"Dead_s men dust" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hilton Matt)

1

Pain and fear transcend everything, and know no boundaries

It doesn't matter where you are. You could be in any metropolis in the world-New York, London, Paris, Moscow- and the parallels would remain consistent. There are differences in culture, in law, in language, but at their most basic level, civilizations share one undeniable truth: the scream of a victim sounds the same the world over. Stepping off an airplane into the sticky heat following a Florida thunderstorm, the screams of my past were ringing in my ears. Somehow I knew that the hunt for John Telfer would add further memories of pain and anguish to my already full heart. My quest had begun two days previously and an ocean's breadth away in England. There were screams then, too. It was just like the old days. I was back doing what I was good at. Where I crouched, broken glass and rubbish littered the?oor. Nearby, a train rattled past and last week's front-page news?uttered in the service alley. It wasn't all that stirred; the stench was terrible, a mix of urine and?lth. It chilled me.

Jennifer Telfer's curtains twitched inside her apartment.

She was scared. And that was to be expected. She knew why I was there, on the street, watching her place.

It wasn't me she was afraid of.

Some people call me a vigilante. That's their prerogative. I prefer to think of myself as a problem-?xer. When you're a single mother whose children have been threatened by violent men, you send for Joe Hunter.

A black BMW slowed at the end of the street.

"Here we go."

It halted in front of the apartment building. There were three men inside: the harsh and aggressive men I'd been expecting.

First to step out was a large bald-headed man, busy pulling on leather gloves. From the back came a man equally tall. Unlike the?rst, his frame was lanky and thin. Together, they moved toward Jennifer's place.

The idling engine covered my approach. So did the blaring radio. The?rst the driver knew of my presence was when I tugged open the door.

"What the-" was all he got out before I hit him.

I aimed for the carotid sinus and struck the bull's-eye. Such a blow could prove fatal. Call me compassionate-I chopped him just hard enough to knock him out.

Leaning over him, I grabbed at the seat belt. It made a good noose. The remainder of the belt looped around the headrest and jammed into the door frame made it even better.

I caught up with the other two before they'd reached the apartments.

With a bent back, a cap pulled down over my hair, I moved toward them. I might as well have been invisible.

I straightened up and thrust the V of my thumb and index?nger into the bald man's windpipe. As his hands went to his damaged throat, I slammed my clenched?st into his solar plexus and he folded over my arm. Breath exploded from his lungs as he performed a slow dive, meeting my lifted knee midway. He hit the?oor hard, but it didn't matter: he was already oblivious.

There was no time for taking satisfaction from my work: Skinny was already going for something inside his jacket. Could be a gun.

Grasping his wrist and tugging his hand out of his jacket, I saw that he held a knife.

"Now isn't that just typical of you, Shank?" I?exed his wrist, hearing bone grating on bone. Made it easy to pluck the knife from his?ngers.

His name was Peter Ramsey, an idiot who began his criminal career stealing lunch money from the other kids at school. But-like all third-rate gangsters-he loved his nickname. He favored a knife when threatening desperate mothers. Shank should be a scary handle for someone wielding a blade. I thought it was pathetic.

I took a?stful of Shank's hair and pressed my knuckles against his skull.

"Listen closely," I growled. "One thing, and one thing only." I snatched his head forward, meeting him eye to eye. "Jennifer Telfer is off your books. Permanently. You hear that?"

"Jennifer Telfer? Who the-"

I slapped him hard.

"You know who I mean."

Wagging the knife at him, I said, "Tell me you weren't thinking of cutting her." I lifted the blade. Sharp edge beneath his nose. His breath misted the steel. "You know something, Shank? Just thinking of that makes my blood run cold."

"I wasn't gonna cut anybody," Shank said.

"Good. You won't be wanting this back then." I dropped the knife into my coat pocket. "If I see you around here again, I'll hurt you bad."

"What have I ever done to you?" "Messed with the wrong person," I told him. "That's what." To punctuate the point I backhanded him across the face. "When you walk out of here, you keep on going. If you as much as look back,

I'll be all over you like a bad case of hives. You got that?" "Yeah, man, I get you." "See you, then." "Not if I see you?rst," he said, turning quickly away. "Psycho!" "Believe me," I said, "if there is a next time, you won't see me coming."