Murder Run-Around

Начало книги

As he had expected, it was no trick to buy a gun in Mexico City. The plane from San Antonio had towered high over the flat dryness until at last the Sierra Madre, jutting steeply up from tropical slopes, reached toward the belly of the plane and the motors droned a new song.

He had been by the window, and, except for the upholstery, except for his quiet business suit instead of battle dress, it was like that dawn four years before when, at the jump master’s signal, he had snapped onto the static line, tested, moved toward the door, hand on the shoulder of the man in front of him, fear tight in his throat. Then the whip of the slip stream, the jar of the harness, the pendulum swing down through three hundred feet of tracer fire...

This was very different, and yet somehow the same.

When he shut his eyes he could see the outline of a gun that would fit his hand, a grip that would jar solidly back against the heel of his hand with each shot, sending the faint impact through wrist and elbow to shoulder.

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