[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

delicately away under her ribs on the left side.
It had made her stagger, but she'd kept running, barely visible in the watery
moonlight. In another few paces she'd be out of sight.
"Gently, Miss Simms, gently." Nanci had sighted along the barrel at the
fleeing figure. "Imagine the trigger is your own clitoris, Miss Simms." She'd
remembered the leering grin on the face of the armed-combat instructor at the
large complex of buildings in rural Virginia.
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She'd squeezed the trigger.
She hadn't risked going for a kill shot. Safety first. Center of the back,
presenting the broadest target with the biggest margin for error. High and you
hit the head.
Low and you still hit the spine. Left or right and there was heart and liver
and kidneys and lungs.
It was dead center.
Dead in the center.
Dead.
THERE WERE a number of ringbolts welded to the sides of the open truck. Jeff
Thomas was handcuffed to one of them, trying to keep his balance as the
vehicle roared along a dirt road, bouncing over ruts, occasionally hitting
patches of rippled sand, hard as concrete. The old-fashioned chromed-steel
cuffs were so tight that his fingers had gone numb, and he could see a thread
of blood, black in the fading moonlight, leaking from beneath the nails.
He'd already learned that there wasn't much use in protesting to the man who
called himself Sergeant Sullivan or to any of the taciturn men with him. They
all wore dark blue pants and jackets, with the insignia of the silver sun
pierced with a golden arrow.
"Just stay where y'are and keep quiet. Your name showed on one of our lists,
boy."
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Jeff was already regretting giving them his real name. But he hadn't been sure
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identity filing might be, and Sullivan wasn't the kind of a person who looked
as if he'd welcome being told a lie.
He'd been chewing tobacco and had spat it all over Jeff's trainers, standing
so close that the ex-journalist couldn't avoid the stink of rancid sweat.
"Now we got your guns and you, too, sonny. Shame that Flagg's no longer with
us. That was a dude that sure enjoyed asking questions. 'Specially to folks
that didn't know the replies."
"Who's in charge of you now?"
"What d'you do with a door swung open on a frosty day, boy?"
"Shut it."
The man had smiled at him from behind the mirrored glasses. "Then do it."
NANCI SAT on the narrow iron bunk, looking again at the cell. Six feet six
inches long and four feet nine inches in width with walls of concrete blocks,
painted a pale green. Very recently painted, as there was no graffiti or dirt
on them. The door was steel, colored bright, sunburst yellow. There was a
small grille in its center, bolted from the outside. The cell had no window.
They'd kept her locked in for nearly forty minutes, and nobody had come to see
her. Nanci wasn't that surprised. She'd been taught enough about techniques to
break a prisoner, and initial social deprivation was the simplest and most
common. Now it couldn't be that far off dawn. Maybe someone might come to
interrogate her before noon.
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The patrol that had picked her up must have been waiting up on a ridge above
the highway, in the darkness, simply watching.
They had come down on her with two four-wheel-drive pickups, each with three
armed men, flashing their lights to warn her to pull over in the little green
Volvo that had belonged to the dead brother and sister. She'd only gone a
quarter mile, and one of the men had backtracked her, finding the two corpses,
as well as the bodies of the group that had attacked her and Jeff.
She'd told the men, having noticed their sun-and-arrow flashes, that her name
was Veronica Poole and that she was a retired English literature teacher from
Fort Worth.
But there were simply too many dead for them to believe her story, so they'd
brought her in. They'd been polite and distant, giving her no chances to find
out anything.
Nanci had tried to ask where she was and why. And who was the Man? Was it
Flagg?
But they wouldn't tell her a thing, though the driver of the truck that
brought her in had said that she was obviously a killer.
"And murderers don't live long. They get to be hung real quick." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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