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

"Sure I can," Bolan said.
Copa glowered back at his uninvited guest.
"Christ, you don't give a man much slack, do you?"
"The crews, Benny. Last chance."
"All right, dammit! We're talking about five boys, right? Two at the
airport, and three more at a certain lady's house?"
Bolan nodded silently, letting the cornered weasel continue.
"Okay, right," Copa said, nodding affirmation of his own words. "They
were part of a package deal. Outside contract, you know? Nothing to do with
organization business."
And he smiled, as if that piece of information should settle
everything.
But it didn't.
"What was their mission?" Bolan asked.
The little mobster managed a sarcastic snort.
"What do you think?"
The cold expression of the Executioner's face stifled the feeble
snicker.
"They were disposal teams, man, you know?" Benny hastened to explain.
"They were sent to dispose."
"Hit teams," Bolan said.
Copa nodded jerkily.
"Who was their mark at the airport?"
Copa shrugged elaborately, making a show of ignorance.
"Some dude, who knows? I told you it was an outside contract, right?
The customer fingers his mark, and I count the dollar signs."
"I'll want the customer's name."
Benny Copa stiffened in his swivel chair, knuckles white as he gripped
the armrests. There was new fear behind his eyes that had nothing to do with
Bolan and the deadly silenced Beretta inches away from his nose.
The guy was silent for a long moment, but in the end the fear of clear
and present danger won out, loosening his tongue.
"Really, man, I could buy real trouble by answering questions like
that."
And it seemed the guy would never quit trying.
"You have trouble, Benny," Bolan reminded him curtly. "You're trying to
buy time."
There was another, shorter pause. Then Copa opened up.
"Well, hey, I only know the dude's voice, can you dig it? We made the
arrangements by phone."
Bolan's answering voice was almost sad.
"You commit five soldiers without knowing the customer's name? Goodbye,
Benny."
The Beretta slid out to full extension, and Bolan was tightening into
the final squeeze when Copa gave a strangled little yelp and threw out both
hands, palms open, as if to ward off hurtling death.
"Wait! Shit! All right, man, I'm sorry."
The Beretta never wavered from its target.
"The name," Bolan said, his voice icy.
Benny Copa was sweating profusely. He wiped his forehead with a