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

police issue: instead of a chain between them they had a solid metal spacer.
Once these things are on, just one tap against the spacer with a baton is
enough to have you screaming in agony as the metal gives the good news to
your wrist bones.
I was in enough pain already as one man pulled at the cuffs to keep my
arms straight, and someone else's knee was forced down between my shoulder
blades. My nose got banged against the floor, making my eyes water, and all
the oxygen was forced out of my lungs.
A pair of hands, their owner's boots each side of me now that he'd
removed his knee from my back, were making their way over my body. My
wallet, containing my Eurostar ticket and my
Nick Somerhurst passport, was taken from the inside pocket of my bomber
jacket.
I felt suddenly naked.
I turned my head, trying to get as comfortable as possible during the
once-over, and rested my face on the cold stone. Through blurred vision I
made out three pairs of jeans emerging from behind the shield at the
junction and heading my way. One pair of jeans moved out of vision as they
passed me by, but the other two moved in close: a set of trainers and a pair
of light tan boots, their Caterpillar label now just inches from my nose.
I started to feel more depressed than worried about what was coming
next. Men in jeans just don't ponce about during an armed arrest.
Behind me I heard the zip of my holdall being pulled back and the
contents given a quick once-over. At the same time I felt my Leatherman
being pulled out from its pouch.
There was still no talking as hands ran down my legs to check for
concealed weapons. My face acted like a cushion for my cheekbone as I was
hauled around like a sack of spuds.
Hands forced themselves around the front of my stomach and into my
waistband, then extracted the three or four pounds' worth of change in my
jeans.
The same set of hands went under each armpit and hauled me up on to my
knees, to the accompaniment of laboured grunts and the squeak of leather
belt-kit. My cuff-holder let go and my hands dropped down by my knees as if
I was begging.
The cold stone floor was hurting my knees, but I forgot about them
instantly when I saw the face of the man wearing the Cats.
His hair wasn't looking so neat today: the Sundance Kid had been
running about a bit. Above his jeans he was wearing a green bomber jacket
and heavy blue body armour with a protective ceramic plate tucked into the
pouch over his chest. He was taking no chances with me today.
There wasn't the slightest trace of emotion in his face as he stared
down at me, probably trying to hide from the others that his part of the job
hadn't gone too well. I was still alive; he hadn't been able to make entry
into the office with the help of his new mates here and claim self-defence
as he shot me.
My documents were handed to him and they went into his back pocket. He
played with the coins in his cupped palms, chinking as they poured from one
to the other. Sundance and his mate, Trainers, were joined by the third pair
of jeans, who had my bag over his right shoulder. I kept my eyes down at