"Энди Макнаб. Последний свет (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

you're in the shit, and this was one of them. I just hoped these were real
police. If I wasn't a threat, then in theory they shouldn't drop me.
I hoped, too, that my black cotton bomber jacket had ridden up enough
to show them there wasn't a pistol attached to my belt or tucked into my
jeans.
"Not armed," I yelled.
"Weapons free!"
Orders were screamed at me. I wasn't too sure what it was all too loud
and too close, a confusion of echoes along the hallway.
I pivoted slowly so they could see my back and check for themselves
that I wasn't lying. As I faced the corridor junction, I heard more boots
thundering towards me from the stairwell corridor, closing the trap.
A shield moved out of the corner then slammed into position on the
floor at the corridor junction. A muzzle of an MP5 came round the side of
it, and I could see a sliver of the user's face as he took aim on me.
"Weapons free!" My voice was almost a scream.
"I'm weapons free!"
Keeping my hands in the air I stared at the single, unblinking eye
behind the weapon. He was a left-handed firer, taking advantage of the left
side of the shield for cover, and the eye didn't move from my chest.
I looked down as a red laser spot the size of a shirt button splashed
on it dead centre. It wasn't moving either. Fuck knew how many splashes
there were on my back from the fire-exit crew.
Frenzied shouts finished bouncing off the walls as a loud,
estuary-English voice took command and shouted orders that I could now
understand.
"Stand still! Stand still! Keep your -hands up ... keep them up!"
No more turning, I did what he wanted.
"Down on your knees! Get down on your knees. Now!"
Keeping my hands up, I lowered myself slowly, no longer trying for any
eye contact, just looking down. The left-handed firer in front of me
followed my every move with the laser splash.
The voice shouted more orders from behind.
"Lie down, with your arms spread out to your side. Do it now."
I did as I was told. There was total, scary silence. The cold of the
stone floor seeped through my clothes. Minute pinpricks of grit pressed into
my right cheek as I snorted up a lungful of freshly laid wax.
I found myself staring at the bottom of one of the stairwell group's
ballistic shields. It was dirty with age and chipped on the corners, so that
the layers of Kevlar that gave protection from even heavy-calibre ammunition
were peeling back like the pages of a well-thumbed book.
The silence was broken by the shuffle and squeak of rubber-soled boots
approaching me from behind. My only thought was how lucky I was to be
arrested.
The boots arrived at their destination, and heavy breathing from their
owners filled the air around me. One old black creased-leather size ten
landed by my face and my hands were gripped and pulled up in front of me. I
felt the cold, hard metal bite into my wrists as the handcuffs were
ratcheted tight. I just let them get on with it; the more I struggled the
more pain I would have to put up with. The handcuffs were the newer style,