Pegasus, Lion, and Centaur. Дмитрий Емец

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СКАЧАТЬ umbrella with a bent handle. The rather prominent shoulder blades of the man and the shape of the umbrella’s handle amazingly echoed each other. They echoed in such a way that in the wrong evening light it could seem that this umbrella was carrying the man, or two umbrellas were carrying each other… On the whole, one never knows what will appear in the wrong evening light.

      The head of security, a stout man with catlike movements and bulldog eyes, ran up to him. “Albert Fedorovich!” Bulldog eyes attempted to smile, but lost the smile in his cheeks. “Everyone’s here! Both Beldo and (an embarrassed look at the Bentley)… eh-eh… the Tills. They’re only waiting for you!” The man with the umbrella stopped. He turned. Colourless and flat fish eyes met dog eyes. The bulldog became ill at ease. There are no cowardly piranhas. Cowardly bulldogs are rare but possible. “And Guy’s only waiting for me?” he asked with suspicion. “Guy’s not here yet.” “Had to start with this! Get to work, Vtorov! Showing friendliness isn’t part of your direct responsibilities! Anya, let’s go!”

      The man with the umbrella glanced around at the girls and made his way to the boat. The iron bridge resting on high buoys began to make a chomping sound. An empty plastic bottle floated out from under the bridge and, hitting against the side, was dragged away slowly by the current. The extensible doors of Gomorrah opened and closed.

      A young guard from the new recruits ran up to bulldog eyes. “Who was it in the Hummer? Dolbushin himself?” he asked excitedly. The head of security looked at him suspiciously, checking if he had heard how they shouted at him. No, he did not. Or was pretending that he had not. “Dolbushin, head of fort two!” he said unwillingly. “And who rammed the Tills’ car? His daughter?” “He seldom brings her,” Vtorov screwed up his face, as if all his teeth started to ache at the same time. He imagined that he had to explain to Till Sr. what he was busy with when the Hummer knocked his car into the river.

      “Ah-h…” the young one drawled. “The girl’s not bad. I wouldn’t mind her.” “Her father also wouldn’t mind shooting you,” Vtorov clarified. The young one pertly evaded. “And who’s the second one?” “First time I’ve seen her,” Vtorov said dryly. “Maybe a friend of the daughter. Maybe a new recruit.” “Ah-h…” again the young one drawled. “And why is Dolbushin with an umbrella? Afraid to get wet?” “Somehow you meet him in the alley. You with a crossbow and he with the umbrella,” bulldog eyes advised irritably and, as a sign that the conversation was over, took a step towards the river.

      Dolbushin and his daughter disappeared into Gomorrah at around seven thirty. At quarter to eight Vtorov with uneasiness pressed his headset with a finger, answered something curtly, and gave the sign to his people. Security began to bustle. Two ran up to the jeep and, having jumped into the body, pulled off the tarpaulin. Under the tarpaulin turned out to be a combat arbalest of an intimidating size.

      One of the men – swarthy, with a healthy bald spot similar to the rind of a watermelon – having jumped into the jeep, took aim and looked uninterruptedly at the bright red dot. The tip of his tongue, stuck out, with bluish veins on the underside, slid along his lips. His partner – with a crew cut and a complex spider tattoo from the wrists up to the elbows – set in motion the pneumatic windlass and put into the trench an arrow with a three-edged tip. According to its shape, this was precisely an arrow and not a shorter and more massive bolt.

      “Estimated time: thirty… twenty-five… twenty…” he muttered, continuously looking at his wrist. The watch intertwined with the tattoo, disrupting its intricate figure. The red dot of the reflex sight poked into the breaks of the endless violet cloud like crumbled cotton, unhurriedly creeping in the direction of Pechatnikov. The forefinger with the phalanx blue from pressure froze on the trigger. Broth-like drops of sweat on the melon-like bald spot flowed together into islands and continents.

      Suddenly a voice, like many splinters glued together, began to rattle in the headset of the shooter. The voice squeezed into the ears, cut into the brain. “Yes, Guy!” not taking his eyes off the sight, the arbalester reported. “An observer at Strogino spotted him fifty seconds ago. He’s probably flying in our direction. Yes, looks like the same screwy one, which… Ooph!!! Here he is!” The steel “arms” of the arbalest straightened. The tattooed fellow was working like a robot. The pneumatics barely had time to cock the bowstring and a new arrow was already lying in the trench. The cat-and-dog-like chief of security flew to the jeep, “Well? Got it?” “Something flickered… Seems it shouldn’t have missed the mark!” the arbalester answered doubtfully and suddenly bent down, saving his head.

      A column of water shot up the Moscow River about fifty metres from Gomorrah. Terrible, soundless, glassy black. It seemed the river had grown a terrible finger piercing the clouds. The glass finger stopped in the clouds and, shattered, came down onto Gomorrah shuddering from the impact. It swept the security along the parking lot. It plucked the shooter and his assistant off the jeep, flipped them over, and almost drowned them in the shallow, furiously seething water running off into the river.

      The chief of security got up, holding onto the side of the jeep. Water was flowing from him. There was blood on his right cheek. A siren howled. Ten cars on the edge, on which most of the weight of the water had come down, had their roofs crushed. Contrary to expectation, Gomorrah suffered little damage. Several hatches were knocked out, the dome of the winter garden sagged, and the gangway was torn off. The Moscow River had already licked clean its wound and was running as if nothing was the matter.

      The tattooed fellow, limping, approached Vtorov. “Something splashed!” he said uncertainly. There were bags under the bulldog eyes. The upper lip began to tremble like a dog baring its teeth. “Splashed?!” “Already after the explosion,” Tattoo hurriedly added and drew with a finger from top to bottom, as if tracking someone’s path. Vtorov squinted. “Verify!” he ordered. Tattoo did not want to climb into the water. “Such a current there! Even if something fell, already carried away!” “Verify, you’re told!” The fellow went, uncomfortably looking around. It was heard how he yelled and demanded a boat. A motor began to clatter somewhere behind Gomorrah.

      Vtorov coughed for bravery and turned on the microphone, “They dropped an attack marker on us… It passed. You can go, Guy! They won’t reach a new marker today!” said Vtorov into the microphone. “Sure?” “I guarantee it! The arbalesters think that they could bring it down.” “Stake your life on it?” a voice tinkled in the headset. The chief of security swallowed. His Adam’s apple rolled like a small apple and again emerged above the collar.

      After about ten minutes, two automobiles crept out of the park, dodging along the twisting road. A massive SUV with blue flashing lights blinking silently, and immediately behind it, glued to its bumper, a long armoured Mercedes. Both cars easily broke the security chain and drove up to the gangway of Gomorrah. The doors of the SUV opened while still in motion. Four men with Chinese army-model crossbows with cartridges sprung out onto the asphalt. In some ways, they resembled wooden boxes and evoked a questioning smile, but only to those who had not seen them in action. Bolts with recessed plumage slid into the trench under their own weight. The crossbow was cocked with the movement of a lever. The arbalesters moved to the Mercedes and surrounded it. Two squatted down to their knees. Those who remained standing took aim at the sky. The other two aimed at the bushes. Vtorov, blue from diligence, courteously opened the rear door.

      From the automobile, a sinewy, lithe man of medium height slipped more than walked out. He raised his hands above his head. He snapped his fingers. The jumping reflection of a blinker picked up his face at random from the semidarkness. It was similar to a deflated ball, having lain in a room at night. There were bags and bumps. It was swollen in one place and it sunk in unpredictably in another. The mouth was small, capricious, feminine. The lips were chubby. It seemed a teaspoon could not even push through, but with a smile, the mouth suddenly widened, extended. And it became clear, not only an apple but also a whole person could swallow dive in there and disappear СКАЧАТЬ