"Дон Пендлтон. The Violent Streets ("Палач" #41) " - читать интересную книгу автора

the big man was anxious to be about his business in St. Paul.
The Lear's pilot taxied his craft to a slow halt near a western
terminal. Holman Field sits tucked into a hairpin curve of the Mississippi
River, where it bites a half-moon slice out of south-central St. Paul and
Ramsey County. The compact jet's position placed it on the far side of the
airfield, well away from the busier avenues occupied by commercial airliners
and most private traffic.
Mack Bolan snared a heavy flight bag from the reclining seat beside him
and moved out down the center aisle. His plainclothes Air Force pilot met
him at the exit port, throwing the door back on its runners to admit a blast
of wind and stinging rain.
Somewhere across the looping river, lightning blotched the sky, and was
followed instantly by the intestinal growl of distant thunder. Bolan nodded
to the pilot, hunched his shoulders against the storm, and descended folding
steps into the rainy darkness.
Beyond the concrete retaining wall, near a vacant-looking terminal
building, a long, dark sedan sat with engine idling. Bolan took it in at a
glance and angled in that direction, slowing his pace slightly in spite of
the pouring rain.
As if on cue, the sedan's interior dome light was turned on, revealing
the driver's solemn, familiar face, and was quickly extinguished. Bolan
picked up his pace, jogging now until he reached the waiting car, and slid
in on the passenger's side, flight bag between his feet.
"How is she, Pol?" he asked the man behind the wheel.
Rosario Blancanales shrugged listlessly. "She's in bad shape, Mack. And
emotionally... who knows?" After brief hesitation, he added, "Thanks for
coming, Sarge."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, guy," Bolan told him.
Blancanales put the sedan in motion, away from the airport and onto
Lafayette Freeway, heading north to cross the wide Mississippi into St. Paul
proper. They spoke little as they drove, each man occupied with private
thoughts on that stormy Minnesota night.
Mack Bolan was trying to remember when he had last seen his old friend
look so harried, so drained. Not in Asia, certainly, where Rosario's
vitality and savvy with the natives had quickly earned him the nickname
"Politician." Nor later, when Pol joined the Executioner's domestic war
against a common enemy. Not even at the bottom, the very worst of it, after
the massacre at Balboa in the bad old days.
Bolan decided that his friend had never looked worse, or had better
cause.
Perhaps - just maybe - there was something he could do to change all
that.
Blancanales, meanwhile, for all the strain evident on his face and in
his posture, seemed to draw some sort of solace from the mere presence of
his best and oldest friend. Already he seemed to be regaining a touch of the
old fire, as if Bolan's welcome arrival from his last mission in Turkey had
sparked some internal mechanism and set the wheels turning again.
Bolan noted the subtle changes and was thankful for it.
Holman Field was twenty minutes behind them when Pol broke the silence
with a clipped, curt warning.