
more than decorative at one point, with sensors and stunners and other defenses. The bright sunlight just
seemed to point out the current lack.

Then their grumbly peeled out of the convoy and drove into the palace grounds. There were security
present; locals with rifles, in actual clothes. They all wore identical near-new boots. Those and vests with
a logo on the back were their "uniform." At first, that wasn't reassuring. Then it was, because it meant
someone was trying to create a semblance of order and professionalism.