"Дон Пендлтон. The Iranian Hit ("Палач" #42) " - читать интересную книгу автора

masquerading as moral order - and here is where anomaly ends and "crazy"
begins.
Mack Bolan knew all about crazy, too. He did not live in the anomalous
world. Bolan had dwelt all his adult life in the jungle of survival... and
he knew its ways.

1

He sensed something about to happen from the moment his peripheral
vision caught movement in the shadows shrouding the base of the high brick
wall.
Bolan slowed the black Corvette to coasting speed and glided past,
trying to discern exactly what had caught his attention. Then he saw her. A
woman, moving furtively in the twilight, carefully picking her way along the
wall that surrounded this estate in Potomac, Maryland.
The lady was a looker; it was clear even from amoving car on an evening
road. Bolan registered shoulder-length blonde hair that seemed to shimmer
even in the gloom, and a damn fine set of curves wrapped in a belted leather
jacket against the October chill.
Then he was past her.
The woman moved at a quick clip in the opposite direction, still
hugging the shadows of the wall. Still furtive.
Uh huh.
Mack Bolan sensed something. Something ominous. Coupled with the fact
that this wall bordered and protected the forty acres of ground that was
Mack Bolan's destination...
He let the Corvette roll another twenty feet, then steered to the
shoulder and killed the engine.
Mack Bolan (a.k.a. Colonel John Phoenix) was togged for night work. The
heavy dark sweater and navy pea jacket, worn over a nylon-weave Kevlar
protective vest, were complemented by dark jeans and shoes. The silenced 9mm
Beretta Belle was leathered under his left armpit beneath the jacket. Big
Thunder, the mighty .44 Magnum Autoloader, rode low on his right hip,
western-style. A leather attache case within easy reach beside him carried a
variety of hard-punch munitions and a full set of belted knives and
garrotes. Snug in the compartment behind the Corvette's bucket seats were an
infrared Startron spotting scope, an Uzi 9mm submachine gun, and a M1 match
rifle sheathed in its leather case. Bolan was loaded for bear.
But he was not pleased with this latest mission, and it hadn't even
begun yet. He was in civilian territory with all of this hardware. The
peaceful environs of upper-class rural Maryland dozed around him in the
evening stillness.
Bolan hated bringing his war near civilians and avoided it at all
costs. But this time the choice was not his. This hellground had been chosen
for him. And so here he was, tooling through the darkening byways of the
Potomac, loaded down with implements of death and destruction for the battle
royal that was due to commence amid this quiet, rustic backdrop.
Within the next few hours.
That was the time element that Hal Brognola had passed on, and the
initial intelligence data had been confirmed.