"Дон Пендлтон. Doomsday Disciples ("Палач" #49) " - читать интересную книгу автора

"How many are there?" Bolan asked.
The lady bit her lip, thoughtful.
"It's hard to say," she answered. "They come and go. I guess thirty...
maybe more.''
An army, right.
If her estimate was accurate, Bolan had reduced their number by a third
already.
If the estimate was wrong...
But it didn't matter, either way. The warrior had a job to do. He was
committed.
"I'm going out for a while," he told her. "You're safe here. Keep the
door locked, stay off the telephone." Bolan checked his watch. "I'll be back
for you by sunrise."
"What, uh, what if you're not?"
There was a tremor in her voice.
Bolan handed her a card. The number on it would connect her with a
telephone cutout arranged by Able Team. Any effort at a trace would
terminate the linkup automatically.
"If I'm not here by six o'clock."' he told her, "call that number.
They'll be expecting you. Ask for a pickup at the Phoenix nest."
"Phoenix," she repeated. "Like the bird?"
"Close enough."
Bolan let himself out and locked the door. As he hit the stairs, he was
already thinking beyond the girl.
Amy was secure if she kept her head and followed his instructions.
Whatever happened, she was taken care of.
The Executioner had problems of his own.
Like an army, twenty men or more, armed and ready to defend the
Devotees.
"Elders," right. Read "gunners," and you have the makings of a potent
hard force at Minh's estate.
Something Amy said was nagging at him. Bolan dredged it up.
They come and go.
But where?
The implications were obvious. Reinforcements. A second force of
"elders" Minh could summon up at need. There was no way to estimate their
number from the data he possessed.
It was a blind spot, the kind that could get a careless warrior killed.
Mack Bolan was a careful warrior, all the way.
He had been known to push the odds, defy them on occasion, but he never
acted out of ignorance. He survived this long by application of a simple
formula in dealing with his enemies, the savages.
Identification.
Isolation.
Annihilation.
Simple, sure. Except every step was fraught with peril. Any false move
was tantamount to suicide.
The Executioner was many things, but never suicidal. He had come to
terms with death, but he didn't search for it.
Bolan needed information, a new handle on his war. With any luck at