The Hunter


They thought they had killed him but Parker had survived their bullets to become the most dangerous game of all — the beast at bay. The prey had suddenly become the hunter and now Parker was stalking them. And he had only three things on his mind— Mal— Mal had double-crossed him on a heist out on the West Coast. Then he’d run off with Parker’s share of the loot and left him for dead. Lynn— Lynn was his wife but she’d played the Judas ewe by setting him up for the slaughter. She was living in New York City somewhere now, with Mal. The syndicate— They had a lot of his money. Mal had welshed on a debt and paid off with Parker’s share of the heist. Parker wasn’t so much vicious as primitive. He believed in the oldest law of all — a life for a life!

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Фрагмент текста

When a fresh-faced guy in a Chevy offered him a lift, Parker told him to go to hell. The guy said, “Screw you, buddy,” yanked his Chevy back into the stream of traffic, and roared on down to the tollbooths. Parker spat in the right-hand lane, lit his last cigarette, and walked across the George Washington Bridge.

The 8 A.M. traffic went mmmmmm, mmmmmm, all on this side, headed for the city. Over there, lanes and lanes of nobody going to Jersey. Underneath, the same thing.

Out in the middle, the bridge trembled and swayed in the wind. It does it all the time, but he’d never noticed it. He’d never walked it before. He felt it shivering under his feet, and he got mad. He threw the used-up butt at the river, spat on a passing hubcap, and strode on.

Office women in passing cars looked at him and felt vibrations above their nylons. He was big and shaggy, with flat square shoulders and arms too long in sleeves too short. He wore a gray suit, limp with age and no pressing. His shoes and socks were both black and both holey. The shoes were holey on the bottom, the socks were holey at heel and toe.

His hands, swinging curve-fingered at his sides, looked like they were molded of brown clay by a sculptor who thought big and liked veins. His hair was brown and dry and dead, blowing around his head like a poor toupee about to fly loose. His face was a chipped chunk of concrete, with eyes of flawed onyx. His mouth was a quick stroke, bloodless. His suit coat fluttered behind him, and his arms swung easily as he walked.

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