Prey

Начало книги

It began on the eve of a severe Alaskan snowstorm. Two men stepped out of their four-wheel-drive vehicle into the freezing night. Pausing under a glary streetlight to check their watches, they carefully slid fully loaded. 45 SIG-Sauer semiautomatic pistols into the pockets of their down jackets.

Seemingly alone, the men looked up and down the block, crossed the street, and entered one of Anchorage's sleaziest biker bars.

The man watching all of this from the room above the bar checked his watch. It was exactly eleven fifty-five p.m.

The late-night crowd in the High Horse Saloon was a touchy mix of bikers, fishermen, and oil-field roughnecks. One of the scruffier patrons, Henry Lightstone, sat by himself at a small corner table.

"Get you a cold one?"

Lightstone put his hand over his glass and shook the waitress off as he watched two men enter the bar through the double doors. He wouldn't have given them more than a casual glance if one of them hadn't looked like a cop.

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