Wild Country

Начало книги

Death minus three minutes and counting: Rawson squinted through yellow sundazzle and displayed his Mex dental work as the stranger neared maximum range. The scope of his wire-stocked assault rifle showed only a single, helmeted rider, straight and tall on the hovercycle, its caliche dust trail writhing behind.

Had Rawson been a praying man, he might have prayed for this break. One well-placed round could mean the difference between Rawson afoot in Wild Country, with deputy marshals closing in. and Rawson sitting pretty in that hovercycle with a straight run to the Rio Grande.

On the other hand, a clean miss might alert the silly bastard, and several hasty shots might render that cycle useless. From his cover among the blistering rocks of South Texas. Rawson judged that his prey would cross within a hundred meters of him. If he waited an extra few moments, he would have a good headshot, and time for more if the first round missed. Rawson flicked his fire selector to semiauto, wishing he had thought to drop his beltpac near the tracks his boots had made. A nice fat beltpac would've provided bait to halt an unwary traveler. Well, tough shit; Rawson concentrated on the world as it was — or rather, as he thought it was. It did not occur to him that the target in his crosshairs might be bait.

Читать дальше →