Читать книгу Dorian Gray - John Garavaglia - Страница 73

“You okay?” Dorian asked, kneeling over him.

Looking up at his friend, his vision slightly burring from the painful jolt the bullet delivered smashing into his body armor, Henry said, “No, thanks to you.”

“I’m supposed to thank you, right?”

Henry clutched his chest, putting pressure on the wound. Bright red blood was smeared all over his shirt.

“A hero has but one life to give to his country.” Henry laughed.

Their assailants had them surrounded. Laser pointers from their guns beaded on them. As the insurgents stepped into the light, Dorian and Henry discovered they didn’t look like the run of the mill terrorists. They were a gang, but only wearing gear one might buy at Wal-Mart or any sporting goods store. They didn’t wear any camouflage fatigues, but tattered jeans and oversized hooded sweatshirts.

The foot soldiers wore helmets that shrouded their faces all the way to the deep dark holes where their eyes should be. They were all armed the same way—with nasty-looking rifles whose snouts promised very big paydays. Affined to their barrels were bright lights that could see out through the night.

The leader came forward. He was dressed in black—all the way from head to toe. His face was covered with a protective helmet, but the only feature that was exposed was his eyes. He also wore combat boots, weapons and an equipment harness, and a pair of night-vision goggles rested on the top of his

JOHN GRAVAGLIA

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