Walking Dead by Greg Rucka Read Free Book Online Page B

flashed through my mind came back as no-go. There was no way I could get into a pencil position in time, and even if I could free myself from the body, the nearest hard cover was ten meters behind me.
     
But I had soft cover.
     
I heaved myself and the dead weight off the ground and onto the grenade. Then I lunged back, losing the knife but heading for my gun, twisting to hit the deck on my belly, trying to get into the pencil position anyway. I managed to get my feet together and my mouth open and my hands up to my ears when the explosive detonated.
     
The dead man's body absorbed most of the blast, but overpressure still slapped at me, first from the explosion, then from the vacuum as air rushed to return to the detonation zone. Opening my mouth had helped, and my eyes didn't feel like they bulged too much, or at least, they stayed in my skull. Evenwith my hands over my ears, the concussion shot pain through my head, further traumatizing my left ear. I lost my body long enough to realize it, had to force myself back into play.
     
I reached for my gun, rolling clumsily back to my feet and staggering to the side. The leader had used the grenade to clear his exit, but he'd had to wait until after it had detonated to leave for fear of eating his own blast. I just hoped he didn't have a second grenade. Or a third.
     
Then he made his move, coming out with his gun at high-ready, pure Russian-military-style. Maybe he thought the body on the ground was mine, but it drew his attention and his aim first, and it gave me the half-second to pick my shot. I needed a live one, and he was the only one left.
     
The round punched him just inside the hip, shattering his pelvic girdle, and he dropped hard with his legs suddenly unable to support him. When he fell, he fell forward, and I closed on him as fast as I could manage. He was cursing in Russian, trying to bring his pistol around, but my boot found his hand, knocked the weapon free and sent it bouncing a couple of meters.
     
I holstered my gun, then dropped a knee onto the base of his spine and began to search him. It wasn't direct pressure on the pelvis, but it was close enough, and the pain kept him occupied. He had a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a wad of bills, a knife of his own, a set of keys for the Land Cruiser, and a phone. He also had a wallet, and the wallet had an ID card, and the ID card had his picture and a name, Vladek Karataev. I put the money, the keys, the wallet, and the mobile in a pocket, then flipped out the blade on his knife.
     
He was hissing out deep breaths, hands clenching and unclenching, trying to control the pain. I came off his back, rolling him. His breath caught when I moved him, the shattered bonesin his hip grinding and shifting. I waited until his eyes focused on me again, then showed him the knife.
     
“Tiasa Lagidze,” I said. I used Russian. “Where is she?”
     
“Go fuck your mother.” The strain of keeping pain out of his voice made it sound very sincere.
     
Fucking Russians , I thought. Always proving how tough they are .
     
After a half-second for thought, I stabbed him in the thigh. He yelled, cursed me, tried to grab for my hand and immediately fell back in the agony the movement caused. I yanked the blade out, wiped it on his shirt, then closed and pocketed it. I straightened up, then put my foot on the wound I had just made, pressing down hard. From my pocket, I brought out his phone. It was a BlackBerry, one of the new ones.
     
“Vladek,” I said. “That's your name?”
     
“Fucking cunt, fuck you!”
     
“I just cut your femoral, Vladek,” I told him. “You can't walk. You can barely crawl. Your friends are dead. We're far enough from the port that no one heard a grenade go off, which means we're far enough that no one will hear you no matter how loud you yell. Right now, my foot is the only thing keeping you from bleeding out.”
     
Then I showed him his phone.
     
“You want this back, you talk to