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

stopped and let us through, then immediately got back to trying to demolish
the wall.
We drove about forty metres further, then stopped. Sundance hit his key
fob and a graffiti-covered double garage shutter started to roll up. Left
and right of it was a pitted brown brick wall; above was a rusty metal frame
that had probably once held a neon sign. Empty drinks cans littered the
ground. Inside was completely empty. As we drove in, I saw that all around
the old brick walls were tool boards with faded, red-painted shapes of what
was supposed to be hanging there. Years ago it had probably been a one-man
garage set-up. A faded Chelsea FC team poster was pinned to a door. Judging
by the long haircuts, sideburns and very tight shorts, it was seventies
vintage.
The shutter door rattled and squeaked its way down behind me, gradually
cutting off the noise of the kids kicking the ball. The engine was cut and
the three of them started to get out.
Sundance disappeared through the football poster door, leaving it open
behind him, with luck for me to get dragged through. Anything to be out of
the car and have the pressure off my wrists. Maybe I'd even get given a
brew. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since the night before: there'd been
too much to do and I'd simply forgotten. Just placing the bomb on the hotel
roof had taken the best part of four hours, and an Egg McMuffin had been the
last thing on my mind.
While I was watching the door swing back slowly to reveal the Chelsea
mop heads again, Trainers leant down and undid the cuffs pinning me to the
seat. Then he and the driver got hold of me and dragged me out. We headed
towards the door; I was beginning to feel that maybe I'd get away with this
after all. Then I gave myself a good mental slapping: every time I had this
feeling I came unstuck.
What was happening here meant nothing until I saw the Yes Man and told
him my piece. I decided to do my best not to annoy these boys while we
waited. They were doing their best to intimidate me; things are always more
worrying when there is no verbal contact and no information, and it was
working a little, that was for sure. Not a lot, but enough.
They dragged me through the door and into a windowless, rectangular
space with pitted, dirty whitewashed brick walls. The room was airless, hot
and humid, and to add to the mix somebody had been smoking roll-ups. A
harsh, double fluorescent unit in the ceiling gave the impression there was
nowhere to hide.
On the floor in the left-hand corner was a steam-powered TV with a
shiny new swordfish aerial hanging from a nail on the wall. It was the only
thing in the room that looked as if it hadn't been purchased from a junk
shop. Facing it was a worn-out brown velour three-piece suite. The arms were
threadbare, and the seats sagged and were dotted with cigarette burns.
Plugged into adaptors in the same socket as the TV were a green upright
plastic kettle, a toaster, and battery chargers for three mobiles. The place
reminded me of a minicab office, with old newspapers and Burger King drinks
cups providing the finishing touches.
Sundance was standing by the TV, finishing another call on his mobile.
He looked at me and gestured towards the corner.
"Keep it shut, boy."