Читать книгу Dorian Gray - John Garavaglia - Страница 57

I hate being called “Pretty Boy.” Dorian snarled. But not as much as being called “Dorie.”

“Let’s go, people! Assholes and elbows!” Henry exclaimed through the private radio channel.

Dorian stood on the ledge, at the brink of precipice as he gracefully dodged the snipers’ bullets.

The hostiles opened up at once, shooting up at Dorian. So much for his team being soundless and invisible—if they were going to get out of this scrape, they’d better get damned deadly damned fast.

He reached out and felt the empty air in front of him. No guardrail protected him from the perilous drop. Dorian heard the bustle of the traffic several stories below, and a flicker of doubt undercut his resolve.

It was a loooong way down.

For a second he imagined himself splattered all over the ground.

Dorian took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and then cartwheeled along the edge of the roof, his heart pounding in exhilaration. The toe of his combat boot probed the corner, finding the top end of a broken rain gutter that plummeted several feet down to the rooftop next door.

“Hmm,” Dorian murmured.

A crazy idea occurred to him. It was insane, but almost too daring to resist. He crouched beside the top of the gutter and tapped it with his finger to make sure it was sound and steady.

Probably.

JOHN GRAVAGLIA

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