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Tattooed skin. Danil Koretsky: Tattooed Skin Danil Koretsky Tattooed Skin audiobook

Tattooed skin. Danil Koretsky: Tattooed Skin Danil Koretsky Tattooed Skin audiobook

20.06.2020

PAINTED

Danil KORETSKY

The hero of the novel "Tattooed Skin" Volkov-Wolf-Painted again in battle. A former special forces intelligence fighter, a participant in military operations, performs a particularly important task of political significance. He has to go through all the circles of prison hell, the language, laws and customs of which he knows well. Physical strength, the experience of a boxer, icy self-control, ingenuity help him withstand monstrous trials. And also ... tattooed pictures on the skin that, contrary to the laws of nature, behave like living beings ...

Part one

ESCAPE FROM DETENTION

The wheel of the paddy wagon fell off at the most inopportune moment - when turning on a steep cliff to a deep blue lake, which gives the name to a small town, spread out on the opposite bank. Sixty thousand inhabitants, a mechanical plant and a pasta factory, dense forests around, clean air, picturesque lakes ... He was not listed on large-scale general maps, but in specific areas he was well known.
The fame of the provincial town was given by the Sineozersk Transit and Transit Prison, built in the last century: through it all the stages went to the Ural bush of corrective labor colonies of strict and special regimes.
A special car that had crashed was carrying another batch of especially dangerous convicts from the railway station, and when it turned sharply along an uneven dirt road, there was a nasty crunch of broken iron, a blow, the car skidded sharply, taking it straight to the cliff ... Slowly, as in slow motion, it rolled to starboard, passed the critical point and rolled over, after which it quickly rolled downhill, raising a cloud of dust and unnaturally flashing three wheels and a rusty peeling bottom with an exhaust pipe burnt in several places.
Below, a smooth blue surface shone coldly, under which a seven-meter water column was waiting for prey. Dangling in the cab next to the driver, through the flashing of the gray sky and the earth overgrown with lush green grass, he figured out the situation, managed to open the door and jumped out, but was immediately crushed by a roughly riveted steel body. The paddy wagon crashed into a thin birch tree, broke it with a crash, stumbled upon several thicker trees, which, having springed up, extinguished inertia, and, lying on its side, stopped at the very edge of the rocky shore.
In the ensuing silence, the rustle of sliding pebbles, the gurgling of pouring liquid, and someone's groans were heard. There was a sharp smell of gasoline.
- Open, listen, open, right now it will explode! - a heart-rending cry broke through the steel side muffled.
- In kind, what are you, oborzeli? Release it, otherwise we'll burn to hell...!
- Filthy cops, Musorskie faces!
The shell-shocked sergeant-driver with difficulty got out of the cab and, holding his head, spun around in one place.
- Comrade lieutenant! he shouted hoarsely. - Where are you?
- Open! Open! - Thick fists pounded from the inside on the dull humming of the iron lining.
- Comrade lieutenant! The driver stopped and looked around. His gaze gradually acquired meaning, he saw the helplessly upturned uniform cap, and then the head of the convoy himself. - Comrade lieutenant! I now!
Limping and grimacing, the sergeant hobbled up to the commander and dropped his hands helplessly: white fragments of ribs stuck out through his black uniform with blood.
The paddy wagon made a scraping sound and moved twenty centimeters closer to the water.
- Sit quietly there, drown like puppies! - It seemed to the sergeant that, as usual, he roared at the rebellious prisoners, but in fact it turned out not a roar, but a quiet hoarseness.
“Open it quickly, Fedun,” the inner guard suddenly gave a voice, and the sergeant belatedly remembered his comrades locked in the stinking belly of the prison van.
- Wow, guys, wow. He fidgeted with the keys. - How are you, are you safe?
“Volodka was hurt badly,” the same voice answered. - He needs to go to the hospital.
What are you doing there?
Yeah, there's one thing that doesn't work...
The driver tried to stop the paddy wagon frozen in an unstable balance with the trunk of a broken tree, but he did not have enough strength, and with a wave of his hand, he climbed onto the scratched side, unlocked the lock and with difficulty lifted the door, as once in his native village he lifted the hatch leading to the cool underground . Only now, from the black rectangle, it smelled not of a pleasant damp coolness and the smells of food prepared for the winter, but of the stench of unwashed human bodies, vomit and blood.
- Give me a hand!
Corporal Shcheglov's face was pale, blood was flowing from his cut forehead. He struggled out, looked around, and swore.
- Get stuck! Now this rattletrap will drown! Volodya must be pulled out!
- And what to do with these?
- And what to do with them ... Let them sit. Our job is to protect them. Unlocking the cameras on the route is prohibited...
“It’s impossible, Comrade Corporal,” a reasonable voice was heard from the darkness. We are humans, not animals. And you are people. And people in trouble should help each other. If this is the case, we need to be saved. And we will help you.
“It’s true, we won’t get Volodya out ourselves,” the driver whispered loudly. - I'm completely sick, my head is spinning, everything inside hurts. Open this, let it help...
- A spy?! Are you really... Better than Kathal... Give me the keys...
Sighing heavily, Shcheglov reluctantly poked his head back into the stinking darkness.
Trying to keep his heavy boots away from the deadly whitening face of Volodya Strepetov, prostrated below, he fell like a sack on the left wall of the van that had become floored and, straightening up with difficulty, climbed into the overturned, low, like an animal hole, the corridor between the blocks of cells. Hot bodies of prisoners hid in eight tiny steel compartments, heavy breathing, biowaves of fear and an animal thirst for freedom could be heard through small holes drilled in circles.
- You, this, be careful, - the driver croaked, recollecting himself. His head began to hurt less, and he realized that they had made two very serious mistakes.
Firstly, the cell can be opened only with a clear physical and numerical superiority of the convoy: for a particularly dangerous contingent, this ratio is three to one. Secondly, the escorts never come to the convicts with weapons, and the one who receives them when disembarking must give his pistol to his comrades. But now all the rules and regulations were flying to hell.
- Look, be careful...
The paddy wagon creaked dangerously and moved again, the sergeant's thoughts instantly switched. Very carefully, he slid to the ground and with both hands rested against the steel side, as if he could hold the three-ton colossus.
- Hurry, Sasha... Hurry...
Corporal Shcheglov unlocked the second cell. Catala was a frail fellow, at the station he generously treated the convoy with cigarettes and told a couple funny jokes.
It seemed that trouble was not to be expected from him.
- Get out, help...
Shcheglov did not have time to finish his sentence. Bony fingers gripped his throat with superhuman strength, pressing his Adam's apple into his larynx and cutting off air from his lungs. A jerk - and the back of the corporal's head deafly hit the iron. Greedy hands quickly searched the limp body, took possession of the pistol and keys.
Locks clicked feverishly, sweaty bodies in gray sweat-stained robes, like snakes awakened from hibernation, burst out of cramped iron boxes, collided, intertwining into an awkward ball, angrily pushed each other away, desperately striving for the ghostly light of unexpected freedom glimmering ahead.
- Well, everything? the sergeant asked without looking up as someone climbed aboard the wagon.
- All! - an unfamiliar voice responded with ominous intonations.
- Who is this?! The sergeant tossed his head and froze: a round-shouldered, broad-shouldered prisoner pointed a pistol at him.
Their eyes met. The left eye of the short-haired recidivist was half-closed, instead of the right eye, a nine-millimeter pupil of the trunk blackened. In the next second, it flashed with a sizzling flash, and a sharp clap of thunder blew the sergeant's frontal bone to smithereens.
- Is everything all right, Zubach?
The Platypus jumped out of the hatch, then the tense physiognomy of Pear appeared, followed by a merrily grinning Katala.
- It's all me, me! Without me, you'd get the hell out!
Dancing nervously, so that his hands dangled as if on hinges, he looked around.
- Are the cops ready? Come on, Grusha, take the guns from them!
- What about those? - Zubach nodded at the dark opening, from where came viscous blows, as if a piece of raw beef was being beaten with a corrugated hammer.
- The Ferret deals with them ...
- Dorval, asshole! Now you can't tear it off until the evening!
The triangular head of the Skeleton appeared in the light of God. Sunken eyes, protruding cheekbones, sloping chin. Usually it was colorless, like a linen louse. sparse bristles blonde hair, invisible eyebrows, watery eyes, porous gray skin. But now red splashes were coloring the forehead, cheeks, neck ...
- Look what he's doing. The skeleton slid like a snake onto the side of the van and began rubbing his face with his sleeve. - I'll be a bitch, a complete psycho! They ended a long time ago, and he wets and wets ...
- Fluff! Pooh! - Pear put on a lieutenant's cap and aimed at his friends from two pistols at once. - The convoy fires without warning!
- That's right, you need to wear a uniform! - Tooth spat. - And we pull in a quick way, do not sit here for a dick ...
- Hey, what about us? What are you, in nature?! - Two pairs of fists pounded on the body. - Open it!
The truck twitched again. Platypus and Skeleton hurriedly jumped down and ran to the side. Toothy spat contemptuously after them.
- Come on, Katala, release Jaw and Painted. And take the Ferret. If it doesn't work - to hell with it!
A few minutes later, three more climbed out of the hatch. The sharp-faced, covered in bloody streaks, the Weasel feverishly clutched a red, as if varnished mount and looked around madly. Tall, athletic, Painted supported a pithecanthropus-like forty-year-old gypsy with a massive jaw protruding forward. He carefully cradled the unnaturally twisted right hand.
- The infection must have broken a bone! The gypsy's lips curled painfully.
“We are also lucky that the cells are small,” Catala said, feeling his shoulders.
- The cops beat half to death!
“And the Weasel beat them to death,” the Skeleton grinned.
- Enough talking! Tooth said gloomily, looking from Jaw's broken arm to the pistol clutched in his palm. - How will you go with such a claw?
The gypsy stopped grimacing, looked unkindly, ran his healthy hand over his cheek, densely overgrown with black stubble.
- Very simple. I'm not walking on my hands!
- Okay, let's see...
Zubach slipped the weapon into his belt.
- Then the ends in the water, and tear the claws! Grusha, give one gun to Katale!
The prison wagon, raising fountains of spray, flopped heavily into the lake and instantly disappeared into the depths. A huge air bubble escaped to the surface, the clear water became cloudy...
When a search party arrived at the scene half an hour later, they found only broken trees and traces of blood on the green grass.

An escape, especially with an attack on a convoy, is always an emergency. The lights on the control panels of the duty units are flashing, telephones are ringing nervously, teletypes are crackling, sending out orientations with signs of fugitives to all cities and towns. The doors of the broken-down police "UAZ" clang loudly, the precinct police officers raised on alarm, operatives and detectives of the escort units swear, threateningly growl serious dogs trained on people. Reports from the localities flow to the regional police department, from there an encrypted special message goes to Moscow, and high-ranking officials of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, cursing peripheral dolbaks, file it into a special control folder.
Information about the Sinoezersk escape went to the Center in the usual way, but at some stage it split in two and a copy quite unexpectedly entered the KGB of the USSR, which was never interested in ordinary criminality. This time, the most lively interest was shown in police information, it lay on the table of the chairman himself, and then with a resolution: "Take urgent and effective measures to bring the operation to a close" old friend"to the end" - went down to the head of the Main Directorate of Counterintelligence.
Major-General Vostretsov immediately summoned Lieutenant Colonel Petrunov, who was directly in charge of the "Old Friend", and with displeasure handed him a form of cipher telegram crossed out with a red stripe.
- Here's the news about your frame! Admire!
Having skimmed over the official text several times, the lieutenant colonel carefully placed the document on the table.
- And what could he do ... Decipher and fail the operation? Besides, he would have been killed immediately!
To argue with the authorities is like pissing Against the wind.
- To hell with this operation! - The General slammed his fist on the ill-fated encryption. - Started some games with coloring, dressing up, and now also shoots! Send an operative to Potma for a week and get the result! Why complicate? We have a lot of employees who could handle this case - quickly, without circus effects and headaches for management! How long will it all take now?
- Allow me to go to Sineozersk? - Petrunov asked, habitually holding back the irritation seething in his chest.
- That's what I'm ordering you! Take all measures to at least not shoot him when captured!
- Eat! - said Petrunov, completely unaware of what measures could be taken here. The situation got out of hand, and Wolf's life was in his own hands.

The evening forest rustled ominously around, grabbing clothes with its green paws, strove to put a snag under the leg or poke a sharp branch in the face.
It was as if a mocking goblin was playing with travelers who got lost in his possessions, but he did it hesitantly, on the sly, fearing to come close.
And indeed, a company wading through the bushes could scare away all the forest evil spirits. Ahead, now and then looking back, like a pickpocket on the route, the Skeleton was bursting in a lieutenant's uniform torn at the chest - wet and covered with brown spots. Behind him, with the determination of a tank, Grusha lane, the Platypus in a poorly washed uniform with sergeant's epaulettes carefully stepped in his footsteps, behind him Khorek angrily chopped tenacious branches with a washed tire iron, Zubach maintained a two-meter distance, Katala in a frayed form of a corporal kept behind him, Jaw and Painted closed procession. The gypsy held his broken arm and groaned from time to time, while Painted moved silently, controlling his gait so as not to switch to the scout's forest step out of habit. Anxious thoughts swirled in his head.

03
Apr
2013

Tattooed skin (Koretsky Danil)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 192kbps
Koretsky Danil
Release year: 2013
Genre: Detective
Publisher: do-it-yourself audiobook
Artist: Mrak79
Duration: 14:31:57
Description: As a child, he realized that brute force decides more in life than good word. When drafted into the army, the case threw him into a special forces brigade, where this conviction was strengthened, and the ability to use force different ways has increased significantly. The overthrow of the regime in Africa, the arrests of major government officials, buying up foreign passports from pickpockets - this is not a complete list of cases that he had to complete. They changed his name, biography, habits and even appearance, thickly covering his body with tattoos. Volkov - Wolf - Painted became a completely different person. And, ultimately, the tattoos on his body determined his fate.

The audiobook contains profanity.

2. Painted

3. On the trail of the Devil

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2011

Shagreen leather (Honoré de Balzac)

Author: Honore de Balzac
Release year: 2006
Genre: foreign classics
Publisher: MediaKniga
Artist: Mikhail Rozenberg
Duration: 10:49:00
Description: Shagreen Skin is one of the most famous and beloved by readers of the novels of the French writer Honore de Balzac (1799 - 1850). The young man lost at the casino and decided to take his own life. He wandered around the city, waiting for the evening, and wandered into an antique shop. The owner of the shop, seeing the state of the young man, offered him to buy a talisman - a piece of shagreen leather with Solomon's seal. The inscription translated means ...

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Shagreen leather (Honoré de Balzac)

Author: Honore de Balzac
Release year: 2014
Genre: Classic
Publisher: You can't buy anywhere
Artist: Ternovsky Evgeniy
Duration: 13:21:14
Description: Can you win if you make a deal with the devil? This question has never left indifferent both writers and readers. If you are young, in love and ambitious, but you know that all your dreams are doomed due to lack of money, then is it possible to resist the temptation to pay with a deadline? own life for the fulfillment of desires? The young man lost at the casino and decided to take his own life. He wandered around...

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Shagreen leather (Honoré de Balzac)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 128kbps
Author: Honore de Balzac
Release year: 2006
Genre: classic
Publisher: Audiobook
Artist: Valery Zakhariev
Duration: 12:18:36
Description: Honore de Balzac entered the history of literature as the creator of The Human Comedy, a unique artistic encyclopedia of the life of France in the 19th century. The most significant and striking work of this epic is the novel Shagreen Skin. When you are young, in love and ambitious, but you know that all your dreams are doomed due to lack of money, is it possible to resist the temptation to pay off the term itself ...

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Shagreen leather (Honoré de Balzac)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 128kbps
Author: Honore de Balzac
Release year: 2013
Genre: classic
Publisher: ARDIS
Artist: Dmitry Orgin
Duration: 12:25:40
Description: Shagreen Skin is a philosophical novel by the famous French writer Honore de Balzac from the Human Comedy series. The protagonist, a young aristocrat Raphael de Valantin, left without a single sou in his pocket, decides to commit suicide. Wandering aimlessly through the streets of Paris, he wanders into an antiques shop, where the old owner offers him a magical talisman - a shagreen patch that can fulfill any wish. ...

29
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Shagreen leather (Honoré de Balzac)

Format: audio performance, MP3, 128kbps
Author: Honore de Balzac
Release year: 2010
Genre: Romance, classic
Publisher: Radio Russia
Artist: see below
Duration: 06:40:56
Description: A deal with the devil - this question was of interest to more than one writer and not one of them has already answered it. What if everything can be turned in such a way that you will win? What if this time Fate smiles at you? What if you become the only one who manages to outwit the forces of evil? .. So the hero of the novel "Shagreen Skin" thought. He lost at the casino and was ready to take his own life, when suddenly fate gave him a ...

10
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Leather. X-Files The X-Files (Ben Metzrich)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 64kbps
Author: Ben Metzrich
Release year: 2011
Genre fiction
Publisher: Project SViD - Tales for Adults and Children
Artist: Oleg Shubin
Duration: 06:25:58
Description: Another book about world-famous FBI agents Fox Mulder and Dan Scully. In my personal rating, it is somewhere in the middle, along with Anderson's Epicenter ahead of Charles Grant's Goblins, but inferior to Ruins, Antibodies and Bloody Wind. In one of the hospitals severe burn hip enters Professor Perry Stanton. A quiet, peaceful man who never had trouble with the law. Op...

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Star Platoon-4. Steel skin (Nikolai Andreev)

Format: audiobook, MP3, 96
Author: Nikolai Andreev
Release year: 2016
Genre: Fighting fantasy
Publisher: You can't buy anywhere
Artist: Andrey Vasenev
Duration: 11:08:58
Processed by: shniferson
Description: Tino Ayato, Oles Khrabrov and Jacques de Creignan, risking their lives, were playing their own political game. They made a secret pact with the Morsvillian clans of hetaerae and three-eyes. Now the soldiers could pass through the city without hindrance. Strange, inexplicable visions forced the Russian to start searching for an ancient Olivian relic - the Conzor Cross. The young man is not very...

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Format: audiobook, MP3, 96kbps
Author: Arturo Perez-Reverte
Release year: 2013
Genre: Romance
Publisher: You can't buy anywhere
Artist: Vorobyova Irina
Duration: 20:03:01
Description: Arturo Perez-Reverte (b. 1951) is a contemporary Spanish writer whose novels, written in the intellectual detective genre, brought him worldwide fame. Created in last decade XX century, they have already won the hearts of millions of readers. A talented prose writer, a brilliant connoisseur of history and art, a master of detective intrigue, Perez-Reverte constantly throws new and new riddles into the flames of our...

Bitrate: 64kbps
Sampling frequency: 44100 Hz
Total duration: 07:42:36
Description: If you want to know the details of the puzzling cases solved and unsolved by a restless pair of FBI special agents, if you want to look behind the scenes of the crime, if you want to look at what happened through the eyes of not only people, but also paranormal creatures, read on...

Current page: 1 (total book has 23 pages) [available reading excerpt: 6 pages]

Danil Koretsky
tattooed skin

PROLOGUE

- Come on, Karzuby, give the sucker anesthesia! Will know how to foxes 1
Chanterelles - cigarettes (criminal jargon).

A street fight frightens and attracts at the same time, so onlookers usually surround it in such a way that, on the one hand, they don’t miss anything interesting, and on the other, they don’t get hit in the face. The diameter of the ring is directly proportional to the feeling of confidence in one's own safety. Now, in the poorly lit square on Frunzenskaya Embankment, a dozen and a half passers-by kept about five meters from the developing action, thereby demonstrating the absence of much fear and the rather ordinary nature of what was happening.

It really was a common thing.

Four drunken degenerates - one of those who are called "cormorants", or "horn throwers", or something worse in the zone, beat up a well-informed house peasant who imprudently jumped out, to his own misfortune, at dusk from behind a reliable steel door into the stone jungle the capital - either to the store, or to the pharmacy, or for some other everyday need. More precisely, he was beaten by one - in a pink Swede dressed to the navel and with crumbled front teeth. Two of his buddies rubbed together, grinning wickedly and sometimes giving the victim a kick or a poke. The lanky one was clearly in charge of this company, he stood a little to the side, enjoyed the spectacle and lashed out to the best of his ability.

- Make him a clown, beat off the pamarks! Gee-gee-gee...

The man was obviously not adapted to such alterations: he did not try to resist or run away, he only awkwardly covered his broken face with his hands and backed away to the river, inadvertently moving away from people whose help, obviously, he did not hope at all.

Indeed, among the curious, there were clearly no people who wanted to come to his rescue. But suddenly the number of spectators increased. Shouts and blows attracted the attention of a tall, fair-haired guy, who was walking along the sidewalk with a preoccupied look, he changed the route and entered the semi-darkness of the square.

A blue shirt with long, unseasonable sleeves was tight around broad shoulders and a triangular back, jeans and white trainers completed the outfit. The guy was supposed to please women - a blond of the Nordic type, a high forehead, developed superciliary arches, a powerful straight nose with a slightly deformed bridge of the nose, a wide, dimpled chin. The appearance of Superman from a Hollywood movie, the embodiment of masculinity and strength.

But he also did not want to interfere: unlike on-screen heroes, real supermen have enough problems of their own. Glancing at the beating scene, he grimaced and turned to leave.

After another blow, the man fell. The guy in jeans walked slowly towards Komsomolsky Prospekt and did not see it.

- Lubricate the attic, Kartouby, and stroke the cumpol! the long man squealed in delight. Unlike a dozen onlookers shifting from one foot to the other, he was clearly not afraid of anything.

And the blonde didn't like it. He winced again and turned around. His movements became quick and purposeful. Pushing the big uncle away from plastic bag in his hands, the guy cut the circle of the curious and actively intervened in the course of events.

- Stop, jackals! he barked, lightly tossing Kartouby aside. "Get out of here quickly while you're safe!"

The guy was not only athletically complex, but decisive and self-confident. Cold Blue eyes in a hard squint closely examined the opponents. It was clear that this was no ordinary layman. This is how the owner, the leader, the bear in the wolf pack behaves, and if the attackers were sober, they would most likely take the advice. But they were drunk, besides, they were on their own territory, and the unknown, despite his impudence and strength, was a stranger here. Three pairs of cloudy eyes stared inquiringly at the elder.

- Look, boys, he is tired of living! - the lanky one snarled the iron "fixes". A bony, veined hand dipped into his pocket and slid back out with dangerous dexterity. There was a click of a “blowout”, a sharply sharpened blade dimly flashed.

- Knife! Knife! – the spectators shied away in fright, expanding the ring. The action has taken a completely different, dangerous track.

- Hide, bitch, I'll kill you! - the stranger said softly, but the lanky one, spitting contemptuously, sat down on his legs wide apart and put the knife in front of him, either showing skills for this kind of work, or imitating the heroes of cool action movies.

The beaten man, because of whom the fuss flared up, pressed himself into the ground, crawled to the side. But no one paid any attention to him.

- Who are you pulling on, shameful wolf?! - Karzuby's friend hysterically pulled the collar of a greasy checkered shirt, buttons flying off the asphalt rattled like peas. The dead light of the only working lantern highlighted the tattoos on his sunken chest: a flying dove and a dagger stuck in a stump, entwined with a snake. Karzuby stealthily walked around the impudent fraer on the left. The fourth, with a smallpox-scarred face, habitually pressed a razor blade between his fingers and began to go behind his back on the right.

Caudla acted in a coordinated manner, it was felt that she had a fair amount of experience in such matters and had many bloody victories on her account. But now something is broken. Karzuby and pockmarked unexpectedly found themselves in front of each other and against their will continued to move, their heads colliding with force, and the razor struck the wrong person at all: Karzuby howled, grabbed the hand of a hollow Swede, the pink fabric slowly swelled red.

The leader jumped to the rescue, but barely had time to withdraw the blade: instead of the enemy, a pockmarked sidekick, flying backwards, appeared in front of him. In the next second, two bodies collided with a crash and knocked down skittles fell into the bushes. From the outside, it seemed that they were doing all these outlandish feints on their own, of their own free will, and the fair-haired daredevil only assisted: helped, held, directed.

But the tattooed one stood close, saw everything and realized that they were stuck in a dead end. It was his turn: the blond boy took a quick gliding step, rapidly closing the distance. The most reasonable thing was to tear the claws, but then you won’t justify yourself to your own people. Yes, and to remain whole in this situation is zapad ...

- A-a-a-a! he yelled terribly and sat down, frantically rummaging around with his hands under him: at least a stone, at least a stick, at least a piece of pipe, at least something! As luck would have it, nothing came across, the fingers convulsively scraped along the ground and, shrinking, grabbed the air.

The blow of a white sneaker almost drove a blue dove into chest and knocked the thug upside down. Now the stranger turned to Karzub, who was cradling his open hand.

- Now, king of the bucket, I'll make you a clown! 2
To make a clown is to beat you severely (criminal slang).

He stepped back.

- Who are you? Cum! Then a misunderstanding came out ... Whose are you from?

The answer was a brutal kick in the stomach. With a guttural sob, Karzuby bent over, but the white sneaker in the same move with a crunch picked him up under the jaw and straightened him, however, for some reason he did not stand, but crashed back to the ground.

The lighthead slid lightly to the side, jerked his left elbow back, and turned over his right shoulder. Done purely reflexively, this cunning maneuver saved his life.

Because the leader and the pockmarked man managed to come to his senses and rushed from behind, the blade of the knife had already rapaciously aimed at the left side of the impudent stranger's lower back, and only twenty centimeters separated the cold sharp steel from the tender renal parenchyma. With a preemptive consciousness, the long one had already seen the consequences of a particularly sophisticated thieves' blow: wounding a kidney causes a sharp drop in blood pressure and instant death. But once again, nothing came of it - the tip of the miscarriage only ripped open the shirt that had come out of the jeans, and the stone elbow resounded into the sagging ribs, choking his breath and almost stopping his heart. The bony hand unclenched, the knife clanged on the asphalt.

Pockmarked suddenly found himself face to face with the enemy, tried to grab him by the throat, but his hands slipped from his powerful neck and clutched at the collar of his shirt with a death grip. Cold blue eyes were very close, they hypnotized and inspired animal horror, the pockmarked man realized that he was gone, and limply went limp, instantly losing his aggressiveness and losing his ability to resist. Terrible eyes moved sharply into the smallpox-pitted face, prominent forehead he struck the bridge of his nose with a muffled blow, as if on Easter a painted cue-ball had broken through a thinner shell. The pock-marked one leaned back, but did not open his hands - the stranger's shirt burst with a crack, twisted fingers dragged him along, and the blue fabric covered the broken face of the fallen man, as if someone had taken care of the deceased.

The guy again sharply turned around and with a strong boxing hook knocked down the lopsided, greedily gasping leader. Less than a minute had passed since the start of the fight. Three once formidable hooligans were lying in shapeless sacks on the asphalt patch. The fourth one, tattooed, managed to get up and swayed slightly on trembling legs, completely demoralized and incapable of further fight. Accustomed to getting things done, the light-headed one stepped towards him. He backed away and mumbled incoherently, bulging eyes staring at the opponent who remained naked to the waist. Bloodied lips trembled, a splayed hand rose to obscure his face.

The winner bulged with muscles. He was obviously engaged in bodybuilding and specially pumped up the biceps, triceps, abs, chest, latissimus, deltoid ... But it was not the pile of muscles that frightened the tramp. The guy was completely covered in blue tattoo designs. The multi-domed temple to the full chest, stars around the nipples, twisted shoulder straps betrayed the experience of numerous "walkers" in the zone and a high position in the criminal hierarchy. Under the collarbones there was another pair of eyes - cruel, wide open, they contemptuously looked at the tramp with his miserable cormorant eyes. 3
Cormorant - a bully (slang).

Tattoos - an insignificant corporal who dared to clash with the general of the criminal world.

“I... I... You... Mmmm...

Cormorant was so shocked that he even lost the ability to speak clearly, and the fair-haired one, spitting, stopped, deciding not to finish off the morally destroyed enemy. But the behavior of the general did not fit in the mind of the corporal, and, mumbling, he nevertheless squeezed out the question stuck in the larynx:

- Bratela, how is it ... Why are you soaking your own? It would be better if he kept silent. The strange stranger grimaced, as if in toothache, and rushed forward again.

- What kind of “mine” am I to you, scum ...

The tattooed athlete surveyed the battlefield, chuckled.

“Well, I think it turned out nicely,” he said softly.

Then he picked up the torn shirt, straightened it, grunted critically, and, clutching the crumpled cloth under his arm, went to the battered peasant, who was carefully feeling his face beginning to swell with trembling hands.

- How are you? Got it hard?

- The wolf took pity on the mare ... - without turning his head, he muttered, licking his broken lips.

- What? the athlete asked in confusion.

- Yes, then! - The man broke through, his face was distorted by a grimace of anger, pain and desperate readiness for anything. What are you doing comedy! You are just like them! They didn’t share something among themselves, and now you are playing the savior? Yes, I would put all of you against the wall without talking! To the wall!

The boy's face hardened. He silently turned and walked away.

A cool breeze blew from the river, but it did not refresh her naked torso. The guy could not feel undressed for a long time. Taking off his clothes, he did not become naked, like all normal people. Bizarre tattooed patterns: all these domes, stars, crosses, epaulettes, chains, daggers - covered the body so thickly and so deeply ingrained into the skin that they turned into a thin dense shell, chain mail, which makes it difficult to feel the calming coolness of ironed sheets, or the relaxing warmth of a kind steam. baths, enjoy the gentle drops of summer rain or the gentle touches of the fingers of your beloved woman.

This blue ink armor separated him from the rest of the universe with that special meaning that was encrypted in the lines of the drawings, in strange, unknown to most people symbols, understandable only to a few inscriptions ... In addition, the painted world lived its own life: bells rang, clanged swords and daggers, barbed wire creaked, chains rattled, eagles, devils, mermaids, knights were talking, cursing, quarreling and reconciling...

All of them differed from the usual fairy-tale characters in the specific meaning of each image, and few people knew that, for example, a cat in a top hat and bow tie, gouged out on his left forearm, was not just a funny little animal, but a Root Inhabitant of the Prison. They were violent, grumpy and unpleasant individuals, with cruel laws of life, deformed ideas about good and evil and morality turned inside out. Being a part of his being, they, of course, influenced their carrier, but they were not satisfied with this and tried to completely impose their will, dictate feelings, thoughts, actions.

And now the cat from the left forearm - a symbol of luck and thieves' luck - adjusted the dandy top hat with its clawed paws and hissed displeasedly:

He gave them well. But why was it for some wahlak to pull the mazu? Why the hell do we need him?

- No way offended the guys! - the pirate supported the cat from the right shoulder. He was wearing an earring and a scarf, instead of one eye - a black bandage, a finca with the inscription "IRA" was clamped in his teeth. The inscription had nothing to do with female name, nor to the Irish Revolutionary Army: just an abbreviation meaning threat: "I'm going to cut an asset." - And would you like it yourself - neither from the ear, nor from the snout - and on the horns?

- Everyone shut up! the bearer of the tattooed world barked. The uncle with the bag and the two women, who were vividly discussing the incident, fell silent in fright and shied away. Throughout the journey, this effect was repeated: when he passed, people stopped talking, but a lively whisper immediately stirred up behind him. He knew what they were talking about behind his back.

Meanwhile, a painted police Ford drove up to the site of the recent fight.

The lanky one and the tattooed one had already come to their senses and were now pumping out their comrades. Weakened from the loss of blood, Kartouby finally sat down, leaning against the bench, and anxiously moved his drooping, quietly cracking jaw with his fingers. Pockmarked did not regain consciousness, thick black blood oozed from his nose. Off to the side, their recent victim was cleaning herself up.

– What happened here? the sergeant at the wheel asked sternly. He had a rough face, as if hewn with an axe, and unkind eyes.

Nobody answered. The victim was not going to contact the police, and the code of honor did not allow the thieves to “throw a statement”. However, the patrol did not pay attention to the peasant: in comparison with his offenders, he had a completely decent appearance, thanks to which he was able to slowly step aside and get lost in the twilight.

- Who are they asking? - opening the right door, a lieutenant leaned out of the car, phlegmatic-looking, with a round and soft face, like a freshly baked muffin: a browned bun with raisin eyes and a crumpled mouth. Compared to the driver, he behaved less confidently, and if it were not for the insignia, one would have thought that he was subordinate to the sergeant, and not vice versa. Perhaps in real, and not statutory life, this was the case. But the lieutenant was aware of the impression he was making, and at every opportunity he tried to dispel it.

- Are you deaf? Maybe clean your ears? - deliberately rudely said the lieutenant and waved a heavy rubber stick. - What's happened?

“What, what,” muttered the lanky man without turning around. Or don't you see? You need to call an ambulance - that's what!

“Right now you will command me,” the driver promised gloomily and climbed out. The rear door of the Ford swung open, and, reinforcing the weight of the partner's words, another policeman with a cropped head in a bulletproof vest hiding epaulets and with a short machine gun at the ready appeared there.

- Comrade lieutenant! - A large man jumped up to the car with a plastic bag in his hand and whispered something in the very ear of the officer, pointing in the direction of Komsomolsky Prospekt.

- One, right? the senior patrol blinked his raisin eyes. How did he manage four?

- Such a bandit will slaughter ten! All in tattoos, there is no living place, apparently, he did not leave the camp! You be careful with him...

The lieutenant nodded in concern. The doors slammed shut and the Ford sped off.

After about eight hundred meters, they caught up with the one they were chasing.

- Wow! the driver whistled. Have you ever seen such a bruise 4
Sinyuk, blue - a repeatedly convicted criminal, densely covered with tattoos (slang).

Well beast...

- When I worked in the convoy, I saw all sorts of painted 5
Painted - a person with a lot of tattoos (slang).

- said a policeman in a bulletproof vest. But now they are few...

“So what are we going to do?” the lieutenant thought aloud. - On the one hand, he rolled out his own friends, it seems that we don’t care. But he will still close up anything on our site ...

- You have to take it! – the driver recklessly dropped to the steering wheel. Jumping up on the curb, Ford easily jumped onto the sidewalk and blocked the road to a bare-chested blond guy.

- Stand, hands on the back of your head! - the sergeant barked, jumping out of the car, and at the same time pulled the detainee across the back with a stick. The molded rubber dug into the muscular body with relish, the crimson stripe under the shoulder blades crossed out the plump monk in the flowing cassock, zealously beating the big and small bells.

– Khe! Cough! - a sharp cough escaped the guy's chest, his breath caught, his eyes popped out of their sockets.

- Hands! Your hands are talking! - The barrel of the machine gun drove into the solar plexus, leaving the imprint of a bell at the top of a massive cross with a crucified female figure.

Painted bent over. He vomited.

The driver and the haired man dexterously turned their hands back, the lieutenant quickly put on handcuffs.

- Ready! The officer breathed a sigh of relief and wiped his sweaty forehead. Ivantsov, search him! And you, Utkin, watch out - suddenly he will rush to run ... Or dive into the water ...

The driver sergeant rummaged through his jeans, pulled out an electronic notebook and a genuine leather purse.

- Look, what are bruises wearing now! Cultural, bastards, have become ...

The lieutenant held out his hand, but the driver gave him only a plastic case of a notebook, and put the purse in his pocket.

The painted one was pushed into the back seat, Ivantsov picked up the torn shirt from the ground and thrust it under the detainee's armpit.

- Keep your good! he said, winking at Utkin. We don't need someone else! Both laughed.

“Stop gritting your teeth,” the lieutenant said irritably. Let's go to the department!

- Yes, Commander! - Ivantsov answered with a barely noticeable hint of a buffoon and winked at his partner again. “We still have to go and change his shoes.” Why are there sneakers in the cell?

The Ford picked up speed quickly and sped softly along the broad highway. Despite the excellent driving performance, inside it had the usual shabby appearance, characteristic of any domestic patrol car that carries well-groomed men and refined women, but drunkards, drug addicts, criminals and prostitutes. Rugs torn, shabby, stained, seats, thick smell of unwashed human body, spilled wine, tobacco smoke, gun grease ... Now in the cabin there was an unusual smell of good perfume.

- Who did it come from? From him? The lieutenant shook his head.

Utkin shifted the machine gun to the other hand and, bending down, sniffed the detainee.

- Exactly ... Like in a barbershop!

- Strange! The officer mechanically straightened his cap. “Usually they just stink afterward. Yes, and he is not dressed like that ... What do you say, Ivantsov?

- What are we to do? We'll take it, let them figure it out... The driver's mood noticeably deteriorated. If in the car there is not a drunken tramp, but some bigwig with connections, a “new Russian” from former convicts, then this detention can have the most unpredictable consequences for the entire crew. However, this option is unlikely. No cool cars, no bodyguards, no mobile phones 6
Mobile - mobile phone(slang).

Yes, and there is not a lot of money ... In addition, the bigwigs do not fight with their fists and do not walk around the streets, flaunting their tattoos ...

The sergeant thought for a few minutes, then asked:

“Listen, man, where are you from?” Not local?

The detainee cleared his throat.

- From Tikhodonsk ... Why didn't you immediately ask - who and where?

The driver breathed a sigh of relief.

- Fuck you need to ask you. Clearly a bandit. Tikhodonsk is generally a gangster city.

At the entrance to the police station, the detainee stopped, carefully reading the sign.

- Come on, literate, come in! - The sergeant pushed him in the back, the submachine gunner stepped aside at the entrance, and the tattooed man stepped into a world that was very good for him, to the smallest detail, known, where every detail and object was familiar and close.

There was an amazing calmness in the office. The cells for the detainees were empty, relatives, victims and applicants did not hustle at the counter. In the depths of the corridor, the cleaner's buckets rattled. There was a strong smell of shoe polish from the PPS platoon that had stepped into the night, and weakly of carbolic acid. In the morning, when the cameras are processed, the intensity of the smells will change.

A major with a red bandage on his arm was compiling a report, a senior sergeant with the same bandage was sitting at the console, on which the only light of the active communication channel was on, and reassuring someone into a rough black receiver:

- Why did you have to steal it? Maybe your husband spent it, but he didn’t tell you ... When he arrives, everything will be cleared up ...

A large poster with a cross-section of a Makarov pistol hung near the armory’s iron-studded door; raincoats. Tunics, trousers, skirts, overcoats are ironed to an unimaginable intensity, epaulettes, emblems and chevrons are located in precisely allotted places, not a millimeter to the side. None of these exemplary officers would have put on an armband on duty on the short sleeve of a summer shirt, like a major with an assistant.

– Are you bored? Look what we have tied the beast! On the embankment of four of his friends, he fucked up until he lost his pulse! the sergeant announced in a valiant voice.

The Major raised his head. He had the red face of a serviceman and the tenacious gaze of an experienced cop.

- Yes? But there were no applications. Okay, now let's figure it out.

- Call the person in charge! I am a police captain, I was groundlessly detained and beaten, they wanted to rob me,” the detainee ordered authoritatively. - Raise the investigator of the prosecutor's office, let him close these jackals!

This phrase produced the effect of an exploding bomb. The duty officer and the assistant goggled, Ivantsov's jaw dropped, Utkin almost dropped his machine gun, the lieutenant froze in the doorway like a pillar of salt.

Now every third of those brought to the police blasphemes in his own way: shouts, trumps with famous surnames, pretends to be someone's friend or relative, threatens with inevitable punishments... , most importantly, he knew that, in addition to the full-time duty officer, a representative of the leadership must serve here - the head or one of the deputies, who should understand especially difficult situations and make decisions in case of any emergency. And the detention of a police officer is a serious emergency, although not as rare as in the old days. Especially illegal detention, and even associated with beatings.

- Are you at all? Ivantsov shrieked shrillly. What kind of police captain are you?

- Identity shirt. IN breast pocket, the man said calmly.

There was dead silence. The assistant on duty came up, took a crumpled bundle of blue cloth and handed it to the major. He straightened his cut, blood-stained shirt, unbuttoned his pocket button, and pulled out a standard red ID card, exactly the same as the ones that each of those present had.

“Captain of militia Volkov Vladimir Grigoryevich,” the duty officer read quietly, but everyone heard. - Senior detective of the criminal investigation department of the Central District Department of Internal Affairs of the city of Tikhodonsk ...

- Remove the handcuffs! Volkov demanded imperiously.

The head of the patrol took out the keys, but Ivantsov, spitting on subordination, blocked the lieutenant's path.

-Yes, what are you? yelled the sergeant. - Where did you see such captains? He has a fake one! Now let's take off the bracelets, and he will tear us to pieces!

The argument was reasonable: the times when recklessly trusting any documents are long gone.

- Connect by special communications with Tikhodonsk, - the major ordered the assistant. And a few minutes later he was talking to his distant colleague. The others listened intently. All of them were recruited according to the limit, and now it looked especially obvious: anxious peasants in uniform from someone else's shoulder. Against their background, the Tikhodon operative seemed like an epic hero, the hero of some Viking saga or the Song of the Nibelungs. But he listened to the conversation with no less tension.

- Is there one? the attendant asked. - Healthy, covered in tattoos? Yes? Is that what they call it? Well, there you are! And how many of these Painted do you have? One, you say... And where should he be now? Yeah ... He is in Moscow, only he spends his holidays in a very peculiar way ... What? In what sense? Yes, I already understood something ... Okay, thanks for the hint.

The major hung up the phone with a gesture that puts an end to a protracted story. The head of the patrol placed an electronic notebook on the counter and removed the handcuffs from the detainee. He began to rub his wrists, rotate his powerful shoulders, wave his arms, restoring blood circulation.

- Why, it says that the captain? - it is not known whom a policeman with a machine gun with a shorn head asked. - He goes without a shirt, all punctured - a natural convict!

The officer on duty returned Volkov's certificate. He noticed rough scars on Painted's fingers.

“Did you cut the rings right off the skin?”

The Tychodonist did not answer.

- No, really, tell me: why did you hurt yourself like that?

- For laughs...

Yes, you seem to be a funny guy. Only your comrades don't like you very much...

- Comrades love it. Rats are not. Where is my wallet? Cautiously stepping sideways, Ivantsov approached, trying not to get closer, cautiously holding out his purse. The sergeant's intuition did not fail: Volkov caught him by the wrist, broke him, and only then took the wallet with his other hand.

- Oh! Cum! Hurt!

- How much did you take out? Volkov asked, opening his purse.

“I didn’t take anything, honestly! If only it fell...

“I thought you were a rat!”

Painted without a swing hit with the back of his open hand. The rising sun crunched against the face of the sergeant, who, throwing back his head, flew off against the wall, hit the back of his head hard and slid down onto the shabby, long unpainted floor. Thick dark blood flowed from his nose, as recently from a pockmarked one.

– What are you?!

The attendant, turning purple, grabbed his holster. Utkin twitched the shutter of the machine gun. But the tattooed man stood calmly and did not show any more aggressiveness.

“If he had just hit me in a fever, I wouldn’t have touched him. But this is a bastard under our uniform. He likes to maim and rob people, and even hide behind shoulder straps! Rat!

– What you the entire correct and honest! The major removed his hand from the holster and took up the internal telephone. “Only if they called here and asked about me, about him, about him,” the duty officer pointed with his finger at the assistant, machine gunner, lieutenant. - They would answer one thing: iron guys, you don’t press them there! They wouldn't even ask why they were detained! This is the cops' law - to help out your own! And you, it turns out, are not yours! Because your friend from Tikhodonsk said: keep your eyes open with him, he can adjust any goat! And he said something else!

Volkov's face twisted into a grimace, as if a shot in the nerve of a sick tooth. He tensed.

- Stand! - a policeman in a bulletproof vest put up a machine gun. - You killed Vaska, you twitch - I'll make a sieve out of you! You’ll go to court, bitch, you’ll definitely get eight years old. The zone is where you belong!

Meanwhile, the major reported the situation to the responsible duty officer.

Yes, identity confirmed. But when the handcuffs were removed, he hit Ivantsov so that he was lying like a dead man...

A couple of minutes later, a stocky lieutenant colonel entered the duty room. An ironed uniform, as on a poster, a neat hairstyle, expensive cologne, imperious self-confidence - all this favorably distinguished the responsible duty officer from his subordinates. It seemed that they serve in different militia.

He quickly bent down to the motionless sergeant, felt the pulse in his throat, pulled back his eyelid, looked into the pupil.

- Alive. In a knockout. The bridge of the nose is probably broken.” Call an ambulance.

The assistant pressed a lever on the remote control, the lieutenant colonel examined Volkov, contemptuously curled his lips.

“I have never seen such a policeman. Your ID!

Looking at the document, the person in charge went behind the counter and put the certificate on the desk on duty.

- Well, the police officer is not a deputy, he does not enjoy immunity ...

The major reached for the chief's ear.

- In Tikhodonsk they said that the guy is very shitty. To knock on the Office - just spit. They warned him to be very careful...

The duty officer almost whispered, and the lieutenant colonel answered him loudly, showing that he was the master of the situation and was in complete control of the situation:

– And we have nothing to be afraid of, we act completely according to the law. Now send an outfit to the place, find those whom he beat and cut. This will be one episode. Then Utkin and Kamnev will write a report about resistance to arrest. Here's the second episode...

The lieutenant, with a rich face, shifted from foot to foot.

“He didn’t really resist, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. That is, completely ... I did not have time.

The Lieutenant Colonel frowned and glared at him.

- Are you a lawyer? Then take off your uniform - and step march!

– No... I just wanted to clarify...

- In the report and specify! And the attack on Ivantsov is the third episode! Did he ask the procurator's investigator? Call! That him in the IVS 7
Temporary Detention Facility.

will close. In the meantime, put in the "monkey". Let him begin to understand that this is not Tikhodonsk, where such an image can serve in the police!

- No offense! Volkov snapped angrily. - This "image" was made here, in Moscow! And where you will not be allowed in even now without a pass!

- Into the cage! - Without entering into a discussion, the lieutenant colonel ordered.

Kamnev and Utkin cautiously approached from two sides. The example of a comrade served as a clear and convincing lesson; they were clearly afraid of the detainee.

“Citizen, come in,” the lieutenant said not very confidently.

- Go, they say! barked a short-haired policeman, holding his machine gun at the ready. And no tricks!

Volkov took a deep breath.

- I have the right to call!

“Call,” the lieutenant colonel said indifferently and went to the exit from the duty unit. - At least the minister, at least the president, at least the Lord God himself ...

Danil Koretsky

tattooed skin

- Come on, Karzuby, give the sucker anesthesia! Will know how to live on chanterelles!

It really was a common thing.

- Make him a clown, beat off the pamarks! Gee-gee-gee...

But he also did not want to interfere: unlike on-screen heroes, real supermen have enough problems of their own. Glancing at the beating scene, he grimaced and turned to leave.

After another blow, the man fell. The guy in jeans walked slowly towards Komsomolsky Prospekt and did not see it.

- Lubricate the attic, Kartouby, and stroke the cumpol! the long man squealed in delight. Unlike a dozen onlookers shifting from one foot to the other, he was clearly not afraid of anything.

And the blonde didn't like it. He winced again and turned around. His movements became quick and purposeful. Pushing a big guy with a plastic bag in his hands, the guy cut through the circle of curious people and actively intervened in the course of events.

- Stop, jackals! he barked, lightly tossing Kartouby aside. "Get out of here quickly while you're safe!"

The guy was not only athletically complex, but decisive and self-confident. Cold blue eyes in a hard squint intently examined the opponents. It was clear that this was no ordinary layman. This is how the owner, the leader, the bear in the wolf pack behaves, and if the attackers were sober, they would most likely take the advice. But they were drunk, besides, they were on their own territory, and the unknown, despite his impudence and strength, was a stranger here. Three pairs of cloudy eyes stared inquiringly at the elder.

- Knife! Knife! – the spectators shied away in fright, expanding the ring. The action has taken a completely different, dangerous track.

The beaten man, because of whom the fuss flared up, pressed himself into the ground, crawled to the side. But no one paid any attention to him.

The impact of the white sneaker almost drove the blue dove into the chest and knocked the thug upside down. Now the stranger turned to Karzub, who was cradling his open hand.

- Now, king of the bucket, I'll make you a clown!

He stepped back.

- Who are you? Cum! Then a misunderstanding came out ... Whose are you from?

The lighthead slid lightly to the side, jerked his left elbow back, and turned over his right shoulder. Done purely reflexively, this cunning maneuver saved his life.

Pockmarked suddenly found himself face to face with the enemy, tried to grab him by the throat, but his hands slipped from his powerful neck and clutched at the collar of his shirt with a death grip. Cold blue eyes were very close, they hypnotized and inspired animal horror, the pockmarked man realized that he was gone, and limply went limp, instantly losing his aggressiveness and losing his ability to resist. Terrible eyes sharply moved into the smallpox-pitted face, the bulging forehead dullly hit the bridge of the nose - as if on the Easter holiday a painted cue-ball egg broke through a thinner shell. The pock-marked one leaned back, but did not open his hands - the stranger's shirt burst with a crack, twisted fingers dragged him along, and the blue fabric covered the broken face of the fallen man, as if someone had taken care of the deceased.