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

That's the same age as my daughter. They're so funny at that age, don't
you think? One minute wanting to be all grown up, the next needing to cuddle
their teddies. I read her a story last night when I'd tucked her in. They
look so wonderful, yet so vulnerable like that... Did you read to Kelly,
isn't it?"
I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of an acknowledgement, just
concentrated hard on my tile, trying to show no reaction. He was really
making a meal of this. He took another deep breath, his knees cracking as he
straightened up and hovered above me once more.
"This is about power, Stone, who has it and who does not. You do not.
Personally, I am not in favour of you being given a second chance, but
there is the broader matter of policy to consider."
I didn't exactly understand what that meant, but it was a fair guess
he'd been told to sort out this situation or he'd be severely in the shit.
"Why kill the boy?" I said.
"Why not the father? I presume he's the one moving this system."
He kicked my thigh with his shiny toecap. It was pure frustration. I
was sure he'd meant it to be harder, but just didn't have it in him.
"Clean yourself up look at the state of you. Now go. These gentlemen
will collect you from your residence at three."
He gave 'residence' the full three syllables, enjoying every one.
Sundance smiled like the village idiot as I hauled myself to my feet, the
muscles in my stomach protesting badly.
"I need money." I looked down like a scolded schoolboy as I leant
against the wall, and that was exactly how I felt.
The Yes Man sighed with impatience and nodded at Sundance. The Jock dug
out his wallet from the back of his jeans, and counted out eighty-five
pounds.
'You owe me, boy."
I just took it, not bothering to mention the six hundred US dollars
he'd liberated from my pocket, and which had already been split between the
two of them.
Jamming it into my jeans, I started to walk, not looking at either of
them as I reached the door. Trainers saw me in the doorframe and hit the
shutter, but not before the Yes Man had the last word: "You'd better make
good use of that money, Stone. There is no more. In fact, think yourself
lucky you're keeping what you already have. After all, Orphan Annie will
need new shoes from time to time, and her treatment in the States will cost
a great deal more than it did at the Moorings."
Fifteen minutes later I was on the tube from Kennington, heading north
towards Camden Town. The dilapidated old train was packed tight with morning
commuters, nearly every one radiating soap, toothpaste and designer smells.
I was the exception, which was bad luck for the people I was sandwiched
between: a massive black guy who'd turned his crisply laundered,
white-shirted back on me, and a young white woman who didn't dare look up
from the floor in case our eyes met and she sparked off the madman reeking
of bile and roll-ups.
The front pages of the morning papers were covered with dramatic colour
pictures of the police attacking the sniper positions and the promise of a
lot more to come inside. I just held on to the handrail and stared at the