"Twisted Path" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don)

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Mack Bolan crouched behind a palm tree at the edge of an open field forty-five minutes north of Miami.

Clad in a snug black-quit, face and hands covered by combat camouflage cosmetics, the big man blended into the shadows. He held a sleek Beretta 93-R, the barrel fitted with a custom silencer, and a .44 Desert Eagle rode at his hip. Black military webbing held spare magazines and a wicked Ka-bar knife for close work. Fragmentation and thermite grenades completed the warrior's weaponry for the upcoming hit. NVD goggles covered his eyes, giving the field a spooky illusion of daylight.

Bolan was here to meet Delmar "Big Deal" Jones, one of the main distributors in the area.

Jones ran roughshod over the street-level dealers and the shooting galleries of the roach-infested slums.

He dealt whatever made money, everything from crack to smack. Anything a buyer could swallow, snort or shoot, Del's boys would be happy to provide. Del was becoming a very rich man.

A Justice Department informant had whispered that the dealer would be restocking tonight, receiving a shipment from a factory located somewhere in the Bahamas.

Bolan's aim was to make sure that the chemical death never hit the streets. Delmar Jones was about to discover that he wasn't such a big deal after all.

This wouldn't be the first time he'd met Jones. Ten days ago the dealer had been in a courtroom, facing charges that ran the gamut from conspiracy to commit murder to possession of an unlicensed firearm.

Bolan had been there at the invitation of Dale Givens, an acquaintance in the district attorney's office who was sympathetic to the warrior's objectives but skeptical of his methods.

"Come down for the trial. You'll enjoy it. Jones is going to go so far down that he'll be lucky to see the sunshine on alternate leap years." The prosecutor had been confident, obviously holding an ace.

The courtroom ritual was very impressive. The judge, a hardjawed man in his fifties, retained an air of solid competence. His mouth was pursed in a sour expression, the product of years of trying to separate the half-truths from the outright lies, of dealing with an unending string of lowlifes and their sometimes equally criminal counselors.

The orderly progression of events, the American flag, the symbols of law and justice all gave Bolan pause. He wondered yet again about the lonely course he had chosen for himself. His enemies accused him of subverting the system he was trying to protect, saying that he was no better than the men he destroyed. They said that if more people did as he did and played the roles of judge, jury and executioner, the fragile fabric of society would collapse into a horror of vengeance and retribution.

Maybe they were right.

Occasionally Bolan worried that he might be on the wrong track; perhaps he should let the law take care of things in its own sweet time. Did his means justify the end?

He didn't have all the answers, but in the final analysis he did know this: he destroyed so that others might live. The people who had faced his judgment had lost any right to live long ago. Bolan was only carrying out the sentence they had written on their own foreheads with the blood of their victims.

The courtroom scene had had one disturbing detail: Delmar Jones hadn't acted like a man who expected to go to prison.

Jones was in his late twenties, and had an arrogant attitude that seeped from his pores. He hadn't bothered to dress to impress. Clothed from head to toes in flamboyant white, Jones dripped heavy gold, with multiple chains at his throat and wrists. A single large ruby shone in his left earlobe. He looked every inch the wealthy thug he was.

He paid no attention to the prosecutor's righteous denunciation of the many crimes he had committed, the sorrow he had sown, the lives he had ruined.

Instead, Jones studied a racing form, doodled on a pad, turned around in his chair to ogle and smile at a couple of beauties among the spectators.

The reason for his confidence became apparent when the prosecution's star witness took the stand, a former lieutenant in Jones's ring. The D.A. expected that the man's testimony would put Jones away for life.

It didn't go down that way.

When on the stand, the pusher changed his story. In a voice almost too low to be heard, he denied everything. He claimed that the confession and the carefully transcribed testimony were lies of his own fabrication, made out of envy for his boss. Delmar Jones was an honest and good patriotic citizen who gave to charity and wouldn't hurt a fly.

A few sarcastic comments in reply from Jones's high-powered attorney and it was all over. The judge, looking as though he had swallowed a quart of lemon juice, had no option. Jones was a free man. His former lieutenant went to jail for perjury.

Before he left, Jones had a few parting words for Givens. "Don't look so surprised, dude. There's no lawyer yet been born who can keep Delmar Jones down. Hey, you want a real job? I can afford you. Why, I've got so many girlfriends that I spend more than your little salary on condoms. Come on, baby." Jones departed with a roar of laughter, his attorney in tow.

Bolan hit the streets to start digging.

Later, Bolan had a word with Givens over Jones's acquittal.

"I don't know what happened, Mack." The attorney had been angry and puzzled, his voice weary with the fatigue of endless sixteen-hour days spent in preparing a case that had vanished in minutes. "He was in a safehouse. He was watched every minute. No one could have gotten to him."

"Somebody obviously did. Anytime more than two people know something, it's only a matter of time before a man as rich and nasty as Jones finds out. The old carrot and stick. Offer some underpd cop fifty grand to carry a message and threaten to tear off his children's heads if he doesn't. How many people can resist that kind of pressure?"

Givens didn't bother to answer. Bolan was right, and there was nothing he could do to change the facts.

He pressed his fists into red-rimmed eyes, rubbing them to try to remove the sting. "My father-in-law has been asking me to join his civil law practice in Maryland. Easy money. Good clients. Short hours. I've said no. Until now."

Bolan didn't say anything. He couldn't give anyone else the motivation to fight when it looked as if it was against his own best interests. It had to come from inside, or all the coaxing and rationalising in the world wasn't worth a damn.

Shell shock didn't only happen in shooting wars. The trenches of downtown Miami had their casualties, too.

Bolan just rested a hand on Givens's shoulder, a salute from one soldier to another, and left.

He had business to take care of.

The business deal would go down any minute now, but Jones wasn't going to like the price the Executioner would make him pay.

A line of three cars was kicking up dust, traveling slowly down the dirt road that ended in the open field where Bolan crouched. The first and last vehicles were inconspicuous American sedans.

The middle car was the Porsche 911 that Jones favored.

Three gunners got out of each sedan to establish a defense perimeter. Jones hadn't lived this long by taking chances. The guards spread out, four making a slow examination of the area around the cars, shining flashlights into the pockets of tangled underbrush. The other two men walked the length of the field, checking for any newly erected posts or wire. The authorities had been using drastic measures of late to try to discourage the dealers from using vacant fields as landing strips. This one was still clean.

Bolan tensed as one of the gunners approached his hiding place, thirty yards from Jones's car. He recognised the silhouette of an Ingram Model 10, a short-barreled machine pistol that could spray 1100 rounds a minute like water from a hose.

He held his breath, easing the Ka-bar from its sheath.

The hardguy played the beam to Bolan's left, as the rustling of some night creature attracted his attention. Then he disappeared into the bush as the warrior exhaled slowly.

After a shouted relay of all clears echoed from the end of the field, Jones and another bodyguard emerged from the Porsche. At the far end of the field, two red flares were placed forty yards apart to serve as guideposts.

A few minutes of silence passed, broken only by the croak of frogs and rustle of palm fronds in the light evening breeze. Bolan could smell the burning cigar that was clamped between Jones's lips. The warrior could have dropped him then, but the timing wasn't right.

Bolan, a master sniper, could've shot Jones's eyes out a dozen times during the past week. But he was waiting for the moment when he could not only take out Jones, but could also intercept the drug shipment. The informant had specified that the street value of the drugs would be between thirty and fifty million.

Several minutes passed before the droning of a small airplane engine became audible from the east.

Bolan spotted the plane flying low above the treetops, hugging the ground to avoid radar detection. The Cessna skimmed the low palms at the end of the field and touched down in front of the flares.

Jones and five of his gunners converged on the aircraft, which had halted a hundred yards from the parked cars. The flares were abruptly doused.

Bolan moved out from the shadows, confident that any noise he made would be covered by what was taking place down by the plane, as the cargo was pitched onto the ground for Jones to inspect. The nearby guards were less than professional, paying more attention to the lights and action in front of them than to any potential threat from the rear.

The two gunners stood twenty feet apart, one about five feet closer to the plane than the other.

Bolan decided to first take out the man who was casually leaning against the right fender of a Cutlass Ciera.

The Executioner padded forward, edging between the parked cars with all the stealth of a prowling jungle cat. The gunman never suspected Bolan's presence, until he felt a callused hand clamp over his mouth, muffling the scream that ended stillborn as six inches of cold steel sliced into his back. The tip pierced the heart in an instant, and the big muscle was torn to shreds. The enforcer died without a gasp.

Bolan eased the body to the ground between the cars, so that the man appeared to have abruptly vanished. The warrior went to the ground by the left door of the Porsche.

The second gunner, aware by some sixth sense that his partner was no longer listening to his chatter, turned to probe the darkness. "Hey, Dixie. Where are you, man? The boss is gonna skin you." The gunman advanced slowly, the Ingram nosing the shadows ahead of him.

Bolan didn't want to give himself away but the problem was how to silence the alerted guard without giving him a chance to loose a warning burst. The warrior slid a magazine from a pouch and held it in his left hand. His right still grasped the Ka-bar, slick with Dixie's lifeblood.

The triggerman had reached the front of the Porsche. Another few feet, and he was sure to see the body of his companion. Bolan flung the magazine overhand above the roof of the car. When it bounced off the hood of the far sedan with a metallic ring, the gunner spun toward the sound.

Bolan catapulted into action.

The timing was split second. In a quick step he was behind the gunman, thrusting hard with the Ka-bar into the guy's left kidney. Bolan knew that this was supposed to be so painful that the victim wouldn't have the strength to cry out. The warrior's right hand flashed to the trigger guard, a strong forefinger pushing behind the gunman's trigger finger, jamming the trigger forward as a spasm jerked through the dying gunner.

The machine pistol slipped from the dead man's hand and into Bolan's as the gunner fell backward, his eyes and mouth open in a silent scream.

Bolan wiped the knife on the fallen man's shirt and sheathed it before starting off toward the knot of men clustered around the plane. Only a little more than a minute and a half had elapsed since Bolan started to make his move.

The warrior ran forward in a combat crouch, determined to make the most of his surprise visit now that he had secured his retreat.

When Bolan was still seventy feet away, he booted a stone that rustled through the low grass. The slight noise attracted the attention of the pilot, who was idling near the nose of the plane, thinking of how he would spend his bonus in the fleshpots of Miami.

Bolan let loose with the little subgun, spraying twenty manglers a second at the men unpacking the plane. The pilot went down first, four rounds churning his guts. Three more ripped into the chest of the nearest guard, who slid to the ground leaking blood.

Two more collapsed by the door of the plane, one with half his skull missing.

Bolan flung away the empty Ingram and dived to ground, rolling to his left as he depressed the safety spoon of a thermite grenade. The remaining gunners opened up in short bursts, probing the area where Bolan had last been.

On a two count Bolan hurled the grenade, sending it tumbling under the fuselage of the Cessna.

He hugged the ground as the bomb detonated, sending coals of thermite scorching into the backs of the gunmen. A few blazing chips penetrated the fuel tank, and a moment later the plane exploded, incinerating the remaining cargo. A foul stench of burning flesh combined with the reek of oxidizing chemicals.

Bolan unfeathered the Beretta before moving forward to inspect the damage. Only one body was still twitching, a gunner whose left leg was nearly severed.

The guy was screaming from the pain of thermite nodules scorching their way through his flesh. He wouldn't last long, but Bolan helped him on his way with a mercy round. The twitching stopped.

The big man swore under his breath. The one body he wanted to see most was missing. Jones must have run at the first shot, using the plane for cover and leaving his men to bear the brunt of the Executioner's wrath.

Delmar Jones had escaped judgment once. It wouldn't be as easy this time.

Bolan moved away from the killzone and edged through the undisturbed grass looking for the dealer's trail, using the combat skills that had kept him alive through dozens of campaigns.

The trail was clear for two hundred yards as Jones had blundered wildly through the field and bushes; clear, that is, to someone who knew how to read the signs. At one point a fresh gouge in the earth marked a spot where the drug dealer had missed his footing, coming down hard on a rock, which bore a drop of blood. A narrow, shallow stream put an end to the easy pursuit.

The possibilities ticked through Bolan's mind. Jones had three choices: one was to hide out and hope to remain undiscovered until the battle zone was clear; another was to cross the stream, strike out for the highway a half mile south and flag down a ride to the city; the last was to travel east or west along the stream, circle around back and try to make it to the car.

The last was clearly the most dangerous, since Jones had no way of knowing how strong the opposition might be. Someone might be lying in ambush just to prevent that possibility. But remaining in hiding was almost as dangerous. The most reasonable thing for the dealer to have done was to have continued south to the highway.

Bolan paused a moment to listen for the sound of splashing. Negative. Jones wasn't trying to fool him by following the stream. The warrior crossed the water, searching the banks for clues.

Twenty yards to the left, a wet heel mark on a rock was made visible by the NVD goggles. The Executioner was off and running again. With the advantage of the goggles and long practice in open-terrain pursuit, Bolan expected to run Jones to ground before the guy could make the highway.

Every hundred yards he paused to listen. His diligence compd off when he finally heard the faint sound of rubber on concrete in the distance. Jones was approaching the relative safety of the highway. A couple of stops later, ears cocked for the slightest unusual sound, he heard a muffled thump and a curse only a few yards ahead as Jones tripped over his own feet.

Bolan proceeded cautiously, knowing that Jones would be armed.

The warrior poked his head around a low palm and saw Jones on hands and knees, searching for something.

His night goggles showed him the butt of a pistol in the grass ten feet to Jones's left.

"Time's up, Jones." Bolan stepped into the open.

"I give up, man!" The drug lord scrambled to his feet and threw his arms over his head, all bravado gone, a sickly, supplicating smile etched into his face. His clothes were torn and dirty, and he was bleeding from multiple cuts and scratches sustained on his wild flight through the underbrush. Still, Jones tried to brazen it out, using tactics that had always worked before. "You want money? I got it, man. You walk away, you can name your price, any amount. A hundred thousand, a million, you just say the word. You just name your price. I've got gold, I've got diamonds. Whatever I've got, you can have if you just let me go."

"Jones, you've got nothing at all." The Beretta coughed a 3-round burst, stitching a bloody triangle into Jones's heart.

Bolan stood in the shower, enjoying the feeling of the water as it cascaded over his weary body. The warrior spent so much time wallowing in the gutters with the filth that made up the underworld that he sometimes felt he would never be able to get clean.

An insistent ringing pierced the sound of the pounding water. There were only two people who knew he was at this number: his brother, Johnny, and Hal Brognola. A call from either meant trouble.

Bolan climbed dripping from the shower and grabbed the phone. "Hello."

"Striker. How's it going down there?"

"You can read about it in the morning paper, Hal."

"That's good. Because I need you for something very special."

"What's the catch this time?"

"Striker, really." Brognola did his best to sound offended, but they both knew that the man from Justice never got in touch unless Bolan's involvement was strictly necessary. "Let's just say that this has an international flavor. When can you be here?"

"Is tomorrow soon enough?"