Читать книгу Perception Fault - James Axler - Страница 13

The trip across seemed to be over in a second and stretch on forever at the same time. Ryan felt the brief, strange sensation of weightlessness for a moment, and didn’t dare look down at the ground blurring underneath him, but kept his eye on the prize—the rim of the turret atop the mil wag he was sailing toward.

He hit the slanted back of the Hummer feet-first and threw himself forward, straining to reach the metal lip before he slid off. His fingers locked onto the raised edge just as the gunner inside poked his head up to see what had landed on the back of his ride. Eyes widening in surprise, he yanked a knife from an upside-down sheath on his web gear and thrust it at Ryan’s face.

Jerking his head aside, Ryan grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled it toward him, twisting at the same time until the man’s fingers popped open, and the blade clattered free, skittering away to fall to the ground. He turned back to the coldheart in time to take a blow to the side of his head from the man’s wild swing. The green shirt cocked his free hand back for another punch, but as he brought his fist forward, Ryan blocked it with his left hand, then pulled the guy forward, head-butting him in the face. Drawing back his head, Ryan drove it forward again, cracking his adversary in the mouth this time, and drawing blood from his mashed lips.

His lower face crushed into a red smear, the man sagged from the blows, giving Ryan time to pull his own blade and drive it into the man’s heart, stilling him for good. Removing the blade and pulling his feet up under him, Ryan dragged the body from the turret and tossed him over the side, then drew his Sig Sauer and paused for a moment. As he expected, a shadow appeared in the turret as another man poked his head up, blaster in hand, to see what was going on. The moment Ryan saw him, he jumped feet-first into the open space.

Seeing the combat boots aimed straight at his face, the coldheart tried to pull back into the recesses of the passenger compartment while aiming his blaster at the intruder. He accomplished neither, and his gun hand was caught underneath the heavy rubber soles, which crushed it to the deck with the snap of several broken wrist bones. The man howled in pain, giving Ryan a perfect target—his wide-open mouth. One bullet later, brains splashed against the rear door, and the coldheart stopped screaming permanently.

Ryan was trusting that the blonde woman was behind him—and that she wouldn’t try to backstab him as he whirled to take on the front seat pair. The passenger seat was empty, but the driver was half turned in his seat, the revolver in his hand swinging toward Ryan’s head. Close enough to touch, he grabbed the blaster’s cylinder, preventing it from firing, and aimed the muzzle of his own weapon between the wheelman’s eyes before pulling the trigger.

“Are you crazy!” He heard before the mil wag surged ahead as the spasming driver’s foot floored the gas pedal while the steering wheel turned hard left—aiming the vehicle straight toward the steep hillside. Ryan shoved the driver’s body down as he lunged over the seat for the wheel, but he was too late. With a roar, the off-roader tried to drive up the slope, making it a few yards before gravity took over and brought it tipping over on its side. The wag hung there for a moment before slowly falling over on its roof, the engine stalling as it crashed to a stop.

Ryan ended up on the ceiling with the driver’s leaking body on top of him. Hearing scrabbling sounds nearby, he shoved off the corpse and rose to find the woman pushing at the passenger door, which wasn’t budging, with all her strength.

“Come on!” she panted in the heat. Glancing back at Ryan, she whirled to face him while putting her back against the door and shoving. “Come any closer and you’ll regret it!”

Ryan sat back on his haunches and showed his blaster, careful not to point it directly at her. “Strange way to thank the man who just saved your life.”

“Are you shittin’ me? Have you seen the army running around these fuckin’ hills? You haven’t saved me at all, stupe! By getting’ in the way, you’re just in for a world of trouble.” She didn’t let up on the door at all, but kept straining at it, jerking at the handle. “Why won’t this fuckin’ thing move?”

“If you give my friends a minute, they’ll get us both out.”

“Sure, and you’ll end up ransoming me to my father instead of them—don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

Ryan frowned. “Girl, I don’t even know who you are.”

That stopped her, just in time for Ryan to hear J.B.’s voice outside. “Ryan, you alive in there?”

“Yeah, but the doors are jammed. Can you bust them?”

“Sure thing.”

Ryan heard fading footsteps, then a strange whine, like metal rasping on metal, then a clink on the other side of the door. “So, who are you?”

Puzzlement clouded her features. “You really don’t know?”

Ryan poked the body of the driver next to him. “I know you’re important to these green shirts, since they went to a lot of trouble to capture you alive, but other than that, you’re just another outland woman to me.”

“Just another— I’m Rachel Carrington, the daughter of Josiah Carrington, the leader of Free Denver.”

Ryan nodded. “And the green shirts are fighting against your father, right?”

“Yeah, lousy traitors. They want what my father’s spent his whole life building. They just think they can come in and take over. Not if I can help it.”

J.B.’s voice sounded from outside. “Keep away from the door.” The engine of the other mil wag revved outside, followed by a sudden jerk on the frame of the upside-down 4x4. The engine revved again, and with another lurch, the door tore away from its hinges, letting in bright sunlight.

Ryan motioned toward the door. “There you go.”

“You’re letting me go?”

“I don’t kidnap people for ransom. It looked like you were in trouble back there, and I thought you could use some help.”

She stared at him for long seconds. “Who are you?”

Ryan grinned. “No one of consequence.”

Her expression changed from exasperated to puzzled. “I very much doubt that.”

J.B.’s voice sounded from outside. “Company’s almost here, Ryan. You coming out, or fixing to stay in there for the rest of your bastard short life?”

“You can go with us, or take your chances with the green shirts outside. It’s up to you.”

“Choice like that isn’t any choice at all.” She scooted to the opening, scooping up the dead gunner’s blaster as she did so. But instead of pointing it at him, she extended a tanned hand, still oozing blood from a scraped knuckle. “Let’s go.”

Taking it, Ryan was surprised by the strength in her wiry form. “Thanks.” He got up and glanced at J.B., who was regarding the woman with his habitual expressionless face. “J. B. Dix, Rachel Carrington, Rachel, J.B.”