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"Walk away from the pack and you stay breathing. Do it!"
"Drop the blade 'fore you cut yourself with it."
Oddly all of Jeff's terror had left him. His pulse was still racing, but now
it was the pure adrenaline rush of excitement. He knew that sheer weight of
numbers would eventually take him down, but he was also determined to take
some of the bloodthirsty little jackals with him.
Several of them had bizarre kinds of jewelry. One wore laser baseball badges
that sparkled and flashed in the semidarkness. Another, redheaded, had a
string of part-
inflated condoms, in iridescent colors, strung around his waist. A third, tall
and muscular with a scruffy sort of beard, sported a necklace made from
bleached fingerbones.
All of them kept laughing, making Jeff wonder if they were floating high on
some secret hoard of uncut jolt.
"Come on," he whispered, remembering to hold the knife point upward. Years ago
he'd done a feature on street survival among the gangs of Corte Madera, north
of
San Francisco. A skinny Latino girl had given him a crash course in how to
stay alive with a sharpened blade.
"Come on," he breathed, wanting now to get it all over with. Finish it now.
Their blood and his.
Then another voice, raised but cold and detached, cut through the jabbering
taunts, taking everybody by surprise.
"First one to make a threatening move gets to be exceedingly deceased."
Everyone looked over toward the doorway that led to the main staircase.
The woman was white, with neatly trimmed gray hair, in a khaki trouser suit,
the pants legs tucked into combat boots. She had a small backpack on, with a
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0-%20Earthblood.html rifle slung over her shoulder. Jeff's first guess put her
in her late fifties. She was tall, close to six feet.
She was holding a 16-round, 9mm Port Royale machine pistol.
She had an amazing presence, both calm and intensely threatening at the same
time. It held Jeff where he was and froze the gang of juvenile killers.
"Everyone can put their blades down on the floor, slow and easy."
"You gonna chill us all out, lady?" said the red-haired boy.
"If I have to. Just a coupla questions first. Get the right answers& and I'm
out of here and you can all carry on with your sporting games."
"They're going to murder me," said Jeff, aware his voice had risen to a
nervous squeak.
"Course they are. You probably got some looted food in your pack. They want
it.
Taking you out's their easiest option."
"You shouldn't push your fuckin' nose in our business, old woman," said the
tall one wearing the necklace of fingerbones.
The gun made surprisingly little sound.
A small neat hole appeared between his eyes, and the impact kicked him
backward. His legs turned to wet string, and he folded onto the floor. The
concrete wall behind was stippled with a mixture of bone and blood and brains
and matted hair.
"Let's get these knives down, shall we?"
There was a faint tinkling sound of steel against stone as everyone, including
Jeff, stooped and did as the woman had said.
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"Now. A question and I'll be on my way. Let you get on."
"Come on," began Jeff, hesitating as the nuzzle of the Port Royale swung an
inch or two in his direction. "You can't let them do this."
"Oh, but I can, Mr& ? I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your
acquaintance?"
"Thomas. Jeff Thomas. I'm a journalist, I used to be a& "
The woman lifted the index finger of her left hand. "From the
West American
?
Went off a couple of years ago on the& what was it called? The
Aquila
? That was it. And now you're back again. I have to admit that I could, just
possibly, find that passably interesting."
One of the boys shuffled his feet, catching a steely glance from the light
blue eyes.
"Landed the twenty-fifth of September, Mrs....? Could I know your name?"
"Simms. Nanci Simms. Now, you being who you are intrigues me. Get this one [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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