"Дон Пендлтон. Caribbean Kill ("Палач" #10) " - читать интересную книгу автора

They circled low over the breakwater and dropped smoothly onto the
glasslike surface of Bahia de Vidria , the pontoons taking a gentle bite and
skimming along the water runway toward the beach. The pilot had cut back on
the power and they were idling slowly in a soft glide for the seaplane dock,
a hundred yards or so downrange, when the Beretta slid into Bolan's fist and
muzzled into the guy's throat.
"End of game, Grimaldi," the Executioner announced coldly.
The pilot swallowed hard past the outside pressure of cool steel and
muttered, "I don't get you, Mr. Vinton."
"Sure you do," Bolan told him. "When the engine dies, you die."
He divided his attention to lift the binoculars into a close scan of
the shoreline. A signboard on the pier loomed into the vision-field:

GLASS BAY RESORT PRIVATE

Beyond the pier lay neatly landscaped grounds and a rambling structure
resembling an oversized plantation house - a two-story job with verandas at
top and bottom levels. Colorful cabanas lined the beach. People in bathing
suits sprawled about here and there in the sand - all male-type people,
Bolan wryly noted. Others strolled casually about the grounds or lounged at
the railings of the verandas. Say, thirty people in plain sight. Two guys in
white ducks and sneakers waited on the pier to dock the plane.
It all would seem perfectly innocuous, to the casual observer.
Mack Bolan was not observing casually.
Not a native Puerto Rican was in sight. No females, no relaxed
frivolity, no fun or games anywhere in evidence. It was a set stage,
sloppily done - no doubt, Bolan mused, the result of haste. They hadn't had
time to get all the props out. Something inside a beach cabana was giving
off telltale flashes as it reflected the strong rays of the midday tropical
sun - a telescopic lens, maybe. The beach towels of the "bathers" revealed
oblong lumps of just about the proper size and shape to suggest concealed
rifles or shotguns.
As the plane steadily closed the distance, clumps of men on the lower
veranda of the house began drifting down the steps and disappearing into the
vegetation.
Yeah, Glass Bay was the hardsite. And it was primed and waiting for a
gate-crasher in masquerade.
It was, of course, time for the official unmasking. Bolan had known in
his bones, for several hours now, that his little game was over. And now the
time had come to pay the fare for that wild-ass exit from Vegas.
By the numbers, now, very carefully. A single moment would decide life
or death for Mack Bolan - a very precise moment in psychological time.
The pilot had been with Bolan through three exchanges of aircraft. He
was a versatile flyer, but hardcore Mafia all the same, and he knew all the
tricks of illegal evasion. Here was one situation that could not be evaded,
however, and the knowledge of that truth was pasted all over the guy's face.
He nervously cleared his throat and said, "Look, Bolan, it's all in a day's
work, eh? Nothing personal. I just follow orders."
Bolan said, "Yeah."
"I didn't know it was you until the switch at Nassau. And I still